The Workshop Of The Revolution. I. N. Steinberg 1953
On the tenth of February, 1918, Soviet Russia broke up the peace parley with Germany at Brest-Litovsk with a proud declaration that it would not sign a robber’s peace, nor would it wage war on the German people.
While the world stood in mute wonder at this startling formula-no peace, no war-Petrograd was in ferment. We all knew that the generals with whom we had discussed peace terms were backed by the German armies. If the German Government should choose to interpret our formula as a declaration of war, Petrograd stood in immediate danger. Passionately we had hoped for peace, but no less passionately had we prepared for war.
In those days of political twilight the Soviet Government sought to assemble all available forces. Within there were secret enemies on all sides; and the Government tried to discover and isolate them, for the struggling revolution had to be made secure.
One evening, after an agitated session of the Council of People’s Commissars, I was walking down the steps of the Smolny Institute. Despite the tense atmosphere, the halls of the building seemed livelier than usual; electric lights illuminated them with a soft glow; and hundreds of people hastened about with that nervous resolution characteristic of a time of stress.
The evening newspapers had just appeared and I bought a copy.
Among the more or less familiar news stories my eye caught a startling item-which I had to read twice before its meaning registered. It was a brief order of the Chairman of the Soviet in the city of Reval, capital of Estonia:
“Whereas the German Barons are open counter-revolutionaries, who will aid the German armies; and whereas a plot of these Barons has been uncovered, martial law is hereby proclaimed throughout Estonia. The entire class of the Barons, men from 17 and women from 20 years of age, are declared outside the law.”
The order was signed by the Bolshevik, Amvelt.
Now the situation in Estonia, a Baltic province of Russia at this period of history, was truly distressing. Its geographic position placed it directly in the path of the advancing German forces. And the province was in the throes of both national and civil war. The October Revolution had redistributed the land and thus antagonized the Baltic Barons-the landowning gentry of German origin who had settled in Russia’s Baltic provinces long ago, and who were harsh exploiters of the Estonian peasants.
The struggle was particularly intense in Reval, with its thoroughly revolutionary sailors and workers. Back in 1906, when the Czar dismissed the Duma, Reval sailors on board the warship Pamyat Azova had mutinied and had paid bloodily for their daring. The year 1917 found them in the front ranks of the battle-against both Kerensky and German imperialism. When superior German forces occupied the islands of the Baltic Sea on September 27, 1917, these sailors fought bravely after issuing a manifesto of rare spirit:
“Brothers, in our dying hour we raise our voices to you and depose this our last will. Our fleet is being destroyed in
unequal battle; yet not a single ship will attempt to avoid the fire. We will protect the approaches to Petrograd.
“But it is not to obey the orders of that miserable Russian Bonaparte (Kerensky), who rules by the sufferance of the revolution, that we go into battle. Neither do we fight to honor the pacts our masters had made with other governments.
“We fulfill the highest duty of our Revolutionary consciousness. As the waves of the Baltic Sea redden with the blood of our comrades, as the waters close over their bodies, we call to the oppressed of the world:
“ ‘Raise the standard of revolt! Fight for an honest peace and for Socialism!’ “
Reval was within range of German guns. Should the Germans occupy Estonia, the Baltic Barons would certainly be their guides and would wreak vengeance on the active workers and peasants of the revolution.
Psychologically, therefore, Amvelt’s order was not difficult to understand. But was it wise to issue such commands in such a moment? To outlaw every man and woman of a certain class was to license the murder of men and the violation of women. That had not been the intention of the Soviets, but the wording of the order certainly provided sufficient provocation. If anything, the phrase “outside the law” showed the Soviets’ inability to combat their enemies in an organized manner: let him who has a gun do what he will. ...
Furiously I thought of what I could do, and there was no time to lose. The order had been signed the day before. The People’s Commissars would not meet again that night. But I remembered that the Left Social-Revolutionary delegates to the Soviet Central Executive were in session at the Tauride Palace.
I glanced at my watch-it was ten o'clock and the meeting had , been scheduled for seven. It was just possible that the friends might still be at the palace. I jumped into the waiting car and twenty minutes later ran up the steps to our party’s room.
The comrades were just leaving, but I called them back from the stairway; and at the door I ran into the chairman and stopped him, too. He opened a special session at once. Everybody sat down again, surprised and disturbed. I read the order of the Reval Soviet; however, the real meaning of the words did not penetrate at once. One of our friends, the Don Cossack Shamov, even shouted that that was precisely the way to handle the Baltic Barons; he knew them from the days of 1905. . . .
So I began to discuss the implications of the order, I reminded them that once before, during the war, an entire people-the Jews-had indiscriminately been placed beyond the law and of what had happened to thousands of them. I told them that I had myself lived in the Baltic provinces and well knew the feudal character of the Barons. But I insisted that we must not transfer to our civil war all the cruel principles of national wars; that even from the viewpoint of expediency the order was criminal -the German Army would certainly not delay operations just because the Barons were being held as hostages, but it might later take out its fury on the working people.
