In
Honor Of Women’s History Month- In Nana Kamkov’s Time- For All The Red
Emmas
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
Frank Jackman was not sure where or when he first heard the term “Red Emma” applied to the old- time revolutionary women who came of age around the turn of the 20th century and who blossomed in the time of the Russian revolution, particularly its Bolshevik phase and of the time of the defense of the revolution in the few year period of the civil war against the national and international White Guards. He did know that Emma Goldman the old bomb-throwing (at least in her mind) firebrand anarchist and early defender (and early non-defender) of the Bolshevik experiment bore that sobriquet and so that might have been the genesis of the term but in any case here is the story, or really sketch of a story since a lot was unknown about her exploits, of one such Red Emma, Nana Kamkov, who held her own in the dark days of the Russian revolution of the eve of the decisive battle for Kazan…
Nana Kamkov’s name first became known to revolutionary history indirectly through her membership in the remnants of a red peasant brigade fighting the Whites in the Russian Civil War around 1919 , a bare platoon at that point whose core were five peasant soldiers from Omsk who had been conscripted and fought together for the Czar in the disastrous World War I battles, gone home at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution, farmed their newly Soviet-provided land, were subsequently dispossessed of that land by Orlov the previous owner when the White Guards came through Omsk , and in reaction they had joined the Reds in 1919 to get that land back. After several engagements crisscrossing Central Russia they, the remnant anyhow, found themselves in soon to be besieged Kazan. Nana had been assigned to their unit in the crush of organizational tangles preparing for the defense of Kazan. Nana had also been caught inside Kazan at a time when that locale was being besieged by White Guard forces, particularly the feared Czech Legion that was running amok from Siberia to the Urals in their attempts to get home. Previously Nana’s story, the story of a mere slip of girl of sixteen, had been submerged as part of the story of this unit, a unit now led by one of the peasant soldiers, Vladimir Suslov, but further research found that she deserved, more than deserved, additional recognition in her own right
Yes, Nana Kamkov, deserved a better fate that to written off as some play thing for some loutish peasant boy, Grunsha Zanoff by name, no matter how Red Army brave he was just that moment and no matter how peasant handsome he was, and he was, to Nana’s eyes. Nana had come off the land as a child, land in Omsk and as fate would have it also Orlov’s land, when after the last revolution, the one in 1905, the government encouraged capitalist exploitation of the land in order to break down the backward-looking peasant communes. Her parents had abandoned the land and had travelled to live in Kazan and her father had set up shop as a locksmith, a good one. Nana had gone school and had been an outstanding student if somewhat socially backward, she had not been like the other girls boy-crazy, although she confessed in one girlish moment to a classmate that she thought some Prince Charming would see her on the Kazan streets, be immediately smitten by her purposeful carriage and carry her off to some golden palace but that was just a moment’s thought. Nana though desperately wanted to become an engineer although the family resources precluded such a fate.
One day in the summer of 1917 at the height of the revolutionary fervor she ran across a Bolshevik agitator in the central square of Kazan (later killed in Kiev fighting off some White Guards in that location) who told her, young impressionable her, aged fourteen, no more, that if the Soviets survived she would be able to pursue her engineering career, hell, the Bolsheviks would encourage it.
From that time Nana had been a single-minded Red Guard soldier performing many dangerous tasks (involving setting off explosives, some espionage work and so on, the specifics unfortunately have been lost despite further inquiry) until the Whites threatened Kazan and she was trapped in the city and had joined Vladimir’s remnants as a result of various organizational tangles. And there she spied Grunsha among his soldiers, loutish, foolish Grunsha, although handsome she admitted. Perhaps it was the time of her time, perhaps she still had a little foolish schoolgirl notion to be with a man, to be a woman, just in case things didn’t work out and she was killed, or worse, executed but one cold night she snuggled up to the sleeping Grunsha and that was that. And she was not sorry although she blushed, blushed profusely when Grunsha’s comrades from home would see them together and knowingly laugh they knew had happened. She had thereafter taken him under her wing and was teaching him to read and to think about things, big idea things, how to work that land back in Omsk better, more scientifically, just in case they weren’t killed, or worse executed. Practical young woman, very practical. And so young Nana entered the red pantheon, and maybe she would drag young Grunsha along too.
Just as she was instructing Grunsha in some Gogol short story a messenger came to their line, a messenger from the river in front of Kazan, from the wind- swept Volga. The message said that Trotsky himself , Trotsky of the phantom armored train rushing to this and that front, seemingly everywhere at the same time, a man that put fear in the hearts of whites and reds alike, had decided to fight and die before Kazan if necessary to save the revolution, to save their precious land. Vladimir and his comrades, including our Red Emma, Red Emma who if the truth be told despite her tender years of sweet sixteen was the best soldier of the lot, and should have been the commissar except those lumpish peasants would not have listened to her, reaffirmed their blood oath. They were not sure of Lenin, thinking him a little too smart, and maybe he had something up his sleeve, maybe he was just another Jew, he looked the part with that bald head of his, but stout-hearted Trotsky, if he was willing to die then what else could they do but stand. If they must die they would die in defense of Kazan, and maybe just maybe somebody would hear of their story, the story of five peasant boys and a pretty red-hearted city girl as brave as they, and lift their heads and roar back too.
And so young Nana entered the red pantheon, and maybe she would drag young Grunsha along too...And hence this Women’s History Month contribution.
