Russian Assignment

by VICE ADMIRAL LESLIE C. STEVENS, USN (Ret.)

10

NEAR Pushkin Square is a small jewel of an old church. I do not know its name, but it is done in pale green and rose and cream, and it is a complex little mass of lily domes and arches, weighed down by great crosses and heavy golden chains. I wandered past it this afternoon and stopped for a long time just to look at it. It is such a strange combination of loveliness and bizarre structure that it seemed that with pencil and paper some of its complications might be solved and perhaps enough of its form caught to servo as a basis for a drawing which would help me to remember it.

Across the street was the deep embrasure of a bricked-up doorway. It should be possible to stand there for a few moments and make a quick sketch without attracting the attention of the crowds that were hurrying past in the cold twilight. I gave it a try. I was so much out of sight and the light was so dim that nobody noticed me but one small boy, who, when he saw what I was doing, much preferred to throw stones at the crows. All at once a uniformed militiaman appeared beside me and thrust his long nose close to my rough sketch.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Sketching,” I replied.

“Why?”

I explained that I was trying to get the layout of the domes and cornices so that perhaps I could make a more pleasing drawing when I got home.

“You can’t do that, he said.

“Why not ?”

“It is forbidden.”

“I don’t believe it. Why should it be forbidden to make a sketch of a lovely old church like that?”

“It’s forbidden.” He was in no mood for argument, so I put away my pencil and paper and moved on, consoling myself with the thought that it was getting too dark to see in any case.

Now that I am home, it is hard to understand my resentment of this minor interference. I had taken every precaution not to draw a crowd, and successfully, for only one small boy had paid attention. After all, it’s their country, not mine. Net the incident seemed symbolic of Russia.

The preparations for the Revolution Day parade have much in common with those for the eighthundredth anniversary of Moscow. There are the same huge portraits of Stalin and the Politburo in the same places, and everywhere are the same scarlet flags and decorations. The same two platforms for entertainment are in the square out side our windows, but owing to the weather the crowds in the evening are much smaller. For several days the weather has not been too bad, but today, the day of the parade, it t urned thoroughly miserable with first heavy fog and then mist, hail, and snow.

Our tickets did not arrive the night before, but we were not disturbed, as tickets for such things usually arrive at the last moment. We dressed warmly and sat around until it became clear that for some reason the American military were not to be invited. So we watched the parade from our windows, and were really glad to be warm and dry.

In the evening we went to Molotov’s reception at Spirodonovka House — the authentic Spirodonovka House, which is kept by the Soviets for just such occasions. There was a great congestion of cars at the entrance gate, with a veil of snow shining in the headlights between cars. Before we reached the entrance the police opened the doors of our car and verified our identity.

Molotov has a remarkably large square head, a pale color, and a brisk assured air. He and his wife stood under the gleaming bell of a big crystal chandelier to greet the guests, who came pouring in in evening clothes or uniforms dripping with gold lace, with an occasional Russian in drab day clothes. I recognized Rybalko, the great general of tanks during the war. He is an enormous man, wit h a big, naked, shaven head.

The house had much paneling and carving, and there were good rugs on the floors, including one wonderful Persian hunting rug. Cocktails were passed, and then rows of chairs were placed near a white-and-gold grand piano. Nell, Duncan Hill, and I found ourselves in an adjoining room among the artists who were to entertain. Bassos and tenors paced back and forth, trilling and exercising their voices during the applause, and the great Oistrakh tuned his priceless violin.

After the concert an orchestra played Strauss waltzes for dancing in the ballroom, and the supper rooms were thrown open. There were roasts and game, salads, fish, caviar and wines, and later, ice cream and champagne. Molotov passed from room to room, followed by attendants with trays laden with bottles and delicate glasses. Everywhere he stopped, a group of Russians would gather around him, the attendants would fill the glasses for everyone, and Molotov, all smiles and heartiness, would drink bottoms up with them. The amount of champagne that he consumed thus was impressive. The last group he came to included Voroshilov, still a handsome man, with a diamond star at his collar.

When Molotov left we followed him out and got our own wraps while Madame Molotov wrapped herself in a handsome mink coat and a lace head scarf. Our car was announced, and we left through a cloud of snowflakes.

Today was supposed to be Natasha’s day off, but she showed up as usual, saying that it was warmer and more peaceful here than in the one room where she lived with her daughter’s family.

“Natasha, what happened to your husband?” I asked as she chopped some cabbage with a long sharp knife.

“Dead!” she said, her wrinkled face a bit grimmer than usual.

“Has he been dead long?”

“He died in 1923.”

