Stories, like children whisked away by magical storms, have a habit of wandering. They cross borders, transform, and reshape themselves, becoming new yet familiar. Such is the case with The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Few American readers of L. Frank Baum’s novel know that, much like Dorothy herself, his story embarked on its own journey across vast oceans to reinvent itself behind the Iron Curtain that separated the Soviet Union from the West.
In 1939, Soviet author Aleksandr Melentievich Volkov (1891–1977) published The Wizard of the Emerald City (Volshebnik Izumrudnogo Goroda), a translation of Baum’s original work. While serving as a teacher in the 1930s, Volkov discovered Baum’s novel and later recalled that the “fairytale, with its charming plot, appealed to me. But I had to substantially rework it.” The word “substantially,” however, was a stretch. As University of California, Berkeley professor Anne Nesbet demonstrates, only fifteen pages of his 1939 book contained new material, and many passages were translated almost word for word.
Translations of American children’s literature weren’t unusual in the Soviet Union. Stories like Winnie-the-Pooh, as well as the works of Jack London and Mark Twain, found their way behind the Iron Curtain through translation and adaptation. These translations partly compensated for the lack of domestic children’s books, especially in the early years of the Soviet Union, and partly took advantage of complex international copyright laws that allowed for the “borrowing” of foreign material. Even in translation, however, children’s literature, from adventure stories to fairy tales, wasn’t isolated from the broader issues of Soviet culture. As literary scholar Maria Nikolajeva writes, “Soviet fairy tales clearly reflect the ruling ideology and propagate the values inherent in it. As such, they faithfully served the purposes of the society in which they were created.”
At first glance, however, Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, with its whimsical magic and fantastical elements, is an unlikely fit for Soviet children’s literature, which favored themes of hard work and collective struggle over wish fulfillment and enchantment. Yet, there appears to be something about Baum’s story that lends itself to reinterpretation. Although Baum claimed in the foreword to his book that he wrote it “solely to pleasure children of today,” this hasn’t stopped readers and scholars from interpreting it in myriad ways: as a parable on populism, monetary allegory, or as an exploration of queerness. Baum’s work, it seems, is easily reshaped to serve different purposes, something that must have resonated with Volkov.
In the 1950s, Volkov returned to The Wizard of the Emerald City and made the story his own. Expanding and altering scenes, he infused the tale with distinctly Soviet themes and republished it. Reimagining Oz through a Soviet lens, he transformed Dorothy into Elli, the Land of Oz into the Magic Land (Volshebnaia strana), and Oz into Goodwin. He also gave Elli’s dog, Totoschka, the power of speech. Elli still lives in Kansas, but unlike in Baum’s telling, she lives with her parents, not her aunt and uncle. Once transported to the Magic Land, she meets the Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Man (transformed into an Iron Man) on the yellow brick road, and their goals—bravery, brain, and heart, respectively—remain the same. The Magic Land is home to good and bad witches, on whom Volkov bestows both new names and motivations. Volkov kept many original themes and plotlines but also introduced new scenes, including one in which Elli is kidnapped by a cannibal and another featuring a flood that nearly drowns the heroes. His changes might, at times, be slight, but they’re significant.
How did Baum’s story transform? What ideals and values did Volkov want to see transported to the children within the Eastern Bloc? In his discussion of the Soviet education system, Jonathan Tudge points out that there were two main components in the education of young Soviet children: the development of a collectivist attitude and a love of labor. Both are found in Volkov’s adaptation.
From the beginning, Volkov’s emphasis on community and collective struggle is apparent. While Baum’s Dorothy lives alone with her aunt and uncle in a desolate place and apparently without neighbors, Elli and her parents are surrounded by a community of farmers she visits and plays with regularly. Once she’s transported to the Magic Land, she has to do more than simply follow the yellow brick road and ask Goodwin to return her home. The good witch Villina tells her she can only return to Kansas if she helps three living beings fulfill their dearest wishes. While Dorothy is allowed to think that “if she could only get back to Kansas and Aunt Em, it did not matter so much whether the Woodman had no brains and the Scarecrow no heart, or each got what he wanted,” Elli’s return is tied to her companions’ hopes and dreams. Only together can they succeed.
