Ivan Chonkin, a hapless Red Army private with the build of a turnip and the mind of one too, is sent to guard a crashed airplane in a village so remote even Stalin's paranoia forgets its postal code. The military promptly loses track of him, and he settles into a surreal domesticity with the local postwoman, Nyura, who accepts him less as a man and more as “כמו כלב שמירה עם נזלת” (“a watchdog with a runny nose”).
He’s the accidental Icarus of bureaucratic absurdity, flapping his arms through policies he doesn’t understand, surviving by a peculiar, bovine tenacity.
When he dares to ask whether Stalin had two wives—“האמת הדבר, כי לחבר סטלין היו שתי נשים?” (“Is it true that Comrade Stalin had two wives?”)—it triggers a hysterical meltdown in his superior. “זו לא שאלה, זו השמצה אנטי־מהפכנית!” (“That’s not a question, that’s counterrevolutionary slander!”). This is a state where grammar is dangerous and sincerity a punishable offense.
As Chonkin bumbles through misassigned glory, political indoctrination, and livestock diplomacy, Voinovich sketches a grotesque pageant of Soviet dysfunction, where tractors are mythical beasts, bathhouses double as interrogation chambers, and even a cow may end up accused of sabotage.
One colonel forgets that airplanes need engines, another believes collective farming works by yelling at the land. A man named Felchboy insists a crashed plane nearly clipped Nyura’s chimney by “חמישה סנטימטרים” (��five centimeters”), as if measuring state catastrophe with a tailor’s tape. Meanwhile, a village drunk named Felchboy informs the crowd that if the plane had hit Nyura’s chimney, they’d be scrubbing her guts off the walls by morning, then adds that the local pervert would have gladly volunteered.
Chonkin’s greatest achievement is possibly shooting a cow and inadvertently becoming a counterrevolutionary folk hero.
A village chairman drinks himself into such existential clarity that he hangs himself in the workroom and leaves behind a suicide note with a single word: “אחֶ” (“Brotheeeer”), followed by three exclamation marks and zero explanation. A cow is put on trial for espionage. A pilot, mistaken for a god or a German, is evaluated by women not for his orders but for the quality of his leather jacket—“עור כרום או עור עזים?” (“Is that chrome leather or goatskin?”).
An old man debates aerodynamics while whittling a pig’s femur. And when Chonkin is ordered to guard the downed plane, he’s given no instructions, no backup, and only a sack of turnips. This is a world where an official military report might include livestock damage, ideological contamination, and a missing harmonica.
He is a soldier so unsuitable that even his punishment becomes a bureaucratic embarrassment. The villagers, swaddled in gossip and manure, treat him as something between a prophet and a fungus. “אין צורך להסביר דבר לצ’ונקין... בכל זאת לא יבין” (“There’s no need to explain anything to Chonkin… he wouldn’t understand anyway”). Yet in his incomprehension lies a kind of genius: he survives.
Voinovich doesn’t offer a hero but a human potato, who outlasts tanks, memos, and ideological zeal through sheer accidental inertia. Totalitarianism doesn’t need evil geniuses to thrive, only enough obedient morons, passive peasants, and middle managers who fear looking stupid more than they fear injustice.
Voinovich laughs Soviet regime out of the room, replacing grand historical struggle with pigsties, paperwork, and paranoia so pedestrian it might be lethal. Chonkin, the everyman who understands nothing and therefore survives everything, becomes an accidental rebuke to a system so self-important it can’t distinguish between revolution and chicken feed. The state sees enemies in cows, heroes in janitors, and subversion in grammar.
It’s ugly, necessary, and filled with material that sticks in memory. This isn’t the noble Russian canon of soul-searching misery, it’s the low comic B-side, where a nation collapses into its own acronym soup. Voinovich dares you to laugh so hard the censors choke.
After publishing a few short stories in Novy Mir, he was quickly branded an ideological deviant for portraying Soviet life as it actually was: corrupt, incompetent, and held together by vodka and collective delusion. The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Private Ivan Chonkin was utterly unpublishable in the USSR; it first appeared in 1969 in the émigré journal Grani in Frankfurt, smuggled across borders like contraband truth in a suitcase of jokes.
The Soviet regime responded as regimes do when mocked too accurately: Voinovich was expelled from the Union of Soviet Writers in 1974, followed by the usual menu of phone tapping, harassment, and travel restrictions. In 1980, the state made it official - they stripped him of his citizenship altogether.
Like a character in one of his own books, Voinovich found himself absurdly stateless, exiled for telling the truth in punchlines. Only in 1990, with the Soviet state in its own terminal farce, was his citizenship restored. By then, the cow had already been tried, the typewriters had jammed, and Voinovich had proven that laughter could outlast Lenin.
"הצבא האדום, הצי האדום וכל אזרחי ברית־המועצות חייבים להילחם עד טיפת הדם האחרונה... להפגין אומץ־לב, יזמה ותושיה שעמנו מצטיין בהם. כל אדם חייב לעקוב אחר התנהגות שכנו, ידידו, ואפילו בני ביתו, שמא הם… אויבים במסווה."
"בקראסנויה... הנשים תמיד היו או הרות או לאחר לידה, ולפעמים רק לאחר לידה וכבר שוב הרות. כאילו חוק הטבע אצלן היה מס שפתיים בלבד – כל עונה עונת רבייה."
"צ'ונקין שקע בהרהור: 'לו היה להפך – קר בקיץ ובחורף חם – אז היה הקיץ נקרא חורף והחורף היה נקרא קיץ.' ואז שכח מה חשב. וזכר ששכח. וזה הדאיג אותו יותר מהכל."
"כדי לחסל את 'כנופיית צ'ונקין' — שמנתה אדם אחד, פרה אחת ורובה אחד — הוקצתה יחידת חיל רגלים חמושה כהלכה. 'הבעיה היא אידיאולוגית,' פסקו. 'הפרה לא עברה חינוך סוציאליסטי.'"