Lenin, Stalin, and Hitler

by Robert Gellately

  On July 11, 1929, Sovnarkom gave its blessing to these changes, renaming the concentration camps corrective labor camps (ispravitel’ no-trudovye lagerya). New ones were to be situated in northern, remote regions “for the purpose of colonizing these regions and tapping their natural resources through the exploitation of prisoner man power.” The initial plan was for the new camps to hold up to fifty thousand, but that turned out to be far too modest. Some prisoners were to remain in the camps of the NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs), but the matter was far from settled.8

  Soviet leaders had not worked out precisely what part the camps were to play in the economy beyond the vague notion of developing the north. The OGPU began using prisoners on projects like the construction of railway lines and in forestry and fishing. Initial successes “whetted the appetite” of the regime for larger projects to capitalize on the growing pool of cheap labor. From January 1930, Yagoda issued orders for concerted action to pick up the three categories of kulaks, beginning with those of the first category and working down. An unknown but large number of other “socially dangerous elements” were also apprehended.9

  This second wave of dekulakization in 1930–31 was less dramatic than the first but affected even larger numbers and by the end of 1931 had reached a grand total of 1.8 million. This slave labor was now put at the disposal of the expanding concentration camp system.

  Sovnarkom decided on April 7, 1930, to establish the Main Administration of Corrective Labor Camps and Labor Settlements, a title shortened to Glavnoe Upravlenie Lagerei, or Gulag. Sovnarkom attempted to justify setting it up, brazenly publishing a statement to the effect that the camps were designed to “isolate especially dangerous lawbreakers and to make them conform to the conditions of the society of toiling people.” All prisoners began by serving hard time. As they proved themselves to be useful, their conditions were to be improved, but everyone had to work to eat. There was mention also of how prisoners’ labor would contribute to their “struggle for Communist morals.”10

  Stalin intervened in how the camps would fit into the larger scheme of things. At his urging the Politburo decided on May 5, 1930, to construct the White Sea-Baltic Canal (Belomorkanal or Belomor). It would be 141 miles long, with dams and locks traversing extremely difficult terrain. Stalin was keen on using concentration camp labor to build it cheaply and in the impossibly short time of two years. There was a conflict, however, between the OGPU and the Russian Federation NKVD. Both were developing plans and were competing over the supply of slaves. They appealed to higher authority. In the first instance, on August 31, Sovnarkom decided to permit the NKVD to keep prisoners sentenced to three years or longer—as the NKVD wished. The OGPU chairman, Menzhinsky, wanted more and on September 3 complained to the Politburo, and the matter came to Stalin’s attention.

  Leaders of the OGPU got word to Stalin that if the NKVD kept “their” prisoners, then construction of his pet project of the moment—the White Sea-Baltic Canal—would fall still further behind schedule. In the event, Stalin was distinctly not pleased. On September 7 he wrote Molotov, urging him to set matters straight by giving the OGPU all the prisoners and removing those of the NKVD. By October 5 the Politburo had decided that was indeed the proper course and overruled itself as Stalin wished.11

  This turn of events was significant in that it increased the power and influence of the OGPU, which was then firmly put in charge of the Gulag. There were also political ramifications within the elite. Up to this point Stalin was still facing some “right opposition” in the Politburo and Sovnarkom but demonstrated he was able to get his way with ease.12

  The camps now expanded rapidly. The number of prisoners increased from around 30,000 in 1930 to 179,000 the next year. On January 1, 1933, there were 334,300 prisoners, and the next year there were 510,307. By January 1, 1936, the number had grown to 839,406. This massive increase came even though life expectancy in the camps and on the building sites was low—as little as one year, according to some estimates. The severe treatment and impossibly harsh working conditions on various pet projects left even those who were released in a debilitated condition and shortened many people’s lives.13 By the mid-1930s prisoners were scattered across the entire USSR, with some of the largest clusters in and around major cities like Moscow and Leningrad.14

  To combat atrocity stories about the camps circulating inside and outside the Soviet Union, the regime opened “model facilities” for the inspection of the curious, including foreigners. Stalin wanted the public to believe that the kulaks were not convicts and worked freely. Supposedly, they had “all the rights of voluntary labor.”15

  Some regional bosses were driven by the plan and their own ambitions to brush such paper distinctions aside. They were desperately short of labor and not at all unhappy with Stalin’s decision to “eliminate the kulaks as a class.” In the Urals region, for example, there was no way to meet the quota demands for forestry products without more labor. Regional officials ignored all concerns about the fate of the kulaks and “insistently requested” far more prisoners than they could possibly care for. Many were soon worked to death.16

  As per the blueprint outlining the three categories of kulaks and what should happen to each, some were sent on journeys into the farthest reaches of unoccupied northern and eastern parts of the country, where they would have to work on “poor land.” In fact, many were put on trains and then deserted in uninhabited places in what was called, with exaggerated understatement, “abandonment in deportation.” Just what was meant by this concept was hinted at in a later report, from May 1933, sent to Stalin. This account pertained not to kulaks but to yet another stigmatized group—“outdated elements”—but it showed well enough what “abandonment in deportation” really meant.

