He was a tall, fair-haired youngish man of perhaps thirty-five, with rather fine features. He was much better dressed than the average Soviet citizen and his suit was obviously of foreign cloth and make. He kept up his silence for a while, but as he listened to our talk it was easy to see that he was astonished at what he heard. We discussed our own cases and political affairs in general, and it must soon have been clear to him that we were all Party members. It is easy enough to recognize a Party member. For one thing, he has an assurance that ordinary people lack. He has got used to being one of the masters of the country, and even in prison the feeling doesn’t altogether leave him.
Finally the newcomer could stand it no longer.
“Are you a member of the Party?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I replied, “since 1927.”
“And what about you?” he asked the Bashkir.
“Since 1917.”
“And you?”
“Since 1930. And from October, 1937, up to the time of my arrest, I was District Party Secretary in—,” replied the young man.
“Well, then, what on earth are you all doing here?”
‘What are you doing here anyway?”
“There seems to have been some sort of mistake.”
“And there’s some sort of a mistake with all of us, too.”
“That’s impossible,” he said shortly and he fell silent again. We took no particular notice of him. From time to time someone would ask him a casual question, but he always replied so abruptly that it was clear that he still distrusted us. We decided to let him stew. There would be plenty of time for him to come to his senses.
One evening he was called out for interrogation and off he went joyfully.
He returned in the middle of the night and woke us up. We could see at once that he was deeply shaken.
“Comrades,” he said. It was the first time he had used that word.
“What’s going on here? Tell me, for God’s sake. Is this a lunatic asylum?”
“It’s quite a comfortable prison now,” we informed him. “But it’s been very different. You’re lucky. You’ve come at the right time.”
“Thanks very much,” he said. “I could do without it. How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been on remand for three years now,” I replied, “though not here all the time. The others have not been in so long.”
“What are you charged with?”
“Sabotage, terrorism, diversion, espionage and counterrevolutionary agitation. They haven’t overlooked much, you see.”
“They haven’t overlooked much, have they? Were you a member of the opposition?”
“No, but what about you? Where do you come from?”
“The Narkomindyel.”
We pricked up our ears. We had made the acquaintance of all sorts of people in prison: people from the Party, the unions, heavy industry, the Commissariat for War, the Commissariat for Agriculture, the Soviets, the scientific and academic institutes, the hospitals and the G.P.U. itself. There were even judges, prosecutors, examiners and former commissars of the G.P.U. But the Narkomindyel, or the Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, was something new, and no one could remember ever having met anyone from it before. The Narkomindyel had only a small staff in Moscow and most of its officials were abroad.
“I was a member of the Diplomatic Corps,” he added. “I’ve just come from abroad.”
We were all keenly interested now. A man who had just come from abroad, and a diplomat at that, was a sensation. The outside world had ceased to exist for us. Our thoughts were chiefly by occupied with life in the camps, where we all expected to end up.
“Where were you abroad?”
“In China. I was Secretary of the Soviet Embassy in Chungking.” “Sit down and let’s have it all from the beginning. Why did you come back?”
“I received a telegram from the Vice-Commissar for Foreign Affairs, Potemkin, ordering me back to Moscow to make a report on the situation in China to Molotov. I took the plane via Sinkiang to Alma Ata. When I got off the plane there I was met and questioned by the G.P.U. Then I was arrested. I told them there must be some mistake and I showed them my diplomatic papers, but they said they had orders from Moscow. If there was a mistake, it could be best settled in Moscow. They took me by car to the train, and in Moscow I was brought straight here.”
“What did the examiner say to you?”
“I thought he’d gone off his head. He said I was a Trotskyist and a spy for Japan. He said I’d been working for the Japanese for the past four years. He wanted to know who had recruited me and who the other members of my organization were, particularly among the people in the Embassy in Chungking. He also wanted to know who was working for me and the Japanese in our secret service in Asia. At first I thought it was all a bad joke, but then he became absolutely furious.”
“Did he hit you?”
“No, but he abused me right and left in the most vulgar fashion, and he even threatened me.”
‘We’ll put you wise to all that later. Now what’s happening abroad? Is it true there’s a war on?”
“Of course there is. Don’t you know even that? Don’t you read the newspapers?”
We burst out laughing at the naiveté of the question.
“No,” I replied, “and we lack almost all other civilized amenities too. They feed us, look after us and keep everything from us to spare our nerves. It’s a proper sanatorium. And it doesn’t cost us a penny.”
“Please don’t make fun of me, Comrade. I don’t know whether I’m standing on my head or my heels. It’s all too serious for joking.”
“Yes, I suppose it is, but you see we’ve got used to it. Our last reliable piece of information was about the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact. Start from there.”
“I told you a lot of things,” put in the Bashkir in an injured tone, “but you wouldn’t believe me.”
The ex-diplomat then gave us a detailed résumé of the general situation. His news upset all my political ideas. We discussed it all night and bombarded him with questions. Twice we were interrupted by the warder, but as soon as he had gone we began again. It was dawn before we finally went to sleep.