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Spartacist English edition No. 63
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Winter 2012-2013
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Larissa Reissner on Trotsky’s Red Army
The Battle of Svyazhsk, a Revolutionary Legend
(Women and Revolution pages)
We print below an account of the battle of Svyazhsk and Kazan, a
turning point in the first year of the Civil War that erupted in 1918 against
the victorious October Revolution. This eyewitness account was written around
1922 by the Bolshevik political journalist Larissa Reissner, who, as a Red Army
soldier, participated in the battle. “Svyazhsk,” translated into English by John
G. Wright and Amy Jensen, was published in the June 1943 issue of Fourth
International, the theoretical organ of the then-Trotskyist Socialist
Workers Party.
In 1918, amid the devastation wrought by World War I, the young
workers state faced a counterrevolutionary onslaught of 14 imperialist/Allied
expeditionary forces as well as an array of tsarist White Guard armies in
collusion with the ousted landlords and capitalists (see “Bourgeois
Liberalism vs. the October Revolution,” page 4). In late summer, the Red Army
under the leadership of Leon Trotsky engaged in battle about 500 miles east of
Moscow on the Volga River on an approach to Kazan. Trotsky’s famous armored
train, stationed at Svyazhsk as the command center, was used for the first time
in this campaign. Vastly outnumbered Red Army soldiers turned back the
Czechoslovak counterrevolutionaries there through sheer revolutionary
determination, heroism and self-sacrifice. It was this victory that made
possible the rapid concentration of Red Army, Navy and Air Force units that took
Kazan, where a workers uprising also contributed to driving out the Whites. In
1922, Trotsky wrote of the battles:
“Out of a shaky, unsteady, disintegrating mass, a real army was
created. We took Kazan on September 10, 1918, and recovered Simbirsk on the
following day. That moment was a notable date in the history of the Red Army.
Immediately, we felt firm ground under our feet. These were no longer our first
helpless attempts: from now on we could fight and win.”
— “The Path of the Red Army” (May 1922), The Military Writings
and Speeches of Leon Trotsky: How the Revolution Armed, Vol. 1 (London: New
Park Publications, 1979)
Reissner’s vivid essay brings these events to life.
Heroic Woman Communist
Larissa Reissner was born in 1895 in Lublin, Poland, then under
Russian tsarist rule, into a family of Polish-Russian-German origin. She spent
her early years in the Siberian capital city of Tomsk, where her father Mikhail
had procured a law professorship. In 1903 her family fled tsarist repression to
Berlin, where Larissa spent four years. Exiled Russian revolutionaries and
leading members of the German Social Democracy, such as Karl Liebknecht, were
familiar guests in the household. Larissa’s father joined the Bolsheviks for a
few years. On returning to Russia, Larissa led a privileged, actively
intellectual life in St. Petersburg, traveling in socialist circles and writing
articles and literary pieces.
Joining the Bolshevik Party a few months after the Bolshevik
conquest of power, Reissner went on to become the first woman political
commissar in the Red Army. For five years she was married to Fyodor Raskolnikov,
a leading Bolshevik in the Kronstadt naval garrison rebellion in July 1917.
During the siege of Kazan, Raskolnikov was appointed Commander of the Volga
Naval Flotilla. Reissner headed the Volga Fleet intelligence section and
specialized in espionage work behind enemy lines.
Everywhere Reissner went, she wrote passionately of her experiences
in the revolution. As Karl Radek, her companion in her last years, wrote in a
memoir after her death from typhus in 1926, “She was not a contemplative artist
but a fighting artist who sees a struggle from the inside and knows how to
convey its dynamics—the dynamics of humanity’s destiny” (Richard Chappell, ed.,
Hamburg at the Barricades and Other Writings on Weimar Germany [London:
Pluto Press, 1977]).
Numerous collections of Reissner’s essays and articles appeared in
Russian in the early and mid 1920s. Some were also published in German, but very
little exists in English or other languages. Her books include The Front,
a collection of her Civil War sketches from which “Svyazhsk” was taken;
Afghanistan, based on her experiences as part of the Soviet diplomatic
delegation at the court of the Emir; and Coal, Iron and Living People,
articles on her travels through the industrial areas of the young Russian
workers state. Hamburg at the Barricades, vignettes from the days of the
aborted 1923 revolution in Germany where Reissner was a Comintern
representative, is available in English and German.
Reissner recounts the heroic roles of many individuals in the
battle of Svyazhsk. She too played an important part in the hard-won victory. In
his autobiography, My Life (1929), Trotsky wrote of her:
“Larissa Reisner, who called Ivan Nikitich [Smirnov] ‘the
conscience of Sviyazhsk,’ was herself prominent in the Fifth army, as well as in
the revolution as a whole. This fine young woman flashed across the
revolutionary sky like a burning meteor, blinding many. With her appearance of
an Olympian goddess, she combined a subtle and ironical mind with the courage of
a warrior. After the capture of Kazan by the Whites, she went into the enemy
camp to reconnoitre, disguised as a peasant woman. But her appearance was too
extraordinary, and she was arrested. While she was being cross-examined by a
Japanese intelligence officer, she took advantage of an interval to slip through
the carelessly guarded door and disappear. After that, she engaged in
intelligence work. Later, she sailed on war-boats and took part in battles. Her
sketches about the civil war are literature. With equal gusto, she would write
about the Ural industries and the rising of the workers in the Ruhr. She was
anxious to know and to see all, and to take part in everything. In a few brief
years, she became a writer of the first rank. But after coming unscathed through
fire and water, this Pallas of the revolution suddenly burned up with typhus in
the peaceful surroundings of Moscow.”
