The Accused

by Alexander Weissberg

  “That’s all unimportant compared with the other questions at stake.”

  “But, Rozhansky, why should we bother our heads so much about what other countries think? Have we got to ruin our whole economy just to prevent people abroad knowing how badly off we are?”

  “It’s not merely a question of people abroad, though even that is much more important than you think. In those years there was a struggle for power in the Comintern. We won because we were able to point to our successes in socialist construction. We shouldn’t have won if the workers of Europe had known that our construction cost the lives of millions.”

  “But the deaths of those millions were not inevitable,” I replied. “To a great extent the catastrophe was brought about precisely by our system of false prices. It was only those false prices which made the Government try to get the fruits of the peasants’ hard toil for next to nothing. The peasants answered as peasants always have and always will: they stopped working and the result was an unnecessary famine. Now you tell me which is counterrevolutionary: to call a spade a spade and state the position just as it exists, or to bring the country into such a position?”

  At that moment I broke off in horror. What had I said in the heat of the discussion! Perhaps Rozhansky was an agent of the G.P.U. after all.

  “Alexander Semyonovitch, what you’re saying is profoundly counterrevolutionary. Even if we admitted that an avoidable mistake had been made, should we abandon and discredit our leadership? Isn’t it rather our duty to keep silent?”

  “Have I ever suggested we should abandon our leadership?”

  “I tell you again, rationing served to hide our mistakes from the eyes of other countries and, what was still more important, from our own eyes.”

  “What do you mean ‘from our own eyes’? People know whether they’re hungry or not. It doesn’t matter what Stalin says for public consumption, everyone knows the truth. Their stomachs correct the misrepresentations in the Central Committee.”

  “You’re wrong there, Alexander Semyonovitch. A fact is not a fact for millions of people until it’s been officially confirmed. You don’t understand the importance of revolutionary propaganda. If the truth about the famine had been openly discussed we shouldn’t have survived in 1931 and 1932. A fact which is openly proclaimed has an electrifying effect. Peasant insurrections would have swept us away. The first attempts to found a socialist order of society would have been drowned in the flood of counter-revolution.”

  I was silent. Perhaps he was right after all.

  “And there’s another thing you overlook, Alexander Semyonovitch, and it seems still more important to me: the rationing system allowed the Soviet Government to benefit more or less unobtrusively just those strata of Soviet society that were most vital to its preservation. With uniform prices things would have been too obvious and there would have been great discontent. The G.P.U. man would have had to receive five thousand rubles a month instead of five hundred to buy the same quantity of goods on the free market as he could buy in his co-operative with five hundred. And that would have made bad blood. Thanks to the rationing system, it was possible to pay the G.P.U. man the same as the doctor, though in reality he received ten times as much. And the great thing was that the doctor didn’t know how much the G.P.U. man could buy for his money. In the same way the worker in Moscow earned three times as much as the worker in Kharkov, and four times as much as the worker in Frunze or some other small provincial town, and there was no bad blood about it. The workers in the provinces knew how much the Moscow worker earned, which was the same as they did, but they didn’t know how much he could buy with it.”

  “I still can’t see the point of all that cumbrous maneuvering.”

  “Can’t you? The Kremlin must be surrounded by a satisfied population, otherwise it might represent a danger to the regime, whereas if an insurrection breaks out somewhere in the provinces you simply send a few divisions and suppress it. But if the Kremlin fell into the hands of insurgents there would be no one to send the divisions. A real Party man must take things like that into consideration, Alexander Semyonovitch, and it is counterrevolutionary to support measures which in effect would endanger the first revolutionary state in the world.”

  I remained silent. His words had made a deep impression on me. One thing at least was clear: Rozhansky was not a G.P.U. agent. No examiner would ever have allowed him to express such thoughts. Stool pigeons in the Soviet Union were not allowed to deliver counterrevolutionary speeches in order to provoke their victims to do the same. And what Rozhansky had just said was highly illegal and anti-Soviet, in that form, though it represented the secret intention of the Soviet Government and the secret aim of all these camouflage measures. By what he had said he had placed himself in my hands. I had only to repeat it and he could expect severe punishment even if he actually were an agent of the examiner. The dawn was breaking when I finally went to sleep, perplexed but nevertheless relieved. The idea of being able to talk openly to an honest man was a great comfort to me.

  In the meantime the interrogations became noticeably stricter. Ryeznikov was nervous and impatient. He seldom gave me the opportunity to rebut anything he said. He just refused to listen. He shouted and swore. He refused to let me sit down and he did everything he could to wound my pride. A few days after my talk with Rozhansky a speech which I had made in the German Workers’ Club on March 5, 1933, came up for discussion.

  “Here are our reports,” he said, pointing to some documents. “Do you admit having made an open anti-Party and anti-Soviet speech at the German Workers’ Club on March 5, 1933?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “In whose behalf did you make that speech?”

  “The Club Committee asked me to make the report on the political situation.”

