INDUSTRIAL MILITARIZATION
The Ninth Congress of the All-Russian Communist Party, held in March,
1920, was characterized by a number of measures which meant a complete
turn to the right. Foremost among them was the militarization of labour
and the establishment of one-man management of industry, as against
the collegiate shop system. Obligatory labour had long been a law upon
the statutes of the Socialist Republic, but it was carried out, as
Trotsky said, "only in a small private way." Now the law was to be made
effective in earnest. Russia was to have a militarized industrial army
to fight economic disorganization, even as the Red Army had conquered
on the various fronts. Such an army could be whipped into line only by
rigid discipline, it was claimed. The factory collegiate system had to
make place for military industrial management.
The measure was bitterly fought at the Congress by the Communist
minority, but party discipline prevailed. However, the excitement did
not abate: discussion of the subject continued long after the congress
adjourned. Many of the younger Communists agreed that the measure
indicated a step to the right, but they defended the decision of their
party. "The collegiate system has proven a failure," they said. "The
workers will not work voluntarily, and our industry must be revived if
we are to survive another year."
Jack Reed also held this view. He had just returned after a futile
attempt to reach America through Latvia, and for days we argued about
the new policy. Jack insisted it was unavoidable so long as Russia was
being attacked and blockaded. "We have been compelled to mobilize an
army to fight our external enemies why not an army to fight our worst
internal enemy, hunger? We can do it only by putting our industry
on its feet." I pointed out the danger of the military method and
questioned whether the workers could be expected to become efficient or
to work intensively under compulsion. Still, Jack thought mobilization
of labour unavoidable. "It must be tried, anyhow," he said.
Petrograd at the time was filled with rumours of strikes. The story
made the rounds that Zinoviev and his staff, while visiting the
factories to explain the new policies, were driven by the workers from
the premises. To learn about the situation at first hand I decided to
visit the factories. Already during my first months in Russia I had
asked Zorin for permission to see them. Lisa Zorin had requested me to
address some labour meetings, but I declined because I felt that it
would be presumptuous on my part to undertake to teach those who had
made the revolution. Besides, I was not quite at home with the Russian
language then. But when I asked Zorin to let me visit some factories,
he was evasive. After I had become acquainted with Ravitch I approached
her on the subject, and she willingly consented.
The first works to be visited were the Putilov, the largest and most
important engine and car manufacturing establishment. Forty thousand
workers had been employed there before the war. Now I was informed that
only 7,000 were at work. I had heard much of the Putilovtsi: they had
played a heroic part in the revolutionary days and in the defence of
Petrograd against Yudenitch.
At the Putilov office we were cordially received, shown about the
various departments, and then turned over to a guide. There were four
of us in the party, of whom only two could speak Russian. I lagged
behind to question a group working at a bench. At first I was met
with the usual suspicion, which I overcame by telling the men that
I was bringing the greetings of their brothers in America. "And the
revolution there?" I was immediately asked. It seemed to have become
a national obsession, this idea of a near revolution in Europe and
America. Everybody in Russia clung to that hope. It was hard to rob
those misinformed people of their naïve faith. "The American revolution
is not yet," I told them, "but the Russian Revolution has found an echo
among the proletariat in America." I inquired about their work, their
lives, and their attitude toward the new decrees. "As if we had not
been driven enough before," complained one of the men. "Now we are to
work under the military _nagaika_ [whip]. Of course, we will have to
be in the shop or they will punish us as industrial deserters. But how
can they get more work out of us? We are suffering hunger and cold.
We have no strength to give more." I suggested that the Government
was probably compelled to introduce such methods, and that if Russian
industry were not revived the condition of the workers would grow even
worse. Besides, the Putilov men were receiving the preferred _payok_.
"We understand the great misfortune that has befallen Russia," one of
the workers replied, "but we cannot squeeze more out of ourselves.
Even the two pounds of bread we are getting is not enough. Look at the
bread," he said, holding up a black crust; "can we live on that? And
our children? If not for our people in the country or some trading on
the market we would die altogether. Now comes the new measure which is
tearing us away from our people, sending us to the other end of Russia
while our brothers from there are going to be dragged here, away from
their soil. It's a crazy measure and it won't work."
"But what can the Government do in the face of the food shortage?"
I asked. "Food shortage!" the man exclaimed; "look at the markets.
Did you see any shortage of food there? Speculation and the new
bourgeoisie, that's what's the matter. The one-man management is our
new slave driver. First the bourgeoisie sabotaged us, and now they are
again in control. But just let them try to boss us! They'll find out.
Just let them try!"
The men were bitter and resentful. Presently the guide returned
to see what had become of me. He took great pains to explain that
industrial conditions in the mill had improved considerably since the
militarization of labour went into effect. The men were more content
and many more cars had been renovated and engines repaired than within
an equal period under the previous management. There were 7,000
productively employed in the works, he assured me. I learned, however,
that the real figure was less than 5,000 and that of these only about
2,000 were actual workers. The others were Government officials and
clerks.
