Then, one day at the beginning of March, the news broke.
Outside it was dreary and overcast, and the big shiny black cars of the high Soviet dignitaries spattered the plodding crowds in the streets with half-frozen snow as they rushed past with klaxons blaring on their way to and from the Kremlin. But in the great white-pillared ballroom of the American Embassy it was agreeably warm and the crystal chandeliers shed a cheerful light on the silver trays of highballs and old-fashioneds.
Suddenly a newspaperman hurried in, displaying all the symptoms, the air of suppressed excitement, of scarcely veiled self-importance, of someone who has got a story. News was short in Moscow in those days, and we clustered round him, diplomats and journalists alike. In his hand he held the text of a communiqué which had just been released by the Soviet Government. It was the announcement of a big State trial, the biggest yet. Looking over one another’s shoulders, we read the names of the accused.
It was an impressive list: Bukharin, a former Secretary-General of the Communist International, for years the leading theorist of the Party and a close associate of Lenin; Rykov, Lenin’s successor and Molotov’s predecessor as Premier; Yagoda, who, until eighteen months ago, had been People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs, and supreme head of the all-powerful N.K.V.D.; Krestinski, formerly Vice-Commissar for Foreign Affairs, whom most of us remembered meeting at official parties and receptions; Rosengolts, until recently Commissar for Foreign Trade; Faisullah Khojayev, President of Uzbekistan, who ever since the Revolution had been the outstanding figure in Soviet Central Asia; three of the Kremlin doctors, Levin, Pletnev and Kasakov; and a dozen others, all men who had until recently held key positions in the Soviet hierarchy. The charges were equally sensational: espionage, sabotage, murder, high treason.
The trial was to open in a few days’ time. Admission would be restricted. A few representatives of the foreign Press and only one member of each Embassy would be allowed to follow the proceedings. On learning this, we dashed off to secure passes and make the necessary arrangements.
The court-room, a day or two later, was full of noise and chattering, like a theatre before the curtain goes up. People were laughing and talking, looking for their seats and waving to friends. The cameramen, setting up their apparatus, shouted to each other across the room. It was a large, high, bright room, rather floridly decorated in characteristic Russian nineteenth-century style: white Corinthian columns against light blue walls. Before the Revolution it had been one of the ballrooms of the Nobles’ Club. Now it was fitted with rough wooden benches, like a schoolroom. At the far end there was a raised dais with a long table on it; near it a kind of enclosure or pen. There was no space for a large audience. Admission was by special invitation, and the rows of solid-looking citizens, sitting there like schoolchildren out for a treat, in their neat blue suits and tidy dresses, were all representatives of different organizations, good Party men and women, members of the élite — ‘proletarian aristocrats’ every one.
These were the successors of the nobles who had danced here in the old days before the Revolution. Now they, too, had come here to enjoy themselves, to meet their friends and to witness proceedings which would be both entertaining and edifying. They were men and women who could be counted on to place the correct interpretation on what they saw and heard, to benefit from the lessons and, for that matter, the warnings which it might contain.
For, like all true drama, the performance on which the curtain was about to go up had the power of affecting the audience personally and directly; the characters in it were familiar to them, were men in whose place they could without any great stretch of imagination imagine themselves. And so they had come not only to be excited and edified, but to be horrified, and perhaps even terrified, by a spectacle which would partake at once both of the medieval morality play and of the modern gangster film.
Suddenly a hush fell on the crowded room. Scores of inquisitive, greedy eyes turned in the direction of a little door in the corner at the far end. Through it filed the accused, twenty-one men, paler and smaller, somehow, than ordinary human beings. With them, herding them along, came a dozen giants in the uniform of the special N.K.V.D. Security Troops, bearing themselves like guardsmen in their well-fitting tunics and scarlet and blue peaked caps, their fixed bayonets gleaming, their sunburnt faces expressionless. One after another the prisoners took their places in the dock, with the guards surrounding them. A ripple of barely audible sound ran through the audience, something between a hiss of detestation and a murmur of horror. For an instant we stared, picking out familiar faces: Bukharin, with his pale complexion and little beard, strangely like Lenin as I had seen him in his glass coffin; Yagoda with his little toothbrush moustache; dark-skinned Faisullah Khojayev; Krestinski, small and nervous-looking.