The comrades agreed and condemned the order in a brief resolution, limiting ourselves, that moment, to a resolution only because we felt the need for a comprehensive explanation of our attitude to the people before taking extraordinary steps. The people must not misunderstand our attitude toward its open enemies. It was decided to turn to the Soviet Central Executive with a request to rescind the order; three men were chosen to leave for Reval to study the situation on the spot. The meeting was closed. But I did not think this was enough, I went at once to the offices of our party newspaper Znamya Truda to write an article for next morning’s issue, that of January 31, 1918. Although it was late and an edition was almost ready for the presses, the editor took out several news items to make room for the article entitled, “This Cannot Be.”
“We all know,” I wrote, “that the Russian Revolution and the working people have no more bitter or cunning enemies than the Baltic Barons. The Revolution cannot be secure until the poisonous plant of Baronial feudalism is pulled up by the roots.
“But dare the Revolution defend itself against its enemies in such manner? The Reval comrades have discovered a plot against the Soviet Government? Very well, but whom have they declared outside the law? The guilty, the apprehended conspirators, or suspects? No: they have outlawed the entire Baronial class, all its men and women. That means that all persons who have had the misfortune of being born into that group are to lose all human protection and become targets for lynch justice.
“The Social Revolution, borne by the people in full view of all nations, can storm the world only with its moral integrity. Each of us, in all matters, is morally responsible for its honor. . . .
“This order is a sign of weakness. Is it possible that the Reval comrades, who have always carried the banner of the Revolution with such distinction, are now losing their faith? Is it possible that just now, after our proud Declaration at Brest-Litovsk on the tenth of February-with Reval standing at the dividing line between two worlds-they should doubt their own strength?
“Therefore I simply cannot believe that such an order could have been issued in Reval.”
These were not demagogic phrases. In those days we really lived in a world of exalted ideas. Frequently, when men strayed or wavered, it sufficed to remind them of their ideals and they would swing back to their previous heights.
While in the newspaper office, I asked for a long-distance connection with the Reval Soviet on our direct wire. The call was ready when I got to the telegraph office at one o'clock in the morning. I entered the inner offices where silent men sat over ticker tapes pulling word threads from them. Private persons were not permitted into these rooms where the electric nerves of the country converged. In Reval, Fruntoff, a member of the Soviet Presidium, picked up the receiver. The following conversation took place. (The next morning we published it in full so as to force the Bolsheviks’ hands. The tone of the conversation throws light on official relations in those days.)
I: “We have just learned that you have placed the entire class of the Barons outside the law without turning guilty individuals over to the Revolutionary Tribunal. Is that correct? If so, what is the reason?”
Fruntoff: “Yes, it is true. We have proof against some of the Barons.”
I: “We must draw your attention to the fact that placing a man outside the law is a severe penalty used so far only against individuals found guilty of concrete acts of treason against the revolution. But you, comrades, remove from the protection of the law hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of people whose only crime is to have been born into a certain class. This can lead to criminal outrages against men and women. We think that, if a conspiracy has been uncovered, a Revolutionary Tribunal should be convened at once to punish the guilty. We have long grown accustomed to respect the revolutionary ardor of the Reval comrades and do not doubt that this time also we will find ourselves in agreement.”
Fruntoff: “Very well. We shall take special measures to investigate the charges. So far there has not been a single case of lynching. But we shall discuss your representations and take the necessary steps.”
I: “Your answer, comrade, reassures us a little. Please wire me your decision.”
Fruntoff: “All right."
The reader need not be surprised at the leisurely tone of the conversation. There were two reasons for it. First, the People’s Commissars had no intention of dominating the local Soviets- we tried to get along with these local governments in the friendliest fashion, rather than to give orders. Second, I was dealing this time with a Bolshevik official who was probably aware of the difference between our, the Left Social-Revolutionary, group and the Bolsheviks on the issue of repressions. This early morning conversation served the additional purpose of informing the comrades of the other party that we kept close watch over their activities.
Next morning, when they read in the papers the account of our doings, the Bolsheviks expressed indignation. They were apparently doubly angry-because we were interfering with “revolutionary initiative” in the provinces, and because we were meddling in the tactics of their party. But that day our comrades presented an interpellation on the subject at the Soviet Central Executive Committee. The Bolsheviks did their best to minimize the matter and show that I had given too serious an interpretation of the phrase “outside the law.” Under no circumstances would they invalidate the order, which they called an expression of revolutionary ardor in the rank and file.
I cannot remember now the decision taken that day. But we were satisfied that the initial force of the order had spent itself and that it would no longer have dangerous consequences. Besides, we were busy with other problems. Events were running mad. The German Army had opened its offensive, and the Barons were forgotten.
