The Accused

by Alexander Weissberg

  “Do you now admit that you instigated a conspiracy against the work of national importance at the Institute?”

  I fell silent at once. I had come with the firm intention of making fictitious confessions and ending the whole business at last, but now when it came to the point every decent instinct in me revolted and my tongue simply refused to form the lying words.

  Ryeznikov rose.

  “Weissberg,” he snapped, “stand up.”

  I stood up and he took my chair and put it about three yards away near the door.

  “Now sit down there,” he ordered. “I’m going to give you three minutes.”

  He took a watch from his pocket solemnly.

  “In that time you will have formulated your confession in your own words without any help from me.”

  I writhed inwardly. I just couldn’t do it. If he had put a ready-made deposition in front of me I should have signed it, but to make it all up in my mind word for word...No. That was impossible. The seconds ticked away. Ryeznikov was still looking at his watch.

  “You’ve only got fifteen seconds more,” he said warningly.

  “Comrade Ryeznikov,” I exclaimed, “this is lunacy. I was a staunch supporter of the Soviet Union. I enthusiastically welcomed every bit of progress made. Why in God’s name should I want to conspire against the Army? For me and my like the Red Army, above all, was the symbol of the victorious revolution. My heart beat higher when I met Red Army men marching through the streets singing. What do you want of me? You can’t believe I planned anything against the Red Army.”

  Ryeznikov got up and drew his automatic pistol, clicking back the safety catch. Then he advanced toward me.

  “So you think you can go on playing with us?” he demanded grimly. “You fascist dog. You bought traitor. This is the end. Tomorrow we’ll take a different language with you. We’ll break every bone in your body.”

  He had me taken back to my cell, where I literally collapsed from exhaustion.

  But the next day nothing happened, and for several days after that nothing, and I had time to sleep and recover. Rozhansky was annoyed at my failure, but he did not press the subject.

  “What did you actually say in that speech of yours to the German Workers’ Club?” he asked.

  “It was the day after the Reichstag elections in March, 1933. The Communists had polled five million votes, or a million less than before, but in view of the fact that Hitler was already Reichs Chancellor and his terror gangs were scouring the country it was not a bad result. I was at the club with Arthur Koestler and I had been asked to speak.”

  “Who is Arthur Koestler?”

  “He was a liberal bourgeois journalist, and, partly under my influence, he joined the Party. He was my guest in Kharkov. He was writing a book about the Soviet Union.”

  I first met Koestler at the beginning of 1931 in Berlin at a social gathering of left-wing intellectuals. A few days later I met him again on the Kurfürstendamm.

  “I’ve been told you’re a member of the Communist Party,” he said. “I’m thinking of joining, and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

  I was astounded. Koestler was a journalist working for Ullstein and he had never shown any revolutionary tendencies.

  “I want to work in a big factory,” he went on. “I don’t think anyone can be a real Communist unless he knows something about working-class life.”

  I was not impressed.

  “What’s the point of that, Herr Koestler?” I asked. “What sort of factory worker do you think you’d make? And then, you’d probably be more use to the Party where you are.”

  At that time Koestler was not the famous writer he is today, but a brilliant journalist with all the typical characteristics of his profession. His lively temperament and his courage were engaging. He had been a foreign correspondent in the Middle East and Paris, and he had flown to the North Pole in Eckener’s Zeppelin and planted the banner of his newspaper there. When the Duc de Broglie, the great French physicist, was chosen for the Nobel Prize for Physics Koestler knew it before the duke, and as a reward for bringing the information he was given an interview. This interview was the first of a series of popular articles on natural science which made his name widely known in Germany. His subsequent adventures during the Spanish civil war made him even more widely known.

  Not long after our meeting in Berlin, he had joined the Communist Party, and the Propaganda Department of the Comintern had invited him to visit the Soviet Union and write a book about his experiences. In 1932 Koestler arrived in Kharkov, full of enthusiasm.

  He stayed with us for a while until he managed to get a hotel room, and we were very glad to have him. He made a lively and amusing change in a life otherwise completely devoted to scientific and technical matters. That winter was one of the worst since the end of the civil war. There were frequent power cuts. At one time it was so bad that there was current for only two hours a day, and even then the consumer never knew which two hours; it could be early in the morning at break of day, in the afternoon, or even at midnight. Koestler wasn’t so upset by the thing itself as by the attitude of the Soviet press toward it.

  “The newspapers make me sick,” he complained. “Why don’t they tell the truth? Why don’t they say: ‘Kharkov gets electric light for two hours a day,’ usually in the afternoon when they don’t need it, instead of ‘there are certain difficulties with the generation of electricity’? Or they write: ‘There are certain difficulties in the food supply’ instead of ‘the population in the rural areas haven’t had anything proper in their bellies for the past three months and men are dropping dead of hunger.’ I don’t suppose there was ever a worse famine in history and yet these hypocrites talk about ‘certain difficulties in the food supply.’ Really, Alex, it’s too much.”