“I should think that a handsome woman like you would have had more than one husband since then.”

Her face wrinkled still more into a toothless grin. “I could never find anyone as handsome as he! Oh, but he was a fine specimen of a man!”

“How did he happen to die?” I asked.

“He was a Chechen, a tribesman from the mountains in the Caucasus. He died because he was so handsome.” She continued her chopping, knowing that I would urge her on. When I did, she went on. “We were married here in Moscow, and then he took me to Tiflis. You can see the snowy mountains from Tiflis, and we had not been there two days until he said he was lonely for them. I knew that he was lonely, not for the mountains, but for a girl that was among them. But what could I do? He went up in the mountains to his own tribe, to see this girl. And the next time I saw him he was all chopped up in little pieces.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, horrified.

“Chopped up in little pieces, just like that!” she said, demonstrating vividly on a piece of cabbage. “They laid the pieces in little packages on my doorstep.”

11

I WENT today for an aimless ride on the Metro. It is a very good subway, with each underground station done in a different pattern and design with different colors of Ural granite. It is difficult for me to get enthusiastic over utilitarian art, however. A long-haired, bright-eyed lad in a leather jacket sat next to me, and when I asked some questions about the Metro he took great pride in telling me all about it. He was a student at Moscow University, and when we finally got off at Sverdlovsk Square we went into a bar on Gorky Street for a mug of beer.

The conversation inevitably reached the stage of comparisons between America and Soviet Russia. He did not question my remarks until I said that we had freedom of speech in America, whereas the Russians did not.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Someone has been telling you things that are not true. We have freedom of speech here, just as in America.”

“But no one has freedom to disagree with the regime,” I said.

“But yes! In the University there is one evening every week that is set aside for debate. Anyone can get up and say anything he wants. He can disagree with what the government does, ask questions about anything, and speak his mind freely.”

I was frankly surprised, and told him so. But he went on. “Of course, our government is very wise and very good. If anyone criticizes it, there are people in the University who are specially trained to answer criticism. They answer all such questions and put him straight.”

“But suppose he does not agree with those answers?”

“He must agree with them, because they are right. And before the debate is over, he must admit in public that they are right.”

“But what if he still cannot agree?”

“If he does not admit in public that he was wrong, he cannot stay in the University. We cannot have such wrong-thinkers in such a place, when there are thousands who would like to be there for whom we do not have room.”

It was no use trying to explain freedom of speech to the young Soviet mind, for the roots of our differences go very deep.

I returned to the restaurant for my appointment with Petrov, the agricultural expert, but was not surprised when he did not show up. There are many reasons why none but the most naïve or the most reckless Russian would pursue an acquaintance with an American, and Petrov seemed to me to be neither naïve nor reckless. I sat there alone over a mug of beer.

However, the evening was not lost. At the table next to mine sat a grizzled little Georgian. He had a thick roll of ruble notes of good-sized denominations and was apparently out for a good time. With him was an amazon of a woman, gaily dressed in a way one does not see in Moscow. The little man caught my eye, raised his glass to me, and winked. I moved over to their table. He was inclined to be talkative, and when I asked him how life was in the Transcaucasus, he launched into an elaborate statement to the effect that it was pretty tough. The red-faced amazon beside him caught him up short and told him to be quiet. Two or three times he tried to return to the subject, but his companion, eying me suspiciously, would not have it.

Meanwhile a brawl started across the room. I do not know what started it, but I was conscious of a sudden burst of loud words. A big bull-necked fairhaired young soldier was half out of his seat and banging the table with his huge fist, thrusting his face into the face of his companion, who w as only a slightly smaller edition of the same type. Suddenly the big lad seized a heavy, half-empty glass mug of beer and threw it, beer and all, at his companion. The mug crashed against the wall, and two or three neighboring Russians ducked under their tables. Shouts went up egging them on, and everyone looked on excitedly. One of the waiters joined the argument, trying to make peace, and apparently was successful, for things soon quieted down. But not for long, for in a few minutes the two soldiers were again shouting and shaking their fists in each other’s face.

This time a neatly uniformed militiaman showed up and told the soldiers they would have to get out. “Whore to?” asked the big blond lad belligerently, and a shout went up from the onlookers — “Yes, where to?” The policeman looked a little at a loss for an answer, shrugged his shoulders, and started to talk quietly with them. It was the better part of an hour before I left the place, and even then the two soldiers were still arguing as though the militiaman were not there, their argument occasionally rising to a crescendo of table banging, while the militiaman hovered rather helplessly around.