The Vision of Women’s Emancipation
The young workers state mobilized the masses of workers and
peasants in a political and military war to defeat the imperialist invasion and
defend the proletarian revolution. Inspired in part by the Bolshevik promise of
women’s emancipation, tens of thousands of women joined the military, becoming
soldiers, nurses, commanders and political leaders. Their talents as spies were
so valuable that Lenin ordered the establishment of a special school where
numerous young women were trained to carry out espionage, scouting and sabotage
behind White lines. Many, such as Varsenika Kasparova, head of the Agitational
Department of the Bureau of Military Commissars in the Civil War, were later
adherents of Trotsky’s Left Opposition.
Integral to the Bolshevik vision was the understanding that the
liberation of women could not be separated from the struggle for the
emancipation of the proletariat as a whole. However, given the desperate
conditions of the Civil War and the massive poverty and social backwardness of
the predominantly peasant country, the Bolsheviks’ determination to draw women
into full participation in economic, social and political life was an
overwhelming challenge (see “The Russian Revolution and the Emancipation of
Women,” Spartacist [English edition], No. 59, Spring 2006). Lenin and the
Bolshevik Party knew that the complete liberation of women depended on the
international extension of socialist revolution, to which the Communist
International, founded in 1919, was dedicated.
The continuing postponement of international revolution enabled a
bureaucratic layer headed by Stalin to usurp power in a political
counterrevolution in 1923-24. Many of the heroes described in Reissner’s piece
fell to Stalin’s purges in the late 1930s. Among them was Ivan Nikitich Smirnov
who, like many of Stalin’s victims, had been part of the Left Opposition. A
whole generation of revolutionary communists was destroyed; many were executed.
Reissner’s writings were disappeared. Even when her works saw a revival under
Khrushchev in 1958, the volume dropped “Svyazhsk” with its depiction of Trotsky
as the leader of the Red Army.
Just as the Stalinist bureaucracy wiped out Lenin’s party, it also
reversed many of the gains of Soviet women. But the ensuing Stalinist Thermidor
could not wholly erase the gains achieved by women as a result of the
socialization of the means of production. The 1991-92 counterrevolution under
Boris Yeltsin thrust the working people into misery, exploitation and oppression
under capitalism. The International Communist League embraces the liberating
goals of communism that inspired such heroism and sacrifice in the Civil War and
strives for new October Revolutions worldwide.
From the Archives of Marxism
Svyazhsk
by Larissa Reissner
Whenever two comrades who worked together in the year 1918, fought
beneath Kazan against the Czechoslovaks and then in the Urals or at Samara and
Tsaritsin, chance to meet again many years later one of them is bound to ask
after the first few questions:
“Remember Svyazhsk?” And they will clasp each other’s hand
again.
What is Svyazhsk? Today it is a legend, one of the revolutionary
legends which still remain unchronicled but which are being retold over and over
again from one end to another of this Russian vastness. Not one of the
demobilized Red Army men from among the old-timers, the founders of the Workers’
and Peasants’ Army, upon returning home and reminiscing about the three years of
Civil War will skip over the fabulous epic of Svyazhsk, the cross-roads whence
the tide of the revolutionary offensive started rolling on all four sides. On
the east—toward the Urals. On the south—toward the Caspian shores, the Caucasus
and the borders of Persia. On the north toward Archangel and Poland. Not all
together, of course; nor simultaneously. But it was only after Svyazhsk and
Kazan that the Red Army became crystallized into those fighting and political
forms which, after undergoing change and being perfected, have become classic
for the RSFSR [Russian Socialist Federated Soviet Republic].
On August 6 (1918) numerous hastily organized regiments fled from
Kazan; and the best among them, the class-conscious section, clung to Svyazhsk,
halted there and decided to make a stand and fight. By the time the mobs of
deserters fleeing from Kazan had almost reached Nizhny Novgorod, the dam erected
at Svyazhsk had already halted the Czechoslovaks; and their general who tried to
take the railroad bridge across the Volga by storm was killed during the night
attack. Thus in the very first clash between the Whites who had just taken Kazan
and consequently were stronger in morale and equipment, and the core of the Red
Army seeking to defend the bridge-head across the Volga, the head of the
Czechoslovak offensive was lopped off. They lost their most popular and gifted
leader in General Blagotich. Neither the Whites, flushed by their recent
victory, nor the Reds rallying round Svyazhsk had any inkling of the historical
importance that their initial trial skirmishes would have.
It is extremely difficult to convey the military importance of
Svyazhsk without having the necessary materials at hand, without a map, and
without the testimony of those comrades who were in the ranks of the Fifth Army
at that time. Much has already been forgotten by me; faces and names flit by as
in a fog. But there is something that no one will ever forget and that is: the
feeling of supreme responsibility for holding Svyazhsk. This was the bond
between all its defenders from a member of the Revolutionary Military Council to
the last Red rank and filer in desperate search for his somewhere extant,
retreating regiment, who suddenly turned back and faced Kazan in order to fight
to the last, with worn-out rifle in hand and fanatic determination in his heart.
The situation was understood by everyone as follows: Another step backward would
open the Volga to the enemy down to Nizhny (Novgorod) and thus the road to
Moscow.
Further retreat meant the beginning of the end; the death sentence
on the Republic of the Soviets.
How correct this is from a strategic point of view, I know not.
Perhaps the Army if rolled back even further might have gathered into a similar
fist on one of the innumerable black dots which speckle the map and thenceforth
carried its banners to victory. But indubitably it was correct from the
standpoint of morale. And insofar as a retreat from the Volga meant a complete
collapse at that time, to that extent the possibility of holding out, with ones
back against the bridge, imbued us with a real hope.
The ethics of the revolution formulated the complex situation
succinctly as follows: To retreat is to have the Czechs in Nizhny and in Moscow.