  “Don’t pretend to be stupid. I mean what counterrevolutionary organization sent you to the Club to make that speech?”

  “None.”

  Ryeznikov’s reaction was a furious stream of coarse and vulgar abuse. In the end he shrieked:

  “Answer my question. Do you think you can go on treating us like that? Answer at once or you’ll go to the punishment cell right now. I’ve broken stronger men than you.”

  I remained silent.

  “Turn to the wall,” he snapped.

  I turned to the wall and stood there. As far as I could make out he was writing. After about twenty minutes he ordered:

  “Turn round.”

  I turned round.

  “Sign that,” he ordered.

  I read it through. It was a confession that I had used my membership of the German Workers’ Club to carry on counterrevolutionary agitation against the Soviet Union and its Government on behalf of a counterrevolutionary organization. I handed it back to him and refused to sign. He snatched it out of my hand, tore it up and flung the pieces into my face.

  “You fascist beast!” he shrieked, red in the face with rage. “You’ll sign very different things before we’re through with you. You think you can make difficulties about every little thing, but the time will come—and it won’t be long, either—when you’ll go down on your knees and beg us to let you confess. Get out of here now. You make me feel sick.”

  I left his office in a dale, and put down his outburst to a nerve crisis. At that time I did not know that all G.P.U. examiners were taught precisely that sort of trick in order to intimidate prisoners.

  They could act like raving maniacs one moment, and then completely switch off their seeming rage and exchange a friendly, good-humored word with a colleague the next.

  When I went back to my cell Rozhansky received me in a very friendly fashion.

  “You’re still fighting for the honor of the uniform, Alex,” he said reproachfully. “What you’re doing is not only hostile to the Party, but it’s quite senseless. What the examiner wants you to admit is a mere bagatelle: just anti-Soviet agitation and sabotage of the war work of the Institute. Every one of us would be delighted if we could get
off so cheaply.”

  “Maybe, but I have never committed an anti-Soviet act, and far from sabotaging the secret work of the Institute I have always done my best to further it, and I’m not going to sign any false confessions.”

  “Well, as you know, I think differently, but I don’t want to talk about it now. But in your own interests—and I’ve more experience in these matters than you have—don’t continue your present line. If you accept the minor accusations and let them conclude the examination you’ll get off lightly. But if you remain obstinate things will get very dangerous. The examiner will demand more and more: espionage, sabotage and perhaps even high treason. If you’re wise you won’t let it come to that.”

  “The examiner can demand whatever he likes. My conscience won’t allow me to sign false confessions.”

  “Your wrong ideas of honor again. You’re talking like a child. They’ve ways and means of making you do anything if they really want to. Much stronger and tougher men than you have broken down and signed everything.”

  “You mean they were beaten up, tortured perhaps?”

  “Why talk like that? The law forbids the maltreatment of prisoners. But there are other means of persuading prisoners to do what they’re told.”

  “What means, for example?”

  “Well, a very simple way is not to let you sleep for a week—or longer if necessary. Or you could be put into Punishment Cell Number 3.”

  “What’s Punishment Cell Number 3?”

  “A small cell overrun with rats. They lock you up naked with the rats and give you a stick. You can’t lie down and sleep because the rats crawl all over you. You spend your time beating off the rats with the stick.”

  “For God’s sake, you don’t seriously mean that such things are done in the Soviet Union! That’s not the way to treat human beings.”

  “People who openly resist the Soviet power aren’t human where the G.P.U. is concerned; they’re just enemies to be broken and, if necessary, exterminated.”

  “But I’m not an enemy of the Soviet Union just because I refuse to put my signature to a pack of lies. It wouldn’t serve my interests or those of the Soviet Union either.”

  “The examiner is there to decide what serves the interests of the Soviet Union; not you. It’s up to you to support him. For a good Party man the examiner is a commander in the difficult struggle the Soviet Union wages to defend itself. It’s up to you to obey his orders.”

  “You’re talking utter nonsense, Rozhansky. How, for instance, could the Soviet authorities find out whether I was a real terrorist, spy and counterrevolutionary agitator or a synthetic one? My confession wouldn’t contain any indication that it was just made to order.”

  “That’s not your business. You’ve got a wrong picture of things because you’ve been in solitary for months. Even now you’re here with only two of us. When you’re transferred from the inner prison here to the big prison on the Kholodnaya Gora you’ll find hundreds, even thousands, there in just the same position as yourself. They all resist at first, but in the end they all give in. Very few last more than a month. Those few who do continue are just physically exterminated. No one asks the meaning of it all any more. It’s not our business. We place ourselves in the hands of the Soviet power and we are confident that it will find the right path. Throughout the Soviet Union hundreds of thousands have suffered the same fate as you and I. And among them are people who have served the revolution and the cause of socialist construction far more than you or I have. Among them are heroes of the civil war and of the illegal struggle against Tsarism. And foreign comrades who have distinguished themselves in the civil wars in Europe and Asia.”

