It was the “peculiarities” of his memory, its disruption and disintegration which most disturbed Zasetsky. They seemed nothing short of catastrophic.
In the early periods after his injury, before he discovered he was illiterate, his memory failed him entirely: he had difficulty understanding people’s remarks and could not remember a single word himself. If he tried to think of his first and last names or ask for a bedpan, his memory refused to function. Though he was physically able to speak and could easily repeat words, he could not remember these at will. He encountered this problem every time he was asked a simple question. He was confronted with a void and had to hunt for words. He had lost what is distinctly human—the ability to use language. What could possibly be more devastating than this loss of “speech-memory” as he called it? He was aware of it from the beginning, when he was still in the field hospital:
After dinner, when the other paients were going to sleep, I suddenly had to relieve myself. To put it plainly, I needed the bedpan. But what a complicated thing it was for me to remember that word and call the nurse. For the life of me I couldn’t think of the word bedpan, even though I’d heard it many times and would sometimes repeat it to myself (after I was wounded I realized what that word meant). But when I had to think of it that night, I couldn’t. There’s always something blocking my memory of words and this time the word bedpan just wouldn’t come through.
I saw the nurse passing by again and wanted to ask her to bring me the bedpan. I tried to get her attention by saying: “It’s . . . what do you call it? . . . I need it. . . .” But while I was trying to remember the word she had already left.
Then I saw her coming back again and bringing someone a bedpan. As soon as I laid eyes on that object I needed so badly, I yelled to the nurse, calling her sister, a word that suddenly entered my mind: “Sister . . . I also . . . need the . . . what’s it!” I couldn’t remember the word but luckily the nurse understood me and brought it a minute later. When she had removed the bedpan I suddenly remembered the word and pronounced it. I breathed a sigh of relief once I had found it. But a few minutes later when I deliberately tried to recall the word, I couldn’t. Now that’s a strange thing. I simply don’t understand why I have that kind of problem.
I had tried to think of the word before the need for it came. I had run through words that came to mind—doctor? . . . no, I knew that wasn’t right . . . sister? (I couldn’t think of the word nurse either and used sister instead) . . . bird . . . no, it’s—bedpan! Suddenly I remembered about that bird or duck, the word we used for bedpan.
Somehow I also couldn’t remember the name of my own region or village, even the province I was from. They seemed to be on the tip of my tongue, but an hour or two or a whole day would go by and I still couldn’t come up with them. The fellow in the bed next to mine offered to help me recall them by naming various provinces, regions, villages. Also, different first names and patronymics. After he’d named a few, I recognized the word Tula—Tula Province, the district my family lives in. And I felt very relieved to be able to say it. My friend was delighted to hear I was from Tula; that’s where he lived too.
And when this same indefatigable fellow began to list various women’s names I remembered my older sister’s name—Evgenya. Then he addressed an envelope to my sister so that I could write home.
I used to spend all my time lying on my right side or sitting up for a little while trying to recall some of my past. I couldn’t remember anything at will, whereas when I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, some words would occur to me along with the tunes of different songs I’d hum to myself.
This was the beginning of his struggle to recollect what had been blotted out, to learn words and remember them so that he could communicate with people again. At first this was difficult, almost impossible. Later, words did occur to him and then simple phrases. However, these did not occur spontaneously: it took considerable effort for him to recall them and not let them slip his mind. But after a month the worst was over. He could talk to people again:
For the time being I put together a vocabulary mostly out of visual images and tried to remember words better and make my memory more flexible. I had to start from scratch and learn to recognize objects and try to associate them with words. I myself wasn’t aware of how these words happened to come back to me, but little by little some things about my environment managed to register in my memory—the sort of memory and understanding I have now.
Toward the end of the first month or early in the second after I was injured, more and more often I’d remember things about my mother, brother, and my two sisters. I didn’t recall all these things immediately, but only bit by bit. Some memory of my mother, brother, or one of my sisters would come to mind at different times. These details would occur to me suddenly, not when I myself wanted to remember them – they’d just come to me. Toward the end of the second month one of the fellows in the hospital took an interest in me and started to jot down my family’s address—bit by bit, as it came to me. I’d suddenly remember the name of the region I was from; the next day or perhaps a day later, the name of the setdement I lived in; then I’d suddenly think of my sister’s name. And each time he’d write these down. Finally, my friend took it upon himself to write my family a letter, though he didn’t have the exact address, since I couldn’t remember my apartment or building number on the street I lived on. Naturally, I still couldn’t think of my mother’s and younger sister’s last name (that of my mother’s second husband).
