Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn - The GULag Archipelago Volume 1 - An Experiment in Literary Investigation

It is not clear how, in such an event, things would have been arranged in the October Hall of the House of the Unions in Moscow—but here, at any rate, it was decided shamelessly to continue. The judge rebuked the defendants: How could you have given different testimony during the interrogation? Univer, very weak, replied in a barely audible voice: “As a Communist I cannot, in a public trial, describe the interrogation methods of the NKVD.” (Now there was a model for the Bukharin trial! Now that’s what keeps them together! More than anything else, they are worried that people might think ill of the Party. Their judges had long since stopped worrying about that.)

During the recess, Klyugin visited the cells of the defendants. He said to Vlasov: “You’ve heard how Smirnov and Univer played the whore, the bastards? You’ve got to admit your guilt and tell the whole truth!” “The truth and nothing but the truth,” willingly agreed Vlasov, who had not yet weakened. “The truth and nothing but the truth that you are every bit as bad as the German Fascists!” Klyugin flew into a rage: “Listen here, you whore, you’ll pay with your blood!” [254]From that moment Vlasov was pushed forward from a back seat among the defendants to a leading role in the trial—as the ideological leader of the group.

The crowd jamming the aisles grew interested whenever the court fearlessly broke into questions about bread lines—about things that touched everyone present to the quick. (And, of course, bread had been put on unrestricted sale just before the trial, and there were no bread lines that day.) A question to the accused Smirnov: “Did you know about the bread lines in the district?” “Yes, of course. They stretched from the store itself right up to the building of the District Party Committee.” “And what did you do about them?” Notwithstanding the tortures he had endured, Smirnov had preserved his resounding voice and tranquil righteousness. This broad-shouldered man with a simple face and light-brown hair answered slowly, and the whole hall heard every word he said: “Since all appeals to organizations in the provincial capital had failed, I instructed Vlasov to write a report to Comrade Stalin.” “And why didn’t you write it?” (They hadn’t yet known about it! They had certainly missed that one!) “We did write it, and I sent it by courier directly to the Central Committee, bypassing the provincial leaders. A copy was kept in the District Committee files.”

The whole courtroom held its breath. The court itself was in a commotion. They shouldn’t have continued questioning, but nonetheless someone asked: “And what happened?”

And, indeed, that question was on the lips of everyone in the courtroom: “What happened?”

Smirnov did not sob, did not groan over the death of his ideal (and that’s what was missing in the Moscow trials!). He replied loudly and calmly:

“Nothing. There was no answer”

And his tired voice seemed to say: Well, that, in fact, was just what I expected.

There was no answer. From the Father and Teacher there was no answer! The public trial had already reached its zenith! It had already shown the masses the black heart of the Cannibal! And the trial could have been called off right then and there. But, oh no, they didn’t have sense enough for that, or tact enough for that, and they kept rubbing away at the befouled spot for three more days.

The prosecutor raised a hue and cry: Double-dealing! That’s what it was. They engaged in wrecking with one hand and with the other they dared write Comrade Stalin. And they even expected a reply from him. Let the defendant Vlasov tell us how he pulled off such a nightmarish piece of wrecking that he stopped the sale of flour and the baking of rye bread in the district center.

Vlasov, the bantam rooster, didn’t have to be asked to rise—he had already jumped up, and he shouted resoundingly through the hall:

“I agree to give a full answer to the court, but on condition that you, the prosecutor, Karasik, leave the accuser’s rostrum and sit down here next to me!” It was incomprehensible. Noise, shouting. Call them to order! What was going on?

Having gotten the floor with this maneuver, Vlasov explained willingly.

“The prohibitions on selling flour and baking rye bread were instituted by a decree of the Provincial Executive Committee. One of the permanent members of its presidium is Provincial Prosecutor Karasik. If that’s wrecking, then why didn’t you veto it as prosecutor? That means you were a wrecker even before I was!”

The prosecutor choked. It was a swift, well-placed blow. The court was also at a loss. The judge mumbled.

“If necessary [?] we will try the prosecutor too. But today we are trying you.”

(Two truths: it all depends on your rank.)

“I demand that he be removed from the prosecutor’s rostrum,” insisted the indefatigable, irrepressible Vlasov.

Recess.

Now, in terms of indoctrinating the masses, just what significance could such a trial have?

But they kept on and on. After questioning the defendants they began to question the witnesses. The bookkeeper N.

“What do you know about Vlasov’s wrecking activities?”

“Nothing.”

“How can that be?”

“I was in the witnesses’ room and I didn’t hear what was said in here.”

“You don’t have to hear! Many documents passed through your hands. You couldn’t help but know.”

“The documents were all in proper order.”

“But here is a stack of district newspapers, and even there they were writing about Vlasov’s wrecking activities. And you claim you don’t know anything?”

“Well, go ask the people who wrote the articles.”

Then there was the manager of the bread store.

“Tell me, does the Soviet government have much bread?”

(Well, now! Just how could you answer that? Who was going to say: “I didn’t count it”?)

“A lot.”

“Why are there bread lines at your store?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was in charge?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Who was in charge of your store?”

“Vasily Grigoryevich.”

“What the devil! What do you mean calling him Vasily Grigoryevich? Defendant Vlasov! That means he was in charge.”

The witness fell silent.

The judge of the court dictated to the stenographer: “The answer: ‘As a consequence of the wrecking activity of Vlasov, bread lines resulted, notwithstanding the Soviet government’s enormous stocks of bread.’”

Repressing his own fears, the prosecutor delivered a long and angry speech. The defense lawyer for the most part defended only himself, emphasizing that the interests of the Motherland were as dear to him as they were to any honest citizen.

In his final words to the court, Smirnov asked for nothing and expressed no repentance for anything. Insofar as we can reconstruct it now, he was a firm person and too forthright to have lasted through 1937.

When Saburov begged that his life be spared—“not for me, but for my little children”—Vlasov, out of vexation, pulled him back by the jacket: “You’re a fool.”

Vlasov himself did not fail to take advantage of his last chance to talk back impudently.

“I consider you not a court but actors pretending to be a court in a stage farce where roles have already been written for you. You are engaged in a repulsive provocation on the part of the NKVD. You are going to sentence me to be shot no matter what I say. I believe one thing only: the time will come when you will be here in my place.” [255]

The court spent from 7 p.m. to 1 a.m. composing the verdict, and all the while the kerosene lamps were burning in the hall, and the defendants sat beneath drawn sabers, and there was a hum of conversation among the spectators who had not left.