As soon as he noticed it he refused to eat his own share. This joint hunger strike went on silently for some days, and then finally he spoke.
“Alexander Semyonovitch, why do you torment me?”
“I’m not tormenting you, but if you’re so rude to me I can’t eat your food.”
“You’ll go under if you don’t eat. I can’t stand by and see that.”
For all his faults and his violence of temperament he was a fine comrade, and in the end we made it up and began to eat again.
The days seemed endless. Each of us knew all the details of the others’ troubles until there was hardly anything left to say. And no new prisoners arrived to make a change. Sometimes we discussed politics, but not often; we were all anxious to avoid the subject. Yaroshenko proposed that we should all tell strictly personal affairs from our lives and those of our friends, but although we agreed it was not easy. There are no private lives in the Soviet Union as they are lived in other countries; the influence of the all-powerful state is felt in every sphere. In all our stories the state and politics came in somewhere or other. The first story Vudzhik told was about the wife of the Polish Minister Grabovsky.
“Madame Grabovsky often used to visit the Soviet Union, ostensibly to visit her relatives,” he began. “But the G.P.U. suspected her of smuggling out jewels on behalf of White emigrants. Once when I was in Shepetovka on a tour of inspection the train to Warsaw arrived. Madame Grabovsky was in it and the head of the G.P.U. at Shepetovka gave instructions that she was to be searched. I refused to let it be done unless he made a formal written request. He was furious. ‘I don’t have to make written requests,’ he declared. ‘My job is to give you information and your job is to act on it.’
“‘But if we search her and find nothing there will be a first-class diplomatic scandal,’ I pointed out. ‘I’m not going to take the responsibility for that. If you want her searched your own people can do it.’
“After a certain amount of argument he put his request in writing and Madame Grabovsky was then invited to come to a special room where one of our most experienced women searchers gave her the once-over thoroughly—and found nothing. The G.P.U. man was flabbergasted, but I wasn’t surprised. I don’t know whether she was smuggling or not, but if she was there were two Polish diplomats in the train with her, and all she had to do was to give any contraband to them. They had diplomatic passports and were immune from search.
“The affair had a sequel. A few months later Radek was in Warsaw as the guest of the Polish Government. At a banquet he was presented to Madame Grabovsky and the story came out. He was shocked and he reported the matter to Moscow. The customs chief at Shepetovka was suspended although he had acted on written G.P.U. orders and had no alternative. I was sharply reprimanded although I had protested against the search. And only the G.P.U. got off scot free.”
On another occasion also Vudzhik had clashed with the G.P.U. in the course of his duties. Reliable information had come to hand that certain relatives of the chief of the Ukrainian G.P.U., Balitzky, were smuggling French luxury goods, silks, perfumes, and so on, across the frontier. The smugglers were caught and they mentioned Balitzky’s name, apparently thinking that it would overawe the customs officers. But Vudzhik was made of different stuff and he prepared a detailed report on the matter to the Central Committee in Moscow. Balitzky got to hear about it and summoned Vudzhik, giving him a harmless explanation of the whole affair and telling him to drop the whole matter. Vudzhik was not satisfied and refused, whereupon the G.P.U. Commissar got angry and thumped on his desk:
“I tell you I have gone into the matter myself, Comrade Vudzhik, and when I say it’s all right it is all right. I warn you not to send that report to Moscow. Who do you think they’ll believe? Me”—and he slapped himself on his bemedaled breast—“the People’s Commissar for State Security and a member of the Politburo of the Ukrainian Communist Party, or you, an unimportant little member of the Party?”
What Balitzky said was probably right and Vudzhik unwillingly gave way. Now he even regretted that he had shown so much civic courage in the first place, because he was convinced that it was this incident which had brought him to his present plight.
The story depressed me. I had known Balitzky quite well and had always regarded him as an honest man. His manner had always been frank and friendly and he was certainly not a bully. So power did corrupt, after all, even decent men. And, up to a point, his power had been absolute.
“I’m sure you’re wrong when you think it was a clash with Balitzky that brought you here,” I said. “Far from it. After all, Balitzky has been arrested and executed since then. Any past conflict with him is more likely to do you good. The fact is you would have been arrested in any case, just like the rest of us.”
Bogutzky agreed with me, but Vudzhik remained unconvinced. He talked a good deal about his experiences and two names cropped up: Sima Doroganova and Alexandra Ilyienitchna Andreyeva. I had known them both; in fact, in the autumn of 1934 my relations with Sima had been very close.
I had made the acquaintance of Sima through Alexandra, who was “Shura” to me. They were both members of the Dynamo Sports Club, which enjoyed the special patronage of the G.P.U. Shura was Ukrainian woman champion in the five hundred meters, the pole vault and one or two other events. She broke records almost without training, and the experts declared her physique perfect.
