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===VIII. In the Moskkommune===
===VIII. In the Moskkommune===


February 2.5.---Life in the Kharitonensky is interesting. It is an ossobniak (private house), large and roomy, and contains a number of delegates and guests. At meal time we gather in the common dining room, furnished in the bourgeois taste of the typical German merchant. The house has weathered the Revolution without any change. Nothing has been touched in it; even the oil painting of the former owner, life-size, flanked by those of his wife and children, still hangs in its accustomed place. One feels the atmosphere of respectability and correctness.
The Commissar of our ossobniak, having to lay in provisions, invited me to accompany him to the Moskkommune. It is the great food supply center, a tremendous organization that feeds Moscow and its environs. Its trains have the right of way on all lines and carry food from parts as distant as Siberia and Turkestan. Not a pound of flour can be issued by any of the "stores" --- the distributing points scattered throughout the city --- without a written order signed and counter-signed by the various bureaus of the Commune. From this center each "distributor" receives the amount necessary to supply the demands of the given district, according to the norm allowed on the bread and other cards.


But at meals a different spirit prevails. The head of the table is occupied by V---, a Red Army officer in military uniform of English cut. He is the chief of the Ukrainian delegation come for an important conference to "the center." A tall, strapping fellow, not over thirty, of military bearing and commanding manner. He has been in many fights against Kaledin and Denikin, and was repeatedly wounded. When still an officer in the Tsar's army he became a revolutionist. Later his party, the Left Social Revolutionists of the South, joined the Communists of the Ukraina.
The Moskkommune is the most popular and active institution; it is a beehive swarming with thousands of employees, busy determining the different categories of pyock and issuing "authorizations." Besides the bread rations, sugar, tea, etc., given to the citizen by the "store" of his district, he also receives his ration in the institution that employs him. The pyock differs according to the "quality" of the citizen and the position he occupies. At present soldiers and sailors receive 2 1/2 lbs. of bread per day; Soviet employees 3 lbs. every two days; those not working --- because of age, sickness or disability other than military --- receive 3/4 lb. There are special categories of "preferred" pyock; the academical for old scientists and professors whose merits are recognized by the State, and also for old revolutionists not actively opposed to the Communists.There are "preferred" pyocks in important institutions, such as the Komintern (the Third International), the Narkominodel (Foreign Office), Narkomput (Commissariat of Railways), Sovnarkhoz (Soviet of Public Economy), and others. Members of the Communist Party have the opportunity of receiving extra rations through their Communist organizations, and preference is given them in the departments issuing clothing. There is also a Sovnarkom pyock, the best to be had, for important Communist officials, Commissars, their first assistants, and other high-placed functionaries. The Soviet Houses, where foreign visitors and influential delegates are quartered, such as Karakhan's ossobniak and the Hotel Lux, receive, special food supplies. These include fats and starches (butter, cheese, meat, sugar, candy, etc.), of which the average citizen receives very little.


Next to him sits K., black-haired and black-bearded, member of the Central Rada when it was broken up by Skoropadsky with the aid of German bayonets. To his right is another delegate from the Ukraina, a student with soft black beard, the only one who understands English. The editor of the Communist paper of Kiev and two young women are also in this party.
I discussed the matter with our House Commissar, who is a devoted Party man. "The essence of Communism is equality," I said; "there should be only one kind of pyock, so that all will share equally."


One of the foreign visitors is "Herman," a middleaged German grown gray and old in the revolutionary struggle. He was sent by the minority of the Spartacus Party to enlist the moral and financial support of the Bolsheviki; but Radek, he complains, refuses to recognize the rebellious minority. Near Herman sits young L., an American I.W.W., who hoboed his way to Russia without pass or money. There are also several correspondents from Sweden, Holland, and Italy, two Japanese, and a Corean Communist who was brought a prisoner from Siberia because of some peculiar misunderstanding.
"The Er-Kah-Peh (Communist Party) decided the matter long ago, and it is right so," he replied.


The steaming samovar is on the table, and a buxom young woman is serving us. She is red-cheeked and country-like, but her demeanor is free and unforced, and she uses tovarishtch with an ease indicating a fullgrown sense of equality. From snatches of her conversation with the diners I gather that she had been working in a shoe factory till she entered the service of the former owner of the house, before the Revolution, and has remained in the ossobniak after it was nationalized. She calls herself a Bolshevik, and speaks familiarly about the proceedings at the meetings of the women Communist circle, at which she often presides.
"But how can it be right?" I protested. "One person receives a generous pyock, more than enough to live on; another gets less than enough; a third almost nothing. You have endless categories."