  We all knew the truth, but we were all convinced that socialism would be victorious in the end. We knew that the famine was not, so to speak, an act of God, but due to Stalin’s false policy, and we hoped he would soon see his mistake and correct it. Not one of us even thought of overthrowing him, or even calling him to account. That would have been impossible without a political revolution, and anything of the sort would have meant the victory of the white counter-revolution supported by masses of starving peasants. Although we all thought that way, there was no possibility of any sort of opposition or even modest criticism. All we could do was to wait and hope.

  Koestler realized this perfectly well, and despite the fact that he had become very critical he wrote his pro-Soviet book. In the meantime we lived our ordinary life. One day we were playing three-handed cards with Professor Shubnikov when apropos of nothing the professor observed:

  “Interesting. The Reichstag burned down. I wonder why they did that.”

  Koestler pricked up his ears.

  ‘What did you say, Shubnikovi”

  “I said they’ve burned down the German Reichstag. It was reported on the radio this evening.”

  Koestler and I sprang up in excitement.

  “Have you gone mad, Shubnikov? You’ve been sitting here playing cards for hours and this is the first time you mention it. Don’t you understand what that means?”

  It was perfectly clear to Koestler and me that the affair was the signal for the fascist seizure of power, the real one. Koestler went off at once to pack his bags. I followed him.

  “I must get back to Berlin as quickly as possible,” he said.

  “If you ask me, Arthur, it would be much better for your health if you didn’t go near the place for the next ten years at least.”

  The first newspaper reports showed that I was right, and in the end Koestler stayed on for some months and finished his book. After that he left for Paris. I saw him off at the station. He still teases me with what he says were my last words to him: “Arthur, keep the Soviet flag flying abroad.”

  Perhaps I did. I can’t remember. If I did it was typical of our attitude. We knew what was going on in the land of the revolution even then, but st
ill we defended it.

  Before he went he visited the German Workers’ Club with me where I delivered the political report on the situation in Germany. The radio had just announced the results of the German elections. As yet Pravda had said nothing. In the circumstances no Soviet speaker would have dreamed of opening his mouth, and risk deviating from the Party line. However, I was not a Soviet speaker. I had the very strong feeling that a new era had opened up in European history and I said what I thought.

  In my report I interpreted the happenings as a temporary defeat for the German working class. I also mentioned the errors the Party had committed since 1929. I felt safe in doing so because they had been mentioned in part at the last session of the Executive Committee of the Comintern. Under the influence of events in Germany the ECCI, as that body was known for short, had decided to set a new course. Bit by bit it took over the program of the expelled right-wing opposition, and the process was completed in 1935 at the Seventh World Congress of the Comintern. It was a complete volte-face. The Chairman of the Comintern, then Georgi Dimitrov, put forward proposals for which any member would have been expelled—and many of them were—during the previous three years as a counterrevolutionary. But when I delivered my speech on the political situation in Germany that was all in the future. I was too previous, and I had to suffer for it.

  I had even spoken, though with caution, of a temporary defeat of the German working class; I had not meant the election results, but the shift in power which had taken place to the disadvantage of the working class. In fact, the process had begun which ended very rapidly in the complete subjugation of the whole country. I felt already that no internal revolution would succeed in getting rid of Hitler and that in all probability mankind would have to pay for his victory with a new world war. I did not say so openly. I knew perfectly well how dangerous that would have been.

  A discussion of sorts took place after my report. No one condemned me, because no one yet knew the official line. The Party members present probably thought I had some advance information. However, they wanted to be quite certain first, and the only one who openly expressed agreement with what I said was Koestler.

  The next day the Pravda leading editorial spoke of a great victory of the German working class. I was shocked. Both Marx and Lenin had warned their followers against what they had contemptuously called “parliamentary cretinism,” the attaching of excessive importance to the counting of noses. Did Pravda really see only the relatively favorable election figures and not the gangs of brown-shirted S.A. and black-uniformed S.S. who were already hounding the active members of Germany’s left-wing parties to their deaths in prison and concentration camp?

  Of course, my name was mud and there was a tremendous to-do. The Party and the Club Committee both started proceedings against me. I had to “recognize my errors” and do penance. Koestler was furious with me for agreeing to go to Canossa, but I had no alternative if I wanted to stay on in the Soviet Union and do my work, and I did. Even about a year later when it had gradually sunk through to us even officially that the German working class had suffered a defeat, my personal situation did not improve.

  Rozhansky and I analyzed the incident in the German Workers’ Club from every possible angle. He spoke very intelligently about German politics, and he made no attempt to refute my point of view, which he agreed with in his heart, but as far as the examination was concerned he was adamant.

  “Alex,” he declared urgently, “you couldn’t have a better opportunity of conciliating the examiner without losing face. Just tell him the facts. All you need change is the motive. After all, it’s the facts that matter, isn’t it? Let him record your speech as counterrevolutionary activity against the Soviet state, and there you are. History will support you, not him. On condition, of course, that we are generally speaking right, and he isn’t.”

  “Who’s we and who’s he?” I asked curiously.

  Rozhansky was shocked.

  “History will decide that too,” he replied evasively. “Historical events lead to the formation of groups, not the other way round.”