Rumors are thick around Moscow that all of the present Sov iet currency is to be called in and replaced with new money at a new and lower value. As a result all the people have been trying to spend their money before they get caught. The stores have been so jammed that the militiamen had to be called to manage the crowds, and now the five largest stores have closed their doors. With characteristic Russian dev iousness they are closed “for repairs” or “for inventory,” but everyone knows that those are not the reasons. Another rumor is that bread rationing will end. Maybe so, but without a free press all Russia is continually shaken by rumors.

Last night the radio announced that as of that moment the existing money is no good, but it can be exchanged in the morning at the rate of ten old rubles for one new one. There will be no change in prices, and bread rationing is abolished. Already there are queues for blocks outside the bakeries, but most of them are completely sold out. It is easy to see the reason for the currency reform, for it is one way of controlling inflation. It shakes down all the people who have made and kept any money, and probably many of them made it illegitimately. However, it works a tremendous injustice on anyone who has any money that he came by honestly. It is just before Christmas, and countless Russian families are done out of the possibility of buying anything for Christmas. I do not think they will soon forget it.

It also will be a long time before Nell forgives the Soviets for what they have done to her. I put enough faith in the rumors that have been going around to have gotten rid of all my rubles, but Nell had about a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth that she was saving for Christmas, and they are now worth fifteen dollars. In addition, we were having a dinner party last night, which always means an extra girl to help serve, who gets the equivalent of five dollars in rubles. So that girl’s pay for one evening cost Nell fifty bucks.

Up until now we haven’t been able to get any new rubles, and since we have used up all the old ones we can’t buy any food. We are living on Spam and Vienna sausages. There is an additional shadow for this merry Christmas in that the rate of diplomatic exchange has been cut from twelve to eight, which means that everything we buy here will cost us 50 per cent more than it did before.

Such decrees show why Soviet prices in terms of American money are meaningless. There is no free market in rubles anywhere in the world and, without that, there is no standard of comparison. The only way of understanding what prices mean to the Russian is to put them in terms of how main hours or day s he must work in order to buy a given article, and on that basis prices are even higher for the Russian than they are for the foreigners who are here. I tried to buy a pair of the soft fur boots one sees occasionally and was told that they were so scarce that there would not only be much difficulty in finding them, but that if a pair could be located they would cost well over a hundred dollars. That is too much for me, and to a Russian it would mean a month’s pay.

12

MOST of the time the big thermometer in the archway at the entrance to the court of t he Embassy hovers around zero. Once or twice it has gone as low as eighteen or twenty below. Even without looking at the thermometer, one can recognize the below-zero mark. Zero weather is fairly comfortable, but when one steps outside into temperatures below that, one knows it. The air bites and hurts when you take it deep into your lungs, and you can feel your nostrils freezing up with each incoming breath and thawing when you exhale. The snow gets hard and brittle, and of course all the automobiles are broken down and hours late because of starting troubles. The people on the streets, wrapped in rags and makeshift clothes of all sorts, look pinched and blue and miserable. Russians have no more resistance to the cold than any other people, and sometimes, on seeing their obvious misery, it seems to me they have less. Inside the apartment the windows are covered with frost patterns — forests of ferns, and wonderful scenes that I haven’t seen since I w as a child.

Occasionally there comes a brief thaw, and then there is sometimes an interesting element of hazard in walking through the narrow streets, for big blocks of ice and snow slide off t he steep-pitched roofs to crash onto the sidewalks below.

There are dozens of theaters in Moscow, but with the exception of half a dozen or so they are bare and uncomfortable. The Bolshoy and the Red Army Theater are the only ones that are really luxurious.

The acting, like so many things in Russia, goes to extremes, for it is either excellent to the point of greatness or it is very amateurish. In addition to the regular theaters, nearly every big factory or organization goes in for its own amateur productions. We saw some competent acting in one of Chekhov’s plays at the Railroad Workers’ theater, and a distinctly amateurish show at the famous Gypsy Theater. If the degree of state support is reflected in costumes and scenery, the Gypsy Theater is having its t roubles.

One thing that the great theaters do is to reproduce in careful detail the types and costumes which are shown in old pictures and illustrations associated with a play. There are some fine old illustrated editions of such things as Gogol’s Dead Souls or The Inspector-General, and it seems as though their pictures were taken directly from MXAT. If they were to put on Alice in Wonderland, there is no doubt that the Tenniel illustrations would come to life as never before.