After the Putilov works we visited the Treugolnik, the great rubber
factory of Russia. The place was clean and the machinery in good
order--a well-equipped modern plant. When we reached the main workroom
we were met by the superintendent, who had been in charge for
twenty-five years. He would show us around himself, he said. He seemed
to take great pride in the factory, as if it were his own. It rather
surprised me that they had managed to keep everything in such fine
shape. The guide explained that it was because nearly the whole of
the old staff had been left in charge. They felt that whatever might
happen they must not let the place go to ruin. It was certainly very
commendable, I thought, but soon I had occasion to change my mind. At
one of the tables, cutting rubber, was an old worker with kindly eyes
looking out of a sad, spiritual face. He reminded me of the pilgrim
Lucca in Gorki's "Night Lodgings." Our guide kept a sharp vigil, but
I managed to slip away while the superintendent was explaining some
machinery to the other members of our group.
"Well, _batyushka_, how is it with you?" I greeted the old worker.
"Bad, _matushka_," he replied; "times are very hard for us old people."
I told him how impressed I was to find everything in such good
condition in the shop. "That is so," commented the old worker, "but it
is because the superintendent and his staff are hoping from day to day
that there may be a change again, and that the Treugolnik will go back
to its former owners. I know them. I have worked here long before the
German master of this plant put in the new machinery."
Passing through the various rooms of the factory I saw the women and
girls look up in evident dread. It seemed strange in a country where
the proletarians were the masters. Apparently the machines were not the
only things that had been carefully watched over--the old discipline,
too, had been preserved: the employees thought us Bolshevik inspectors.
The great flour mill of Petrograd, visited next, looked as if it were
in a state of siege, with armed soldiers everywhere, even inside the
workrooms. The explanation given was that large quantities of precious
flour had been vanishing. The soldiers watched the millmen as if they
were galley slaves, and the workers naturally resented such humiliating
treatment. They hardly dared to speak. One young chap, a fine-looking
fellow, complained to me of the conditions. "We are here virtual
prisoners," he said; "we cannot make a step without permission. We are
kept hard at work eight hours with only ten minutes for our _kipyatok_
[boiled water] and we are searched on leaving the mill." "Is not the
theft of flour the cause of the strict surveillance?" I asked. "Not at
all," replied the boy; "the Commissars of the mill and the soldiers
know quite well where the flour goes to." I suggested that the workers
might protest against such a state of affairs. "Protest, to whom?" the
boy exclaimed; "we'd be called speculators and counter-revolutionists
and we'd be arrested." "Has the Revolution given you nothing?" I asked.
"Ah, the Revolution! But that is no more. Finished," he said bitterly.
The following morning we visited the Laferm tobacco factory. The place
was in full operation. We were conducted through the plant and the
whole process was explained to us, beginning with the sorting of the
raw material and ending with the finished cigarettes packed for sale or
shipment. The air in the workrooms was stifling, nauseating. "The women
are used to this atmosphere," said the guide; "they don't mind." There
were some pregnant women at work and girls no older than fourteen. They
looked haggard, their chests sunken, black rings under their eyes. Some
of them coughed and the hectic flush of consumption showed on their
faces. "Is there a recreation room, a place where they can eat or drink
their tea and inhale a bit of fresh air?" There was no such thing, I
was informed. The women remained at work eight consecutive hours; they
had their tea and black bread at their benches. The system was that of
piece work, the employees receiving twenty-five cigarettes daily above
their pay with permission to sell or exchange them.
I spoke to some of the women. They did not complain except about being
compelled to live far away from the factory. In most cases it required
more than two hours to go to and from work. They had asked to be
quartered near the Laferm and they received a promise to that effect,
but nothing more was heard of it.
Life certainly has a way of playing peculiar pranks. In America I
should have scorned the idea of social welfare work: I should have
considered it a cheap palliative. But in Socialist Russia the sight
of pregnant women working in suffocating tobacco air and saturating
themselves and their unborn with the poison impressed me as a
fundamental evil. I spoke to Lisa Zorin to see whether something
could not be done to ameliorate the evil. Lisa claimed that "piece
work" was the only way to induce the girls to work. As to rest
rooms, the women themselves had already made a fight for them, but
so far nothing could be done because no space could be spared in the
factory. "But if even such small improvements had not resulted from
the Revolution," I argued, "what purpose has it served?" "The workers
have achieved control," Lisa replied; "they are now in power, and
they have more important things to attend to than rest rooms--they
have the Revolution to defend." Lisa Zorin had remained very much the
proletarian, but she reasoned like a nun dedicated to the service of
the Church.
The thought oppressed me that what she called the "defence of the
Revolution" was really only the defence of her party in power. At any
rate, nothing came of my attempt at social welfare work.