Evgeny Evtushenko
Snivelling Fascism

Finland,
             country of seagulls
                                           and cliffs,
fishermen,
                 timbermen,
                                   stoney earth!
Shall I ever forget,
                             how,
                                    greeting our ship,
the landing-stage sparkled
                                          with a handkerchief surf,
how strong
                  rang the song of the young
                                                             as we
passed through the we crowd,
                                                row by row
shaking strong hands,
                                   that smelt of the sea,
car-grease
                 and well-tarred tow!
There are no bad nations.
                                         But without false mercy
I'll tell you —
                no blame on my hosts —
every nation
                    has its own vermin.
So I'll talk about vermin.
                                      Here goes.
I hope
           I'll be forgiven by Finns
for calling a spade
                             a spade.
I'd learn t about fascism
                                      from books and films
but here
             I saw it alive,
                                 in full play.
It stood,
             breathing whiskey
                                          into my face,
fascism,
              near the Blacksmiths' statue,
drunken yells
                      all over the place
flying
        like clots of spittle
                                     at you.
They swigged new courage
                                            from whiskey flasks,
munched chewing gum
                                      with demented gusto,
hurled empty bottles
                                 and stones at us
as we drove by
                         in festival buses.
Yet they feared us,
                              for all their wolf-pack
                                                               audacity,
the snivelling,
                      warty,
                               dirty beasts,
their hatred switched on
                                       to full capacity,
hiding dead rats
                          their raincoats beneath.
The drooling,
                     unkempt
                                   and sweat-faced ruffians
grabbed at girls,
                          lunged about
                                               with a hullabaloo,
jeering
           at Malls
                        and Ghanaians,
at Frenchmen,
                       at Germans,
                                           at you, Finns, too,
howling,
             their would-be prowess flaunting.
hiding
          how much they were really afraid,
with rock-n-roll
                        and twist contorting,
girt with transistors,
                               U.S.-made.
Now, Blacksmiths,
                             tell me,
                                         why were you silent?
The hoodlums raged on,
                                       but you kept mum:
you ought to have lifted
                                     your great bronze hammer
and hammered them flat,
                                        the fascist scum.
They ranted and raved
                                    all decorum scorning,
dead-set
               to bring shame
                                       on their nation 's head.
I'm told,
            all Finland
                            that day was mourning
in sad solemnity
                          for her dead.
But in those scoundrels,
                                      though only lads,
came alive
                  the Hitlerjugend of old
the well-known butchers' créche
                                                    which our dads
had taught a lesson
                               worth its weight in gold.
"Heil Hitler!"
                    echoed in their drunken yells.
So that's who they honoured
                                             on Remembrance Day!
We know
              who their ancestors were
                                                      jolly well,
a marvellous lineage,
                                  I must say.
Yet I'll never forget, too,
                                     how firmly stood
our Russian boys,
                             to their fathers true,
at the Sputnik club
                              resolved to stay put,
not to let
               the shadow of fascism through.
"No — festival!"
                          rose
                                  the hoodlums' roar.
"No — Communism!"
                                  came the outery
                                                            dirty.
I swear,
             if I hadn't done so before,
that night
                I'd have joined the Party,
                                                        for certain!

____
* The poem was written after provocative right-wing manifestations at the VIII World Youth Festival of Helsinki in 1962.

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg