The Accused

by Alexander Weissberg

  But did they really take this nonsense seriously? Despite the fact that occasionally I found my brain reeling, I still knew perfectly well that I had done nothing whatever against the Soviet Union. So what could they prove against me, either by document or by confrontation, or in any way whatever?

  However, I must confess that I was a little anxious. It was unlikely that they would organize a confrontation unless they believed something would come out against me. Perhaps they would produce false witnesses, recruit the help of my enemies at the Institute and twist their evidence to make it look black for me.

  I wanted to stop thinking about it all. Whatever was going to happen, my own path was clear.

  It began to grow gradually light and I grew more peaceful. I hummed a song and waited for sleep.

  CHAPTER 4—The Confrontations Begin

  FOR A FEW DAYS AFTER THAT THERE WERE NO INTERROGATIONS, AND then unexpectedly I was called out at an unusual time, eleven o’clock in the morning. Interrogations usually began at ten o’clock at night. Polevedsky was not alone; another man was in the room looking toward the window. When he turned round I saw it was Gerf. Gerf had been in charge of the building operations when the conflict with Davidovitch caused me to withdraw temporarily. He was a typical Party-line-at-all-costs man, but we had got on quite well. He was a Jew and he had grown up in the Party, so to speak. The Party protected him from all physical dangers and material discomforts. If he wanted to study the Party would send him to school and pay him a grant, and it would always find him a job. However, it was not only purely material interests which guided him. The Party gave him a psychological backbone which he did not otherwise possess. He was a man without initiative and he felt safe in the Party; it offered him a certain well-being and a certain position he could never have won on his own.

  Of course, it was not only such considerations that brought Gerf, and many others like him, into the ranks of the Party. During the revolution and the years of civil war they had been attracted by its revolutionary ideas and, once inside, a cleverly devised system saw to it that they never drifted away again. Their choice was between membership of the dominant group, which included a comfortable and secure position, and the terrible threat of complete moral and physical destruction if they ventured to depart by as much as a hairsbreadth from the Party line.

  This threat hung over the head of every member of the Party, high or low. It compelled Party members to suppress every heretical thought, even every critical thought. If the Gerfs of the Party saw the lunatic policy of Stalin in the villages in the years 1932 and ‘33, they refused to admit that they had seen. They suppressed every critical impulse and forced themselves to believe that the Great Leader was right, and that there was really no other way to bring about the collectivization of agriculture but by exterminating innocent peasants wholesale. Later on, in prison during the Great Purge, I was to realize that their efforts in this respect had not been entirely successful.

  I sat down at one end of the little table covered with red cloth, and Gerf sat opposite me at the other.

  “Do you know this man?” began Polevedsky.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He is Comrade David Yefremovitch Gerf.”

  “Have you ever had any personal disputes with him?”

  “No.”

  “Have you any reason to believe that he might be prejudiced against you?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. Comrade Gerf, please begin your evidence.”

  Gerf began to describe our relations, including my political attitude. The details escape me now but I remember perfectly well that he said nothing hostile or dangerous, and I began to wonder why the examiner thought his testimony of value. However, there was one minor point which stuck in my mind. The plan for capital investments was worked out by the State Planning Commission, Gosplan, and laid before the Council of People’s Commissars, or Sovnarkom. The magnitude of the capital investments was an eminently political problem, and it also determined the standard of living and the amount available for defense. The Politburo decided how much of the national product was to go to the war industries, how much into new textile factories, how much into new mines and so on. The Sovnarkom then confirmed the plan and made the necessary allotments to the various Commissariats, but first it had to have the individual estimates of the Commissariats, and these were drawn up on the basis of the previous year’s results. As the statistics were never available until the end of the year, the confirmation of the general plan for capital investments was always delayed.

  Now our credits depended on this plan. After December 31st, the bank wouldn’t let us have a single ruble until the new credit came through. The invariable result was that in January and February the Institute had neither cash nor credit. As the director of building operations I was responsible for the prompt payment of wages. In 1935, knowing the difficulties ahead, I had drawn out a certain sum in December and paid the workers their January and February wages in advance. The sum had actually been a surplus from the previous year, 1934, when a lack of building materials had made it impossible for us to use all our credit. Strictly speaking, my action was illegal, but I was in an awkward situation. A Russian director would probably have refused the responsibility and shrugged his shoulders, but I didn’t want our workmen to go for weeks without pay just because the plan confirmation was delayed, so I took the risk. The following year the Sovnarkom issued a special decree authorizing the banks to pay out a provisional sum to bridge this awkward gap.

  Gerf now brought up the matter against me.

  “Accused Weissberg,” put in the examiner, “do you confirm the statements of Comrade Gerf?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, what have you to say in your defense?”

  “Simply that I couldn’t leave the workmen without pay for an indefinite period.”

  “You should have written to Moscow and asked for the credits to be granted in time.”