She seems to personify the great revolutionary upheaval: the master driven from the house, the servant become the equal of the guests, all tovarishtchi in a common cause.
"Well," he said, "the Red Army men at the front must get more than the city man; they do, the hardest fighting. The soldier at home also must be encouraged, as well as the sailor; they are the backbone of the Revolution. Then the responsible officers deserve a little better food. Look how they work, sixteen hours a day and more, giving all their time and energy to the cause. The employees of such important institutions as Narkomput and Narkominodel must be shown some preference. Besides, a great deal depends on how well a certain institution is organized. Many of the big ones procure most of their supplies directly from the peasantry, through special representatives and the cooperatives.


Surrogat tea or coffee is served in the morning --- one cannot tell the difference. Breakfast consists of several small slices of black bread, a bit of butter and occasionally an attenuated layer of cheese. At dinner we receive a thin soup of fish or vegetables; sometimes there is also a piece of meat, cooked or fried. Supper is usually the same as breakfast. I always feel hungry after meals, but fortunately I still have some American crackers. Everyone watches anxiously if there is an unoccupied seat at the table. In their eyes I read the frank hope that the missing one may not come: there will be a little more soup left for the others.
"If anyone is to receive preference, I think it should be the workers," I replied. "But they get almost the worst pyock,"


The Ukrainians bring "private packages" to the table --- chunks of salo (fat) or pork sausage, wrapped in pieces of paper written on both Sides. Yesterday I casually glanced at one of these wrappers. It was a circular letter of the Tsarist police, descriptive of a man charged with the murder of his brother. It was evidently torn out of an office file. Paper is scarce, and even old newspapers are too valuable to be used as wrappers.
"What can we do, tovarishtch! If it were not for the cursed Allies and the blockade, we'd have food enough for all," he said sadly. "But it won't last long now. Did you read in the Izvestia that a revolution is to break out soon in Germany and Italy? The proletariat of Europe will then come to our aid."


The Ukrainians never offer their delicacies to their neighbors at table. Today at dinner I placed my can of condensed milk before the man at my side, but he needed urging before he dared use some in his coffee. I asked him to pass it around. In consternation he protested, "Tovarishtch, keep it for yourself, you'll need it." All the others declined at first, but their eyes burned with desire for the "American product." The can was emptied quickly amid the general smacking of lips and words of admiration in Slavic superlatives. "Miraculous, worshipful," they cried.
"I doubt it, but let's hope so. In the meantime we can't be sitting and waiting for revolutions to happen somewhere. We must exert our own efforts to put the country on its feet."


I spend considerable time with the Ukrainians, learning much about their country, its history, language, and its long revolutionary struggle. Most of the delegates, though young in years, are old in the revolutionary movement. They worked "underground" under the Tsar, took part in numerous strikes and uprisings, and fought against the Provisional Government. Later, about the end of 1917, when the Rada turned reactionary and made common cause with Kaledin and Krasnov, the notorious White generals, these delegates helped the Bolsheviki to fight them. Then came the German invasion and Hetman Skoropadsky. Again these men fought the Direktorium and Petlura, its dictator, after the latter had upset the Hetman. Finally they joined the Communist Party in waging war against Denikin and his counter-revolutionary forces.
The Commissar's turn in line came, and he was called into an inner office. We had been waiting several hours in the corridors of the various bureaus. It seemed that almost every door had to be entered before a sufficient number of resolutsyi (endorsements) were secured, and the final "order" for supplies obtained. There was a continuous movement of applicants and clerks from office to office, everyone scolding and pushing toward the head of the line. The waiting men watched closely that no one got ahead of his proper place. Frequently someone would march straight to the office door and try to enter, ignoring the queue.


A long and desperate struggle, full of suffering and misery. Most of them have lost near and dear ones at the hands of the Whites. The three brothers of the Rada member perished in the various fights. The young wife of the student was outraged and killed by a Denikin officer, while her husband was awaiting execution. Later he succeeded in escaping from prison. He showed me her picture, standing on the desk in his room. A beautiful, radiant creature. His eyes grew moist as he narrated the sad story.
"Into the line, into the line!" the cry would be raised at once. "The sly one! Here we've been standing for hours, and he's just come and wants to enter already."