Marcel was with me when Shura brought her friend Sima to visit us, and both he and I were greatly impressed by Sima’s beauty. At that time I was already separated for good from my wife and Marcel’s wife Lena was in Moscow. Sima had brown hair, but in it was an extraordinary attractive lock of blond. I had never seen so fascinating a girl outside a film or an advertisement for cosmetics. She had sparkling blue eyes, magnificent white teeth and a wonderful complexion. But even more attractive was the grace with which she moved: a little shy, almost childlike and completely captivating. She was twenty years old and in the first splendid flush of her youth. To look at her was to believe that all that lovely youth and vitality could never grow old. Her movements reminded me of those of some graceful young animal just realizing its ability to move around and making its first exploratory steps. The expression on her face was childlike. It was as though she had just realized how beautiful life can be and was filled with its joy.
She was not in the least forward or flirtatious and toward men she was even a little reserved. I remember an occasion when Marcel followed her into the kitchen innocently enough, but she immediately went out. I have no reason to believe that her modesty was assumed. She lived on the outskirts of Kharkov and one evening I saw her home. We chatted freely and she seemed to have taken a liking to me. When we came to the house where she lived she decided to walk back with me the little distance to the trolley stop. After a while my trolley approached. I was standing in the road and she was on the pavement. I was about to give her my hand when unexpectedly she took my head in both hands and gave me a kiss.
“Good night, Alex.”
It was a charming and innocent gesture, and so unexpected. It was not a kiss to be misunderstood; it came naturally from her heart. She liked me and she expressed it.
After that we became more and more friendly. Sometimes she even stayed in my flat overnight. I was happy in her company, but no physical intimacy ever bound us. I was ten years her senior; by no means an impossible gap, but I hesitated to establish a relationship that would in all probability be short, and would, I was convinced, be deep and unsettling for her. But I was becoming very dependent on her company. On the evenings when she was not there I was nervous and restless.
She belonged to a generation which was separated from mine by an abyss, the abyss created by the Russian Revolution. Sima had grown up after the revolution. She was a Communist just as I was, but her outlook was as different from mine as the outlook of a practicing Catholic today differs from that of an early Christian. The Communist Party ruled the state. Sima was a good citizen and
therefore she was a Communist as a matter of course. She went to the meetings of the Komsomol just as a born Catholic goes to mass. The world revolution, the reorganization of society and all the questions which had so exercised me and my friends in our youth meant nothing to her. She accepted the conditions of Soviet society as a natural condition of life. She knew what men to admire and what men to despise, what actions to praise and what to condemn. Spiritual conflicts were unknown to her. The Party organizer and the newspaper told her what she had to do and what she had to think. Their instructions changed from time to time, but that made no difference to her. She accepted what was offered to her when it was offered, and then it was obviously right.
At one time this conformist outlook was common to the whole Soviet youth, but the terrible blows of the Great Purge broke up this serene acceptance of things just as it broke so many other things. It was no longer so easy to believe without doubting when violence and deceit invaded one’s personal life; when father, brother or husband was arrested as a spy and sent off to the Arctic Circle to slave away his days, particularly when one knew perfectly well that he was innocent.
The ideological gap which existed between us older intellectuals and this Soviet youth affected my relations with Sima. Her loveliness and her youthful vitality were a constant joy to me, but we never came really close to each other: the gap was too wide to be bridged. However, our friendship went on for some weeks, and on November 6th, on the eve of the anniversary celebrations of the November Revolution, I went with her into the center of the town. I had some foreign money and I wanted to buy her something at the Torgsin stores. For six dollars I bought her a white woolen sweater. When we got back she put it on. She looked charming and she was as pleased with it as a child with a new toy. She embraced me with delight.
“Simotchka,” I said, “a Komsomolka like you oughtn’t to be as pleased as all that about clothes.”
“Why not?” she asked. “A Komsomolka wants to look pretty, too.”
Afterward we went for a walk. It began to snow. She was hatless, and her hair was soon covered with snowflakes. She looked radiant. We passed the German cemetery and looked out from the hill over the whole town spread out before us with the famous tractor works in the distance. She snuggled up against me, and I embraced and kissed her.
“Are you coming back this evening, Simotchka?” I asked.
“No, not tonight, Alex,” she replied. “I’ve got the celebration in the Institute to attend, but I’ll come tomorrow and stay over the two holidays if you like.”
I hugged her again and kissed her pink cheeks. I was so busy at that time that I did not have even Sundays free. For a couple of days I looked forward to complete relaxation and walks in the country with Sima. I took her home in a car, and, as usual, she got out a little way from where she lived and said good-by to me there. The next day she did not come as she had promised, and I never saw her again.
Immediately after the holidays, which had been lonely and depressing for me, I had to go to Moscow in connection with the building and assembly of the experimental station. It was New Year’s Day before I returned to Kharkov. I eagerly asked for news of Sima. Marcel had not seen her. I asked Shura. She knew nothing. Sima had worked as a teacher at a school for backward children. Since before the anniversary celebrations she had not been near the place. I went to the house where I thought she had lived. I didn’t know her number, but I inquired at all doors. No one knew her there.
Through my chauffeur Grisha I discovered that in reality she had lived in a small one-family house about five minutes away from where she had led me to believe she lived. I went to the place. A working woman opened the door.
