Magda Nachman in Germany
After their successful crossing of the Soviet border in the fall of 1922, the Acharyas settled in Berlin.1 In the early 1920s, the Charlottenburg and Tiergarten districts of Berlin were flooded with Russians who had fled the Bolshevik Revolution, followed by those fleeing the Red Terror and the Civil War. Charlottenburg even acquired the telling epithet "Charlottengrad." This is how the composer Nicholas Nabokov (the writer Vladimir Nabokov's first cousin), who arrived in Berlin in the spring of 1921, writes about émigré life at that time:
They lived in cheap boarding houses, pensions, hotels, furnished rooms, and flats, or, in some rare cases, sumptuous villas in the Tiergarten and Grunewald. But the Russian refugees were by no means a humble, frightened lot that fretted and trembled in a hostile environment. They seemed to have taken over Berlin and transformed it into a Russian camp … The center of Western Berlin, from the Wittenberg Platz past the Gedächtnis Kirche and down the Kurfürstendamm, seemed to have surrendered to the Russian takeover.2
Russian newspapers, Russian publishing houses, Russian theaters and art galleries, Russian restaurants and stores, were proliferating and competing for business. As Vladimir Nabokov writes in his novel Glory:
But perhaps the most unexpected thing about this new, much expanded, postwar Berlin … was the free-mannered, loud-voiced Russia that chattered everywhere, in the trams, in the shops, on street corners, on the balconies of apartment houses.3
At the time of the Acharyas' arrival, Russian émigrés constituted about twenty percent of the city's two million residents. Berlin was attractive for its relative proximity to Russia, low cost of living, and the relative ease with which a German entry visa and residency permit could be obtained. And Acharya had resided earlier in Berlin, where he had been financially supported by the German government as a member of the Hindu–German conspiracy during World War I, and he had connections to other Indian exiles there.
Magda began sketching immediately on their arrival in Berlin. Acharya wrote about this in his first letter from Germany to his friend and colleague Igor Reisner.4 She was quite active during this period, drawing animals in the Berlin Zoo, illustrating books, and painting portraits and still lifes. Most of her work of this period has disappeared.
Acharya was monitored by the British intelligence service, since he was considered a dangerous Indian nationalist involved in subversive activities. Intelligence documents paint the couple's precarious existence. Acharya could not find remunerative work. Moreover, his health began to fail, mostly because of years of neglect and hunger. Magda was a working painter ("his wife made a little money by painting"),5 supporting both herself and her husband by her art. As noted in the British intelligence reports, "his wife is a non-political entirely concerned with art."6
Art did not bring much money, and the hardships experienced by Magda in Russia continued. Nevertheless, she persevered with her artistic endeavors.
There was an endless stream of important painters of the Russian avant-garde arriving in Berlin, including such temporary visitors as Kazimir Malevich, El Lissitzky, and Alexander Rodchenko, who returned eventually to the Soviet Union, and émigrés such as Ivan Puni (Pougny), Xenia Boguslavskaya, Naum Gabo, Antoine Pevsner, and many other Russian artists, including a number who had connections with and were ideologically closer to the World of Art Association. To make it among this boisterous crowd—at the mercy of impoverished, defeated Germany, itself in need of resources for reconstruction and war reparations—was not easy.
Nevertheless, Magda had a successful solo exhibition. It was mounted in 1928 in Galerie J. Casper. A positive review, which appeared in the prominent Berlin Russian language newspaper Rul′ on November 1, 1928, was written by none other than Vladimir Nabokov:
A person who has a feeling for colors is fortunate in a fortunate world, in which a pouring rain is not a harbinger of a runny nose but a wonderful iridescence on the asphalt, and in which an enticing speck of light burns on the most insignificant object of everyday life. Mrs. Nachman-Acharya possesses such a feeling, and she knows how to use it to the full. I especially liked two still lifes: a bottle made of transparent glass, all pierced by light, and a bunch of blue grapes coated with a precious glaze. Superb also are some portraits—a woman in a black kerchief against the background of a northern landscape; a smoky-green pudgy-faced Buddha; a thin Indian in profile. A very pleasant show, which demonstrates once more the high standing of Russian art.7
Unfortunately, not a single picture mentioned by Nabokov or any from the gallery's catalogue has surfaced.
Magda participated in a group show in the gallery Amsler & Ruthardt organized by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Osteuropakunde (German Society for the Study of Eastern Europe), an association established in Germany in 1913. A brief favorable review appeared in the May 10, 1929, issue of Rul′, in which the anonymous reviewer praised Magda: "Some pastels by Mrs. Nachman are pleasing (particularly her 'Courtyard')." But pictures from this exhibition have vanished as well.
In Berlin, Magda was introduced to the Nabokovs by a mutual friend, Anna Feigin, a pianist, graduate of the St. Petersburg Conservatory, and a cousin of Vladimir's wife, Véra. According to Nabokov's first biographer, Andrew Field, Magda was a friend of the family. "The Nabokovs described her to me," he writes, "as a tremendously sensitive person."8 In 1933, Magda painted pastel portraits of Vladimir, Véra, and Vladimir's mother, Elena Ivanovna. Magda's is one of only two known portraits of Vladimir from his Berlin years.9 This is how Andrew Field describes it:
The picture has two striking characteristics. Nabokov, not only because his hair is slicked back and very close to his head, somehow appears wet in the picture, as though he has just emerged from the water. This is a matter of style, of course, and in the other Indian pictures [by Nachman] which I have seen one sees this same air or posture of being a little out of place and very conscious of oneself in many of her subjects. It is a style that suits Nabokov's personality quite well. The other characteristic emanates from the subject: Nabokov looks at us in the picture not only as a man who knows precisely who he is and what he can do, but also what he has done. He is still a young man, but he has a different assurance about him. The snapshots of this period, mostly with tilted shoulders and patient smile, do not capture this aspect of his personality nearly as well as Magda Nachman-Achariya's study.10
The sitter indeed seems to possess a certain self-assurance. The subjects of many later portraits by Magda from India look squarely at the viewer. However, here, as in the portrait of Tsvetaeva, Nabokov seems to be looking elsewhere, With a slight smile on his lips, he seems rather to be gazing inside himself and into the future.