Red Dusk and the Morrow · Chapter 12 (4/4)

At this particular election the Bolsheviks forgot the women workers, who turned out to be unexpectedly obstreperous. In one factory on the Vasili Island, where mostly women were employed, the Communists were swept off the platform and the women held their own meeting, electing eight nonpartisan members. In several smaller workshops the Communists suffered unexpected defeat, perhaps because all the available arms were concentrated in the larger factories, and the ultimate outcome of the elections, though the Communists of course were in the majority, was a reduction of their majority from ninety to eighty-two percent.

On the opening day of the soviet, armed with the order of a guest from my regiment, I made my way to the famous Tauride Palace, now called “Palace of Uritsky,” the seat of the former Duma. I pictured to myself, as I entered the building, the memorable days and nights of March, 1917. There was no such enthusiasm now as there had been then. No, now there was war, war between a Party and the People. Machine-guns fixed on motorcycles were posted threateningly outside the porch and a company of Reds defended the entrance.

The meeting was scheduled for 5 o’clock, so knowing soviet practices I strolled in about quarter to six, counting on still having time on my hands before there would be anything doing. Speaking of unpunctuality, I remember an occasion in 1918 when I had to make a statement to the Samara soviet on some work I was engaged in. I wished to secure a hall for a public lecture on science by an American professor and received an official invitation to appear at the soviet at 5 p.m. to explain my object in detail. I attended punctually. At 5:30 the first deputy strolled in and, seeing no one there, asked me when the sitting would begin.

“I was invited for 5 o’clock,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said, “5 o’clock⁠—that’s right,” and strolled out again. At 6 three or four workmen were lounging about, chatting or doing nothing to pass the time.

“Do you always start so unpunctually?” I asked one of them.

“If you have lived so long in Russia,” was the good-natured retort, “you ought to know us by now.” At 7 everybody was in evidence except the chairman. That dignitary appeared at 7:15 with the apology that he had “stopped to chat with a comrade in the street.”

The soviet meeting at Petrograd, scheduled for 5, began at 9, but there were extenuating circumstances. The still-discontented workmen had been invited during the day to listen to Zinoviev, who strove to pacify them by granting them holidays which had been cancelled on account of the war. The soviet deputies wandered up and down the lobbies and corridors, while the workmen streamed out talking heatedly or with looks of gloom on their faces.

The hall within the palace had been altered and improved. The wall behind the tribune where the portrait of the Tsar used to hang had been removed and a deep alcove made, seating over one hundred people, where the executive committee and special guests sat. The executive committee numbered forty people and constituted a sort of cabinet, doing all the legislation. Its members were always Communists. The soviet proper never took part in legislation. By its character, and especially by the manner in which its sittings were held, it was impossible that it should. The number of deputies was over 1,300, an unwieldy body in which discussion was difficult in any case, but to make it completely impossible numerous guests were invited from other organizations of a Communist character. By this means the audience was doubled. And one must still add the chauffeurs, streetcar conductors, and general servants of the building who also found their way in. Everybody took part in the voting, no discrimination being made between members and bidden or unbidden guests.

At 9 all was ready for the soviet to open. By sitting three at a desk there were seats for about 2,000 people. The others stood at the back or swarmed into the balcony. Sailors were very conspicuous. The day was warm and the air was stifling. Around the walls hung notices: “You are requested not to smoke.” In spite of this, halfway through the meeting the room was full of smoke. Following the example of others, I doffed my coat and, removing my belt, pulled up my shirt and flapped it up and down by way of ventilation. Performed en gros this operation was hardly conducive to the purification of the atmosphere.

I secured a seat at the back whence I could see everything. My neighbour was a woman, a dishevelled little creature who seemed much embarrassed by her surroundings. Every time anyone rose to speak she asked me who it was. While we waited for the proceedings to begin she confided to me in answer to my question that she was a guest, like myself. “I signed on recently as a ‘sympathizer,’ ” she said.

Suddenly there was a burst of applause. A well-known figure with bushy hair and Jewish features entered and strolled nonchalantly up to the tribune. “That is Zinoviev,” I said to my neighbour, but she knew Zinoviev.

A bell rang and silence ensued.

“I pronounce the Fourth Petrograd Soviet open,” said a tall man in clothes of military cut who stood at the right of the president’s chair. “That is Evdokimov, the secretary,” I said to my companion, to which she replied profoundly, “Ah!”

An orchestra stationed in one corner of the hall struck up the “Internationale.” Everyone rose. Another orchestra up in the balcony also struck up the “Internationale,” but two beats later and failed to catch up. You listened to and sang with the one you were nearest to.

“At the instance of the Communist Party,” proceeded Evdokimov in a clear voice, “I propose the following members for election to the executive committee.” He read out forty names, all Communists. “Those in favour raise their hands.” A sea of hands rose. “Who is against?” To the general excitement a number of hands were raised⁠—an event unheard of for many a month. “Accepted by a large majority,” exclaimed the secretary.

