Oswald's Tale (99 page)

Most Shock Workers are men of the older age groups, 40–50, and not always members of the Communist Party. They carry the production load and most of the responsibility of the inner life of the Kollective.

The remaining 41 workers are divided into about half 18–22 year olds, new metalworkers, trying to fulfill their obligatory two years at a factory before going on to full-time day studies at the local University or one of the specialized Institutes, and half [are] older workers who have been working at the plant for 4 to 6 years and occupy the middle number worker levels, 3 and 4; these workers are aged about 24–30 and form the mass of laborers at the factory. Seventy percent have families. Apartments are few. Most occupy rooms belonging to relatives or rooms to let by holders of two- and three-room apartments, often for rents as high as 20 rubles a month. The housing shortage is so critical that people count themselves lucky even to find a person willing to let his room. Room renting is also the most common form of speculation in the USSR. Often it reaches heights out of all proportion with reality, such as the man who derived 80 rubles a month from letting his rooms in the summer while he himself was living in a summer house or
dacha
in the country. Such speculation is forbidden and carries penalties including deportation to other economic areas of the USSR for terms of up to six months . . .

All plants and factories in the Soviet Union have Party Committees, headed by one graduate of a higher Party school whose function is to control discipline of members of the Communist Party, and who, working in conjunction with the Directors of the factory, control all factors pertaining to the work, alterations, and production of any given line. It must be noted that officially the Party man occupies a position exactly equal to the head of any factory. However, the facts point out that the Party man has, due to the fact that Communists hold the leading positions in plants, considerably more sway over the activities of the workers than anyone else. No suggestion of the Party man is ever turned down by the directors of our factory. That would be tantamount to treason. The Party man is appointed by the Headquarters of the Central Committee of the Communist Party. He designates who shall be Shop and Section Party Secretaries, a post well-coveted by employed Communists. These Communists, in reality, control every move of the Kollectives. They are responsible for the carrying out of directives pertaining to meetings, lectures, and Party activities in the local cells.

These meetings of
sabranias
are almost always held at the lunch hour or after working hours [and] meetings last anywhere from 10 minutes to two hours . . . An amazing thing in watching these political lectures is that there is taken on by the listeners a most phenomenal aspect, one impervious to outside interference or sounds. After long years of hard-fisted discipline, no worker will permit himself to be trapped and called out for inattentiveness by the ever-present and watchful Party Secretary and members of the Communist Party . . . At these times, it is best to curb one’s naturally boisterous and lively nature. Under the 6′ by 6″ picture of Lenin, the Party Section Secretary stands, in our Section, a middle-aged pocked man by the name of Sobakin, an average-looking man wearing glasses. His wrinkled face and twinkling eyes give one the impression that at any moment he’s going to tell a racy story or funny joke, but he never does. Behind this man stands twenty-five years of Party life. His high post, relatively speaking for him, is witness to his efficiency. He stands expounding from notes in front of him the week’s “Information” with all the lack of enthusiasm and gusto of someone who knows that he has no worries about his audience or about someone getting up and going away.

In the same way, May Day and other “demonstrations” are arranged as well as spontaneous receptions for distinguished guests. I remember when I was in Moscow in 1959 I was just passing in front of the Metropole Restaurant when out of the side streets came a ten-man police unit which stopped all people on the street from passing in front of the entrance, surrounding the crowd and keeping them hemmed in (not detouring the flow of traffic, as would be expected) for three minutes until, right on schedule, an obviously distinguished foreign lady was driven up to the restaurant, where a meeting in her honor had been arranged. She was taken through the “spontaneous” welcoming crowd, after which the police were withdrawn, allowing the passers-by to continue.

Another instance of this was in 1961 when a Chinese delegation arrived in Minsk and was driven from the railway station to a house on the outskirts of the city. Even though it was 10:30 at night, all along the way members of the MVD (security) forces ran into apartment buildings and student dormitories ordering people out onto the street to welcome the arriving guests.

