Zinoviev's Factory Inspection
Grigory Zinoviev was in a foul mood.
On his desk lay a production report submitted by the Leningrad Rubber Trust. He read it once, then twice, then again. No matter how many times he went through it, the numbers refused to change.
The 3rd Galoshi Factory — no. The 1st Innovative Technology Demonstration Factory.
Total galoshi output: 155,610 pairs.
A four-hundred-percent overfulfillment.
Zinoviev traced the figure with a fingertip.
"…Just what kind of trick did they pull?"
It was a number he simply could not accept. That factory had been dying. More precisely, it was a factory he himself had arranged to let die. Even if shares belonging to the former Premier were tied up in it, that changed nothing.
A counterrevolutionary plant that doesn't even bother to prepare blat.
"Contact Branch Chief Yagoda and have the sentence carried out ahead of schedule."
Messing, who had been a thorn in his side at every turn, had only just been transferred to Moscow. Yagoda, the new OGPU branch chief, was a man one could actually do business with. He would extract this rotten tooth in a single pull.
Unfortunately for Zinoviev, he did not know that Yagoda had already released every last one of the old Imperial elites — Prince Golitsyn first among them.
Zinoviev set the report down on the desk.
"…Insolent bastard."
A factory that ought to have died had come back to life. The proposition itself grated on him — all the more so because the man he had meant to destroy was the one responsible.
"A hundred and fifty-five thousand six hundred and ten pairs from a plant that looked incapable of turning out even five thousand…"
Zinoviev's mouth tightened as his eyes found the name of Yakov Svanidze, the man who had accomplished the impossible. Even granting the support of the Commissariat of Science and Technology and the Council of People's Commissars, 155,610 pairs was, by any reckoning he possessed, an absurd figure.
All he had to do was admit his mistakes, beg forgiveness, offer up blat, and swear loyalty…
This was refusing the ladder set in front of you and climbing the wall instead. Leave a factory like that alone and the others would take notes. No need to give First Secretary Zinoviev any blat, they'd say.
Something else will have to be done.
A sudden wave of anxiety seized him, and his hands began to tremble.
"Svanidze… I thought he was just a toy I failed to break at the Smolny Institute."
Those eyes that had dropped so calmly toward the floor, as if licking a man's boot were nothing at all. In them, Zinoviev had seen the shape of the man he despised most in the world.
"…It can't be."
His fingertips shook again.
"Impossible. Why would Koba send his own son to Leningrad?"
He pushed the thought away. But he could not quite extinguish the suspicion lodged in a corner of his mind.
"The name was Vasily Stalin, wasn't it? No — Vasily Dzhugashvili."
Having resolved to look into Stalin's son, Zinoviev turned his attention back to the report.
"Secretary! Clear my entire schedule for tomorrow! Tomorrow I inspect the 1st Innovative Technology Demonstration Factory here in Leningrad!"
He folded the report and rose from his chair. He wanted to know how Yakov had brought a collapsing galoshi plant back to life in two months. And if he could, he meant to take that know-how wholesale. No one who defied his will could be permitted to remain in this Leningrad — and there was nothing here he could not take for himself.
"A visit from the Chairman of the Leningrad Soviet and the General Secretary…?"
Leningrad's General Secretary. That meant First Secretary Grigory Zinoviev.
Foreman Ivan held an official notice out to me.
Comrade Grigory Zinoviev, First Secretary of Leningrad, is scheduled to inspect the 1st Innovative Technology Demonstration Factory tomorrow morning. Receive him with every preparation.
That was the gist of it.
"…Comrade Supervisor. What are we supposed to do about this…?"
Ivan's face had gone paper-white. He had every reason. By now the whole plant knew that Zinoviev had been the man behind everyone who had made our lives so difficult — and the man who had closed his fist around our throats was about to walk in of his own accord.
I set the notice down.
"What else? The First Secretary of Leningrad is paying us a personal visit. We give him a warm welcome."
"C-Comrade Supervisor! You know what kind of man he is!"
"That hardly matters. He is the first man in Leningrad, and even if we fall under the Commissariat of Science and Technology, we have no right to refuse his inspection. What we need to think about is why Zinoviev is coming — and why now."
In truth, even a child could have guessed the purpose.
The next day, at the Leningrad 1st Innovative Technology Demonstration Factory.
"Tell me, Comrade Foreman Ivan. How does this plant produce a hundred and sixty thousand pairs in two months?"
Of course. The first words out of Zinoviev's mouth landed squarely inside the range I had expected.
"As I understand it, the Red Triangle's hundred and fifty workshop buildings, with several thousand workers, turn out seven million pairs of galoshi a year. That comes to two or three pairs per person per day."
He drew a notebook and pen from inside his coat.
"By my calculation, the women in this factory have been producing thirty-seven and a half pairs a day. That is, by any ordinary standard, impossible. You haven't been violating the Union's sacred eight-hour labor statutes with overtime and extra shifts, I trust?"
"C-Comrade Party Secretary! Of course not!"
"This factory has no overtime and no extra shifts, Comrade First Secretary Zinoviev."
