Looking for Trouble, page 25
Although military collaboration between Russia and Germany ended with the advent of the Nazi Party, the Soviet Union continued to build on the established foundations. Ideas once considered bourgeois gradually crept back: officers’ pay was increased, medals were reintroduced, and many of the old uniforms revived.
In 1937 Stalin was suddenly confronted by an army clique with a visibly swelling power. Although it is extremely doubtful that members of this group were conniving abroad, there may have been dissension among them as to the methods which Stalin was employing in his ruthless and whirlwind efforts to industrialize the country. It is apparent that Stalin foresaw a force which might eventually threaten his own position; and waging the same preventive war with which he stripped the Communist Party of its leaders and, later, rid industrial forces and police organizations of their chiefs, he struck a blow at the army.
Indeed, there was evidence that for some time Stalin had been concerned in transforming the army into a thoroughly passive instrument. In 1925, eighty-five percent of the army was composed of peasants, and the remainder of industrial workers, which was more or less in proportion to the nation’s division of labor. Since the famines of 1932–33, however—a direct result of the Government’s ruthless collectivisation of the land—the loyalty of the peasant population was evidently considered of a dubious character, for now nearly fifty percent of the army was recruited directly from the ranks of industrial workers. Also significant was the fact that the number of Communists had increased from nineteen percent in 1925 to over fifty percent in 1939; in fact, most of the motorized troops were recruited exclusively from among the latter.
Although the Soviet Government argued that the purge had strengthened the army by the elimination of dissenting elements, it was obvious it could scarcely have increased its technical efficiency. The promotion of junior officers to fill the gaps in the higher commands created such a dearth in the lower ranks that Voroshilov was forced to order ten thousand cadets, who had not completed their courses at the military schools, to be enrolled as lieutenants.
The reintroduction of political commissars was also a factor of significance. The functions of the commissars were more or less obsolete until they were revived by a decree in May 1937. From that date on, they had equal authority with the commanding officers. They countersigned all orders and in extreme cases could even veto plans for an attack. An indication of their power was revealed by the fact that Red Army soldiers took an oath binding their allegiance to “Commanding Officers, Commissars and Superiors.”
The efficiency of an army operating under such dual control was obviously questionable. In 1918 when the commissars were first installed to prevent the desertion of White officers who were forced to serve in the Bolshevik ranks, the difficulties arising from the dual relationship were revealed in a letter written by Trotsky:
Re the participation of officers in White Guard revolts, I note that quarrels between commissars and military leaders have lately been increasing. From the evidence at my disposal it is apparent that commissars often take a directly wrong line of action, either by usurping operative and leadership functions, or by poisoning the relations between officer and commissar by a policy of petty quibbling carried out in a spirit of undignified rivalry.
There was no reason to suppose that in twenty years the human element has altered to such an extent that difficulties such as these would not arise again. But it wasn’t until I went to Finland the following winter that I had a chance to judge the Red Army from experience rather than hypothetical reasoning.
5
Notes on the Ukraine
At night, the lights of Kiev flashed from the high bluffs above the River Dnieper like jewels in a coronet, while the ice-bound river far below shone in the moonlight like a white satin train. But with the daylight the beauty passed like a strange dream, and you found an atmosphere of desolation all the more accentuated by the bleakness of the winter sky. The paint was chipping off the buildings, the shop windows were cracked and dirty, and every few blocks there were queues. The poverty was oppressive. It was irreconcilable with the fact that Kiev was the capital city of the Soviet Ukraine—an area almost as large as France—with the most fertile farm lands in Europe.
In that winter of 1938–39 many people believed that these farm lands were Germany’s ultimate aim. Not many months before, Hitler had declared that if “the unending cornfields of the Ukraine lay within Germany, under National Socialist leadership, the country (Germany) would swim in plenty.”
The Russians had taken note of this. Although the Ukrainian newspapers carried no hint of a threat from abroad, the city flowed with troops. The villages were honeycombed with GPU agents and at night the factories were illuminated and guarded by watchmen to prevent any attempts at sabotage. Finally, all foreign consulates, with the exception of the Polish, had been abolished, and the region unofficially closed to tourists. Indeed, foreigners had become such a rarity that when Frank Hayne, the American assistant military attaché, and I wandered around the streets, we were regarded as a curiosity. In the shops, crowds collected around us to feel our clothes and ask us where we had bought our boots.
I was on my way out of Russia and had been given permission to leave via the Romanian frontier, travelling through Kiev and Odessa en route. Frank, with a diplomatic passport, was able to travel where he liked and had come with me to take a look round. Six years ago, when the Soviet Government had adopted drastic methods in an attempt to collectivise the land, over six million people had died of starvation in the Ukraine. Now most of the kolkhozes were established, and Frank and I were interested in learning something of present conditions in order to get an indication of what resistance the Ukraine could offer against a German attack.