Although there was no prior notice of any delegation, another “spontaneous” welcoming committee met the cavalcade of black limousines and dutifully waved back to the darkened cars with their slightly protruding yellowish waving hands . . .

At the Minsk radio factory, holiday demonstrations (there are two a year, May Day and Revolution Day) are arranged in the following manner: Directives are passed down the Communist Party line until they reach the factory, shop, and mill Kollectives. Here they are implemented by the Communist Party Secretary, who issues instructions as to what time the demonstrators are to arrive. At the arrival point, names are taken well in advance of the march so that latecomers and absentees may be duly noted. Neither one is allowed. At the assembly point, signs, drums and flags are distributed and marchers formed in ranks. In the city of Minsk on such days, all roads are closed by driving trucks across them, except the prescribed route [of march]. This, as well as meticulous attention to attendance, ensures a 90% turnout of the entire population. Stragglers or late risers walking through the streets may be yanked into the steady stream of workers by the police or volunteer red-armbanded “people’s militia.” Anyone who argues may be subjected to close investigation later on—one thing to be avoided in any police state . . .

People have been known to do odd, even unlawful, things to get a little higher on the housing waiting list, such as faking the ownership of a baby or two to get special rating. The opening of [new] apartment houses is always done with a great deal of gusto and preparation. Indeed, for the lucky ones receiving their orders on rooms and flats, it is a big moment, a moment culminating years of waiting and often years of manipulation. The lucky few get the word to move out of their old quarters, usually one room in an oblong building built after the war which are mostly to be later torn down. As soon as a newly built [apartment] house is ready . . . it is opened—even though there may not be light fixtures or toilet seats just yet. What does that matter?! In 1960 there were 2,978,000 living places built in the USSR; in the USA 1,300,000, including Alaska and Hawaii . . .

The reconstruction of Minsk is an interesting story reflecting the courage of its builders. In a totalitarian system, great forces can be brought into play under rigid controls and support . . . The architectural planning may be anything but modern, but it is in the manner of almost all Russian cities.

With the airport serving as its eastern boundary, we find a large, spread-out township in appearance, one city only. The skyline pierced with factory booms and chimneys betrays its industrial background; I say “in appearance” because the tallest building here is the nine-story black apparatus house flanking the main street, Prospekt Stalinskaya, which is over two miles long and the only such boulevard in the Republic [of Byelorussia]. All other streets are narrow rock-laid streets, curving through the city like rivers of stone branching off the main street, ending at the other end in extensive parks. The design and content of this prospekt is very reflective of the sites of this city. From north to south, this straight-as-an-arrow vein of the city includes in the first two miles the central district of the city, the Hotel Minsk, and the Main Post Office. The hotel was built in 1957 on the direct orders of Khrushchev, who was grieved at the fact that only one old, dilapidated hotel existed at that time when he paid an official visit to this, the capital of Byelorussia. The hotel was built in three months, a record for the entire Soviet Union, and has over 500 rooms. A modern, well-built, well-serviced hotel, box-shaped, it serves many tourists traveling from Germany and Poland through Minsk to Moscow.

The Post Office handles all mail coming in and out of the city. Built in 1955, it has four columns at its entrance in the Greek style.

Next down the prospekt are a clothing store and children’s store. The central movie house, the best one in Minsk, seats 400 people in a small unventilated hall. Next to it stands a shoe store, across from it the central beauty shop, the main drug store, and
orspranon
(Russian food store) and furniture store. Next is the Ministry of Internal Affairs, whose head is a tough military colonel, Nikoley Aksionov of the “people’s militia.” He holds the title Minister of Internal Affairs. Around the corner is his subsidiary, the KGB, Committee for Internal Security (Intelligence and Secret Police). Across from the Ministry is the ever-crowded Prospekt Book Shop, and across from this is the even more crowded restaurant, one of five in the city where for two rubles, a person can buy fried tongue or plates of chicken with potatoes and fried cabbage, instead of just
kotlets
(bread and ground meat patties) or
schnitzel
(with a little more meat and less bread) and beef steak (pure ground beef patties) served with potatoes and cabbage and sometimes macaroni. These are always served at workers’ dining rooms and stand-up cafés for they open at night. And sometimes sweet rolls, coffee, fall fruits, salads and tomatoes can also be bought. Down from this café called “Springtime” is the bakery shop. Here for 13 kopecks a person can buy unwrapped bread (white), for 7 kopecks, sweet rolls of different kinds, and for 20 kopecks black bread. (The black bread loaf is twice as large as the white, therefore cheaper per kilogram and more in demand. Also, black bread remains fresh for an exceptionally long time due to the hard crust.)