  His words struck me as curious, but he refused to explain them. I had noticed that since his last interrogation he had been a trifle unbalanced. Sometimes he was inwardly in revolt, and at others he was submissive. But he often said things which were puzzling to me; for instance:

  ‘We are moving in the dark, but soon one will come and open the door and let in the light. Without light no personality can develop.”

  He had muttered this almost to himself and it had struck me as tactless to ask him for an explanation. When I looked at him he reminded me of the old Narodniki who had fought so heroically against Tsarist absolutism. Rozhansky would have fitted into their fanatical ranks very well. In fact, he often spoke of Nechayev, who seemed one of his special heroes.

  In my talks with him I learned many things about the darker side of Russian history, and in particular the figure of Ivan the Terrible appeared to me in a new light. Again and again, although he never said so directly, the comparison with Stalin was obvious.

  “He stands between Robespierre and Ivan the Terrible,” he said on one occasion. “He holds the empire together by his severity and at the same time he is destroying the basis of the past.”

  His subordination to the regime expressed itself even in minor details. Generally speaking, intellectuals resent physical discipline, but Rozhansky was the most disciplined prisoner I ever knew. We often clashed on this account. He was angry, for example, if I did not make my bed carefully according to the rules, or if I was not ready punctually to go out for exercise, or if I scratched mathematical calculations on the walls. Even the warder was a representative of the revolutionary state for him. Despite these minor conflicts, we came closer and closer together until it seemed to me that only one thing still separated us, my closely and jealously guarded secret: the affair of the missing drawings.

  One day Rozhansky was again called out for interrogation. When he returned about two hours later, he was pale and his hands trembled.

  “Good God!” I exclaimed. “What’s happened, Rozhansky?”

  But he made no reply and just flung himself face down onto his bed. Convulsive and suppressed sobbing shook his whole body. I was deeply moved and I went over to console him. I put my arm round his shoulders.

  “What’s the matter, Yakov Yefremovitch? Tell me what’s happened.”

  “I thought it was all over,” he muttered. “I thought my sufferings were at an end. I had signed everything. And now they’ve come with something new. Some group in Moscow has mentioned my name and now the examination is being reopened. I can’t stand it, Alexander Semyonovitch. I’m at the end of my strength.”

  “Don’t give way like that, Rozhansky. You’ll find some way out.” Suddenly he exclaimed with a burst of anger:

  “Why do we sing in the International, ‘We want no condescending Savior, no God, no Emperor or Tribune,’ and then the newspapers make us bow down and worship a tribune day after day?”

  The question was dangerous, and to my shame I evaded it. But at that moment the last vestige of mistrust toward Rozhansky had vanished. Denin Was not there. He, too, had been called out for examination. I decided to speak.

  “Rozhansky,” I said, “I have kept something from you, something which worries me a good deal. I am quite innocent in the matter, but appearances are against me.”

  He sat up at my first words and listened with close attention as I told him the story of the lost drawings. And the further I went into the business the more and more I began to feel that I was doing the wrong thing, until when I told him that I had probably left them behind in Vienna, his eyes gleamed in unmistakable triumph. Suddenly I knew with a sort of inspiration: the man is a traitor after all. The words stuck in my throat and I spoke on incoherently. A sort of panic filled me. What would happen if he betrayed me? And of course he would betray me. How could I take it back or explain it away?

  “How many drawings wer
e there, Alexander Semyonovitch?” he asked.

  Immediately I gave him a wrong figure:

  “One hundred and fifty,” I said.

  Actually there had been only eighty-five. From that moment on I carefully noted every detail I told in order subsequently to obtain some confirmation of my suspicion. Finally I asked:

  “Tell me, Yakov Yefremovitch, ought I to tell the examiner the whole story? It’s really quite unimportant, and apart from having forgotten them somewhere I’m not guilty of anything.”

  “It’s your duty to tell the examiner everything,” he replied firmly, “but not today. Think it over for a day or so and decide which is the best way to tell him.”

  Not today, I thought. Why not today? I don’t need any time to think it over, once I’ve decided. He wants a chance to let the examiner know the revelation is due to him. I stood up and walked around to regain my composure.

  At six o’clock they brought in the evening soup. I watched Rozhansky like a lynx and I felt sure he made a sign to the warder, and yet I knew I couldn’t trust myself; I was too excited; it was what I was expecting. But sure enough, later on in the evening, Rozhansky was called out for interrogation.

  I was unable to sleep that night. The next morning it was obvious that something was wrong. It was Denin who asked me what was the matter, and I put him off with some evasive reply. Rozhansky pretended to notice nothing, but he must have realized that I had seen through him at last. I waited only for my next interrogation. I was determined to tell the whole thing at once without waiting for any provocation. At midnight I was called out.

  “Well, Alexander Semyonovitch,” asked Ryeznikov when I arrived, “have you considered the matter well?”

  “Citizen Examiner, I must tell you all about a matter which is really not very important in itself but which may well be the cause of your mistrust against me.”

  I had hardly begun when Ryezníkov interrupted me.