  The report concerned two trainloads of these unfortunates, presumably members of the bourgeoisie, nobility, or clergy—more than six thousand in all—who originated in Moscow and Leningrad. In late April 1933 they were sent to the distant and uninhabited island of Nazino. The trip alone caused the deaths of many. The emaciated survivors were weakened by hunger and mistreatment. They were then left on an island in the middle of nowhere, with no tools, no grain, no food. They could not even light a fire. It began to snow, and hundreds died of exposure or malnutrition the first day. Only on the fourth or fifth day did a convoy arrive and dole out a minimal amount of flour to each person. Driven by delirium from exhaustion and hunger, many tried to mix the flour with water in their hats; most tried to eat it straightaway, with the result that they choked to death on the foul mixture. Once their last resources were gone, survivors resorted to cannibalism.

  The authorities returned and resettled the unfortunates in one failed “colony” after the next before concluding that the region was uninhabitable. By July these “outdated elements” were finally sent to a more settled area, but were desperate enough to eat “moss, grass, leaves, etc.,” and reports of cannibalism persisted. By August 20 more than two-thirds of the original six thousand or so had already died. Thus, the meaning of “abandonment in deportation” was for some four thousand the equivalent of a death sentence dragged out through months of useless suffering.17

  An official census, on January 1, 1932, of the 1.8 million kulaks deported in 1930–31 counted only 1,317,022. Even supposing the figures were accurate, they indicated nearly a half million missing people. Some had escaped, but many were dead.18

  Far from solving recurrent grain crises, forced collectivization, with all its attendant heavy-handedness, made the situation even worse. Stalin determined there was no turning back, and the pace was accelerated. Every move was justified by relating it to one statement or another from Lenin. Stalin’s address of February 4, 1931, to industrial executives again sounded the drums of war:

  To slacken the tempo is to fall behind. And those who fall behind get beaten. But we do not want to be beaten. No, we refuse to be beaten! Old Russia suffered continual beatings because of its backwardness. It was b
eaten by the Mongol khans, by the Turkish beys, by the Swedish feudal lords, by the Polish and Lithuanian gentry, by the British and French capitalists, by the Japanese barons. All beat Russia—because of its backwardness, its military backwardness, cultural backwardness, political backwardness, industrial backwardness, agricultural backwardness. They beat it because doing so was profitable and could be done with impunity.

  He urged the industrial executives to put an end to the economic backwardness of the “Socialist fatherland” in the shortest possible time. He expected them to employ a “genuine Bolshevik tempo in developing its Socialist economy. There is no other way. That is why Lenin said on the eve of the October Revolution: ‘Either perish, or overtake and outstrip the advanced capitalist countries.’”19

  He ended the speech by saying: “There are no fortresses that Bolsheviks cannot capture. We have solved some very difficult problems. We have overthrown capitalism, taken power, and built up a huge Socialist industry. We have put the middle peasants onto the path of Socialism. Already we have met the most important requirements for construction.”20

  THE LEADER

  Stalin had emerged as the victor for Lenin’s succession and defeated all rivals by 1929. He was still not the dictator he was to become. He exercised power by arguing his point of view and maneuvering policies through the upper echelons of the Soviet system of Party and state. By 1929–30 he had gained powerful positions in the Politburo and was secretary general of the secretariat and the decisive figure on Sovnarkom, the Council of People’s Commissars. He wanted more.

  Lenin’s death left a political-psychological void within the Party and to some extent in the country, a yearning for a strong hero figure, a charismatic leader around whom all could rally. Charisma—“the gift”—conferred authority on the leader by virtue of who he was, not because of the positions he held. Thus, even though Stalin controlled significant leadership positions, the magic of charismatic authority escaped him. The task of assuming Lenin’s mantle was made more difficult because the great man had never taken a prominent office, such as supreme leader of the Party or head of state. There was no alluring title to be passed on.

  The first major opportunity to establish a Stalin cult along the lines of the one created for Lenin came on Stalin’s “official” fiftieth birthday on December 21, 1929. This was by coincidence the year of the “great breakthrough,” or turning point of the Five-Year Plan.

  For most of 1929, Pravda had carried few articles about or by Stalin, or pictures of him. Some people, though, most likely inside the upper echelons of the Party, thought it was about time to bring public attention to the leader. In the course of 1929, and in line with the tradition in the country of celebrating important anniversaries, birthdays, and such occasions, they decided that some tribute would be paid to Stalin.

  A wide array of people, numbering in the thousands, were mobilized from all walks of life, major organizations, factories, and military units to show their fealty and devotion by writing letters to Pravda. Such a “spontaneous” expression of joy had to have an international dimension. Leaders of Communist parties abroad were encouraged to write about Stalin’s accomplishments.

  Many of these birthday greetings were published in Soviet newspapers. Pravda alone printed 200 messages of congratulations, 117 of them between December 21 and 28. The letters were culled from hundreds more. Some were similar enough to suggest they were tampered with. Thus they cannot be taken as a “scientific” sample of public support for Stalin, but nor can they be dismissed as meaningless.