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As Nesbet explains, Volkov claimed his adaption “endowed the main characters with kind human qualities,” which is true to an extent. The five companions support each other more frequently throughout Volkov’s book than in Baum’s version. The Iron Man, for example, crafts a sturdy walking stick for the Scarecrow and, when the Scarecrow is stranded in the water during a perilous river crossing, Elli and the others refuse to leave him behind. Instead, they devise a rescue plan, while in Baum’s original, they reluctantly accept his loss. Throughout his book, Volkov makes it clear that it’s the group, not the individual, that counts. When, toward the end of the story, the Scarecrow, now the ruler of the Emerald City, boasts about his newfound power and luxurious life, Totoshka swiftly humbles him, reminding him that his success wasn’t achieved alone. In emphasizing the importance of the group, Volkov is in line with Soviet propaganda and thought, where stories of friendship were used to promote unity and collectivism.
Another significant change in Volkov’s adaptation is apparent in the section in which Goodwin sends Elli to destroy Bastinda, the Wicked Witch of the West, who enslaves the Winkies in her palace. Baum gave the Winkies little to no role. By contrast, Volkov elevates their importance. At the witch’s palace, Elli bonds with the Winkies, persuading them that serving a cruel ruler is unjust, and convinces them to rise up and free themselves. Outraged, she demands, “Why is it you Winkies don’t rebel against Bastinda? […] There are so many of you, thousands of you, and you all are afraid of one evil old woman.” Eventually, the Winkies organize, ready for a coup.
Through the Winkies, Volkov reinforces a core tenet of Soviet thought: the necessity of class consciousness and revolution against tyranny. Before the revolt can take place, however, Volkov reverts to the original narrative, having Elli defeat the witch by melting her. By doing so, the writer tempers the revolutionary message, suggesting that while the oppressed could and should recognize their chains, liberation may still come from an external force.
The emphasis on the value of work is another theme running through Volkov’s iteration. In the first scene, Elli sits with her mother, discussing fairy tales and magical lands. When Elli wishes that a magician would conjure new shoes for her, her mother reminds her that she doesn’t need magic because their labor satisfies their needs. Volkov tells us that Elli is burdened with sorrows and work, yet after arriving in the Magical Land, all she longs to do is return to her old life. As the German Studies scholar Jennifer Askey points out, “In terms of a fairy tale for children in a socialist system, Elli’s story teaches them the value of committing to hard work, to desperate surroundings while working for a better life.”
In the afterword to his novel, Volkov addresses his young readers directly. Acknowledging Baum’s work as a source of inspiration, he attempts to explain Goodwin’s actions by way of ideology.
“Goodwin’s homeland, and indeed the entire world in which the heroes of Baum’s fairy tales live and act, have much in common with the capitalist world, which the writer knew well,” writes Volkov, “a world where the wealth of a minority is built on the exploitation and deception of the majority. That is why Goodwin saw his only means of survival in deceiving the inhabitants of the magical land.”
In writing about Goodwin, Volkov also spells out the moral of his story: that “every lie, every deception comes to light at the end.” More explicit than in the story itself, the afterword reinforces the ideological underpinnings of the adaptation and transforms the story into a vehicle for broader social and political messaging, one that associates oppression and deception with capitalism.
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Volkov’s version has a more serious tone and is more preoccupied with the right morals and behavior. Baum’s subversive humor doesn’t make its way into his adaptation. Still, young readers responded positively to Volkov’s story and were eager to follow Elli on her adventures. The Wizard of Emerald City and its five sequels published between 1963 and 1975 were great successes. By 1981, more than 2.5 million copies had been printed in Russian, and the books were translated into other languages of the Eastern Bloc. Indeed, The Wizard of the Emerald City and its sequels were among the most widely read children’s books in East Germany, where they remain popular even today.
Countless children on both sides of the Iron Curtain followed Dorothy and Elli along the yellow brick road. Just as it would be simplistic to interpret Baum’s novel as conveying a single, unambiguous message, it’s equally reductive to view Volkov’s books solely as propaganda. Both versions are fairy tales about friendship, bravery, magic, and the triumph of good over evil—something children and adults can relate to, whether they’re sitting in a reading nook in New York or an armchair in Moscow.
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