THE TRADE UNIONS
It was the month of June and the time of our departure was approaching.
Petrograd seemed more beautiful than ever; the white nights had
come--almost broad daylight without its glare, the mysterious soothing
white nights of Petrograd. There were rumours of counter-revolutionary
danger and the city was guarded against attack. Martial law prevailing,
it was forbidden to be out on the streets after 1 A. M.,
even though it was almost daylight. Occasionally special permits
were obtained by friends and then we would walk through the deserted
streets or along the banks of the dark Neva, discussing in whispers
the perplexing situation. I sought for some outstanding feature in
the blurred picture--the Russian Revolution, a huge flame shooting
across the world illuminating the black horizon of the disinherited and
oppressed--the Revolution, the new hope, the great spiritual awakening.
And here I was in the midst of it, yet nowhere could I see the promise
and fulfilment of the great event. Had I misunderstood the meaning and
nature of revolution? Perhaps the wrong and the evil I have seen during
those five months were inseparable from a revolution. Or was it the
political machine which the Bolsheviki have created--is that the force
which is crushing the Revolution? If I had witnessed the birth of the
latter I should now be better able to judge. But apparently I arrived
at the end--the agonizing end of a people. It is all so complex, so
impenetrable, a _tupik_, a blind alley, as the Russians call it. Only
time and earnest study, aided by sympathetic understanding, will show
me the way out. Meanwhile, I must keep up my courage and--away from
Petrograd, out among the people.
Presently the long-awaited moment arrived. On June 30, 1920, our car
was coupled to a slow train called "Maxim Gorki," and we pulled out of
the Nikolayevski station, bound for Moscow.
In Moscow there were many formalities to go through with. We thought
a few days would suffice, but we remained two weeks. However, our
stay was interesting. The city was alive with delegates to the Second
Congress of the Third International; from all parts of the world the
workers had sent their comrades to the promised land, revolutionary
Russia, the first republic of the workers. Among the delegates there
were also Anarchists and syndicalists who believed as firmly as I
did six months previously that the Bolsheviki were the symbol of the
Revolution. They had responded to the Moscow call with enthusiasm.
Some of them I had met in Petrograd and now they were eager to hear
of my experiences and learn my opinions. But what was I to tell
them, and would they believe me if I did? Would I have believed any
adverse criticism before I came to Russia? Besides, I felt that my
views regarding the Bolsheviki were still too unformed, too vague, a
conglomeration of mere impressions. My old values had been shattered
and so far I have been unable to replace them. I could therefore not
speak on the fundamental questions, but I did inform my friends that
the Moscow and Petrograd prisons were crowded with Anarchists and other
revolutionists, and I advised them not to content themselves with the
official explanations but to investigate for themselves. I warned them
that they would be surrounded by guides and interpreters, most of them
men of the Tcheka, and that they would not be able to learn the facts
unless they made a determined, independent effort.
There was considerable excitement in Moscow at the time. The Printers'
Union had been suppressed and its entire managing board sent to prison.
The Union had called a public meeting to which members of the British
Labour Mission were invited. There the famous Socialist Revolutionist
Tchernov had unexpectedly made his appearance. He severely criticised
the Bolshevik régime, received an ovation from the huge audience
of workers, and then vanished as mysteriously as he had come. The
Menshevik Dan was less successful. He also addressed the meeting, but
he failed to make his escape: he landed in the Tcheka. The next morning
the Moscow _Pravda_ and the _Izvestia_ denounced the action of the
Printers' Union as counter-revolutionary, and raged about Tchernov
having been permitted to speak. The papers called for exemplary
punishment of the printers who dared defy the Soviet Government.
The Bakers' Union, a very militant organization, had also been
suppressed, and its management replaced by Communists. Several months
before, in March, I had attended a convention of the bakers. The
delegates impressed me as a courageous group who did not fear to
criticise the Bolshevik régime and present the demands of the workers.
I wondered then that they were permitted to continue the conference,
for they were outspoken in their opposition to the Communists. "The
bakers are 'Shkurniki' [skinners]," I was told; "they always instigate
strikes, and only counter-revolutionists can wish to strike in the
workers' Republic." But it seemed to me that the workers could not
follow such reasoning. They did strike. They even committed a more
heinous crime: they refused to vote for the Communist candidate,
electing instead a man of their own choice. This action of the bakers
was followed by the arrest of several of their more active members.