Last night we went to see The Pickwick Club at MXAT, and the costumes and faces were like old English Christmas cards. Yet unless the Russians have something fairly authentic to guide t hem, they often go far astray. Every American Negro in their plays looks and acts like the end man in an old minstrel show, and the Deep South of Lillian Hellman’s The Little Foxes was given a weird atmosphere by surroundings of giant cactus.

The back lots and open spaces that in America would be parking areas for automobiles are flooded with water in Moscow and turned into ice-skating rinks. I tried one of them today, but with indifferent success. Perhaps it is true that anyone who has once learned to skate will always be able to do so, but the skates of today are different. They have evolved sharp prongs on the ends of the runners. After a few exhilarating moments, when it would seem that things were going all right, one of those prongs would dig into some little irregularity in the ice and stop with amazing suddenness, sending me sliding across the ice on everything but the skates.

There was no lack of help and advice from the Russian skaters of all ages — “Uncle! See how I do it!” — but it did not take me long to decide that Valodya, my chauffeur, would have to do a major operation on those devilish little prongs before such a public could be faced again.

Last night we were invited to the Bolshoy Theater to a special program in honor of the thirtieth anniversary of the Red Army. It was a full-dress occasion. Stalin and all of the Politburo were there, in a box by the stage. Stalin’s appearance put to rest the rumors that arc always rising up about his bad health. It was a long evening, beginning at six and lasting until nearly midnight, with many speeches and with spectacular dancing and excellent choir music put on by the Red Army. When they began to show a movie that was to trace the thirty years of development of the Red Army, Stalin and the Politburo left their boxes. Most of the foreigners left the theater then, thinking that the evening was practically over. But Stalin had merely shifted to another box at the back of the theater, from which the movie could be seen to better advantage.

At the end of the movie there was another speech, mostly in praise of Stalin, and when it was over, the audience turned towards Stalin and applauded long and loudly. At last Stalin got up, and made what seemed to be an impromptu speech. His voice was thin and rather high-pitched, giving an effect that was incongruous with his swarthy face and his squat, broad-shouldered figure. He thanked them for their praise, and said that it was not he alone who had won the war — after all, the Red Army had something to do with it! This brought a somewhat surprised but genuine laugh from the house. I must have been almost the only Russian-speaking foreigner who had stayed on long enough to hear Stalin speak, for this morning the press correspondents were swarming to my office to find out what Stalin, who almost never speaks in public, had really said.

13

ONCE more my knowledge of the language has paid off and I have found out for myself that the dark side of the Soviet Union is not only very black but very pervasive. At a reception last night at one of the satellite embassies I met a fine-grained, gracious Russian woman, neither beautiful nor plain. She did not speak any English since her foreign connections are in eastern Europe. We talked for a long time, and she flattered me by saying that she thought there were few foreigners who have as much sympathetic feeling for purely Russian things. At last she began to tell me about herself.

She had been a student in a Leningrad university when her mother, who was all she had in the world, suddenly disappeared. There was no reason for it, as they had lived a quiet, inoffensive life. Her mother had been employed as a sewing woman in one of the shops of the dressmaking trust and had been content with her lot, particularly since her daughter was doing well in the university. Nevertheless the girl suspected that her mother had been arrested for some unknown reason, and she became more sure when she reported the disappearance to the police and found that they showed only the most perfunctory interest in her report.

Not long afterwards, the worried girl was called before the authorities of the university and told that she must leave because her mother had been found to be an enemy of the people. She was much more disturbed about her mother than about herself, for she could sew and type, and both those skills were in demand. She went to the police again to find out what had happened to her mother, but they would tell her nothing. Then she started hunting for a job.

Everywhere she went it was the same story. The employment manager would say that they were in need of typists or seamstresses and that they were delighted to have someone like her. Then she would be given the usual forms to be filled out and told to report for work the following morning. But when she would show up, she would be told that the position they had in mind had just been filled, or that the establishment had suddenly been given unexpected orders to cut down on its force, or was to be closed for repairs. Perhaps in a few months thev might have a place for her, but as for the moment there were always excuses and evasions.

At first she thought that all this was just hard luck, but it eventually became clear to her that the real reason was that she had filled in the forms truthfully, saying that she did not know where her mother was or w hat she was doing. Her money soon ran out and she became actually hungry and desperate, so, the next place she tried, she put on the forms that her mother had died when she was a child. This time she was promptly employed as a typist.

Several years went by, and, although disappointed to have had her education terminated and still worried about her mother, she was afraid to pursue the matter further for fear of losing the livelihood that had been so difficult for her to get. One day she received a letter from her mother from a town in Siberia, saying that she had completed her prison term and been released, but would never be permitted to leave that Siberian town, and asking her to come to see her if she possibly could. So, when her vacation came, she went to Siberia, and there she found her mother.