Then another, larger door was flung open; and in a parade-ground voice an officer called out, ‘Silence. The court is coming. Stand up.’ We rose to our feet and stood waiting. There was a brief pause and then through the door tripped a fat man in uniform.
His shaven head rose to a point; his neck bulged over the collar of his tunic in rolls of fat; his little pig’s eyes darted here and there, from the prisoners to the crowd and back again. This was the notorious Ulrich, the President of the court, the man who had pronounced sentence of death on the prisoners at the previous State trials.
‘Sadityes pojalusta — pray be seated,’ he said, leering amiably at the crowd as he took his seat on the dais. Two other judges took their seats on either side of him; various lawyers, stenographers and technical experts arranged themselves at the foot of the dais.
To the right of the judges, facing the accused, stood Vyshinski, the Public Prosecutor. His was the leading role. Neatly dressed in a stiff white collar, checked tie and well-cut blue suit, his trim grey moustache and hair set off against his rubicund complexion, he looked for all the world like a prosperous stock-broker accustomed to lunch at Simpsons and play golf at Sunningdale every weekend. ‘A rather decent chap. …’
In a rapid expressionless voice an officer of the court started to read out the indictment. The trial had begun.
For sheer blood and thunder the indictment left nothing to be desired. The prisoners were charged, collectively and individually, with every conceivable crime: high treason, murder, attempted murder, espionage and all kinds of sabotage. With diabolical ingenuity they had plotted to wreck industry and agriculture; to assassinate Stalin and the other Soviet leaders; to overthrow the Soviet regime with the help of foreign powers; to dismember the Soviet Union for the benefit of their capitalist allies and finally to seize power themselves and restore capitalism in what was left of their country. They had, it seemed, been arrested before they could put this plan into execution, but not before they had organized widespread sabotage and actually made away with several prominent personages, covering the traces of their crimes so that their victims were generally believed to have died a natural death. What is more, despite their distinguished careers and the responsible posts which they had held, they were shown for the most part to have been criminals and traitors to the Soviet cause ever since the Revolution — before it, even. Several were charged with having been Tsarist police spies and agents provocateurs posing as revolutionaries under the old regime, while Bukharin was accused of having plotted to murder Lenin and Stalin as early as 1918. They were also shown to have had connections, not only with the German, Polish, Japanese and British Secret Services, but with Trotski, with the accused at the two last big State trials, with Tukachevski and the Generals who had been shot the summer before, and with a number of other prominent citizens whose disappearance had hitherto passed uncommented on. Finally, before coming into court, they had all, it appeared, signed written statements, confessing in detail to the crimes with which they were charged and thoroughly incriminating themselves and each other. The evidence accumulated filled no less than fifty large volumes which could be seen stacked on the judges’ desk.
After the re
ading of the indictment had been completed, the prisoners were asked whether they pleaded guilty. This, too, was pure routine. One after another, using the same words, they admitted their guilt: Bukharin, Rykov, Yagoda.
Then, suddenly, the audience woke up to the realization that things were not going as they should. Krestinski, a pale, seedy, dim little figure, his steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his beaky nose, was saying something different from the others, something appalling. Interest revived; was focused on Krestinski. Even the other prisoners turned to look at him.
‘I do not,’ he was saying, ‘admit my guilt. I am not a Trotskist. I am not a member of the Rightist-Trotskist “Bloc”. I did not even know it existed. I am not guilty of any of the crimes with which I am charged. I never had relations with the German Intelligence Service.’
