Marvin Kalb - The Year I Was Peter the Great - 1956 - Khrushchev, Stalin's Ghost, and a Young American in Russia

If truth was not to be found in Pravda , then how would Russians learn the truth about what was happening in Poland, Hungary, and other hot spots in Russia’s Eastern European empire? It would be very hard indeed. They could still read Soviet newspapers and try to translate the gobbledygook of Russian reporting from Warsaw and Budapest into something resembling reality. They could listen to Moscow Radio. They could keep their ears cocked, with sensitivity born of experience, to rumor and gossip, which was a full-time industry in Soviet Russia. And Russians with shortwave radios (and there were many) could listen to real news reporting from the BBC and the Voice of America, often late at night, after most of their neighbors had gone to bed.

It was not true that Russians had no information about the bloody riots in Poznan in June or the even bloodier revolt in Budapest and its brutal suppression in early November. They had limited information, much of it distorted, but they still felt shortchanged—they wanted much more, believing after the 20th Party Congress and the Khrushchev de-Stalinization shock that it was time for them to be told the truth after so many years of lies.

I had stumbled upon smatterings of this craving for truth during my many visits to libraries. One evening, in the main reading room of the Lenin Library, I found myself jammed into a rear corner by dozens, maybe hundreds, of Russians, who had come to hear a lecture titled “International Affairs” given by a young, nervous, paper-thin communist official wearing a black suit, with two medals pinned to the lapel of his jacket. The reading room, serving as a lecture hall, was located between the cloakroom and the manuscript room, where I would normally do my research. But on this evening I could not work my way through the crowd, nor did I really try; I let myself be squashed into a corner so that I could unobtrusively hear how the party informed young people about the big news of the day.

The lecturer, who seemed to have a nervous twitch in his right cheek, spoke for the better part of an hour, assiduously reading from his notes and hitting a single theme: that the Soviet Union would maintain a firm policy of peace and cooperation with all countries, regardless of their social or political systems. “Just today,” he said, “the glorious Communist Party and Soviet Government expressed their unwavering devotion to the Bandung Conference [of neutralist nations] and the spirit of Bandung in a talk with Mohammed Daud, prime minister of Afghanistan.” He continued in this vein, using the standard terminology of the Soviet press. Whenever he used a phrase such as “the glorious, mighty, genius-like Soviet people, who are building communism,” everyone around me, without exception, either made sarcastic comments or continued to read their books, magazines, or newspapers.

Toward the end of his talk, the speaker reached for Socratic eloquence to make his pointless points. “Who,” he asked, “consistently struggles for peace?” He answered his own question: “The mighty, genius-like Communist Party and Soviet Government, inspired by the great decisions of the 20th Congress of the Communist Party and its Leninist Central Committee.” His audience fidgeted, yawned rudely, scratched imaginary bug bites, or restlessly shuffled from one foot to the other.

The lecturer then requested that if anyone had a question, it should be submitted on a small sheet of paper. Notepads had been left in convenient places around the lecture hall for this purpose. The lecturer now riffled through the questions. “They all concern one question—about Poland and Hungary,” he announced, obviously disappointed. “Comrades, would it not be better if we discussed the meaning of the 20th Party Congress, or the denunciation of the personality cult, or the decisions of the July plenum of the Central Committee?” He was urging a safer plateau for discussion.

“No,” everyone shouted.

“We want to know about Hungary and Poland,” one young student said. “Tell us the truth about what’s happening there.”

The lecturer, twitching still more, responded, “Comrades, the Soviet press has reported the full facts about the recent events in both countries.”

Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, “No, no, we have all read the Soviet press. What we want now are the facts, the truth.” Near me a student whispered to a friend, “He’s on the spot now. I don’t envy him. He had better answer.”

The lecturer looked down at his notes helplessly, but they provided him with only one answer. “I truly believe, comrades, that we must turn to the 20th Party Congress for answers. There lies the truth.”

A student standing near the front of the lecture hall walked toward the lecturer and fearlessly proclaimed, “We are all literate. We read the papers. We know the official line. Now we want to know the truth. We want facts. We want to know what is happening there. Don’t repeat for us what is in the press. Tell us what is going on there.”

Almost as one, the students burst into applause, shouting, “Truth, truth, we want the truth.” The lecturer looked desperate. He had clearly lost control of the meeting. He appealed for order, but the students ignored him. They kept shouting, “Truth, truth.” Then, over the roaring crowd, the lecturer screamed a question, “Would any comrade here suggest that the Soviet press does not print the truth, that there is a truth outside the statements of the press?” His question was remarkably naive—no student any longer believed anything in the Soviet press. If in earlier years they might have believed some things in the press, now, after the 20th Party Congress, they no longer believed anything.

Another student seized a microphone and bellowed in a loud voice, “We asked for the truth. We did not ask for a recitation from the press. We all read. Give us the truth now.”

The lecturer, in an unexpected burst of candor, seemed forced to admit, “I am here to give you the official line on these matters. Please hear me out.”

Several of the students thought this was a reasonable request. “Let him speak,” they said. “Let him speak.”

Lecturer: “What are your specific questions? I’ll try to answer them.”

Student: “Where was Gomulka for the last five years?” Gomulka, released from prison only a few days before, had just been appointed head of the Polish Communist Party and had pledged to carry out a broad program of national reform, music to the ears of young reformers in Moscow.

Lecturer: “Comrade Gomulka committed many errors. Five years ago, he favored the kulaks [wealthy peasants]. He did not support the correct line of the party.”

His answer was drowned out in a chorus of boos.

Student: “Does the Sejm [parliament] rule Poland, or does the party rule Poland?”

Lecturer: “The party rules, because it is the expression of the will of the people.”

More boos, jeers, shouts.

Listening to this extraordinary outburst of anti-Soviet sentiment, I realized the scope of the changes in recent months. Prior to the 20th Party Congress, such demonstrations of disrespect for a Communist Party official would have been unimaginable. The students might have been expelled from school, sent off to the virgin lands, even arrested. But no longer. It seemed I was witnessing episodes in the disintegration of a dictatorship, though at the time I tried to steer clear of such large pronouncements. I felt more comfortable noting what I saw and heard.

A student then rose, turned his back on the lecturer, and in apparent disgust exclaimed, “I’ve wasted enough time tonight. I came here for answers, and as usual I’m not getting them. I’m leaving.” He made his way through the crowd to the back door, and as though on cue almost everyone else followed him. In two minutes the lecture hall was empty. The lecturer was alone, holding in his hand the fifty small pieces of paper, each with a question about Hungary and Poland.