  His words depressed me. I had never regarded myself as a particularly tough man, though I was no weakling. But if an elite of the toughest revolutionary fighters all over the country had given way what hope had I of holding out? And what Rozhansky said was probably true, because in the big trials men like Muralov and Mratchkovsky, whose physical courage was almost legendary, had given way.

  During the following days Rozhansky’s anxiety about my fate was quite touching. Each time I returned to the cell he asked me hopefully whether I had done anything to conciliate Ryeznikov, and each time I told him that I had still refused to sign anything which wasn’t true. His depression was obvious. My original mistrust of him had disappeared completely. I had the impression that he was sincerely anxious about my fate and that he feared dangers for me which I could not appreciate.

  So long as I was optimistic I could resist his blandishments, but when I was depressed I noticed that his persistent influence was beginning to have its effect and I feared that his ingenious and specious sophistries would overcome me in the end. At the same time the interrogations were becoming more and more difficult. Ryeznikov harassed me to the top of his bent. He had me out of my cell for interrogation six times in twenty-four hours. When he was not there his assistant took over, and then it was worse than ever. I grew so exhausted that I found myself entertaining the idea of buying peace at last by “confessing” to one or two minor offenses. But again and again I turned away from the pit at the last moment. Rozhansky was in despair, so much so that occasionally I wondered whether his interest in my fate had other motives than those of sympathy, but then every nightly discussion convinced me once again that all my suspicions were unfounded.

  He spoke less and less of loyalty to the Soviet Government and the Party. Instead, he began to talk more and more of the horrors which would certainly be my lot if I continued my present course of obstinate resistance. Ryeznikov also dropped one or two broad hints, such as:

  “Well, there’s no doubt about it, we’ll have to settle with you.” I asked him what he meant.

  “There are methods which we use when all other methods fail,” he replied. “Before we use them we have to get special permission, and I have hesitated to do so in your case.”

  ‘When I reported these remarks to Rozhansky he showed signs of great excitement and distress.

  “Alex,” he said, “really I don’t want to experience that again with any comrade in my cell. It always makes me think of Yurenev and it makes cold shivers go down my spine.”

  I concealed my trepidation.

  “Who was Yurenev,” I asked, “and what happened to him?”

  “I’d sooner spare you the details,” he replied, “but he was a comrade who resisted just as you are doing. Then they subjected him to special treatment. After three weeks a wreck came back into the cell. I hardly recognized him. A month later he died in the prison sick bay.”

  “Heavens above, what had they done to him?”

  “I don’t want to tell you that. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  I tried to persuade him, but in the middle of it the wicket opened and I was called out again for an interrogation. Ryeznikov was friendly again. He went on with his questions about the Institute. Then suddenly he said:

  “Alexander Semyonovitch, what you are doing is more than a crime; it’s suicide. You must realize that we have an overwhelming mass of material against you. Much of it is perfectly clear, but there are still one or two points which need clearing up; for instance, your diversionary work in the big factories in Kharkov.”

  “My diversionary work in the big factories in Kharkov?” I repeated in astonishment and dismay. “What’s that?”

  “You are accused of having organized groups of foreign workers in the big factories in Kharkov and given them instructions to blow up the power stations in the event of war. We haven’t yet gone into the matter in detail and we aren’t even quite certain it’s all true, but your attitude here weighs heavily against you.”

  “How can my attitude here weigh heavily against me?”

  “Well, you deny facts that are quite obvious. That sort of thing is beginning to make us think you’re a liar on principle and a hardened enemy. The result is we’re inclined to believe every charge against you, including even those which aren’t proved up to the hilt.
You see what I mean?”

  Yes, I saw what he meant.

  “There’s nothing I can do about that,” I replied. “I have never done anything hostile to the Soviet power and you can’t prove anything against me.”

  I expected a fresh outburst, but Ryeznikov was strangely mild.

  “Alexander Semyonovitch, it’s a pity we speak different languages; that what you call white I call black, and vice versa. Let’s take the case of Leipunsky, for instance. Now, what would you say about a man who took sides with, say, Piatakov or Zinoviev, after the exposure of the counterrevolutionary band of spies, saboteurs and diversionists in the big trials? Would you call that counterrevolutionary?”

  “Well, yes, I should. But Leipunsky has never done anything of the sort as far as I am aware.”

  “As far as you are aware, eh? Well, think a bit. Piatakov was exposed and convicted thanks to the watchfulness of the N.K.V.D. Now you, too, Alexander Semyonovitch, were exposed in the same way. And what does Leipunsky do? He already knows the opinion of the N.K.V.D. about you and yet he takes sides with you and against us, that is to say against the Soviet power. He approaches Maso on your behalf, and as Director of the Institute he actually writes a prikaz thanking you in the name of the Institute for your services just when the N.K.V.D. is about to arrest you as a counterrevolutionary. Here is the Soviet power.” And Ryeznikov slapped himself on the chest proudly. “And there is the counter-revolution.” He pointed at me. “Yet Leipunsky takes your side against me, against the Soviet power! Is that counterrevolutionary or not?”