Many visitors call on the Ukrainians. There is no propusk system in the Kharitonensky, and people come and go freely. I have made interesting acquaintances, and spent many hours listening to the Ukrainian delegates exchanging experiences with their Russian friends. Some days are like a kaleidoscope of the Revolution, every turn tossing up new facets of variegated hue and brilliancy: stirring incidents of struggle and strife, stories of martyrdom and heroic exploit. They visualize the darkness of the Tsarist dungeons suddenly lit up by the flames of the February Revolution, and the glorious enthusiasm of the liberation. Surpassing joy of freedom, and then the sadness of great hopes unfulfilled, and liberty remaining an empty sound. Again the rising waves of protest; the soldiers fraternizing with the enemy; and then the great October days that sweep capitalism and the bourgeoisie out of Russia, and usher in the new world and the new Humanity.
"I'm vne otcheredi (not to wait in line)," the man would answer disdainfully.


These men fill me with wonder and admiration. Common workers and soldiers, but yesterday mute slaves, they are today the masters of their fate, the rulers of Russia. There is dignity in their bearing, self-reliance and determination --- the spirit of assurance that comes with struggle and the exercise of initiative. The fires of Revolution have forged new men, new personalities.
"Show your authorization!"
 
One after another came these men and women vne Otcheredi, with slips of paper securing immediate admission, while "the tail" was steadily growing longer. "I'm standing three hours already," an old man complained; "in my bureau people are waiting for me on important business."
 
"Learn patience, little father," a workman replied good-humoredly. "Look at me, I've been in line all day yesterday since early morning, and all the time these vne otcheredi kept coming, and it was 2 P. M. when I got through the door. But the chief there, he looks at the clock and says to me, says he, 'No more today; no orders issued after 2 P. M. Come tomorrow.' 'Have mercy, dear one,' I plead. 'I live seven versts away and I got up at five this morning to come here. Do me the favor, golubtshik, just a stroke of your pen and it's done.' 'Go, go now,' the cruel one says, 'I haven't time. Come tomorrow,' and he pushed me out of the room."
 
"True, true," a woman back of him corroborated, "I was right behind you, and he wouldn't let me in either, the hard-hearted one."
 
The Commissar came out of the office. "Ready?" I asked.
 
"No, not yet," he smiled wearily. "But you'd better go home, or you'll lose your dinner."
 
In the Kharitonensky Sergei was waiting for me.
 
"Berkman," he said, as I entered, "will you let me share your room with you?"
 
"What do you mean?"
 
"I've been ordered to vacate. My time's up, they say. But I have nowhere to go. I'll look in the morning for another place, but meantime----?"
 
"You'll stay with me."
 
"But if the House Commissar should object.
 
"Are you to be driven into the street in this frost? Remain on my responsibility."

Revision as of 15:21, 11 August 2008

Chapter 7 The Bolshevik Myth
VIII. In the Moskkommune
written by Alexander Berkman 		Chapter 9
1925.



VIII. In the Moskkommune

The Commissar of our ossobniak, having to lay in provisions, invited me to accompany him to the Moskkommune. It is the great food supply center, a tremendous organization that feeds Moscow and its environs. Its trains have the right of way on all lines and carry food from parts as distant as Siberia and Turkestan. Not a pound of flour can be issued by any of the "stores" --- the distributing points scattered throughout the city --- without a written order signed and counter-signed by the various bureaus of the Commune. From this center each "distributor" receives the amount necessary to supply the demands of the given district, according to the norm allowed on the bread and other cards.