  “Do you think it was as simple as that, Citizen Examiner? Of course I wrote. I wrote again and again and pointed out that I couldn’t pay the wages. But it was no use, the Narkomtekhprom wouldn’t pay out a kopeck before the general plan of investments was confirmed. There was a gap in the system, as you can see from the fact that in 1936 a special regulation was issued to close it. From then on building operations were financed in the first quarter from transitional credits even before the confirmation of the plan.”

  “You are criticizing the Soviet Government. If it decided on a certain proceeding at one time then that was right then and if it altered that proceeding later then that was right too, because conditions had changed.”

  “Very well, I plead guilty to the offense.”

  “Good, but we’re not inquiring into offenses in connection with your work; that’s no business of ours. It’s your counterrevolutionary activity we’re interested in.”

  The confrontation with Gerf proceeded. Nothing in the least counterrevolutionary emerged. His statements were quite harmless. He was under a certain amount of pressure, of course, and above all, he didn’t want to be accused of having shown any sympathy with me so what he said often had an unfavorable slant, but there were no direct falsehoods.

  We both signed the deposition. Gerf rose and took his newspaper, which had been lying on the table in front of him.

  “Have you read it?” I asked.

  He hesitated to exchange any but quite official words with me. “Even if you haven’t,” I went on, “buy yourself another one and leave me this one.”

  Gerf didn’t know what to do. He was afraid to give me the paper for fear that one day he might be accused of having shown a favor to an enemy of the people. I knew that I had put him in an awkward spot, but I hadn’t seen a newspaper for three weeks and it meant more to me than a loaf of bread.

  “I can only leave you the newspaper if the Comrade Examiner here wants you to have it,” he said finally.

  Polevedsky nodded graciously an
d Gerf handed over the paper.

  The next day I was brought out to be confronted with my chauffeur Grigori Yerovoi. Grisha was a very good chauffeur, but otherwise a very unreliable character. He was a Party member but he never did any Party work and he never bothered much about labor discipline. In the garage where he had formerly been employed, he had actually organized a strike which lasted for several days and, most remarkably, ended without disagreeable consequences to himself: he was not even expelled from the Party—something quite fantastic for the Soviet Union. He was often late. He used my car to drive his girl friends around, and he even used it for transport jobs. I knew a good deal and suspected a good deal more, but Grisha was a good driver and an excellent mechanic and it was very difficult to get men like that. On one occasion he even cut the leather from the seats and sold it, blaming unknown thieves. But he was an amusing rogue, and my wife liked him.

  “Do you know Yerovoi?” asked the examiner.

  “Yes. He was my chauffeur for years.”

  “Did you ever have any trouble with him?”

  “Yes, endless trouble. Hardly a day passed without something to complain of.”

  “Does that mean that you object to the witness as hostile?”

  “Not necessarily. I don’t think he has any reason to dislike me.” “Then we’ll read the statement of Comrade Grigori Yerovoi.” And he began to read from a statement which Yerovoi had already signed.

  “That Sunday I drove Alexander Semyonovitch Weissberg and his wife and a number of foreigners out in the car. I went along the road toward Byelogorod. At a certain point Weissberg ordered me to stop and then they all got out and went into the near-by woods ostensibly to pick flowers. In reality they had cameras with them and they took photos of the underground aerodrome there.”

  I sprang up indignantly.

  “What’s the matter with you, Grisha,” I demanded. “Have you gone off your head? Who put you up to that?”

  The examiner immediately intervened and roared:

  “Sit down at once and keep your mouth shut. You have no right to influence the witness, or exchange a single word with him. If you have questions to ask you must ask them through me and not direct. Don’t think you can carry on your counterrevolutionary work under my very nose.”

  “It is very difficult for me to sit here quietly and listen to the witness telling such barefaced lies.”

  “Accused Weissberg, I warn you not to insult the witness. He is just as much protected by the law as the examiner. The regulations provide severe punishment for your offense.”

  “Am I not allowed to defend myself?”

  “Of course you are, but you’re not allowed to interrupt the proceedings. Do you confirm the statements of the witness Yerovoi?” “No, certainly not.”

  “Is there anything you desire to add to his statement?”

  “No, I reject it all. But I’ll tell you exactly what did occur on that trip if you like.”

  “Very well, do so.”

  “My wife and I went out in the car with one or two friends that Sunday. They were foreign physicists. At one point we stopped the car. The women got out and began to pick flowers in a field. I remained in the car. As they picked their flowers they approached a small wood and suddenly a sentry came out and told them they must go no farther. Thereupon they returned with their flowers to the car and we drove on. That’s the whole story.”

  “Did you have a camera with you?”

  “I certainly did not but my friends may have had. I can’t remember.”

  “You deny that you photographed objects of military importance?”

  “I deny that I photographed anything at all. And if there was a hidden airfield at that spot this is the first I’ve heard of it. Perhaps it might be a good thing if the Citizen Examiner would go into the curious interest shown by the witness Yerovoi in military objects.”

  Polevedsky went red with anger.