This incident may give an outsider some idea of the effectiveness of our isolation. For two months we had had no news of the war although it must have changed the whole life of the country. Every warder, every examiner, every barber, every doctor, in short every non prisoner with whom we came in contact knew all about it, but they all had orders to hold their tongues, and they did. And no newspapers were ever left lying around. They carefully destroyed every trace of what was going on in the outside world. No news was allowed to come to us inside, and no news of us was allowed to leak outside.
When I was first imprisoned I was quite glad not to see the newspapers. The endless shriek, always in the same tone of utmost indignation and fury: “Exterminate the enemies of the people! Stamp out the Trotskyist worms!” made me feel sick. But the hours with absolutely nothing to do were difficult to bear. I hadn’t yet learned to occupy myself with my mind alone. During the twenty-four hours of the day I was allowed to sleep seven. The daily exercise lasted ten minutes. Then there was five minutes in the morning and another five minutes in the evening to go to the lavatory. Five minutes each perhaps for breakfast, dinner and supper. A quarter of an hour to clean up the cell. That was less than an hour a day. Sixteen hours and ten minutes of yawning emptiness remained.
On the third day, when I was approaching desperation, I was unexpectedly called out of my cell and taken to the office. But it was not for an interrogation. Lieutenant Drescher was there and I had to answer one or two questions and give him another account of my life. Then he asked me who was to take charge of the flat and my things. The choice was obvious. Marcel and his wife lived in the flat with me, and everyone at the Institute knew that we were close friends. Looking back now, I am afraid they wanted to find out just how close our relationship was in order to have a better case for arresting
Marcel. They arrested him two days later. It would have happened sooner or later because he belonged to one of the categories which the G.P.U. was arresting on principle in the years 1937 and ‘38. At the time it didn’t occur to me and I answered Drescher’s questions frankly. He was very correct, almost friendly, and he wanted to know whether there was anything I desired. I asked for books. No, he was unable to do anything about that; that was entirely a matter for my examiner. Well, could I have my things from the storeroom? Yes, he would arrange for that. Could I have food sent in from outside? Yes, I could have a parcel three times a week.
He gave me paper and pencil and I wrote a letter to Lena. When I returned to my cell my case was already there. I took out some clothing, the two rugs and the pillow, a towel and the soap. The soap had been cut into slices to see whether anything was hidden in it. The case with the rest of the things was then put back into the storeroom. That was March 4th, altogether an exciting day.
Then followed two weeks in which the only event was the parcel Lena sent me every other day. The loneliness was becoming more and more oppressive. I spent most of my time at the window. It was forbidden to look out, but no one interfered. The outside wall of my cell ran approximately from east to west. First the whole courtyard was in the shade, and then the shadow would shorten until three-quarters of the yard was in the sun. I assumed that the sentry in the yard was relieved at the full hour and by calculating on the basis of the shadows I could estimate when the sun reached the meridian. In this way I could at least divide the day into two parts.
From my arrest until the time the interrogations began I was subjected to this slow form of torture. My whole being, my nerves, my brain, my body, cried out for something to do, for something to experience, for a human being to talk to, for a pencil and a piece of paper, for a book to read. But there was nothing, and my life was bounded by three white walls and two windows. Outside the winter sun lit up the yard, and the beautiful weather intensified my isolation. On the whole I was still rather optimistic about the future. It seemed to me the matter must be cleared up when they came to examine it in detail, and then, of course, I should be released. It was thus not fear of the future I felt, but fear of each new, hopelessly empty day. How to get through it. How to occupy my time. What to think about and what to do in order to get through those sixteen dragging hours. The ten minutes during which I exercised brought me little relief. A silent warder with a sour face supervised my tramping. A friendly face can be a consolation. I had to walk round and round in a circle. On one side a door was open. That led down to the cellars and there was always a great deal of white chalky substance scattered around the door. I learned afterward that executions took place in the cellars. In one corner of the yard was a rusty piece of machinery. The exercise did not refresh me and I began to look upon it as a duty which had to be performed, as part of the things demanded of me. The ten minutes in the open air was necessary for health but it was no pleasure. I regarded it as a duty on my part to breathe in fresh air for ten minutes. The first days were particularly difficult because my organism had not yet developed any resistance to the sudden loneliness and enforced idleness.