But the Soviet authorities seemed to have another view on the matter. From the moment our train pulled into Kiev we were surrounded by GPU men and it looked as though we would have little opportunity of seeing anything. We were trailed by the police day and night, even when we inspected the mummies of the priests buried in the catacombs of an ancient monastery. This annoyed Frank more than anything else. He was a delightful, easy-going southerner from New Orleans, but he had a temper that could flare up forcefully and unexpectedly.
“Ah suppose they think we’re goin’ to start a Trotsky conspiracy among the mummies,” he said indignantly. “If those fellows tag on behind me much longer ah’m goin’ to take a crack at them. Ah don’t mind being followed, but ah object to having them step on mah heels!”
When we asked the authorities for permission to visit a collective farm we were refused with a series of polite excuses. First, the director was out of town for the day; then the farm machinery was under repair; and last, the roads were too bad to travel over. As there were no taxis or public cars, we were helpless. But the more our path was balked, the more determined we became to have our way.
In the end we visited a collective farm, but not with official consent. We finally called on the Polish Consul, a charming man by the name of Matuszyński, and when he heard our plight, he placed his car and chauffeur at our disposal. We arranged for the chauffeur to pick us up at ten the next morning, and drive us to a farm about twenty miles from Kiev.
Our trip had certain dramatic features. First of all, we succeeded in eluding our GPU men. We were wandering along near the hotel looking into the shop windows when the Polish car came by, and we hailed it in the middle of the street. When we got out on a deserted country road we looked back to find two police cars following us—but the chauffeurs were alone. We had left so quickly that our GPU men, who had been hanging about in the hotel lobby (thinking we must make our arrangements through the porter), had missed the bus.
It was good to get into the country; the landscape, with its white plains and its bright blue cottages glistening in the sunshine, looked like a painting from another century. Peasant women with thick shawls wrapped around their heads trudged along the road pulling crude, home-made sledges stacked with wood and straw; once a horse-drawn sleigh came dashing past us, the driver’s face half smothered in an enormous fur cap. But soon we came upon a column of soldiers dragging some field guns, and the slosh of their boots in the snow and the roll of the artillery wheels jerked us back to the grim reality of 1939. According to Frank, the soldiers were members of the 44th Ukrainian Division—a division I was to see more of in Finland. They were husky, clean-shaven men and their high boots and long, thick coats offered a striking contrast to the shabby appearance of the peasants.
As we drove along, the countryside became more and more deserted, but we jounced through snow and mud, across incredible roads; over one particularly nasty bit we looked back to see both our police cars stuck in a snowdrift. We whooped with delight at this piece of luck, and a mile or so further on reached our collective farm—unescorted.
A more desolate sight would be hard to imagine. It was a small village of perhaps two-dozen cottages on either side of a narrow lane; and the lane was a sea of mud. The fences in front of the cottages were sagging, the walls dilapidated and the roofs in a bad state of repair. There was not a soul to be seen.
“Now that we’re here, what do we do?” asked Frank.
“We’re going in to talk to the people. And you must do the interpreting!”
“But we can’t just burst into people’s houses!”
“Why not? We’ll never be lucky enough to escape from the GPU again.”
“Good Lord!” said Frank. “Before we’re through with this trip, I’ll be the journalist and you’ll be the military attaché.”
We walked through mud that oozed up over our boots, pushed our way through a rickety gate and walked round to the back of the cottage. We banged on the door and a few minutes later a frightened-looking woman opened it. She might have been any age. She had wispy, blondish-grey hair that hung in strands about her face, red hands and a dirty smock. She stared at us in bewilderment. Frank explained we were Americans who were making a trip through Russia, but the words seemed to make no impression, for she just stood there gazing at us dumbly. We asked her if we could come in and she moved aside and opened the door. The cottage consisted of two rooms: the floors and walls were bare and the only furniture was three stools, a cupboard and a table. In one corner of the room was a large porcelain stove; two babies, bundled up in cloth, were sleeping on top of it.
Conversation was difficult as the woman didn’t talk, but just kept staring at us. We asked her what conditions were like and if she had plenty of food.
Her face brightened at this. “Oh yes,” she replied. “We have bread.” She hurried over to the table, lifted a cloth, and showed us a plate of black bread. As far as we could see there was no other food in the house. We left with her still staring after us and walked down the road to another cottage.
This was a more lively affair, for inside we found a family of eleven people, ranging from a grandmother to a child of four. The grandmother was a very old woman. She had a yellow, withered face, but a pair of incredibly bright eyes; it soon became apparent that she was still very much the matriarch of the household. She was tremendously excited at our arrival, dragged two stools from the corner, and, chuckling and bowing, told us to sit down.
“What have you got in your hat?” she said, pointing at me. Frank said it was a veil.
“But what’s it for?”
The difficulty of an explanation was avoided, for her attention suddenly shifted to my silk stockings. She knelt down and felt them. “Aren’t you cold?”
We asked her about conditions in the village and she nodded her head in satisfaction and gave us the same answer we had heard in the first cottage: there was bread. Then she chuckled and added there was vodka as well.