  James Heizer’s analysis of the 117 Pravda letters shows that there were 483 different terms used to designate Stalin’s preeminence, with 201 (42 percent) referring to various leadership roles. Russian has two main words for leader. The first, rukovoditel’, was used 76 times. The root of the word refers to guidance or direction, and in this case mostly related to tasks Stalin performed in his capacity as head of the Party, leader of the Central Committee, and so on.

  The second word for leader in Russian is vozhd’ and was commonly used for Lenin. This was the title Stalin coveted, even as he piously disclaimed all interest in a cult of leadership. The vozhd’ was the undisputed charismatic hero-leader and near-religious prophet of the movement. The word was used in forty-nine greetings on Stalin’s birthday, eight of which were translations of messages from well-wishers abroad. Only twenty-eight Soviet letters used vozhd’ to refer to Stalin. Moreover, to the extent they did, the word applied to his role as leader of the Communist Party. In late 1929, then, he was far from being viewed as the vaunted leader on par with Lenin.21

  Henceforth the Stalinist cult would be developed with more care. The framework was already sketched out, and no doubt some people sincerely began to look to Stalin as the blessed leader. There were social expectations of many kinds, and there were hints at least that many welcomed the return of the strong leader who would set things right. Stalin himself took a hand in filling in the details during the stormy decade to come.

  Lenin had been chairman of Sovnarkom from 1917 to 1924 and was a kind of unofficial premier of the government. He ended up working through the Politburo, as did Stalin, who turned down the chairmanship of Sovnarkom and preferred to have one of his yes-men assume that role. He craved the adoration showered on Lenin, and as the years passed, he dared hope for that kind of glory for himself.

  In the course of the 1930s the tradition of collective leadership faded, and Stalin emerged still more as an autocrat and dictator, in fact if not in name. He took a hands-on approach to the minute details of government and administration in many spheres. He became, as was to be expected in such a complex party-state system, not the person who made every single decision, but the one who acted as the “supreme arbitrator” within the hierarchy of power.22

  Stalin did not openly proclaim his dictatorship, but even as he veiled it carefully, the aura around him deepened. He frightened his inner circle and those who were close to the center of power. The balled fist was covered with a silk glove for the public, who were shown pictures and statues of him in state buildings. He was held up as a great father figure who always knew best, a man who wanted nothing for himself, everything for his people. He remained distant, mysterious, and fearful. When he visited his aging mother (as he rarely did) in the early 1930s, she asked him humbly: “Joseph, what exactly are you now?” He answered, perhaps more honestly than he intended, “Well, remember the Tsar? I’m something like a Tsar.”23

  PART FOUR

  GERMANS MAKE A PACT WITH HITLER

  11

  NAZI PARTY AS SOCIAL MOVEMENT

  Weimar democracy was able to shut out the extremist parties like the Nazis and the Communists for a while, but at the end of the 1920s, when the economy collapsed, Germans gradually deserted more moderate parties and, in desperation and doubt, threw their support behind political extremism. In the midst of the turmoil, many yearned for a strong leader along the lines of a Frederick the Great or a Bismarck who could set things right. The Nazi Party would have had no chance in “good times,” but at the end of the 1920s the country was in complete disarray. Voters began to see the Nazis as a plausible alternative, all the more as they were steadfast opponents of the Communist Party, whose support grew with every election.

  Nazism was also a social movement that demanded commitment and sacrifice. Even in hard times when money was short, people were charged a fee to listen to what Nazi speakers had to say. The money to finance the Party did not come, as is often supposed, from industrialists and bankers, but mostly from ordinary people who were willing to pay out of their own pockets.1

  SELF-FINANCING AS A STEERING DEVICE

  Headquarters in Munich covered most expenses for national offices but was not in a position to subsidize local branches, which had to come up with their own funds, such as by charging admission for speeches and rallies. Making locals pay the bills meant the Nazis had to tailor appeals to fit circumstances, and the Party out in the provinces was give
n a fair amount of autonomy to identify the issues and figure out how to exploit them.

  Hitler approved the Party’s taking on “a somewhat local coloration” and presenting itself slightly differently depending on the area. He told a membership meeting in Munich not to worry about variations in the message as “in principle we are all marching toward the same goal.”2

  From his army days Hitler had learned what it took to be effective as a public speaker and wanted only specifically trained individuals to address Party meetings. They would be recruited and schooled as he had been and given instructions on how to talk about particular issues and attract audiences. Experienced speakers generally had to be brought in from the outside. If these persons were members of the Reichstag, they traveled on a free railway pass. Otherwise district or local branches had to pay those expenses as well.3

  Self-financing of this kind operated as a mechanism by which the Party homed in on popular issues and avoided others that got little or no support. Nazi officials at the grass roots did not wait on orders from above but exploited the situation they knew far better than Hitler or the propagandists in distant Munich. The larger and more successful the mass meetings these groups could hold, the more they could afford, so there was an incentive to bring in speakers on topics that attracted the largest crowds.4