No surrender of Svyazhsk and the bridge means the reconquest of Kazan by the Red
Army.
The Arrival of Trotsky’s Train
It was, I believe, either on the third or fourth day after the fall
of Kazan that Trotsky arrived at Svyazhsk. His train came to a determined stop
at the little station; his locomotive panted a little, was uncoupled, and
departed to drink water, but did not return. The cars remained standing in a row
as immobile as the dirty straw-thatched peasant huts and the barracks occupied
by the Fifth Army’s staff. This immobility silently underscored that there was
no place to go from here, and that it was impermissible to leave.
Little by little the fanatical faith that this little station would
become the starting point for a counter-offensive against Kazan began to take on
the shape of reality.
Every new day that this God-forsaken, poor railway siding held out
against the far stronger enemy, added to its strength and raised its mood of
confidence. From somewhere in the rear, from far-off villages in the hinterland,
came at first soldiers one by one, then tiny detachments, and finally military
formations in a far better state of preservation.
I see it now before me, this Svyazhsk where not a single soldier
fought “under compulsion.” Everything that was alive there and fighting in
self-defense—all of it was bound together by the strongest ties of voluntary
discipline, voluntary participation in a struggle which seemed so hopeless at
the outset.
Human beings sleeping on the floors of the station house, in dirty
huts filled with straw and broken glass—they hardly hoped for success and
consequently feared nothing. The speculation on when and how all this “would
end” interested none. “Tomorrow”—simply did not exist; there was only a brief,
hot, smoky piece of time: Today. And one lived on that, as one
lives in harvest time.
Morning, noon, evening, night—each single hour was prolonged to the
utmost count; every single hour had to be lived through and used up to the last
second. It was necessary to reap each hour carefully, finely like ripe wheat in
the field is cut to the very root. Each hour seemed so rich, so utterly unlike
all of previous life. No sooner did it vanish than in recollection it seemed a
miracle. And it was a miracle.
Planes came and went, dropping their bombs on the station and the
railway cars; machine guns with their repulsive barking and the calm syllables
of artillery, drew nigh and then withdrew again, whilst a human being in a torn
military coat, civilian hat, and boots with toes protruding—in short, one of the
defenders of Svyazhsk—would smilingly produce a watch from his pocket and
bethink himself:
“So that’s what it is now—1:30 or 4:30 o’clock. Or, it is 6:20.
Therefore I am still alive. Svyazhsk holds. Trotsky’s train stands on the rails.
A lamp now flickers through the window of the Political Department. Good. The
day is ended.”
Medical supplies were almost completely absent at Svyazhsk. God
knows what the doctors used for bandages. This poverty shamed no one; nor did
anyone stand in fear of it. The soldiers on their way with soup kettles to the
field kitchen passed by stretchers with the wounded and the dying. Death held no
terrors. It was expected daily, always. To lie prone in a wet army coat, with a
red splotch on a shirt, with an expressionless face, a muteness that was no
longer human—this was something taken for granted.
Brotherhood! Few words have been so abused and rendered pitiful.
But brotherhood does come sometimes, in moments of direst need and peril, so
selfless, so sacred, so unrepeatable in a single lifetime. And they have not
lived and know nothing of life who have never lain at night on a floor in
tattered and lice-ridden clothes, thinking all the while how wonderful is the
world, infinitely wonderful! That here the old has been overthrown and that life
is fighting with bare hands for her irrefutable truth, for the white swans of
her resurrection, for something far bigger and better than this patch of
star-lit sky showing through the velvet blackness of a window with shattered
panes—for the future of all mankind.
Once in a century contact is made and new blood is transfused.
These beautiful words, these words, almost inhuman in their beauty, and the
smell of living sweat, the living breath of others sleeping beside you on the
floor. No nightmares, no sentimentalities but tomorrow the dawn will come and
Comrade G., a Czech Bolshevik, will prepare an omelet for the whole “gang”; and
the Chief of Staff will pull on a shaggy stiffly frozen shirt washed out last
night. A day will dawn in which someone will die, knowing in his last second
that death is only something among many other things, and not the main thing at
all; that once again Svyazhsk has not been taken and that the dirty wall is
still inscribed with a piece of chalk: “Workers of the World Unite!”
Against the Stream
The rainy August days thus passed one by one. The thin, poorly
equipped lines did not fall back; the bridge remained in our hands and from the
rear, from somewhere far away, reinforcements began to arrive.
Real telephone and telegraph wires began to attach themselves to
autumn spider-webs flying in the winds and some kind of enormous, cumbersome,
lame apparatus began to operate on the God-forsaken railway station—Svyazhsk,
this tiny, hardly discernible black dot on the map of Russia, at which in a
moment of flight and despair, the revolution had clutched. Here all of Trotsky’s
organizational genius was revealed. He managed to restore the supply lines, got
new artillery and a few regiments through to Svyazhsk on railways that were
being openly sabotaged; everything needed for the coming offensive was obtained.
In addition, it ought to be borne in mind that this work had to be done in the
year 1918, when demobilization was still raging, when the appearance on the
Moscow streets of a single well dressed detachment of the Red Army would create
a real sensation. After all, it meant to swim against the stream, against the
exhaustion of four years of war, against the spring floods of the revolution
which swept through the whole country the debris of Czarist discipline and wild
hatred of anything resembling the bark of old officers’ commands, the barracks,
or old army life.
Despite all this, supplies appeared before our very eyes.
Newspapers arrived, boots and overcoats came. And wherever they actually hand
out boots, and for keeps, there you will find a really solid army staff; there
things are stable; there the army stands firmly entrenched and has no thought of
fleeing. That’s no joking matter, boots!
