“For me this night is outside the law, I write — at night there is more darkness. I grab the telephone dial and dial the eternal 07. ‘Girl, hello! What’s your name?’ — ‘Toma. Seventy-two! I wait, holding my breath! It can’t be, say it again, I’m sure — he’s home! Ah, here they have already answered… Well, hello — it’s me!’
This night for me is outside the law. I don’t sleep, I shout — quicker! Why on credit, on a coupon, do they offer me the people I love? …… The telephone for me is like an icon. The telephone book is a triptych, the operator has become a Madonna, having shortened the distances for a moment. Girl, dear! I beg you, extend it! You are now like an angel — don’t come down from the altar! The most important thing is still ahead, understand, Here they have already answered… Well, hello — it’s me!”
This is a song by Vladimir Semyonovich Vysotsky, which I recently heard for the first time, sitting in the car, on “Dorozhnoye Radio.” My Norwegian husband was driving at the time, and since Vysotsky’s voice is unique and unaccustomed to a “Norwegian ear,” he asked me who it was and what the song was about. Well, I gathered my thoughts, and here is the story I came up with.
Somewhere until the 1970s of the last century, telephone communication was very unreliable, and to get through to another city in our vast Motherland (but not abroad), you had to use the services of an operator. Not all citizens had telephones then; some had to go to the post office, order a call and wait until the long-distance line was free, and the operator could connect you with the subscriber.
And if the subscriber also had no telephone, he was first informed by telegram of the forthcoming conversation, and he too would come and wait until both operators could connect people languishing in expectation — for all of 3 minutes of talk! Those who were a bit richer could even order 5 minutes! And a 10-minute long-distance conversation was considered unheard-of luxury!
From the content of the song it is clear that Vladimir Semyonovich “was lucky” with a telephone. He could order a call on credit or, again, buy a coupon in advance at the post office for a certain number of little minutes on a sleepless night. I must note that an operator’s work was considered harmful, and the working day lasted 6 hours, and I think they retired at 45. And they took only women with a certain timbre of voice for such work.
And now I return to “our days.” My elder son calls me on Viber (he was born the year Vysotsky died), and I, hearing my son’s voice, answer: “I’ll talk now, but first I want to see both your face and mine in the telephone! Because,” I say, “I was listening to a Vysotsky song, what difficulties he went through just to get through to a loved one!” And I tell him the content of the song.
And he says to me: “Was this Vysotsky who couldn’t get through to Marina Vlady?” — “Oh, what are you saying, sonny, in those times there were no international calls! Only within the Soviet Union did women operators connect… or maybe there were…” “There were,” my son said philosophically, “only there the operators in civilian clothes decided whether to connect or not to connect.”