Tears began to roll down the cheeks of this fine, delicate Russian woman as she told me this. We were in a quiet corner of one of the rooms, and I stood between her and the chattering guests so that they could not see her tears.

Varya, as I shall call her, told me that her mother was so completely broken that she hardly recognized her. Her mother told her again and again that she did not know what she had done. “Perhaps I did do something terrible. Perhaps I even committed a murder. I do not know, for I am confused and cannot remember things clearly. The only thing I do remember is that I had repeated some political anecdotes about Stalin which had made me laugh when I heard them. I told them that, but they kept asking me day after day, night after night, what else I had done. They would give me salted fish to eat, with no water to drink. And then, while they were questioning me, they would pour themselves water from a cold pitcher, and give me none. I became so confused that I did not know what I was doing. I know I signed something to get it over with, but I do not know what it was.”

Soon after Varya’s return to Leningrad, the police sent for her. “We notice,”they said, “that you have been to Siberia to see your mother. We also notice that in your application for your present position you said that your mother was dead. Please explain that.”

“I lied,” said Varya. “I had to lie to keep alive. It was your system that made me lie.”

“Why did you not come to us when you were first in trouble? That is what the police are for — to help people in trouble.”

Varya told them truthfully that she had never thought of doing that. They said that they could understand this, but that now she had committed a serious crime in lying. Still, they had no reason to believe that she was not a loyal Soviet citizen. She could prove her loyalty by doing something for the state. All she had to do was to report to them on certain things in which they were interested, and which affected the safety of the state. “Otherwise,” and they shrugged their shoulders, “we can only believe that you are a traitor as well as a liar, and it will go hard with you.”

By this time, although I still stood so as to shield her from anyone who might pass by, Varya had composed herself. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an embassy attaché hovering about. Varya had seen him also. “Please do not think badly of me,” she whispered, and then, as she held out her hand to me to say good-by, she added, for the benefit of the approaching attaché, “Nevertheless, I am sure you do not understand what the Soviet Union is really trying to do. Your ideas and mine are so far apart that I do not think we should talk with each other again.”

All of this is of course an old story. The tale of the forced informer has been told over and over again in books on Soviet Russia, but its very stereotyped familiarity is what makes it so terrible to me now. Although all Americans here are continually aware of the possibility of provocation and plants, no motiv e for such dev iousness seems possible in either this case or that of Petrov, who told me that the Russian people were ripe for a new revolution. And because of the very fact that my opportunities to talk with Russians have been so limited, such experiences convince me that the appraisal of the regime which they imply is not due to isolated cases, but is a common condition and a real force.

There is a vast difference between reading about such things in a book or hearing of them at second or third hand and experiencing them directly yourself. Things which one accepts intellectually become much more real when they become emotionally part of one’s own self.

A murder mystery may be exciting, but it is not pleasant when one actually lives it. I am learning what I came to Russia to find out for myself. And although it holds the attention, it is hard on the nerves. The emotional experience of trying to shield this weeping woman from observation as she told me her story will not soon be forgotten.

14

ONE degree above freezing, with the streets flooded with half-frozen slush, giving a chill, springlike effect mostly supported by the floods of sunlight. No sooner had we left the Embassy in the blue car than Nell saw a peasant woman with big bundles of pussy willows. After minor difficulties due to having to turn around in the traffic and to the everpresent police, who insisted that such things could not be sold on the streets but should be confined to the markets, we bought some. Valodya herded the woman, bundles and all, to the car in order to make the sale, relying partly on our diplomatic immunity and partly on the fact that the police scold rather than act in such cases.

Then over the Kamyenny Most — the Stone Bridge — to leave a note at the British Embassy. For some reason, the golden onion-shaped cupolas and domes of the Kremlin churches looked dull and tarnished in the sunlight. Valodya said that pussy wiilows were favorite decorations for graves, and that they were also much in evidence in the Russian churches at Easter services.

Then on to the Balashov sky Market, reached through narrow muddy alleys. The faces and the padded clothing of the rows of women behind the stalls were much more interesting than the things they sold. Sly, shrewd, pleasant faces with narrow, smiling eyes, big, rosy-cheeked, high-cheekboned faces, dour faces, but all of them full of character and curiosity a bout what w as going on a round t hem. Potatoes, cabbages, mangel-w urzels, sticks of horseradish, strings of dried mushrooms, chopped-up salads, frozen fish like smelts, washcloths made of strings of dried grass, and crowded rows of milk cans with milk slopping everywhere and everyone drinking out of the glasses in which the milk was measured. Russians are always eating, in the theaters, at football games, on the street. Here they were eating raw carrots, cabbage leaves, even bits of tallow from the quarters of raw beef.