The Order of the Red Flag was not yet in existence in the era of
Svyazhsk, else it would have been issued to hundreds. Everybody, including the
cowardly and the nervous and the simply mediocre workers and Red Army
men—everybody, without a single exception, performed unbelievable, heroic deeds;
they outdid themselves, like spring streams overflowing their banks they
joyfully flooded their own normal levels.
Such was the atmosphere. I remember receiving at that time by
extraordinary chance a few letters from Moscow. In them was some talk about the
exultation of the petty bourgeoisie preparing to repeat the memorable days of
the Paris Commune.
And in the meantime the foremost and most dangerous front of the
Republic hung by a thin railway thread and flamed, setting up an unprecedented
heroic conflagration which sufficed for three more years of hungry,
typhus-ridden, homeless war.
The Men Who Did It
In Svyazhsk Trotsky, who was able to give the newborn Army a
backbone of steel, who himself sank roots into the soil refusing to yield an
inch of ground no matter what happened, who was able to show this handful of
defenders a calmness icier than theirs—in Svyazhsk, Trotsky was not alone.
Gathered there were old party workers, future members of the Revolutionary
Military Council of the Republic, and of the Military Councils of the several
Armies to whom the future historian of the Civil War will refer as the Marshals
of the Great Revolution. Rosengoltz and Gussev, Ivan Nikitich Smirnov, Kobozev,
Mezhlauk, the other Smirnov, and many other comrades whose names I no longer
recall. From among the sailors, I remember Raskolnikov and the late Markin.
Rosengoltz in his railway car almost from the very first day
sprouted the office of the Revolutionary Military Council; extruded maps and
rattled typewriters—obtained God knows where—in short, he began building up a
strong, geometrically perfect organizational apparatus, with precise
connections, indefatigable working capacity and simple in scheme.
In the days to come, whatever the Army or the front, wherever the
work began to sputter, Rosengoltz was immediately brought in like a queen-bee in
a sack, placed into the disturbed bee hive and would immediately proceed to
build, organize, forming cells, buzzing over the telegraph wires. Despite the
military overcoat and enormous pistol in his belt, nothing martial could be
discerned in his figure, nor in his pale, slightly soft face. His tremendous
force did not lie in this field at all, but rather in his natural ability to
renew, establish connections, raise the tempo of a halting, infected bloodstream
to an explosive speed. At the side of Trotsky he was like a dynamo, regular,
well-oiled, noiseless, with powerful levers moving day after day, spinning the
untearable web of organization.
I do not recall just what kind of work I.N. Smirnov officially
performed in the staff of the Fifth Army. Whether he was a member of the
Revolutionary Military Council or at the same time also head of the Political
Department; but apart from all titles and frameworks he embodied the ethics of
the revolution. He was the highest moral criterion; the communist conscience of
Svyazhsk.
Even among the non-party soldier masses and those communists who
had not known him previously, his amazing purity and integrity were immediately
recognized. It is hardly likely that he himself was aware how much he was
feared; how everyone feared nothing so much as to reveal cowardice and weakness
before the eyes of this man, who never yelled at anyone, who simply remained
himself, calm, courageous. No one commanded as much respect as Ivan Nikitich.
Everyone felt that in the worst moment he would be the strongest and most
fearless.
With Trotsky—it was to die in battle after the last bullet had been
fired; to die enthusiastically, oblivious of wounds. With Trotsky—it was the
sacred pathos of struggle; words and gestures recalling the best pages of the
Great French Revolution.
But with Comrade Smirnov (so it seemed to us at the time and so we
spoke in whispers to each other as we huddled close together on the floor during
those already cold autumnal nights)—Comrade Smirnov: this was pure calm when “up
against the wall”; or when being grilled by the Whites; or in a filthy prison
hole. Yes, that is how one talked about him at Svyazhsk.
Boris Danilovich Mikhailov came a little later, directly from
Moscow, I believe, or generally from the center. He arrived in a civilian coat,
with that bright, rapidly changing expression on his face that people have on
being freed from prison or big cities.
Within a few hours he was completely overcome by the wild
intoxication of Svyazhsk. Changing clothes, he went out on reconnaissance patrol
in the vicinity of White Kazan, and returned three days later, tired, his face
wind-tanned, his body crawling with the ubiquitous lice. By way of compensation,
he was all in one piece.
It is a fascinating spectacle to observe the profound inner process
taking place in people who arrive at a revolutionary front: they catch fire like
a straw roof lit on all four sides, and then on cooling off become transformed
into a fire-proof, perfectly clear and uniform piece of cast iron.
Youngest of all was Mezhlauk. Valerian Ivanovich. He had a
particularly hard time. His younger brother and wife had remained behind in
Kazan and, according to rumor, had been shot. Later it turned out that his
brother actually had died there, while his wife suffered indescribably. It was
not customary to complain or talk about one’s misfortunes at Svyazhsk. And
Mezhlauk kept an honest silence, did his work, and walked through the sticky
autumn mud in his long cavalry coat, all of him concentrated on one burning
point: Kazan.
Meanwhile the Whites began to sense that with its strengthened
resistance, Svyazhsk was growing into something great and dangerous.
Intermittent skirmishes and attacks came to an end; a regular
siege, with large organized forces on all sides was started. But they had
already let slip the propitious moment.
Old Slavin, Commander of the Fifth Army, not a very gifted colonel
but one who knew his business exactly and thoroughly, fixed on a key point of
defense, worked out a definitive plan and carried it through with truly Latvian
stubborness.