Across from this bakery shop is the confection place. Here is a kid’s dreamland of sweets and chocolate, although owing to the climate, chocolate costs four times as much here as in the U.S. For four ounces one must pay 60 kopecks. Chocolate is much in demand since Russians have a vicious sweet tooth. Here there is always a crowd. Further down, we come to the only department store in Minsk, the GUM, which means “State Universal Store.” Here one may buy anything sold in the smaller specialized stores and sign up on the list for refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, even cars (none of which can be bought anywhere outright). The waiting list for refrigerators (112 million sold from 1952 to 1958) is three months, and the same [length of time] for vacuum cleaners. For cars, the waiting list is anywhere from 6 months to a year, depending on which of the three existing types one puts a down payment on. The Moskvich, which costs 2,500 rubles, is presumed to be the best so the waiting list is almost a year for that; however, the Victory and Volga are a little cheaper and so one can expect it [delivery] after only a six or seven month wait. Cars are bought more or less to order here. The styles are not very impressive. The Moskvich looks like a box on wheels, while the Volga looks like a 1938 Studebaker, which, by the way, is what it is modeled after, “America’s prewar aid.”

Motorcycles and television sets can, however, be bought on the spot for ready cash. A good high-powered motorcycle costs 350 rubles and their quality is apt to be better that that of the more complex automobile. Television sets cost anywhere from 80 rubles for a 6-inch-by-6-inch screen to 350 rubles for a well-made television [with] a 22-inch screen. Other models (light table models) cost 190 and 145 rubles. Here ready-made suits of rough material can be bought. The cheaper style, a double-breasted blue for 110 rubles, or a better-made three-button suit for 250 rubles. [A] jacket costs 40 rubles and two pair of pants for not less than 15 rubles. There are a few cheap ones [jackets?] in stock. They usually cost 30 rubles.

Just before we come to Stalin Square, the end of the central district along the prospekt, we find the two automats, or stand-up cafés. These cafés are located across the prospekt from one another. The internal and external structure is exactly the same at each; both places serve the same dishes at the same prices. Why these were not built at opposite ends of the central district, or even at opposite ends of the square, is not known. Although it would, of course, be more convenient. The reason is [perhaps] that the architectural plans for all the cities in the Soviet Union come directly from Moscow which, as one can imagine, is a big responsibility for the architect. Since in the USSR one pays for a mistake with one’s head, it seems that the logical reason for the standard architecture is that to build the street in [the simplest fashion] is therefore the safest way. Another characteristic and interesting structure in Minsk is the Trade Union Building. This houses an auditorium, offices for the training and costuming of the amateur groups who perform here periodically, and a small dance hall. There is not, as one might assume, the office of any trade union. They do not exist as we know them (since strikes or negotiations for higher pay or better working conditions are not allowed; of course, suggestions may be made by any worker but these are all handled through the local Communist Factory Committee and are passed along or shelved as it suits the Committee). An imposing structure, it looks like a Greek temple with figures atop the V-shaped roof supported by large white marble columns all around. However, a close look reveals not naked Greek gods but, from left to right, a surveyor complete with scope, a bricklayer holding a bucket, a sportswoman in a track suit, and a more symbolic structure of a man in a double-breasted suit holding a briefcase—either a bureaucrat or an intellectual, apparently.