From there we drove to the commission shops at lower end of Stolyeshnikov Lane and sent Valodya home with the car to take Natasha shopping, leaving us to walk home. The commission shops, which are state-operated antique or secondhand stores, were all closed from three to four for lunch — further evidence that the competitive system serves the customer better than bureaucracy — so we walked up the hill to Gorky Street blinded by the blaze of sunlight reflected in the pools of slush and water everywhere.

I turned on the radio in the cozy little room opposite the Kremlin and listened to the programs in honor of some sort of anniversary in connection with Maxim Gorky. Never a week passes that is not crowded with anniversaries of all sorts. One of the programs was a visit to the Gorky Museum. As usual, it was very well done — one could hear the crowds of visitors talking, and t he museum attendants described the various exhibits as they always do to the crowds. It was a children’s program, and one old man took the microphone to tell of how Gorky had been kind to him when they were both young. Gorky’s love for the people and for children in particular was well brought out.

Then someone described Gorky’s visit to America. Whenever America is mentioned, one always braces oneself for the slap, and sure enough, it came. Gorky’s impression of America was that it was a civilization of Stones and Things, without soul, heart, feeling, or kindliness — the natural result of a capitalist order, and such a contrast to the warmhearted, child-loving Soviet world of True Democracy.

Nothing here is ever dished up on its own merits — there must be purpose, meaning, and planning in everything. Skiing and skating are not to be done because one likes to ski or skate, but because they are good for you. The old plays, Chekhov and Ostrovsky in particular, are immeasurably superior to contemporary drama in the theaters, but even they must have revolutionary significance — which Chekhov has in an amazing way that I did not realize until coming here — or else they must portray the evils and follies of bourgeois life, particularly the greed and selfishness that is provoked by money and property under the capitalist order. Even music must now make a positive contribution to ideology.

Neutrality in the class struggle is a crime, and “He who is not for me is against me” is a conception which forms the great sea of life, all of whose manifestations are only waxes on the surface of that struggle. It is difficult to think of any human activity which does not fit into that pattern, and it seems to me that the classical ballet and some, but not all, of the endless variations of the charming, urgent chastushki songs — folk songs in the making — are the only things that are not made to conform and direct their energies to serve. Even these are so characteristically and traditionally Russian that they strengthen the thread of nationalist pride and feeling, which also serves the state.

15

I AM weary, and thoroughly depressed. There is always some sort of crisis in the making here, usually due to someone either actually or potentially putting himself in the power of the Russian state, which is very apt to be merciless in using t hat power. Here Americans cannot afford to do things which would be perfectly normal anywhere else in the world. For another thing, we are about to lose Bob Dreher. His time is up, and his exit visa has been requested. His experience in Odessa has been invaluable, and he will be missed very much. The Navy told me that it would be a long time before they could send a relief for Dreher, because of a shortage of Russian-speaking officers, and it becomes increasingly evident to me that none but Russian-speaking ones should be sent.

Since long before my arrival, no service attachés have been permitted by the Soviets to travel in Russia, except for one trip to Leningrad made by Willie Edenberg. Nevertheless, I got off a long, careful letter making a try. It is no mean task to compose a request for permission to travel which might have some chance of being even looked at by this suspicious government, and the ground for this one has been in process of preparation for months. It asked for permission to visit Kiev, which has some of the most famous and glorious churches and monasteries of all the Russias, or Kazan, the capital of the Tatar Republic, or Samarkand, where Tamerlane is buried, or the ancient Khorazm which was laid waste by Jenghiz Khan and which is studded with little-known archeological remains. My honest personal reasons for wanting to visit any of these places were given plainly, but it is probable that there will be no answer other than a long burst of silence.

Being a naval aviator, I must fly at least every three months or I will not long remain an aviator. There is an airplane assigned to me on the books of the Navy Department, but it is inconceivable that it could ever be brought here. Even the Ambassador’s plane must be kept outside of Russia and its infrequent trips are extraordinarily difficult to arrange. I therefore must go outside Russia to do my flying.

My visa for Berlin came back exactly as it had been requested, for travel both ways by either airplane or train. The last t ime I went out, an effort was made to get that sort of visa, but it did not come through until a few hours before my departure, and then for airplane only. By that time it was too late to do anything about it. Most of the foreigners believe that train travel, even to Berlin, is deliberately discouraged by the Soviets in order to isolate foreigners as much as possible from the people. It is worth remembering how effective a little bit of considerate treatment can be, for now it is very easy to wonder if, after all, it wasn’t just some stupid mistake that failed to get such a visa before.