Sometimes I’d remember the name of a city, but in a minute or even less, I’d forget it. At times I’d recall the address of the region Γ lived in, but I’d quickly forget that too and couldn’t remember it for a long time.
I heard everything people around me were saying, and little by little my head was crammed with songs, stories, and bits of conversations I’d picked up. As I began to remember words and use them in thinking, my vocabulary became more flexible.
At first I couldn’t remember any of the words I wanted to use in a letter. But I finally decided to write home and quickly got off a letter—a short one, just a note. I was completely unable to read what I’d written and somehow didn’t want to show it to any of the patients. In order not to think about it and risk getting upset, I quickly sealed the envelope with my family’s address on it and sent it off to be mailed.
Had he understood his dilemma from the start, life would have been unbearable. On the contrary, he hoped to do whatever he could to “develop” his memory, win back every part of his past, analyze and understand what had happened to him. He wrote with the precision of a man doing psychological research—someone who really knows his field. He painstakingly searched for the right expressions with which to describe his problems and give shape to his ideas. In doing so, he left us a classic analysis of his disability. Moreover, he did it alone, without appealing to anyone for advice. He simply sat alone in his small room in the workers’ settlement of Kimovsk.
Before I was wounded my memory was quick, and I could think clearly about almost any subject that interested me. After my injury my memory seemed to be shattered into bits and pieces. There was a real time gap between my ability to remember a word and understand what it meant. My mind no longer functioned clearly; it was just as confused as my memory of words and meanings. Most of my memory was gone for good. Some ideas would “come” to me only after considerable effort, but others not at all. Of all the words I once knew, all I had at my command were some few that didn’t seem to have any meaning.
Some vague, peculiar, incomprehensible thought would flash through my mind all of a sudden. I’d rack my brain trying to figure out what it meant, but just couldn’t. I’d try to say something, but it was beyond me. All my ideas and vocabulary had escaped me completely. Some images of objects—material things—would flash through my mind, quickly turn up and be gone a minute later, replaced by other images that also vanished. Every time I tried to talk or remember anything it was an endless struggle for words. I still can’t think of particular words when I want to talk or think something through.
Because of my constant failure to remember words and ideas or understand things, it’s impossible for me to study and recall what I’d once learned and had no trouble grasping.
These symptoms plagued him incessantly—whether at home, during walks, when he attempted to converse with people, or simply remained alone.
When I take a walk in the village and look at things—objects, phenomena—I always have to strain my memory to think of the words for them. I don’t get too annoyed about it. When I sit on a bench outside talking to someone from my building (the usual, everyday talk), I try a little harder to remember and make sense of the person’s remarks. And when I talk to my mother or sisters, I have to strain my nerves and memory even more to understand what they’re saying to me so that I know what I’m to do or say. Here, too, I sometimes can’t remember or understand words. Or I remember just a little of what I want to say; most of it’s locked somewhere in my mind and I can’t get hold of it. My family tries to help me converse by asking me questions, but after a while, when they don’t get anywhere, they give up on me. It’s as if they said to themselves: “There’s no point to it, he’ll never remember what he wanted to say.”
I’m afraid to talk at meetings because I quickly forget what’s been said. And I don’t know what I’d have to contribute anyway, since my mind either seems empty or else has some disconnected ideas scattered through it, so that I can’t collect my thoughts. That’s why I don’t bother to talk at meetings.
I’m always forgetting! Sometimes I’ll go to the barn to get a pail of coal or kindling. But when I get there and see the barn locked, I realize I’ve forgotten the key and have to go back to the house. By the time I get to our apartment I forget what I’ve come for – that I need to get the key and open the barn door.
Somehow I have as much trouble as I did earlier figuring out which day of the week it is. Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve eaten for breakfast or dinner that day. My main trouble, the worst symptom, is amnesia and forgetfulness, and that’s why I can’t remember words. A good deal of my environment has been blotted out by this. Even now, whether I’m looking at objects, people, or animals, I can’t immediately remember and pronounce the words for them (or say them to myself). Sometimes can’t even remember them after a whole day has gone by. And though I have very simple conversations with people and use only common, everyday expressions, I can’t even recall the words for things in my room—things like closet, cupboard, blinds, curtains, window sill, frame, etc. It’s even harder for me to remember parts of objects. And when I go for a long time without being able to remember and train myself to use these words in speaking, I forget what things I see are called; I pay no attention to them. I forget what they’re for. That’s even true about parts of my own body.
Why had he no control over his memory? Had all of it been obliterated or only specific parts? He felt this was a matter he had to examine more closely, and he undertook a laborious job—something like an archeological study of his memory—to distinguish what remained and what was irretrievably lost.