I continued my lecture. I quite enjoyed explaining the differences between the official Party and the opposition, and it all went down into the official deposition, where, for anyone in the know, it read like an apologia for the policy of the German right-wing opposition. I described the congress of the right-wing opposition in Central Germany in 1929, and the G.P.U. men, and Tornuyev in particular, listened with open mouths.
I continued in this fashion for about two hours without involving myself in any contradiction with the facts. It was a simple description of the battle of ideas in the German working-class movement. Nothing whatever to do with counter-revolution. Both groups, the official Party and the opposition, wanted the revolution; the whole dispute was about the best way of arriving at it. Both groups defended the Soviet Union and supported the building up of socialism. But, of course, any opposition to the leadership of the official Party and to the Comintern, which meant the policy of Stalin, was naked counter-revolution for Tornuyev and his subordinates. By this time the last vestiges of the Rozhansky hypnosis had disappeared from my mind. I judged things according to the laws of reason and common sense and not according to the involved dialectics of the G.P.U. During the first part of my “confession” my brain was working excellently and my head was perfectly clear. I had got my second wind and the last vestiges of my tiredness had disappeared.
In fact, I was delighted that in such a place, in the heart of a G.P.U. prison, I was being given an opportunity of declaring myself in agreement with the ideas of the German right wing, with which I had always sympathized. Tornuyev was taking down my deposition. After about two hours he called a halt.
“I think you had better eat something now, Alexander Semyonovitch. After that we can go on to the second part of the confession: your personal part in it all.”
He then gave instructions for us all to be provided with what for me was a positively luxurious supper. While we ate Shalit attentively saw to it that my glass was never empty. In my mind I was deciding who should have “recruited” me. Willi Stein was a likely person. He had been a leading member of the right-wing opposition in Austria and my personal friend. Another one I proposed to name was Grisha. I decided to bring him in because he must have been about fourteen at the time, and even the G.P.U. would find it difficult to believe that a fourteen-year-old boy could “recruit” a man of thirty for a counterrevolutionary organization. Later on, when I decided the time had come to revoke my “confession,” this point would serve to shake its credibility. When we had finished eating I continued my “confession.”
“When did you join the opposition?”
“I think it was in the summer of 1929.”
“What made you start your struggle against the Party?”
“My disbelief in the strength of the revolutionary proletariat and in the success of the building up of socialism in the Soviet Union.”
The ordinary reader unacquainted with Communist Party jargon may have no idea of how perfect this answer was, but from 1936 onward the whole official Communist press had always proclaimed that this was the main motive force of the opposition. After the Piatakov trial a new and more positive motive was added—namely, the alleged desire to restore capitalism. Why men who had devoted their lives to getting rid of capitalism should now risk their necks to restore it had always been a mystery to me and was probably just as deep a mystery to the G.P.U. However they were not much interested in logical consequences; if a statement was reconcilable with official Party doctrine then it was perfectly acceptable no matter how idiotic it might be.
Although the “desire to restore capitalism” was more fashionable, the “disbelief” motive was still perfectly acceptable. During the course of my “confession” I often had to find explanations for supposed actions which prima facie were quite inexplicable. I had, for instance, to find a reason acceptable to the G.P.U. for hating Stalin so much that I wanted to kill him. To give my real reasons for abominating the man would probably have led to my demise on a sandheap—namely, because he had destroyed liberty, because he was responsible for the deaths of over ten million unfortunate peasants, because his blunderings had brought German fascism to power and because he had cold-bloodedly exterminated the Old Guard of the revolution. My education at the hands of Rozhansky proved very helpful. He had discussed scores of cases and explained to me how confessions had to be drawn up: I had to say that I hated Stalin because under his leadership socialism was being successfully built up in the Soviet Union, and therefore the Soviet power could no longer be shaken by legal means.
My friends in the German and Austrian right-wing oppositions, and in particular Willi Stein, had “recruited” me—and, of course, young Grisha. I had actually met Willi Stein in a café in Prague while I was on holiday from the Soviet Union. This chance meeting I now presented as the occasion on which he had given me instructions to organize the assassination of Stalin and Voroshilov on my return. There was an awkward chronological discrepancy here, and when I withdrew my “confession” later I made use of it. This meeting had taken place in the summer of 1935, whereas according to the compromising statements of Vlakh and the others the preparations were made in 1934.
Thus in 1934 I had anticipated the subsequent instructions of my leader, Willi Stein, and instructed a number of German workers to go to the Caucasus to kill Stalin and Voroshilov while they were out hunting—and, incidentally, surrounded by a swarm of G.P.U. men. I had as far as possible to make my confession fit the statements of Vlakh and the others, and that was no easy matter. But at least their statements did give me an opportunity of naming a number of people in the Soviet Union I had “recruited” for my counterrevolutionary organization. As they had already denounced themselves no harm was done. In this way I hoped to get around the fatal question of denouncing “my accomplices.”