Svyazhsk stood firm, its feet planted in the ground like a bull,
its broad forehead lowered toward Kazan, standing immovable on the spot and
impatiently shaking its horns sharp as bayonets.
One sunny autumn morning came narrow, agile and swift torpedo-boats
from the Baltic fleet to Svyazhsk. Their appearance created a sensation. The
Army now felt the river side protected. A series of artillery duels began on the
Volga, occurring three or four times daily. Covered by the fire of our batteries
concealed along the shore, our flotilla now ventured far forward. These forays
were crowned by such extremely audacious ones as that undertaken on the morning
of September 9 by Sailor Markin, one of the founders and outstanding heroes of
the Red fleet. On an unwieldy, armor-plated tug boat he ventured far out to the
very piers of Kazan, landed, drove off the crews of enemy batteries by machine
gun fire and removed the locks from several guns.
Another time, late at night on August 30, our ships came flush up
to Kazan, shelled the city, set fire to several barges loaded with munitions and
food supplies, and withdrew without losing a single ship. Among others Trotsky,
together with the Commander, was aboard the torpedo-boat “Prochny” which had to
fix its steering gear while drifting alongside an enemy barge and under the
muzzles of the White Guard artillery.
Vatzetis, commander-in-chief of the Eastern front, arrived at a
moment when the offensive against Kazan was already in full swing. Most of us,
myself among them, had little exact information concerning the outcome of the
conference; only one thing quickly became a matter of general knowledge and was
greeted with deep satisfaction on all sides: Our old man (that is what we called
our commander among ourselves) declared himself opposed to Vatzetis’ views, who
wanted to undertake an attack against Kazan from the left river bank, while our
commander decided to storm Kazan on the right bank which dominates the city and
not on the left bank which is flat and exposed.
The Whites Advance
But precisely at a time when the entire Fifth Army was tensely
poised for the attack, when its main forces at last began pushing forward under
constant counter-attacks and many heavy day-long battles, three “luminaries” of
White Guard Russia got together in order to put an end to the protracted epic of
Svyazhsk. Savinkov, Kappel and Fortunatov at the head of a considerable force
undertook a desperate raid against a railroad station adjoining Svyazhsk, in
order in this way to capture Svyazhsk itself and the Volga bridge. The raid was
brilliantly executed; after making a long detour, the Whites suddenly swooped
down on the station Shikhrana, shot it to pieces, seized the station buildings,
cut the connections with the rest of the railway line and burned a munition
train stationed there. The small defending force at Shikhrana was slaughtered to
the last man.
Nor is this all; they literally hunted down and extirpated every
living thing in this little station. I had the opportunity to see Shikhrana a
few hours after the raid. It bore the stigma of the completely irrational pogrom
violence that stamped all the victories of these gentlemen who never felt
themselves the masters and future inhabitants of the soil accidentally and
temporarily conquered.
In a courtyard, a cow lay bestially murdered (I say murdered
advisedly, not slaughtered); the chicken coop was filled senselessly with
chickens riddled in all too human a fashion. The well, the little vegetable
garden, the water tower and the houses were treated as if they had been captured
human beings and, moreover, Bolsheviks and “sheenies” [a derogatory term for
Jews]. The intestines had been ripped out of everything. Animals and inanimate
objects sprawled everywhere, decimated, violated, ugly-dead. Alongside this
horrible shambles of everything that once had been a human habitation, the
indescribable, unutterable death of a few railway employees and Red Army men
caught by surprise appeared quite in the nature of things.
Only in Goya’s illustrations of the Spanish campaign and guerrilla
war can a similar harmony be found of wind-swept trees bending low beneath the
weight of hanged men, of dust on roadways, of blood and stones.
From the station Shikhrana, the Savinkov detachment turned toward
Svyazhsk, moving along the railroad. We sent our armored train “Free Russia” to
meet them. So far as I am able to recall, it was armed with long range naval
guns. Its commander, however, did not rise to the level of his task. Being
surrounded on two sides (so it appeared to him), he left his train and rushed
back to the Revolutionary Military Council in order “to report.”
In his absence “Free Russia” was shot to pieces and burned. Its
black, burning hulk lay derailed for a long time beside the roadbed very close
to Svyazhsk.
After the destruction of the armored train the road to the Volga
seemed completely open. The Whites stood directly beneath Svyazhsk, some 1-1/2
to 2 versts away from the Fifth Army’s headquarters. Panic ensued. Part of the
Political Department, if not all of it, rushed to the piers and aboard the steam
boats.
The regiment, fighting virtually on Volga’s banks but higher
upstream, wavered and then fled with its commanders and commissars. Toward
morning, its maddened detachments were found aboard the staff ships of the Volga
war fleet.
In Svyazhsk only the Fifth Army staff with its officers and the
train of Trotsky remained.
How Svyazhsk Was Saved
Lev Davidovich [Trotsky] mobilized the entire personnel of the
train, all the clerks, wireless operators, hospital workers, and the guard
commanded by the Chief of Staff of the fleet, Comrade Lepetenko (by the way, one
of the most courageous and self-sacrificing soldiers of the revolution whose
biography could very well provide this book with its most brilliant chapter)—in
a word, everyone able to bear a rifle.
The staff offices stood deserted; there was no “rear” any longer.
Everything was thrown against the Whites who had rolled almost flush to the
station. From Shikhrana to the first houses of Svyazhsk the entire road was
churned up by shells, covered with dead horses, abandoned weapons and empty
cartridge shells. The closer to Svyazhsk, all the greater the havoc. The advance
of the Whites was halted only after they had leaped over the gigantic charred
skeleton of the armored train, still smoking and smelling of molten metal. The
advance surges to the very threshold, then rolls back boiling like a receding
wave only to fling itself once more against the hastily mobilized reserves of
Svyazhsk. Here both sides stand facing each other for several hours, here are
many dead.
