Harry Kellogg III: The Red Tide: Stalin Strikes First

I was admitted in the first batch in my school.

The whole effect was magical to me and I joined whole-heartedly in all the activities and tried to excel in all of them. My mother became concerned about me, and my grandfather always spoke in disparaging terms about the Young Pioneers. He had a particular sneering way of saying it that made me cringe inside. I still loved him and never confronted him as it would have done me no good. I just stayed quiet and then snuck out of the house as soon as I could to attend whatever function was going on that the Pioneer Palace at the time.

One of the most famous stories of Young Pioneers that was told as I was growing up was the tale of the “Death of a Pioneer Girl,” who on her death-bed, refused to make the sign of the cross, and instead raised her frail, trembling hand in the Pioneer Salute. The right storyteller could have even the most stoic of us choking back tears. Defiant child heroes were always the heroes of the tales told around the campfires at the Young Pioneers Camps held throughout Russia every summer.

When I was eleven years old things changed radically on a national level, as far as I was concerned. All of a sudden collectivism was frowned upon and individualism came to the fore once again. I believe that we were the first group of Young Pioneers to have this lurching turn of priorities foisted upon us. One day we were extolling the virtues of group effort, and the next, we are hearing lectures about how we have to be obedient and be grateful to our parents. Along with this switch to individualism came discipline. We were now individually held responsible for our actions, choices and, most interesting of all to me, our talents. Homework was done individually and not in our study groups and we were singled out by being graded… on individual effort. New awards for Shock Workers, and Shock Students, became the prize to strive for.

All of this was dizzying to a young mind but we were able to adapt to the changing whims of the adults. My natural talents come to the fore and I was grateful not to be held back by the dolts of our former study groups and clubs. So much so, that in 1933-34 I tried out for and progressed in the Competition for Young Talents, which were held all over the Soviet Union. Over forty-three thousands of us made it to Leningrad and Moscow and were ushered around and treated like kings for our talents. Mine was poetry. Even though I did not make it to the finals, I did attend a gala where Stalin himself was the honored guest.

Thousands of us were honored and taken on tours throughout the USSR where we would perform in whatever venue the particular city, or town, had to offer. Most of the time we performed to extremely large crowds with very enthusiastic receptions. I did keep a scrap book of my travels but it was destroyed somewhere in 1943 in one of my family’s many moves. As a child I have no idea why society made such an abrupt switch to the accomplishments of the individual over that of the collective during this time period, but that’s just the way it was.

Happiness became something you had to earn, by being a good child, a good student, and a good Pioneer and only then, could you enjoy the swing set… but not a moment before. You worked hard and then you could play. In 1935 a new and fascinating thing happened called the “New Year’s Tree.” From what I understand, it replaced the now-banned Christmas tree. Being eleven at the time I was still child enough to not care. All I knew was that everyone was once again happy in the darkness of winter and that meant everything to me at the time.

Then the film ‘Circus’ came to the theatre up the street. It starred Lyubov Orlova playing an American woman named Marion Dixon. The film opens with the following headline from the Sunnyville Courier, “Marion Dixon, Human Bombshell, Center of Sensational Scandal,” with a large photo, captioned, “Marion Dixon, Perpetrator of History’s Most Sinister Crime!”

The next scene opens, with a tiny woman running from an angry crowd, which is bent on harming her, and clutching a small bundle, close to her body. She manages to reach a moving train, and somehow climbs on board, as the crowd still chasing her gives up and she makes it out of town before being harmed. The bundle starts to cry and the baby in the bundle is obviously half-black, hence the American crowd’s fury. A man from Germany helps her onto the train as she faints.

The woman is Marion Dixon, an American circus artist who after giving birth to a black baby immediately becomes a victim of rampant institutionalized racism in the United States. The German on the train turns out to be a theatrical agent who recruits her to his concert program across the Soviet Union.

Marion leaves the United States to go on a circus tour across the USSR. At first, Marion is homesick but meets a Russian man and falls in love. With her new Russian husband, she finds love and happiness in the Russian circus and her son is treated with loving kindness by all. One of the more touching scenes is when people from all parts of the Soviet Union sing versions of their ethnic lullabies to the little boy.

I immediately fell in love with Lyuba. So much so, that she was responsible for my sexual awakening. Shortly after seeing the film I exploded all over my bed clothes while having a dream about kissing and touching Lyuba. It was a mess, and I had no idea what it was until my grandfather thankfully, told me what my body was telling me. He has just the right way of putting things and my mission in life was now clear. It was to explode into as many pretty women as I could find. I’m sure that was not what he meant but that is what I thought I was supposed to do and it got me into some trouble along the way… and caused me to experience some truly interesting times, as well.

Along with all of this individual reward also came responsibility. The age for which a child could be charged with a major crime was dropped to twelve years old and there were consequences for inferior grades as well. Parents once again regained control over their children but also became vilified, if they failed. All very head-turning events which made me glad I had never confronted my grandfather.

Then like magic pictures of Stalin holding and protecting children started appearing all over the schools and the Pioneer Palaces, and above doors of every schoolhouse and there appeared the phrase “Thank You, Comrade Stalin, For A Happy Childhood!” which became instantly ubiquitous. Children were left in no doubt that they had to earn the protection of Stalin, but that it would be absolute if they were worthy.

Foreigners were used to frighten children and stories of evil spies trying to harm your family and the Motherland started to become normal. Some of my poems were censored before they were published, much to my dismay. Fear started to become an everyday part of life along with poison-gas drills held at regular intervals. I, of course, was an instructor in the use of gas masks and was much in demand as a teacher.

Once again a shift in responsibilities with the parents, teachers, and leaders were blamed when a particular child misbehaved. That’s how many a spanking and beating was avoided by some of my more errant friends. Their parents were blamed for their misdeeds and their teachers were blamed for their woeful grades. It was an interesting twist to watch as an eleven year-old boy of high spirits. It worked in my family as I loved my mother and grandparents, and would do nothing to bring shame upon their heads. But for others, things were different. Eventually the parents caught up with the misdeeds of their children, and matters were rectified in time-honored ways.