Now, I had been trained as a physicist and at the same time I was a Marxist. Both these disciplines accustom their devotees to think logically. Therefore, apart from chronological discrepancies, my story was quite sound and logical. So far so good, but there were a number of very important points about which I knew absolutely nothing. For instance, why wasn’t the plan carried out? And at what stage was it abandoned? And why? Only one thing was certain: it must have been abandoned because an unsuccessful attempt would have been followed by mass arrests. I was a little troubled about all this but I needn’t have worried.
“But there’s one thing I can’t tell you,” I said innocently, “and that is why the attempt never took place.”
The difficulty was solved at once. Tornuyev burst into a great roar of laughter in which the others joined.
“If it had been carried out,” explained Ryeznikov, “or even seriously attempted at all, we should have deserved to be shot, not you. That’s what we’re for: to frustrate the evil plans of the class enemy and nip them in the bud.”
How perfectly simple it all was! I did make one further objection, but Tornuyev interrupted me:
“Don’t worry your head about things like that, Alexander Semyonovitch; just answer the questions we ask you in a completely truthful fashion. However, I can see that you’re getting tired now. We’ll break off now and you can get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll deal with the question of your diversionary activity and espionage.”
I didn’t much like the sound of that, but at the same time the thought of a night’s sleep was wonderful. However, I had congratulated myself too soon.
“Very well then, we’ll end today’s examination with the following sentence: ‘I will make additional statements about the diversionary and espionage work of my organization and my part in it tomorrow.’ Here, sign it.”
He handed me the pen and put me in a pretty dilemma. What was I to do? Protest or sign wordlessly? If I protested, the whole affair might well start all over again, and instead of sleep there would be the “conveyer,” and I knew I couldn’t resist again at once. I needed that night’s sleep to recuperate my strength to stand another week of the “conveyer�
�� if necessary. I signed.
Tornuyev rose and motioned Shalit to pour me out another glass of wine.
“Drink, Alexander Semyonovitch,” he said jovially. “You’ve earned it. You’ve done a good thing today and helped us a lot.”
“But what will happen to me now, Citizen Captain? Will I be shot?”
I got up and walked over to the open window. Dusk was already falling and the evening air was very refreshing. Perhaps he thought I might throw myself out because he was at my side in a moment with his hand on my arm.
“Shoot you? Don’t run away with ideas like that. You’ll get a few years and after that you’ll return and be a big man. Look at Rozhansky, for instance.”
“What’s happened to Rozhansky?”
“He’s got three years and he’s already on his way to a camp. But he’ll be back.” Two years later I discovered that at that time Rozhansky was still in the inner prison in Kharkov.
Tornuyev rang up the garage and ordered a car. Ryeznikov accompanied me back to Kholodnaya Gora. When I was returned to my cell I found it empty. I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed just as I was. I stared through the window at the stars and couldn’t sleep.
Morning came and I still hadn’t slept. The warder made no attempt to make me get up. Later bread and tea were pushed through the wicket. I tried not to think of the previous night. I thought of Europe, of my wife and of my friends. I should probably never see any of them again. Would they shoot me? If they took my confession at all seriously they ought to. After the assassination of Kirov a special law had been promulgated against terrorism. The mere attempt was punishable by death, and the whole examination had to be over within ten days. After that there Was summary trial and execution. I had admitted the planning of an attempt on Stalin, so what other outcome could there be? And yet the idea did not upset me much. Throughout the whole course of my three years in prison there was only one period of about six weeks when I thought I might be shot. That was in the autumn of 1937 when the Troika, the extraordinary commission of three, was set up and began to sentence people to death without even hearing them. No, I didn’t fear execution, but I did fear the next interrogation. I was quite determined to withdraw it all, but I was frightened at the thought of what would happen then. Would they just start up the “conveyer” all over again—or would there be something worse? I remained lying down all day and toward evening I finally fell asleep.
At midnight the wicket was opened and a voice asked:
“Your name, Citizen?”
“Weissberg.”
“Interrogation.”
My heart sank suddenly. What would I say to Ryeznikov? What would he do? It hardly bore thinking about and yet it had to be thought about, and right now.
In the inner prison I was first put down in the basement, but I had only a very short time to wait and then I was taken up to Ryeznikov’s office.
“First of all, Alexander Semyonovitch,” he said when I was seated, “we’ll take the question of diversionary activity, and after that, if there’s time, we’ll deal with the question of espionage.”
I screwed up my courage.
“Citizen Examiner, do you really believe a word of what I signed yesterday?”
At first he pretended not to understand me.
“I don’t know what you mean, Alexander Semyonovitch. Please be a little clearer.”
“Yesterday under physical torture and after I had not been allowed to sleep for a week I made statements which were invented from beginning to end. I now consider it my duty to withdraw them in toto.”
“What! You son of a bitch! You whore! You counterrevolutionary bandit! So you wanted to provoke the Soviet power? And you dare to tell me that to my face! We’ll shoot you down like a mad dog.”