The Whites then decided that they had before them a fresh and well
organized division of whose existence even their intelligence service had
remained unaware. Exhausted from their 48-hour raid, the soldiers tended to
overestimate the strength of the enemy and did not even suspect that opposing
them was only a hastily thrown together handful of fighters with no one behind
them except Trotsky and Slavin sitting beside a map in a smoke-filled sleepless
room of the deserted headquarters in the center of depopulated Svyazhsk where
bullets were whistling through the streets.
Throughout this night, like all the previous ones, Lev Davidovich’s
train remained standing there as always without its engine. Not a single section
of the Fifth Army advancing on Kazan and about to storm it was bothered that
night or diverted from the front to cover a virtually defenseless Svyazhsk. The
army and the fleet learned about the night attack only after it was all over,
after the Whites were already in retreat firmly convinced that almost a whole
division was confronting them.
The next day 27 deserters who had fled to the ships in the most
critical moment were tried and shot. Among them were several communists. Much
was later said about the shooting of these 27, especially in the hinterland, of
course, where they did not know by how thin a thread hung the road to Moscow and
our entire offensive against Kazan, undertaken with our last means and
forces.
To begin with, the whole army was agog with talk about communists
having turned cowards; and that laws were not written for them; that they could
desert with impunity, while an ordinary rank and filer was shot down like a
dog.
If not for the exceptional courage of Trotsky, the army commander
and other members of the Revolutionary Military Council, the prestige of the
communists working in the army would have been impaired and lost for a long time
to come.
No fine speeches can make it sound plausible to an army suffering
every possible privation in the course of six weeks, fighting practically with
bare hands, without even bandages, that cowardice is not cowardice and that for
guilt there may be “extenuating circumstances.”
It is said that among those shot were many good comrades, some even
whose guilt was redeemed by their previous services, by years in prison and
exile. Perfectly true. No one contends that they perished in order to prop up
those precepts of the old military code of “setting an example” when amidst the
beating of drums “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” were exacted. Of
course, Svyazhsk is a tragedy.
But everyone who has lived the life of the Red Army life, who was
born and grew strong with it in the battles of Kazan, will testify that the iron
spirit of this army would have never crystallized, that the fusion between the
party and the soldier masses, between the rank and file and the summits of the
commanding staff would have never been realized if, on the eve of storming Kazan
where hundreds of soldiers were to lose their lives, the party had failed to
show clearly before the eyes of the whole army that it was prepared to offer the
Revolution this great and bloody sacrifice, that for the party, too, the severe
laws of comradely discipline are binding; that the party, too, has the courage
to apply ruthlessly the laws of the Soviet Republic to its own members as
well.
Twenty-seven were shot and this filled in the breach which the
famous raiders had succeeded in making in the self-confidence and unity of the
Fifth Army. This salvo which exacted punishment from communists as well as
commanders and simple soldiers for cowardice and dishonor in battle forced the
least class-conscious section of the soldier mass and the one most inclined
toward desertion (and of course there was such a section, too) to pull
themselves together, and to align themselves with those who went consciously and
without any compulsion into battle.
Precisely in these days was decided the fate of Kazan, and not that
alone but the fate of the entire White intervention. The Red Army found its
self-confidence and became regenerated and strong during the long weeks of
defense and offense.
In conditions of constant danger and with the greatest moral
exertions it worked out its laws, its discipline, its new heroic statutes. For
the first time, panic in the face of the enemy’s more modern technique became
dissolved. Here one learned to make headway against any artillery; and
involuntarily, from the elemental instinct of self-preservation, new methods of
warfare were born, those specific battle methods which are already being studied
in the highest military academies as the methods of the Civil War. Of extreme
importance is the fact that in those days in Svyazhsk there was precisely such a
man as Trotsky.
Trotsky’s Role
No matter what his calling or his name, it is clear that the
creator of the Red Army, the future Chairman of the Revolutionary Military
Council of the Republic, would have had to be in Svyazhsk; had to live through
the entire practical experience of these weeks of battle; had to call upon all
the resources of his will and organizational genius for the defense of Svyazhsk,
for the defense of the army organism smashed under the fire of the Whites.
Moreover, in revolutionary war there is still another force,
another factor without which victory cannot be gained, and that is: the mighty
romanticism of the Revolution which enables people straight from the barricades
to cast themselves immediately in the harsh forms of the military machine,
without losing the quick, light step gained in political demonstrations or the
independent spirit and flexibility gained perhaps in long years of party work
under illegality.
To have conquered in 1918 one had to take all the fire of the
revolution, all of its incandescent heat, and harness them to the vulgar,
repellent age-old pattern of the army.
Up till now history has always solved this problem with imposing
but moth-eaten theatrical tricks. She would summon to the stage some individual
in a “three-cornered hat and a gray field uniform” and he or some other general
on a white horse would cut the revolutionary blood and marrow into republics,
banners, slogans.
In military construction, as in so many other things, the Russian
Revolution went its own way. Insurrection and war fused into one, the Army and
the Party grew together, inseparably interwoven, and on the regimental banners
were inscribed the unity of their mutual aims, all the sharpest formulas of the
class struggle. In the days of Svyazhsk all this remained as yet unformed, only
hanging in the air, seeking for expression.
The Workers’ and Peasants’ Army had to find expression somehow; it
had to take on its outward shape, produce its own formulas, but how? This no one
clearly knew yet. At that time, of course, no precepts, no dogmatic program were
available in accordance with which this titanic organism could grow and
develop.