The cottage was as bare of furniture as the first one. When we asked where everybody slept, she pushed open the back door and pointed to a loft filled with hay. Near the door there were two ikons hanging on the wall. Frank commented on them.
“I didn’t think you kept those any more.”
The old woman laughed. “The younger people don’t have them, but I like them. They’re so bright.”
In the meanwhile, the rest of the family clustered round, the children staring at us with their fingers in their mouths. One of the boys suddenly darted into the next room and came back with a battered accordion. He squatted on the floor and began to play, while two of the girls clasped hands and did a little dance. The grandmother said something: one of them broke off, ran over to the cupboard and pulled out a dress. It was made of homespun cloth, painstakingly embroidered with flowers. She slipped into it, her sister did the buttons up, and then resumed the dance.
When we were ready to leave, the grandmother called our attention to a small faded snapshot tacked on the wall. She said it was a picture of herself taken many years ago, then pointed to Frank’s camera and remarked how wonderful it would be to have a new one. We suggested a family group and at this the cottage went into an uproar. The boys knelt down to clean their shoes, the girls began to smooth their hair, and the mother wiped her children’s faces. Finally, they lined up outside the cottage, their expressions tense and nervous. When the camera clicked, a sigh of relief swept through the group. They surged forward while we wrote down their address, then one by one shook hands and said goodbye.
When we reached the car again we discovered that news of our arrival had spread through the village. All along the lane neighbors were hanging over their fences discussing the event. Our Polish chauffeur told us the police cars had just arrived, and the drivers were reporting us to the farm director. He advised us to pay our respects immediately.
The director’s headquarters were in a large cottage, a few yards back from the lane, known as an “agitation point.” We walked in to find him in conversation with a uniformed militia man. Both of them gave us hostile looks and demanded our papers. But Frank’s diplomatic passport evidently made an impression, for after questioning us for ten or fifteen minutes, they finally let us go.
On the way home we looked back and saw the police cars following us; this time they each contained three GPU men. Where they all came from still remains a Soviet mystery.
* * *
—
Before we left Kiev we said goodbye to Mr. Matuszyński, the Polish Consul, who had been so kind to us. Six months later, when the Russians marched into Poland, he was called out of his bed at midnight, and taken to police headquarters for questioning. What sort of a third degree he was put through no one knows, for he was never seen again. When the Soviet authorities were questioned about this brutal act, they disclaimed any knowledge of his whereabouts and suggested that perhaps he had met with an “accident.” They offered, ironically, to make a search for the body.
* * *
—
In Odessa, Frank and I met two British sailors who had come into port on a cargo ship carrying oranges from Valencia. They were an amusing pair. The first mate was a tall, lumbering Lancashire man and the engineer a wiry little Cockney. We invited them to have supper with us, but when the bill came they drew large wads of roubles out of their pockets and insisted on paying. With the exchange at twenty-five roubles to the pound, Frank and I were astonished, but the engineer explained that the moment they stepped ashore Russians had begun bartering for their clothes.
“A thousand roubles for my pants, five hundred for my coat and a hundred for my socks. If I hadn’t thought I’d be arrested for indecency I’d have stripped in the middle of the street. Instead, I went back to the ship and dug up all the old shirts and sweaters I could find, and now we’re living like a couple of millionaires.”
“Yes. And you wouldn’t believe how far these things will go.” The first mate dug deeply into his pockets and drew out three oranges. “In this country they’re as good as diamond bracelets,” he chortled. “You’ve no idea how fast you can get acquainted. Perhaps I shouldn’t boast, but I’ve already had two proposals of marriage—one from the girl at the restaurant and the other from the cook at the club.”
The engineer interrupted to explain that the girls were so anxious to get away from Russia, any foreigners would do.
“Well, personal appearances count a little,” insisted the first mate, slightly ruffled.
The pair had had many hazardous experiences running the Spanish blockade; once their ship had been bombed and sunk in Barcelona Harbor, but they had promptly signed up with the crew of another. There was little danger of their being converted to Communism, for although they had travelled to many out-of-the-way places, they seemed to regard Russia as the strangest of them all.
“On the whole,” said the first mate, “foreigners are a pretty loony lot. There’s no stability about them, if you know what I mean. But as for this Russian system where you can win a girl with an orange, it’s definitely queer.”
“At least we’re saving a lot of money,” interrupted the engineer. “When we get back to Marseilles we can stock up on sweets for the kids in Barcelona.”
The Spanish War came to an end three months later, and I often wondered what happened to the pair. The first mate said when it was over he was going to buy a cottage in England and settle down; but I suppose both of them are still on the high seas—this time running the blockade of the German U-boats.
* * *
—
Odessa was as desolate as Kiev, but it was warmer. The streets ran with mud, for the snow was melting, but in the country you could see the first signs of spring. The Intourist guides were more accommodating than they had been in Kiev and arranged to take us to several factories and farms, but, unfortunately, our program was upset by a final encounter with the GPU.