But gradually I learned to occupy myself. I drew up a program. For two hours I tramped around my cell counting the steps. I reckoned that I walked between four and five miles in the two hours. Soon the counting grew tiresome and I began to sing, noting how many rounds it took to complete the song. After that I kept count of the number of times I sang it. The singing helped to soothe my nerves. For the two hours after that I recited poetry. I have a good memory and I knew very many poems by heart. I recited almost the whole of Rilke: the Buch der Bilder, the Stundenbuch and the New Poems. I have a selective memory, and anything that seemed to lack rhythm and beauty I had forgotten, which meant that I often had to supplement poetry with inventions of my own. Stefan Georg, Christian Morgenstern and others also served their turn. I took a delight in the pictures their verses conjured up and in the beauty of the words themselves. The two poetry hours were the best of the day. Another two hours were occupied with mental mathematical and physical calculations. I began to think about numerical problems for which I had previously had neither time nor inclination. I worked out a course in physics to meet the requirements of even the dullest high-school student. And the rest of the day I devoted to housing problems, which had become a hobby of mine. The architectural plans for the OSLO project had always been presented to me and I had often made amendments and alterations. In the end the architects had complained to Leipunsky and I had been dubbed Architect Weissberg. Now I mentally planned houses which had to conform to certain conditions. All the rooms had to be square as far as possible, with doors from the hall and doors from one to the other. Bathrooms were to have direct lighting. The halls were not to take up too much room, and the plumbing was to be as direct as possible to save money. I also thought a great deal about town planning, a problem which had greatly interested me when the ten-year plan for the reconstruction of Moscow was under discussion. In particular there was the difficulty of providing garage space, because by 1950 everyone would have his own car.
The worst time of the day was the morning, when it was still very light. Toward evening a change restfulness seemed to descend on me. I had done all my tramping around and I could afford to sit quietly on my bed, my daily program completed. I don’t know whether it was the approach of night, the pleasure of going to bed, or sheer tiredness. I have experienced a somewhat similar feeling after having taken a narcotic.
The days passed slowly. In the beginning I had thought I might easily be free again within a couple of weeks. Later on I no longer thought of being released but merely of the day when my loneliness would end at last.
The packets sent by Lena were not only a welcome interruption but also a very necessary supplement to the food. At eight o’clock in the morning there was the colored hot water called tea, one piece of sugar, and just over a pound of bread. The bread was soggy and difficult to divide. At midday there was about a pint of thin cabbage soup with very little nourishment in it, and the same again in the evening. Later on I had very good reason to discover that this ration was just enough to keep a man alive. But on one condition, namely, that he used up as little energy as possible in physical movement. On that diet a man was reduced almost to a skeleton, but once having reached a certain absolute minimum weight he remained at it and lived on. If the least amount of work was demanded, then rapid physical decline was the inevitable result.
The very day after my interview with Lieutenant Drescher I received my first parcel from Lena. A warder brought it into my cell, carefully unpacked it and put the things on my bed, and then took the wrapping paper away with him after I had signed a chit acknowledging receipt. I was touched by her concern for me. There were oranges, which were scarce, and chocolate and sweets in quite large quantities. Perhaps she thought I should be with others and have to share, or that it would be just as well if I could build up some physical reserve for the future.
On March 16th, just when I was thinking of going to bed, the great moment arrived, and I was taken out for my first interrogation. Polevedsky made no reference to my changed circumstances and acted as though nothing at all had happened. The room in which he now received me was larger than his old one. His desk was parallel with the wall and in front of it was a table covered with a red cloth and with a chair at each end. I sat down on one chair and Polevedsky on the other. Then he took a clean sheet of paper and wrote at the top “Interrogation No. 1.”
“Your name, Citizen?”
“Weissberg.”
“Forename and father’s name?”
“Alexander Semyonovitch.”
“Date of birth?”
All this senseless rigmarole went quite smoothly until he came to the question: “What Party?” When he wanted to put down “non-Party” or “expelled from the Party,” I protested strongly.
“I’m a member of the Communist Party, and I’ve not been expell
ed,” I insisted.
“There are no Communists among our prisoners,” he declared. “How come?” I asked. “I was a member of the Austrian Communist Party and the German Communist Party.”
“Counterrevolutionaries aren’t Communists,” he declared. “If you joined the Communist Party to undermine it the Party will have expelled you from its ranks.”
“The Party has never expelled me.”
“You have been expelled, even if you don’t know anything about it.”
“How can one be expelled without knowing anything about it?” “You’ll be told in good time. Take note that Communists are not arrested in the Soviet Union.”
Some time later I learned from a fellow prisoner the secret of these expulsions. Just before the arrest of a Party member, sometimes even several days before, the G.P.U. informed the local Party Committee—in the case of important members, the Central Committee—that an arrest warrant had been issued. The member in question was then expelled in a secret session. Of course, the proceeding was absolutely in violation of the Party statutes, but innumerable Communists were being expelled without being heard and without even being informed of their expulsion until after they had been arrested. There were even cases in which several weeks expired between the secret expulsion and the final arrest. A case came to my knowledge in which a District Party Secretary, i.e., quite a high official, was secretly expelled by the Central Committee of the Ukrainian Party in March, 1938, and not arrested until the following July. In the interim the man carried on as usual, expelling other members of the Party in his turn, as was only too common in those turbulent days. Those whom he expelled were never informed of the fantastic situation in which an expelled member had expelled other members, and so they had no possibility of protesting against their illegal expulsion. In any case, most of them were arrested shortly after, because expulsion from the Party was invariably a preliminary to arrest.
The Accused Page 14