In the party and in the masses there lived only a foreboding; a
creative premonition of this military revolutionary organization which was never
seen before and to which each day’s battle whispered some new real
characteristic.
Trotsky’s great merit lies in this, that he caught up in flight the
least gesture of the masses which already bore upon it the stamp of this
sought-for and unique organizational formula.
He sifted out and then set going all the little practices whereby
besieged Svyazhsk simplified, hastened or organized its work of battle. And
this, not simply in the narrow technical sense. No. Every new successful
combination of “specialist and commissar,” of him who commands and the one
executing the command and bearing the responsibility for it—every successful
combination, after it had met the test of experience and had been lucidly
formulated, was immediately transformed into an order, a circular, a regulation.
In this way the living revolutionary experience was not lost, nor forgotten, nor
deformed.
The norm obligatory for all was not mediocrity but on the contrary,
the best, the things of genius conceived by the masses themselves in the most
fiery, most creative moments of the struggle. In little things as well as
big—whether in such complex matters as the division of labor among the members
of the Revolutionary Military Council or the quick, snappy, friendly gesture
exchanged in greeting between a Red Commander and a soldier each busy and
hurrying somewhere—it all had to be drawn from life, assimilated and returned as
a norm to the masses for universal use. And wherever things weren’t moving, or
there was creaking, or bungling, one had to sense what was wrong, one had to
help, one had to pull, as the midwife pulls out the newborn babe during a
difficult birth.
One can be the most adept at articulating, one can give to a new
army a rationally impeccable plastic form, and nonetheless render its spirit
frigid, permit it to evaporate and remain incapable of keeping this spirit alive
within the chickenwire of juridical formulas. To prevent this, one must be a
great revolutionist; one must possess the intuition of a creator and an internal
radio transmitter of vast power without which there is no approaching the
masses.
In the last analysis it is precisely this revolutionary instinct
which is the court of highest sanction; which exactly purges its new creative
justice of all deeply hidden counter-revolutionary back-slidings. It places its
hand of violence upon the deceitful formal justice in the name of the highest,
proletarian justice which does not permit its elastic laws to ossify, to become
divorced from life and burden the shoulders of Red Army soldiers with petty,
aggravating, superfluous loads.
Trotsky possessed this intuitive sense.
In him the revolutionist was never elbowed aside by the soldier,
the military leader, the commander. And when with his inhuman, terrible voice he
confronted a deserter, we stood in fear of him as one of us, a great rebel who
could crush and slay anyone for base cowardice, for treason not to the military
but the world-proletarian revolutionary cause.
It was impossible for Trotsky to have been a coward, for otherwise
the contempt of this extraordinary army would have crushed him; and it could
never have forgiven a weakling for the fraternal blood of the 27 which sprayed
its first victory.
A few days before the occupation of Kazan by our troops Lev
Davidovich had to leave Svyazhsk; the news of the attempt on Lenin’s life called
him to Moscow. But neither Savinkov’s raid on Svyazhsk, organized with great
mastery by the Social Revolutionists, nor the attempt to assassinate Lenin,
undertaken by the same party almost simultaneously with Savinkov’s raid, could
now halt the Red Army. The final wave of the offensive engulfed Kazan.
On September 9 late at night the troops were embarked on ships and
by morning, around 5:30, the clumsy many-decked transports, convoyed by torpedo
boats, moved toward the piers of Kazan. It was strange to sail in moonlit
twilight past the half-demolished mill with a green roof, behind which a White
battery had been located; past the half-burned “Delphin” gutted and beached on
the deserted shore; past all the familiar river bends, tongues of land,
sandbanks and inlets over which from dawn to evening death had walked for so
many weeks, clouds of smoke had rolled, and golden sheaves of artillery fire had
flared.
We sailed with lights out in absolute silence over the black, cold,
smoothly flowing Volga.
Aft of the stern, light foam on the dull humming wake washed away
by waves that remember nothing and flow unconcernedly to the Caspian Sea. And
yet the place through which the giant ship was at this moment silently gliding
had only yesterday been a maelstrom ripped and plowed by wildly exploding
shells. And here, where a moment ago a nightbird tipped noiselessly with its
wing the water from which a slight mist curled upward into the cold air,
yesterday so many white spumy fountains were rising; yesterday, words of command
were restlessly sounding and slim torpedo boats were threading their way through
smoke and flames and a rain of steel splinters, their hulls trembling from the
compressed impatience of engines and from the recoil of their two-gun batteries
which fired once a minute with a sound resembling iron hiccups.
People were firing, scattering away under the hail of
downclattering shells, mopping up the blood on the decks.... And now everything
is silent; the Volga flows as it has flowed a thousand years ago, as it will
flow centuries from now.
We reached the piers without firing a shot. The first flickers of
dawn lit up the sky. In the greyish-pink twilight, humped, black, charred
phantoms began to appear. Cranes, beams of burned buildings, shattered telegraph
poles—all this seemed to have endured endless sorrow and seemed to have lost all
capacity for feeling like a tree with twisted withered branches. Death’s kingdom
washed by the icy roses of the northern dawn.
And the deserted guns with their muzzles uplifted resemble in the
twilight cast down figures, frozen in mute despair, with heads propped up by
hands cold and wet with dew.
Fog. People begin shivering from cold and nervous tension; the air
is permeated with the odor of machine oil and tarred rope. The gunner’s blue
collar turns with the movement of the body viewing in amazement the unpopulated,
soundless shore reposing in dead silence.
This is victory.