“Sima Doroganova? Yes, she used to live here, but she left suddenly about a couple of months ago. One day she met an old friend and they got married.”
“She’s married?” I queried in astonishment. “When was that?” “On November 7th.”
I discussed the matter with Marcel. I could understand her getting married. Why not? But the way in which she had just disappeared was unaccountable. I had never attempted to limit her freedom in any way whatever. Why hadn’t she come to say good-by?
It was Vudzhik who cleared the matter up.
“Alexander Semyonovitch, Sima deceived you. She was already married when you knew her. She had been married for a couple of years already.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. I knew her and her family well. Her father was an old Chekist. Incidentally, a very decent fellow. He distinguished himself during the civil war. Later he became an officer with the G.P.U. frontier troops.”
G.P.U. troops were brigaded with the Red Army, and they were only formally under the command of the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs. These troops had no connection with that section of the G.P.U. which carried out arrests and interrogations.
“Sima’s husband was also a member of the G.P.U. frontier force. She left him soon after they were married. She was rather afraid of him and didn’t want to live with him. That’s why she went to Kharkov.”
“What I can’t understand is why she should have gone to such lengths to deceive me. It wasn’t in the least necessary. Why did she keep her address secret from me, and why did she go away without a word?”
“Perhaps she was deliberately sent • to you to find out what you were up to,” said Bogutzky.
“I can hardly believe that. G.P.U. agents don’t look like that.” “Alexander Semyonovitch, you really are naïve.”
“No, my dear Bogutzky, it’s you: you see as many spies everywhere as a G.P.U. examiner. I’m certain Sima wasn’t a spy.”
“You’re wrong in this case, Bogutzky,” said Vudzhik. “I knew Sima very well, from her childhood. She concealed her address because she was afraid of her husband, I’m sure. First she went back to her father, and then she went to Kharkov. Obviously, Alexander Semyonovitch, she was very fond of you. She probably wanted you to marry her, and when you were together with her for weeks and you didn’t go any further than a harmless kiss or two she was probably unhappy and thought you didn’t care for her the way she wanted you to. You see, our young people would never understand your scruples. You have to grow up in Western Europe for that. What probably happened then is that her husband found out where she lived and persuaded her to go back to him. In the mood she was in because of her hopeless love affair with you, that’s easily understood.”
“How did you get to know her?” asked Bogutzky.
“Through Shura Andreyeva, an old friend of mine.”
“And didn’t she tell you that the girl was married?”
“No.”
“Then you can be sure she was an agent too.”
With the exception of Vudzhik, they all accepted this version.
“You’ve all got a persecution mania,” I said. “What was there to spy about? I wasn’t a counterrevolutionary. Shura went in and out of our house like a member of the family. She was the wife of a friend of mine, an Austrian engineer. And then, she had a temperament like a tiger, impulsive and wild, quite unsuited to any sort of conspiratorial work.”
“Well, why didn’t she tell you about her friend’s marriage?”
“It’s not at all certain that she knew about it. Why should Sima tell her? It wasn’t something she was happy about. Or she might have told her in confidence. How do I know? In any case, I’m quite certain Shura was not a G.P.U. agent.”
Shura was the wife of my friend Adi Taussig. I first met him in December, 1930, at a party in Vienna just before I left for the Soviet Union. He was one of the fashionable young bloods who divided their time between sport and women. It was a circle with which I had very little to do. My friends were very different types. Adi Taussig was the son of a rich industrialist, but he was not a mere parasite like so many of his friends. He had become an engineer and he took his job seriously. In addition he had begun to think about social problems.
“I hear you’re going to the Soviet Union,” he sa
id when we were introduced. “That must be very interesting. I rather envy you. I’d rather like to go there myself and see things at fast hand. Is there any way of managing it?”
I answered rather coolly and recommended that he get in touch with “Intourist.” After that I forgot all about him. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when in the spring of 1932 I met him in a corridor of the headquarters of the Supreme Economic Council (later the Commissariat for Heavy Industry) in Moscow.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I told you I’d like to come and have a look around for myself, and here I am.”
“But what are you doing here in particular?”
“I wanted to see Bittger.”
“How do you know him? In fact, how do you come to know our people at all?”
“From Berlin. I negotiated with Bittger on behalf of my firm.”
Bittger had formerly been head of the Soviet Trade Mission in Berlin and he was now head of the foreign-trade department of the Supreme Economic Council. Like most leading Soviet officials, he was liquidated at the beginning of 1937.
The same day—it was in Bukharin’s anteroom—I met London, the Chairman of the Donbasvod Trust. He told me he was having trouble with the water supply for a part of the Donetz Basin. Water had been piped at great expense from the river. At first, in the spring, the drinking water had been excellent. Six months later it was unusable and stank of phenol, and the local authorities refused to accept the supply. Experts had been called in, but without success. I thought of Taussig, who worked for the Bamag, a very big firm, as a specialist for water cleansing, and suggested that London should get in touch with him. He did and a conference took place with Taussig in the presence of Bittger. London presented the plans and Taussig studied them for a while.
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