There was an awkward pause. Even Ulrich, gross and self-assured, seemed momentarily taken aback. ‘But do you not,’ he asked, ‘confirm the admissions you made before coming into court?’
But Krestinski only went on repeating what he had said before. ‘I was never a Trotskist. I was never a member of the Rightist-Trotskist “Bloc”. I never committed a single crime.’
For the moment there was nothing to be done. Ulrich turned to the next prisoner.
‘Do you plead guilty to the crimes with which you are charged?’
‘Yes, I plead guilty.’
Then, when all the others had returned the prescribed answer, he announced briefly, ‘The court is adjourned for twenty minutes,’ and, followed by his two colleagues and by Vyshinski, left the room.
When, twenty minutes later, the hearing was resumed, Vyshinski immediately asked leave to begin the cross-examination of the prisoners with Bessonov, formerly the Counsellor of the Soviet Embassy at Berlin, a grim, grey-faced man, with the air of an automaton. The reason for this choice soon became clear. In an orderly, deliberate manner, as became the responsible Government servant he had once been, Bessonov proceeded to describe in detail how, while in Germany, he had acted as the link between Trotski and Krestinski, how, in 1933, he had arranged an interview between Trotski and Krestinski, how Trotski and Krestinski together had plotted to betray the Soviet Union to the Germans.
With heavy sarcasm Vyshinski interrupted him to ask what, in view of all this, he thought of Krestinski’s claim that he was not a Trotskist. Bessonov smiled, but did not answer.
‘Why,’ Vyshinski asked, ‘are you smiling?’
‘Because,’ he replied, ‘it was Krestinski who denounced me as his contact with Trotski. If he had not volunteered that information, I should not be here now.’
And, for an instant, those watching had a glimpse of the meshes in which the accused had entangled themselves and each other before ever coming into court.
‘And now,’ said Vyshinski triumphantly, having piled up the evidence he required, ‘I have some questions to ask Krestinski.’ But still Krestinski did not weaken. Other prisoners were called and readily added their incriminating statements to those of Bessonov. Still he refused to admit his guilt; refused to admit that he had had a meeting with Trotski; refused to admit that he had sought to betray his country to the Germans.
Again Vyshinski reminded him of the admissions he had made at the preliminary examination. How, he asked him, did he account for these? The answer came back at once, devastating in its directness. ‘I was forced to make them. Besides, I knew that if I said then what I say now, my statement would never reach the Heads of the Party and of the Government.’ There was a shocked hush in court. Never before had such a thing been said in public.
The court adjourned for two hours. It resumed. Still Krestinski, looking more than ever like a small, bedraggled sparrow, steadfastly maintained his innocence. Vyshinski was beginning to look worried. After all, it was his responsibility to produce the desired results, and who could tell what would happen to him if he failed in his task?
Finally he gave up trying to break down Krestinski’s resistance and, leaving him, turned to his companions. Readily, eagerly, they admitted their guilt. Cross-examining them, Vyshinski’s self-assurance returned There were no more discordant notes. It was like playing on a well-tuned instrument. Vyshinski looked happier. Late at night the court adjourned. The door at the end of the room was flung open and Ulrich and the other two judges marched out. Then someone opened the little side door and the prisoners filed through it, the guard closing in round them as they went. Back to their cells, back to the nightmare which had become their life.
Next day Vyshinski resumed his cross-examination of Krestinski. At once the change was obvious. After a little preliminary skirmishing and the production of further incriminating evidence, Vyshinski got down to the main point at issue. ‘Do you,’ he asked, ‘still persist in your refusal to confirm your previous declarations?’
‘No,’ came back the answer. ‘I confirm everything.’
‘What, then, was the meaning of the statement you made yesterday?’
‘Yesterday, influenced by a feeling of false shame, and by the atmosphere of the court, and by my state of health, I could not bring myself to tell the truth and admit my guilt before the world. Mechanically, I declared myself innocent. I now beg the court to take note of the statement which I now make to the effect that I admit my guilt, completely and unreservedly, under all the charges brought against me, and that I accept full responsibility for my criminal and treacherous behaviour.’