"I say, Supervisor Svanidze! Did I ask you?!"
"……"
"Hmph! Foreman Ivan! If you do not explain to me, yourself, exactly how this was done, you and Comrade Supervisor Svanidze can both consider yourselves bound for a corrective labor camp!"
Zinoviev was working himself into a fine rage. Ivan looked ready to burst — they had told the truth, and the man simply would not believe it.
That was when it happened.
"These two are guilty of nothing but speaking the truth, Zinoviev."
"Who dares use my name so familiarly— ah— you—?!"
The workshop door opened, and Factory Director Golitsyn stepped through it.
"N-Nikolai Golitsyn! A counterrevolutionary monarchist — how are you even here…?!"
"A counterrevolutionary monarchist, you say? Whatever do you mean, Comrade Zinoviev? I am a man of the Union to the marrow. The red blood in my veins is proof enough."
Golitsyn ambled toward him, all easy banter.
"That 'invitation' you arranged was quite entertaining. I never imagined you'd go so far as to move the OGPU. Alas — they found us dull and threw us all out."
He closed to within a breath of Zinoviev, caught him by the shoulder, and murmured into his ear.
"Insufficient evidence. Case closed, no charges. We may soon be sending you an 'invitation' of our own. Oughtn't you to prepare?"
"……!"
Zinoviev's face went slack with shock. He stumbled back.
"According to the report our factory submitted to the Commissariat of Science and Technology, work begins at eight in the morning, there is a one-hour midday break, and the shift ends at five. Comrade Professor Favorsky, who came down from the Commissariat on inspection not long ago, confirmed as much himself."
Golitsyn smiled.
"If you truly cannot take our word, you are welcome to spend the day touring the plant and seeing for yourself. These old bones will show you around personally. What do you say, Comrade First Secretary?"
"…I came to inspect. I suppose I shall have to look inside."
Zinoviev shoved Ivan's shoulder aside and strode into the factory alone.
"W-wait! C-Comrade Party Secretary!"
The aides who had come with him, and the Chairman of the Leningrad Soviet, startled and hurried after. How a man who seemed capable of nothing but making enemies had become First Secretary of the Party was, to me, a genuine mystery.
"Ha! Well, at forty-two a man is still in the full flush of his blood! Comrade First Secretary! Shall we?"
Golitsyn followed at a leisurely smile, and I fell in quietly behind them.
The moment we stepped inside, the dull thunder of machinery and the busy voices of the women on the line rose up to meet us. Zinoviev had clearly been expecting the reek of stale oil and the sour punch of men's sweat; the confusion on his face was poorly hidden.
"Hrm…"
He swallowed a sound in his throat as he took in the new presses and cutters ranked in imposing rows. The women worked the machines with practiced, precise hands, while the skilled men Golitsyn had brought in stood beside them, teaching. On the surface, the factory's day was unfolding without a hitch.
"What is the daily operating time on these machines?"
Zinoviev asked it with the eyes of a hawk that has sighted prey.
"Three hours in total, run only at the appointed times. For the particulars, I refer you to the report of Comrade Professor Favorsky, chief auditor of the Commissariat of Science and Technology, Comrade First Secretary."
"Hmph…"
Zinoviev barely seemed to hear the unhesitating answer. He moved on toward the galoshi production line.
Something snagged in my memory: the shoes on his feet looked like the same pair I had seen at the Smolny Institute.
A laborer's coat on the outside, and a bourgeois's shoes underneath…
Each time those shoes struck the floor they made an ugly little scrape. He recorded everything with the air of a man who fully intended to find a flaw — the women's workbenches, the tool chests, even the time-clock board by the door. The newly hired women were visibly stiffening with fear. One slip today and he would bury whoever made it.
But Golitsyn was an old politician. Every sharp, tangled question Zinoviev flung at him he answered with something impeccably principled, sliding over the difficulty the way a snake slides over a wall.
"Kh-hrm…"
Zinoviev made a small sound, his brow drawn tight. Even from where I stood, his temper was visibly souring. He had come to find a pretext, and both the paperwork and the shop floor were observing Party guidelines with infuriating perfection. Even Zinoviev, it seemed, could do nothing with that.
"Comrade First Secretary. Look at this."
One of the men in Zinoviev's entourage had found something. He called his master over.
"What is it?"
Zinoviev's face brightened at once as he went to him. The man leaned in and spoke low.
"The temperature on this machine is unusual. Rubber is ordinarily vulcanized at high heat — a hundred and fifty to a hundred and sixty degrees — but this unit appears to be finishing the process at a hundred and twenty. Which means…"
Oh?
I had just rounded my eyes at a rather professional observation when, without warning, that ability of mine stirred to life.
Joined the Communist Party in 1917. Distinguished himself on the Military Supply Commission, procuring vehicle tires and rubber boot-soles for the Red Army. Promoted in March 1925 to Leningrad Director of Rezinotrest, the Central Rubber Administration. Currently serving as chief officer of the Red Triangle works.
Well now. Look at this one.
Zinoviev had brought along a rather interesting guest.