Early in the morning Nell drove out with me to Vnukovo Airport to see me off for Berlin. In the settled country, the roads are strung out with people, going or coming from somewhere on foot, seated on the tops of loads in open trucks, or in low sleighs drawn by unkempt little horses with big stiff wooden bows arching over their necks. In the city there were fewer people up and about than on these country roads. The one distinguishing mark of Great Russia is the complete lack of farmhouses or farm buildings. The Russians do not live on separate farms, but cluster into v illages, where the huts and houses are snugly strung along a single street, as close together as in an Indiana or a Nebraska small town. There is not even a separate word in the Russian language that means “the country” — one says “in the village” instead.

Germany seemed very fresh and neat, with its shining, rain-washed streets. Everywhere the yellow forsythia was in bloom, and the lilacs were breaking out with small, v iv id green leaves. For the first time, the English and French on the trilingual signs at the edges of the various zones of Berlin seemed more outlandish to me than the Russian.

My second night in Berlin, General Clay had a very large sit-down dinner at Harneck House, the luxurious ex-German club which is now used for social affairs as well as for housing very senior transient officers. Being Admiral Schuirmann’s house guest, I was invited. The very tops of the American, British, and French governments were there: Koenig, the soldierly-looking Robertson, and Clay himself, with a hospitable smile on his otherwise rather severe, almost morose face. I had a grand time with the food, which impressed my Moscow taste more than anything else, and with my dinner companions, neither of whose names, to my regret, I remember, although one of them was a blue-eyed, dark-haired, high-colored beauty.

With all my flight time in and my chores completed, I headed for the Silesia Station. I was the only foreigner on a long, long train which literally swarmed with Russian troops. My wagon was filled with senior Russian army officers, most of them from tank divisions, going home on leave or on transfer, accompanied in a few cases by wives and children. The nachalnik, or head man, of the wagon — he has more authority than a porter in America, but includes a porter’s duties in his responsibilities — seemed a little bewildered when he took me to my compartment to find that it was already full of Russians, so he picked another compartment at random, and soon my parachute bags and bundles were stowed in the big boxlike space under the lower berth.

While the last package was being put away, a tank officer came in with some enormous suitcases and more bundles, which made the stowage in our double compartment a bit complicated, but not impossible. He was on the far side of middle age, with sandy gray hair and a slightly angular, convex aspect to his face that was vaguely reminiscent of one of the flat corners of a large nut. Sometimes he looked surprisingly young, and at other times old and worn. His hands were big workman’s hands. He had come to Berlin with the conquering army in 1945 and, except for his annual leave, which he had received regularly, had been there ever since. His family had been with him for a while, but had gone back to his home in Leningrad, and his name was Vassily.

We talked, off and on, through the end of the afternoon. He slipped out for a nip of vodka with someone. Soon after he returned, a handsome young colonel with a healthy red face and fair, wavy hair, and a broad chest covered with medals, came in and said to Vassily, “Let’s eat.”The train to Brest still carries no restaurant car, and there was no water on board, not even for washing or flushing. The new arrival was not so reserved as Vassily.

“Who’s that?" he asked, jerking a thumb towards me.

“American. He’s going to Moscow.”

“Would he drink with us?”

“Ask him and see.”

Then Nikolai, the bemedaled newcomer, addressed himself to me. “Why are you going to Moscow?”

“I work there.”

“What sort of work?”

“In the American Embassy. I’m the American naval attaché.”

“Ah, spy!” His face lit up with sudden spite.

“What do you mean ‘spy’? Look at this uniform! How can one be a spy, when it is clear to everyone who I am? Everyone in Moscow who knows me knows that I am an American and knows that I am not a spy.”

His spite died down. “Will you drink vodka with us?”

So we wrestled with the bags to bring out food and drink. Nikolai went out and brought back an unopened bottle of vodka, some food, and some large plastic tumblers. He couldn’t knock the cork out, so he pushed it in with a powerful finger. I poured myself a large drink, and passed the bottle back. Neither would take it. “More! More!” they said. And they simply sat there, hanging their heads and looking sad and sorrowful, refusing to pour themselves a drop, until at last I filled my tumbler to the brim. Then they brightened up and did likewise, and we drank to each other’s health.