“Do what you like, but I was never a counterrevolutionary. I have done nothing against the Soviet power. I never organized any attempt on Stalin’s life, and I never had anything to do with diversionary activity or espionage. The whole thing was an invention. I said it because I was physically incapable of holding out any longer. You extorted that false confession by illegal means.”
Ryeznikov got up and came round from behind his desk.
“What a scoundrel! You dare to say that I extorted anything from you? You confessed because you realized that we had found you out and that it was useless to resist any longer. But I didn’t know we had to do with such a scoundrel or I’d have kept you on that stool until you vomited up all your crimes. But never mind; there’s still time. From now on you’ll write everything down yourself until you get writer’s cramp. There’s no mercy for enemies of the people. Yezhov has taught us that. Right, once you managed to deceive us. You won’t do it a second time.”
Then the “conveyer” started up again, but at least I had won a day’s rest. Ryeznikov, Shalit and Weissband took it in turns. Shalit shouted the same sentence over and over again as before. The pain in my groin reappeared and within twenty-four hours everything was swollen. On the third day I demanded pencil and paper in order to write to Tomuyev, and this was granted.
“Citizen Captain,” I wrote, “I am innocent, but when my body won’t let me go on any longer I shall again make a false confession. And the day after that I shall withdraw it. There is no power whatever which can make me uphold false confessions before either the Prosecutor or the court.”
Ryeznikov read the letter.
“It won’t help you,” he said. “You’ll capitulate. And in any case, we shan’t bring you before a court. The Troika will deal with you.”
I was unable to stand the second “conveyer” as long as the first, and on the afternoon of the fourth day I took paper and pencil and wrote a new “confession.” I can’t really remember what it was I “confessed” this time. Shalit took me into another room where an examiner I did not know was at work. I had to wait there a few minutes and then I recovered my senses. When Ryeznikov came to fetch me I demanded the paper back again in order to destroy it.
“It’s all untrue, Citizen Ryeznikov,” I insisted. “Mere wild inventions; nothing more. I can’t stand the pain. That’s all it amounts to. Sitting has become intolerable, but the moment I get up I shall withdraw everything. Give me back the statement. It’s all lies.”
I can remember the expression on his face clearly. He had the piece of paper with my signature in his hand, and shaking his head without saying a word, he carefully put the paper away in his wallet. Then he took me to his office.
“Now we’ve all the documents we need,” he declared, “the statements of witnesses, your own admissions and one or two other exhibits. We can hand you over to the Troika for summary sentence. And that’s what we’ll do unless you show real repentance. If you continue to be obstinate and withdraw everything you’ve said almost as soon as you’ve said it then you’ll be a dead man within ten days. Now, are you going to stand by your confession or are you not?”
“I’m not, Citizen Ryeznikov.”
“Listen, your withdrawal is known only to us. If we sent the deposition to the Troika they won’t ask any further questions; they’ll just sentence you. Now, do you still want to withdraw it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you can sit here on this stool until you rot. Who do you think you are that you can waste our time like this? We’ll break every bone in your body. You’ll crawl on hands and knees and beg us to accept your confession before we’ve done with you.”
He pushed me angrily back into the room where Shalit was waiting for me. From now on they began to shout at me two and three and even four at a time. Shalit had brought in a friend to help him. During the course of the next twenty-four hours I probably went through the hands of at least a dozen examiners. It made very little impression on me. I fought down my pain and held on desperately. On the fifth day I was still holding out. This time I refused to consider capitulation and I had no fear of what might come.
In the afternoon of the fifth day a guard came into the room and handed Shalit
a note. He read it and then got up.
“We’re going to use other means to break you now,” he said, but his voice sounded strangely uncertain. “Take the man away.”
I thought it was one of the usual ten-minute interruptions for going to the lavatory and eating, but instead I was put into the prison van down below and taken straight back to the Kholodnaya Gora. The “conveyer” was over.
CHAPTER 9—Kholodnaga Gora
PEACEFUL WEEKS FOLLOWED. I WAS LEFT QUITE ALONE AND GRADUALLY my excitement subsided. I was allowed to lie down during the day and in consequence the renewed isolation was easier to bear. Instinctively my organism seemed to feel that after the tension and sufferings of the past week it needed peace and quiet. I came to the conclusion that it would be a long time before they called me out again. All I wanted now was pen and paper to strengthen my recantation by written protests to the highest Party and Government authorities, including the Prosecutor. However, they refused to let me have writing materials.
The greater part of the day I lay on the bed and looked up at the window. If I wanted to look out I had to stand on the chair, and that was forbidden.
It was July. I had now been for so long without a watch that I began to develop a feeling for the passage of time. I no longer needed to know the position of the sun; the strength of the light was sufficient. I lay there and watched the blue square, observing its color changing as evening closed in. At six o’clock the day shift went off duty. Those who had been relieved usually collected in the strip of garden between the inner and outer walls together with their wives and children, employees from the prison offices and young girls from the kitchen. One young fellow played a guitar and another the accordion, and there was singing and dancing. Sometimes I looked out of the window at them, but without envy, though I felt a little sad.
The Accused Page 35