Naturally the workers resented the arbitrary methods of the Government.
Later I met some of the bakers and found them much embittered against
the Communist Party and the Government. I inquired about the condition
of their union, telling them that I had been informed that the Russian
unions were very powerful and had practical control of the industrial
life of the country. The bakers laughed. "The trade unions are the
lackeys of the Government," they said; "they have no independent
function, and the workers have no say in them. The trade unions are
doing mere police duty for the Government." That sounded quite
different from the story told by Melnichansky, the chairman of the
Moscow Trade Union Soviet, whom I had met on my first visit to Moscow.
On that occasion he had shown me about the trade union headquarters
known as the _Dom Soyusov_, and explained how the organization worked.
Seven million workers were in the trade unions, he said; all trades
and professions belonged to it. The workers themselves managed the
industries and owned them. "The building you are in now is also owned
by the unions," he remarked with pride; "formerly it was the House of
the Nobility." The room we were in had been used for festive assemblies
and the great nobles sat in crested chairs around the table in the
centre. Melnichansky showed me the secret underground passage hidden
by a little turntable, through which the nobles could escape in case
of danger. They never dreamed that the workers would some day gather
around the same table and sit in the beautiful hall of marble columns.
The educational and cultural work done by the trade unions, the
chairman further explained, was of the greatest scope. "We have our
workers' colleges and other cultural institutions giving courses and
lectures on various subjects. They are all managed by the workers. The
unions own their own means of recreation, and we have access to all the
theatres." It was apparent from his explanation that the trade unions
of Russia had reached a point far beyond anything known by labour
organizations in Europe and America.
A similar account I had heard from Tsiperovitch, the chairman of the
Petrograd trade unions, with whom I had made my first trip to Moscow.
He had also shown me about the Petrograd Labour Temple, a beautiful and
spacious building where the Petrograd unions had their offices. His
recital also made it clear that the workers of Russia had at last come
into their own.
But gradually I began to see the other side of the medal. I found that
like most things in Russia the trade union picture had a double facet:
one paraded before foreign visitors and "investigators," the other
known by the masses. The bakers and the printers had recently been
shown the other side. It was a lesson of the benefits that accrued to
the trade unions in the Socialist Republic.
In March I had attended an election meeting arranged by the workers
of one of the large Moscow factories. It was the most exciting
gathering I had witnessed in Russia--the dimly lit hall in the factory
club rooms, the faces of the men and women worn with privation and
suffering, the intense feeling over the wrong done them, all impressed
me very strongly. Their chosen representative, an Anarchist, had been
refused his mandate by the Soviet authorities. It was the third time
the workers gathered to re-elect their delegate to the Moscow Soviet,
and every time they elected the same man. The Communist candidate
opposing him was Semashko, the Commissar of the Department of Health.
I had expected to find an educated and cultured man. But the behaviour
and language of the Commissar at that election meeting would have put
a hod-carrier to shame. He raved against the workers for choosing a
non-Communist, called anathema upon their heads, and threatened them
with the Tcheka and the curtailment of their rations. But he had no
effect upon the audience except to emphasize their opposition to him,
and to arouse antagonism against the party he represented. The final
victory, however, was with Semashko. The workers' choice was repudiated
by the authorities and later even arrested and imprisoned. That was
in March. In May, during the visit of the British Labour Mission, the
factory candidate together with other political prisoners declared a
hunger strike, which resulted in their liberation.
The story told me by the bakers of their election experiences had the
quality of our own Wild West during its pioneer days. Tchekists with
loaded guns were in the habit of attending gatherings of the unions
and they made it clear what would happen if the workers should fail to
elect a Communist. But the bakers, a strong and militant organization,
would not be intimidated. They declared that no bread would be baked
in Moscow unless they were permitted to elect their own candidate.
That had the desired effect. After the meeting the Tchekists tried to
arrest the candidate-elect, but the bakers surrounded him and saw him
safely home. The next day they sent their ultimatum to the authorities,
demanding recognition of their choice and threatening to strike in
case of refusal. Thus the bakers triumphed and gained an advantage
over their less courageous brothers in the other labour organizations
of minor importance. In starving Russia the work of the bakers was as
vital as life itself.