Gindin is more than shocked, he is stunned. No one talks about these things. No one is allowed, by law, to talk about these things. Even to think this way is treason. Even to listen this way is treason. To be in the same room with a man talking this way is treason.
Still, Gindin holds out the slim hope that the zampolit is merely testing their loyalty to the Communist government and to the Party. He is the political officer, after all, and it is his job to find out whom to trust. But not this way.
Sadkov is half off his seat, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set, but again Sablin holds up a hand to calm them down.
“How can you even suggest such a thing?” the doctor shouts.
“You’re the political officer aboard this ship! You’re a Communist and a member of the Bolshevik Party.”
“It’s because I am a good Communist that I am raising my voice—,” Sablin tries to interrupt, but Sadkov won’t hear it.
“Where were you raised? How can you even talk about these things?” Sadkov shouts. He looks at the other officers for their support. “This is against our country’s morals!”
Proshutinsky jumps to his feet. “Enough of this!” he shouts. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”
Senior Lieutenant Vinogradov gets up. He, too, has had enough, and he’s going to leave.
“Sit down!” Sablin cries. “Right now! That’s an order!”
For a very long, pregnant moment, no one in the room moves a muscle. But ever so slowly Sadkov sits down, followed by Proshutinsky and Vinogradov. Sablin is a superior officer. His orders are to be obeyed. It’s the same system in every military organization.
Gindin cannot comprehend what is happening. Everything he’s grown up with as a good Russian, everything he has been taught in the academy, and everything he’s learned aboard ship tells him that the situation he finds himself in is not possible.
Gindin wonders if Sablin is trying to defect to the West. It has happened before, though nothing was ever officially published about such treasonous acts. But everybody knows that things like that happen. And everybody knows what the punishment is. It’s called Russian insurance. Nine ounces. In other words, a 9mm bullet to the back of the head.
A strange, uneasy silence descends upon the midshipmen’s mess. Everyone is sitting down, looking at Sablin, and he’s standing up looking at them.
“I want to sail the Storozhevoy to Kronshtadt,” he tells us. It’s about six hundred kilometers to the northeast and is at the entrance to Leningrad.
No one says a thing. None of them know what to say.
“When we get there we will ask the Kremlin to, first of all, treat us as a separate military base and then give us access to a television station and a radio station. I will speak directly to the Russian people and ask them to join us in the fight against injustice.
“This day of celebration for the October Revolution will be symbolic of our struggle. The people will understand. They will be with us, you’ll see. It will be just like when the Potemkin and Aurora rose up in protest. The people rose up in support and the revolution began.”
The irony of this situation strikes Gindin right between the eyes. In the first place, Sablin is the one officer aboard the Storozhevoy whose loyalty is completely beyond question. He is the Communist Party aboard ship. His is the final word in anything that has to do with politics.
And in the second place, all of them in this room are condemned men as of this moment. It won’t just be Sablin preaching treason who will be punished; it will be all of those who listened.
“Now you must make a decision,” Sablin says. “Each of you must search your conscience to find out what is right for you but, more important, what is right for the Rodina.”
He takes the plastic container from the table on the left. The bin holds backgammon pieces, white and black. He sets a white piece and a black piece in front of each officer.
“Now you must choose,” he tells them. “If you are with me, put a white piece into the bin. But if you oppose my effort to save the Motherland, then put a black piece in the bin.”
He’s standing in the middle of the room looking at them, challenging the officers to do the right thing, whatever that might be.
“I promise you that your vote will be secret, if you want it to—,” he says. But all of a sudden he stops speaking. Perhaps he realizes just how stupid his promise really is. After this evening, nothing any of them will do aboard the Storozhevoy will be secret.
Especially not from the KGB.
PART 3
THE GREAT SOVIET FAILURE
14. DOUBLESPEAK
Russians have been ruled by lousy systems for most of their history. The tsars with their absolute authority listened to no one but their own caste of nobility. After all, they had God on their side. Who was in the kulaks’ corner? Indeed, what could a rabble of uneducated farmers or street sweepers or factory workers or even merchants understand about governing a country as vast as Russia? That arrogance cost the tsars their nation when in February of 1917 Nicholas II abdicated his power because he refused to take Russia out of the war with the Germans and his loyal subjects objected. Loudly.
The nobility tried to hold on when Prince Georgy Yevgenyevich and then Aleksandr Kerensky formed a provisional government, but neither of them pulled Russia out of the ruinous war, nor would they change the system that denied the peasant-farmers ownership of their own land. This was a dumb move by Moscow, because the peasants constituted 80 percent of the population.
Adding to Yevgenyevich’s and Kerensky’s woes were the Russian intellectuals as a class who disagreed with nearly everything. Poverty was rampant; most of the population was hungry most of the time. The generals and admirals were on the verge of a junta. And mutinies and desertions were widespread, especially among the soldiers and sailors who’d been drafted into the service. When they got back to their hometowns, they gave their weapons to the angry Socialist factory workers who were ready to move on the government.
One faction of these new revolutionaries, who called themselves the Bolsheviks, which was just another word for the most radical of the Socialists, came up with a slogan—Land, peace, and bread—and the concept of a system of what they called soviets that ignited the entire country into an all-out civil war.
A soviet was a council of delegates elected by factory workers or employees of other businesses. The soviets had no official status in the provisional government at that time, but theirs were the voices of the people, and Moscow did listen as best it could. Actually, it was a more up close and personal form of democracy than existed in the United States.
But once the October Revolution was over with and the government had been toppled and a constitution had been drafted, all the soviets across the country got organized and started reporting to what was called the Supreme Soviet in Moscow. It was the highest legislative body in the country, akin to the Congress in Washington. The highest executive branch of the new government was the Politburo. And the first leader of the new Soviet Union was none other than Vladimir Lenin, who was the Bolshevik leader of the Communist Party.
Lenin’s first act was to withdraw from WWI, turning over most of Belarus and Ukraine to Germany.
But his second, even more important, task was to fight a civil war that threatened to unravel everything that the soviet system had accomplished and destroy the country. But at least they had the peasants, the workers, and the conscript soldiers and sailors behind them.