The words were reeled off like a well-learnt lesson. The night had not been wasted.
‘You may sit down,’ said Ulrich, in his soft, oily voice, and Krestinski slid back on to his seat with a look almost of relief. Vyshinski straightened his tie. The situation was saved.
The cross-examination of the prisoners continued. First came several of the smaller fry. The principle followed was clear enough. It was intended that by their admissions they should give a general picture of the activities of the alleged ‘bloc’ and, incidentally, thoroughly incriminate its leaders. Bessonov had played his part by describing the connection of the ‘bloc’ with Trotski and with the Germans. Grinko, a Ukrainian, revealed the existence of a terrorist organization in the Ukraine, working under orders from the ‘bloc’. Chernov, a former People’s Commissar for Agriculture, confessed that, under instructions from Bukharin and Rykov, he had, in the hope of causing unrest, deliberately persecuted the medium peasants and, in order to diminish the country’s resources, arranged for the destruction of tens of thousands of pigs and horses. Several other prisoners followed his example, admitting to agricultural sabotage on a vast scale. One, Zelenski, a former Chairman of the State Planning Board, admitted to having put nails and powdered glass in the butter supplies and on one occasion in 1936 destroyed fifty truck-loads of eggs.
At this startling revelation a grunt of rage and horror rose from the audience. Now they knew what was the matter with the butter, and why there were never any eggs. Deliberate sabotage was somehow a much more satisfactory solution than carelessness or inefficiency. Besides, Zelenski had also admitted that he had been in contact with a sinister foreigner, a politician, a member of the British Labour Party, a certain Mr. A. V. Alexander, who had encouraged him in his fell designs. No wonder that he had put ground glass in the butter. And nails! What a warning, too, to have nothing to do with foreigners, even though they masqueraded as Socialists.
More and more, as the hearing went on, attention became focused on the ‘bloc’s’ connection with foreign governments and intelligence services. Nor were the Germans the only villains. Equally prominent was the role allotted to the British Secret Service. On this subject Rakovski, a venerable-looking old gentleman with a long white beard and a fine record as a revolutionary, who had formerly served as Soviet Representative in London, was a particularly fruitful source of information. In great detail he described how he himself had been ‘recruited’ over dinner at a little restaurant in Oxford Street. Then he declared that Trotski himself had been a British agent ever since 1926. Two more sel
f-confessed British agents were Ivanov and Rosengolts, who, under instructions from Bukharin, had sold good timber to the British at ridiculously low prices in order to gain British support for their own fell designs. Faisullah Khojayev, for his part, declared that, being well aware of British designs on Central Asia, he had endeavoured to find a British agent in Tajikstan with whom to establish contact, but had not been successful. Looking up at this juncture, I caught Vyshinski’s eye and found him regarding me with a significant smile, as though to say: ‘You slipped up that time.’
When the court adjourned one of the Secretaries at the German Embassy walked over to where I was sitting. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘They don’t seem to like you any more than they do us. Or perhaps it is that we are getting more popular!’ and he laughed. The following year this same German was to play a not unimportant part in the negotiations for the Soviet-German Pact.
Bit by bit, as one confession succeeded another, the fantastic structure took shape. Each prisoner incriminated his fellows and was in turn incriminated by them. Readily, glibly, they dwelt on their crimes and on those of their companions, enlarged on them, embroidered them, elaborated them. There was no attempt to evade responsibility. On the contrary, they often argued among themselves as to who had played the more important part, each claiming the honour for himself. Some displayed considerable narrative powers; of some it might almost have been said that they were eloquent. These were men in full possession of their faculties; the statements they made were closely reasoned and delivered, for the most part, with every appearance of spontaneity. It was unthinkable that what they said had simply been learnt by heart beforehand and was now being delivered under the influence of some drug or hypnotic spell.
Eastern Approaches Page 10