“The Communist Party,” he continued, “proposes the following for election to the presidium.” He read the names of seven Communists, including his own. About half-a-dozen hands were raised against this proposal, to the general amusement.

“The Communist Party proposes Comrade Zinoviev as president of the soviet,” proceeded the secretary in heightened tones. There was a storm of applause. One single hand was raised in opposition and was greeted with hilarious laughter. Zinoviev advanced to the presidential chair and the orchestras struck up the “Internationale.” The election of the executive committee, the presidium, and the president had occupied less than five minutes.

Opening his speech with a reference to the recent elections, Zinoviev exulted in the fact that of the 1,390 members a thousand were fully qualified members of the Communist Party, whilst many others were candidates. “We were convinced,” he exclaimed, “that the working class of Red Petrograd would remain true to itself and return to the soviet only the best representatives, and we were not mistaken.” After defining the tasks of the new soviet as the defence and provisioning of the city, he spoke of the strikes, which he attributed to agents of the Allies and to the Mensheviks and Socialist-Revolutionaries. It was perhaps not such a bad thing, he said in effect, that some rascally Mensheviks and Socialist-Revolutionaries had got into the soviet, for it would be the easier to catch them if they were on the side of the counterrevolutionaries. Continuing, he praised the Red army and the Baltic fleet and concluded, as usual, with a prediction of early revolution in western Europe. “Comrades,” he cried, “the tyrannous Governments of the West are on the eve of their fall. The bourgeois despots are doomed. The workers are rising in their millions to sweep them away. They are looking to us, to the Red proletariat, to lead them to victory. Long live the Communist International!”

He ended amidst tremendous cheering. During his speech the “Internationale” was played three times and at its conclusion twice more.

Then Zinoviev took a novel step. He invited discussion. In view of the increase of the nonpartisan element in the soviet there was a distinct tendency to invite the latter’s cooperation⁠—under strict control, of course, of the Communists. The permission of discussion, however, was easy to understand when the next speaker announced by the president declared himself to be an ex-Menshevik now converted to Communism. His harangue was short and ended with a panegyric of the Bolshevist leaders. He was followed by an anarchist, who was inarticulate, but who roundly denounced the “thieves of the food department.” His speech was punctuated by furious howls and whistling, particularly on the part of the sailors. None the less he introduced an anti-Communist resolution which was scarcely audible and for which a few hands were raised. Zinoviev repeatedly called for order but looked pleased enough at the disturbance. The anarchist sat down amidst a storm of laughter and booing. Zinoviev then closed the discussion.

There then approached the tribune a businesslike-looking little man, rather stout, round-shouldered, and with a black moustache. “This is Badaev, commissar of food,” I said to my neighbour. Sitting in front of us were two young soldiers who seemed to treat the proceedings with undue levity. When the plump Badaev mounted the tribune they nudged each other and one of them said, referring to the graded categories into which the populace is divided for purposes of provisioning: “Look! what a tub! Ask him what food category he belongs to”⁠—at which little pleasantry they both giggled convulsively for several minutes.

Badaev spoke well but with no oratorical cunning. He said the food situation was deplorable, that speculation was rife, and mentioned decrees which should rectify defects. Badaev could hardly be called a logician. He said in effect that, though the soup was bad, the Communist provisioning apparatus would be the most perfect in the world. He admitted abuses in the communal kitchens. Communists, he acknowledged regretfully, were as bad as the others. “You must elect controllers for the eating-houses,” he said, “but you must never let them stay long in one job. They have a knack of chumming up with the cook, so you must always keep them moving.”

There were several other speakers who all sang the praises of the Communist Party and the good judgment of the electorate. At first attentive, the audience became languid after midnight. Periodically the “Internationale” was played. Toward the end many people lolled over the desks with their heads on their arms. Like schoolchildren, they were not allowed to leave before the end except upon some good pretext.

At last the “Internationale” was played for the very last time, the men did up their loosened belts and donned their coats and the audience streamed out into the cool summer air. My head ached violently. I walked along to the quay of the Neva. The river was superb. The skyline of the summer night was tinged with delicate pink, blue, and green. I looked at the water and leaning over the parapet laid my throbbing temples against the cold stone.

A militiaman touched my arm. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I come from the soviet.”

“Your order?”

I showed it. “I am going home,” I added.

He was not a rough-looking fellow. I had a strange impulse to exclaim bitterly: “Comrade, tell me, how long will this revolution last?” But what was the good? Though everybody asks it, this is the one question nobody can answer.

My path lay along the beautiful river. The stream flowed fast⁠—faster than I walked. It seemed to me to be getting ever faster. It was like the Revolution⁠—this river⁠—flowing with an inexorable, ever-swifter, endless tide. To my fevered fancy it became a roaring torrent tearing all before it, like the rapids of Niagara; not, however, snowy white, but Red, Red, Red.