A few days later I was startled by the appearance in my office at the Commissariat of Justice of two elderly men-very tall, very aristocratic and of earnest mien. I asked them to sit down, but they remained standing and one of them addressed me. In his hands he held a large volume embossed in silver.
“Permit us to introduce ourselves,” he began. “I am Baron Mayendorf and the gentleman here is Baron Schilling. We have come to express to you the thanks of the German colony in Petrograd for coming to our aid so courageously.”
I opened my eyes in utter surprise and waited. The scene was taking on a ceremonial character. We all stood. Baron Mayendorf spoke excellent Russian (had he not been Vice-President of the Duma under the Czar?) and he continued:
“We beg you to accept a token of our thanks in the form of an address from the German colony-an expression of gratitude for protecting the rights of the Baltic Barons. . . .”
This was too much. I raised my hand in refusal and replied quickly, “But, citizens, I don’t understand your gratitude. We defended the Baltic Barons not because they are Germans but because they are men. If you read my article you know that we consider them our bitterest enemies.” “Yes, yes,” Baron Mayendorf interrupted, “we are well aware of that but we appreciate your action. We also appreciate another thing: no Russian Government has, since the war, paid any attention to us although we have been loyal sons of Russia. We were not respected either under the Czars, or any of the provisional governments of the revolution. This is the first time that we've heard a humane voice.”
“Perhaps so.” I tried to rescue myself from his praises. “But our attitude in this matter is dictated by entirely different considerations. . . .”
“Of course, we understand. But we want to have our appreciation recorded in the annals of Russia. We urge you to accept our testimonial.”
And he placed the volume on my desk. What was I to do? I turned to my secretary and asked him to file it with the other documents of the Commissariat. Another moment of solemn silence and the two monumental German figures bowed stiffly and departed.
What a pity I never had the time to read the testimonial.
Shortly thereafter, in February, 1918, with the Germans already on the march, the Soviet Government ordered the Baltic Barons exiled to Siberia. Railway cars packed with aristocrats and their families arrived in Petrograd en route. Mayendorf came to see me again to appeal for help and protection. He was afraid that the train guards were insufficient and that they might join mobs on the long way to Siberia and attack the Barons.
Perhaps exiling these people to a remote and unaffected region of the country was a wise step at that time. However, I saw in the indifference and contempt with which they were being treated a continuation of the Bolshevik tactics in Reval. I certainly did not wish to see their lives endangered, and therefore sent along the best guard available: a group of Left Social- Revolutionary workers. They had been training to fight against German imperialism, yet now they were prepared to defend the lives of their class enemies. Baron Mayendorf was satisfied. Apparently he had come to trust the Left Social-Revolutionaries.
But was he not being unfair to the Bolsheviks?
The days passed. I went to attend a session of the Council of Commissars and stood for a moment looking at some papers on Lenin’s desk. A long roll of telegraph tape lay there and as I unrolled it absently I suddenly caught a dialogue that brought tears of laughter to my eyes.
It was a conversation between Lenin and Amvelt in Reval, discussing my tampering with “their” affairs. Lenin gave Amvelt the following advice: he was not to rescind the order which had placed the Barons outside the law, but was to take every possible precaution to prevent any harm to the aristocrats. The reason? Negotiations with Germany had just been resumed and it was hardly advisable to arouse her anger.
Thus Lenin was pleasing both sides. To his comrades he offered revolutionary ardor and daring: the order was not to be withdrawn as the Left Social-Revolutionaries had demanded. And for the clique of the German imperialists, he had provided himself with an escape clause: he had given orders that not a baronial hair was to be touched.
Demagoguery and Realpolitik were once again bedfellows.
And when one of the Bolsheviks at a later meeting teased us for “love of the Barons,” I told him about the telegraphic conversation I had read. Lenin was within hearing. A shadow crossed his face. But he controlled it at once. His features quickly assumed their customary expression of sly calm.
The negotiations in Brest-Litovsk continued, and were drawing to a close (at the beginning of March, 1918). One of the
German demands was the immediate safe repatriation of the Baltic Barons to Estonia. It was worth watching the dispatch and zeal with which Lenin arranged for the exact fulfillment of this condition.
This time no Left Social-Revolutionary guard was needed. Latvian Bolshevik Red Guards respectfully escorted the Barons through Russia. We, who were opposed to the Bolshevik kowtowing to the German armies, did not believe it was necessary to go to these extraordinary lengths to protect the aristocrats, although we considered it our revolutionary duty to preserve their lives. It was humiliating, we believed, to the revolution to see the Barons almost exalted thus for political ends. But Lenin watched over them as he might over his own children. He kept in constant telegraphic touch with the progress of their journey at every important railroad station.
Were the Barons not mistaken in presenting me with the silver testimonial?