Did you ever chew on a half-inch strip of raw bacon? Fortunately, the bacon wasn’t quite as obligatory as the vodka, and my Swiss cheese went well with their black bread. It was pleasant enough, with food in plenty. Nikolai, who had commanded an artillery regiment, must have counted my ribbons a dozen times. I think I had one or two more than he, which filled him with great respect. Russians, even the Soviets, have a tremendous veneration for rank, and when the meaning of my broad stripes was explained, he bowed to the floor, with two fingers extended in the formal Eastern gesture of sweeping, outturned palm.

We ate and drank and talked, not about politics, which, though difficult to avoid, is apt to be dangerous for all concerned, but mostly about the war. Both were very proud of their Soviet Union, its accomplishments, and its aims, and during all the time I talked with them gave not the slightest indication of disaffection. But all of us had seen enough of war, and we all agreed that war was a bad thing.

“Nevertheless, there will be war,”Nikolai said, suddenly and somberly .

“Perhaps,” I replied. “It would be too bad.”

“Yes, too bad. But budyet (it will come). And soon.”

I scoffed. “Neither your count ry nor mine wants war.”

“Lock the door, Vassily.” He lowered his voice and said, intensely and emphatically, “lhuhjct! Budyet!”

I still protested, but Vassily backed him up. “Budyet! Budyet voina!”

I told them that not only did my country genuinely not want war, but that under our form of government it was impossible for us to start one. I told them that the continual blare in the Russian press about capitalist warmongering was not founded on fact, and was dangerous. Every time our voices rose a bit, one of them would put up a band to caution quiet. Someone knocked on the door.

“Don’t let him in,” said Nikolai, and after a few more raps whoever it was passed on.

“Budyet! And soon — very soon!”

“How soon?”

“Three months!” and Nikolai held up three fingers.

Again I scoffed. “But why? Why are you so sure?”

Another rap on the door. “Tell them they can’t come in. Nyelzya (forbidden).”

“But why? My count ry will never start a war,” I said in a lowered voice.

Nikolai fished in his inside pocket. “Show him your party card, Vassily.”

And they both showed me their rod booklets of membership in the Communist Party of Bolsheviks — the fundamental requisite of all power and influence, the mark of the modern aristocracy. I looked the cards over, and handed them back.

“Budyet voina! Boo-oo-oodyet!” and again the three fingers. “Boo-oodyet! And it w ill be not your doing, but the will of Moscow!”

A strange creep went down my back. But by this time the door was thundering and voices were shouting outside. “Let them in!” I said, suddenly realizing that the train had been stopped for some time. “It’s the Polish frontier!”

We hunted for our documents. The hawk-nosed, proud-looking Polish officer, with his strange mortarboard cap and his attendants, looked at the tumblers and the fragments of food, and did not view us with undue suspicion.

After they had gone and the train was again under way, we talked for a long time. They said that, although there was no doubt that America and England would lose the war, it was unnecessary and a great mistake, but — boo-oodyet! They asked me if I bad a family .

“Yes — a wife and a son.”

“Where are they? In America?”

“The son is in New York. My wife is in Moscow.”

Nikolai winced and put his hands over his face. “That is a bad place to have your wife.”

He was on his way to somewhere in the south, but he was a native Muscovite. If by any chance he should come to Moscow, I could go underground, and he would help me and be like a son to me. And so on into the night. But it was eerie, to see their intent, earnest faces in the dim, smoke-filled compartment, and to have the future laid on the line for me with so much conviction. I shall long hear that “Boo-ood yet!” in my ears. For three months, at least.

The next morning, I was awakened by Vassily’s long legs descending from the upper berth. I watched him wrap them in heavy cloths before putting on his boots, and was conscious of being very, very thirsty. The oranges which Schuirmann’s German maid had put up for me saved our lives. I didn’t run across Nikolai until midafternoon, when I gave him the usual Russian greeting.

“How are you feeling?”

“Very, very bad!”

It was easy to tell one was in Poland because of the little shrines to be seen by the roadside, sometimes painted a bright blue, sometimes draped in faded flowers. The train stopped for a long time at Siedlce, to take on water, among other things. I got some beer at the station buffet and then walked the platform.

I tried to make up my mind about the significance of the evening before. Remembering Pearl Harbor, I knew that I must make no mistake. I appraised it as an outgrowth of the genuine camaraderie that exists everywhere between military people, who are not the makers of w ars but the ones who fight them. Almost always there is a certain respect for the professional soldier or sailor of the other side, although not for the policies which he carries out. I also decided that it was most probable that my friends had no real inside information, but were reflecting the current talk of the Red Army and the Party. After that I felt better — but not much. “Boo-oo-oodyet” still whispered in my ears.

(To be continued)