The Moskkommune is the most popular and active institution; it is a beehive swarming with thousands of employees, busy determining the different categories of pyock and issuing "authorizations." Besides the bread rations, sugar, tea, etc., given to the citizen by the "store" of his district, he also receives his ration in the institution that employs him. The pyock differs according to the "quality" of the citizen and the position he occupies. At present soldiers and sailors receive 2 1/2 lbs. of bread per day; Soviet employees 3 lbs. every two days; those not working --- because of age, sickness or disability other than military --- receive 3/4 lb. There are special categories of "preferred" pyock; the academical for old scientists and professors whose merits are recognized by the State, and also for old revolutionists not actively opposed to the Communists.There are "preferred" pyocks in important institutions, such as the Komintern (the Third International), the Narkominodel (Foreign Office), Narkomput (Commissariat of Railways), Sovnarkhoz (Soviet of Public Economy), and others. Members of the Communist Party have the opportunity of receiving extra rations through their Communist organizations, and preference is given them in the departments issuing clothing. There is also a Sovnarkom pyock, the best to be had, for important Communist officials, Commissars, their first assistants, and other high-placed functionaries. The Soviet Houses, where foreign visitors and influential delegates are quartered, such as Karakhan's ossobniak and the Hotel Lux, receive, special food supplies. These include fats and starches (butter, cheese, meat, sugar, candy, etc.), of which the average citizen receives very little.

I discussed the matter with our House Commissar, who is a devoted Party man. "The essence of Communism is equality," I said; "there should be only one kind of pyock, so that all will share equally."

"The Er-Kah-Peh (Communist Party) decided the matter long ago, and it is right so," he replied.

"But how can it be right?" I protested. "One person receives a generous pyock, more than enough to live on; another gets less than enough; a third almost nothing. You have endless categories."

"Well," he said, "the Red Army men at the front must get more than the city man; they do, the hardest fighting. The soldier at home also must be encouraged, as well as the sailor; they are the backbone of the Revolution. Then the responsible officers deserve a little better food. Look how they work, sixteen hours a day and more, giving all their time and energy to the cause. The employees of such important institutions as Narkomput and Narkominodel must be shown some preference. Besides, a great deal depends on how well a certain institution is organized. Many of the big ones procure most of their supplies directly from the peasantry, through special representatives and the cooperatives.

"If anyone is to receive preference, I think it should be the workers," I replied. "But they get almost the worst pyock,"

"What can we do, tovarishtch! If it were not for the cursed Allies and the blockade, we'd have food enough for all," he said sadly. "But it won't last long now. Did you read in the Izvestia that a revolution is to break out soon in Germany and Italy? The proletariat of Europe will then come to our aid."

"I doubt it, but let's hope so. In the meantime we can't be sitting and waiting for revolutions to happen somewhere. We must exert our own efforts to put the country on its feet."

The Commissar's turn in line came, and he was called into an inner office. We had been waiting several hours in the corridors of the various bureaus. It seemed that almost every door had to be entered before a sufficient number of resolutsyi (endorsements) were secured, and the final "order" for supplies obtained. There was a continuous movement of applicants and clerks from office to office, everyone scolding and pushing toward the head of the line. The waiting men watched closely that no one got ahead of his proper place. Frequently someone would march straight to the office door and try to enter, ignoring the queue.

"Into the line, into the line!" the cry would be raised at once. "The sly one! Here we've been standing for hours, and he's just come and wants to enter already."

"I'm vne otcheredi (not to wait in line)," the man would answer disdainfully.

"Show your authorization!"

One after another came these men and women vne Otcheredi, with slips of paper securing immediate admission, while "the tail" was steadily growing longer. "I'm standing three hours already," an old man complained; "in my bureau people are waiting for me on important business."

"Learn patience, little father," a workman replied good-humoredly. "Look at me, I've been in line all day yesterday since early morning, and all the time these vne otcheredi kept coming, and it was 2 P. M. when I got through the door. But the chief there, he looks at the clock and says to me, says he, 'No more today; no orders issued after 2 P. M. Come tomorrow.' 'Have mercy, dear one,' I plead. 'I live seven versts away and I got up at five this morning to come here. Do me the favor, golubtshik, just a stroke of your pen and it's done.' 'Go, go now,' the cruel one says, 'I haven't time. Come tomorrow,' and he pushed me out of the room."

"True, true," a woman back of him corroborated, "I was right behind you, and he wouldn't let me in either, the hard-hearted one."

The Commissar came out of the office. "Ready?" I asked.

"No, not yet," he smiled wearily. "But you'd better go home, or you'll lose your dinner."

In the Kharitonensky Sergei was waiting for me.

"Berkman," he said, as I entered, "will you let me share your room with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been ordered to vacate. My time's up, they say. But I have nowhere to go. I'll look in the morning for another place, but meantime----?"

"You'll stay with me."

"But if the House Commissar should object.

"Are you to be driven into the street in this frost? Remain on my responsibility."

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