  “Who do you think you are?” he demanded. “I’m the examiner here, not you. Are you daring to give me orders? You still don’t seem to understand your position here. Tomorrow your eyes will be opened at last and you’ll realize that the game is up.”

  I then tried to involve Yerovoi in contradictions but as soon as Polevedsky noticed my object he forbade the questions. I protested and declared that my questions were in the interests of the inquiry. I felt sure that if I could question Grisha without hindrance he would break down and withdraw his statements. Polevedsky probably realized that too. Yerovoi confirmed his statements; I denied them. The second confrontation was over.

  The day after that I was called out for yet another confrontation. This time it was with Komarov. The sight of him quite moved me. He avoided my eye and looked to the ground. His face was lined and worn.

  “Do you know this man?” asked Polevedsky. “If so, what is his name?”

  “Yes, I know him well: he is Piotr Frolovitch Komarov.”

  He turned to Komarov.

  “Do you know the accused, and if so who is he?”

  “Yes, I know him. He is Alexander Semyonovitch Weissberg. We worked together.”

  “Did you ever have any personal differences with Komarov?” Polevedsky asked.

  “None at all. We were quite good friends.”

  “We were never friends,” interrupted Komarov, “but we got on quite well in our work.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Petya,” I said, “but I felt friendly feelings for you, and I had the impression that you reciprocated. I may have been wrong. Still, never mind.”

  “Don’t carry on personal conversations here, Accused Weissberg,” ordered Polevedsky, and turning to Komarov, he said:

  “Do you now confirm the statement you have signed here, Witness Komarov?”

  “I do,” replied Komarov.

  “Very well, I will read it to the accused.”

  “That day Weissberg spoke to me about the murder of Comrade Kirov by the counterrevolutionary organization of Nikolayev, and declared that he did not believe the whole story. Trotskyists were Marxists and therefore they were opposed to individual terror like all other Marxists. It was quite impossible that a real Trotskyist would commit a terrorist act...”

  I was flabbergasted. Komarov had taken a discussion which was perfectly unobjectionable in Soviet law and twisted it in such a fashion that it made me look like a secret Trotskyist agent. I just didn’t know what to say. Komarov had often drawn me into discussions which, although they were very carefully couched on either side, sailed very near to the wind. Should I mention them now? What had happened to him since my arrest? How had they brought him to bear false witness against me?

  “Alexander Semyonovitch,” the examiner broke into my thoughts, “do you acknowledge having conducted conversations of a counterrevolutionary nature with the Witness Komarov?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Have you any questions to ask the witness?”

  “Yes.”

  I addressed myself direct to Komarov but Polevedsky raised no objection.

  “Petya,” I said, “I have no reason to deny that we have discussed various subjects, but why do you try to twist them into something different? Say whatever it is I said to you, word for word, by all means, but don’t distort it.”

  Komarov made no answer.

  “Did I ever say that I didn’t believe that the murder of Kirov was a political crime or that the Trotskyists had organized it?”

  “You said that the Trotskyists were Marxists and therefore not terrorists,” he declared obstinately.

  “That isn’t true, Petya. I never used such words.”

  “Can you remember Weissberg’s exact words, Witness Komarov?” asked the examiner.

  “No, I can’t remember the exact words, but I’m politically educated enough to understand the significance of what he said. He was expressing doubts about the Nikolayev trial.”

  “That’s not true, Citizen Examiner,” I declared.

  “Well, what did you actually say?�
��

  “My memory is pretty good. I can remember talking to Komarov on two occasions about this subject, and on neither occasion was there anything remotely counterrevolutionary in what I said. The first time we spoke about Kirov’s murder was about a week after it had taken place. We were together in the car and we were being driven to the building site. As we drove past Kholodnaya Cora prison, Komarov mentioned the Kirov affair, which had just been officially ascribed to White Guardist circles. ‘It’s a puzzling business to me,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand how they can still find anyone to sacrifice his life for an idea in those degenerate circles. I can well understand the revolutionary terrorism of the first Narodniki, the Nihilists and the Social Revolutionaries against Tsarism. It was the only weapon they had. They felt themselves the representatives of a rising class and they were confident in final victory. But how can White Guardists, the defeated remnants of a bygone world, still hope for a resurrection of their cause?’ And Komarov replied: Well, it seems that, after all, there were idealists among them who still believed in the victory of their ideas:”

  “Did you say that?” asked Polevedsky sharply, turning to Komarov. “No, I didn’t.”

  And Komarov looked at me with despair in his eyes. He was obviously afraid of what I might say. I considered for a moment whether I should mention the story about the enforced collectivization. He had made compromising statements about me, though no doubt under pressure. Perhaps they had threatened to arrest him. It was well-known that we were friendly. After my resignation he had formally even become my superior. The principle of collective responsibility rules in the Soviet Union. The superior and even the colleagues of an enemy are responsible for his presence in their ranks, and in that sense Komarov was responsible for me. Apart from any counterrevolutionary discussions he was liable to arrest. Perhaps the compromising statements he was now making against me were the price of his freedom? I decided there was no advantage to me in dragging him in.