Recognition
Voronin seemed determined to put me through the wringer, for he came armed with a rather thorny question.
"You say you want to become a political commissar, so you ought to know at least this much. Tell me, then: in the dictatorship of the proletariat, what is the relationship between the working class and the peasantry?"
His intent was obvious enough. He must have thought that a mere stripling who wasn't even a Party member couldn't possibly know what the proletariat was, or what dictatorship meant.
He's planning to mock me to his heart's content when I stammer and fail to answer.
Unfortunately for him, I was a graduate student who understood the precise meanings of "proletariat" and "dictatorship," and even the distinctions between Marxism and Leninism beyond that—something he had no way of knowing.
"Let me enlighten you. The dictatorship of the proletariat means that the workers constitute the whole of society and exercise absolute power, completely dominating and subjugating inferior classes such as the bourgeoisie and the peasantry!"
Moreover, he didn't even wait for my answer. Voronin curled his lips into a triumphant smirk as he continued.
"You haven't the faintest idea what I'm talking about, do you? Well, of course not. A greenhorn like you could never understand such things. Fine. I'll give you something easier."
Honestly, this was beyond belief. An interviewer answering his own questions and looking down on the interviewee besides? Was this the Soviet style of interviewing?
And on top of that… his definition is completely wrong. How can a political commissar not have even read the Critique of the Gotha Programme?
The thought brought a hollow laugh to my lips.
"What are you smirking at!"
"It's just so absurd. Is that the best you can manage for a question and self-answer?"
"…What did you say?"
"Not only do you try to lecture people with utter nonsense, but you also assume from the start that I couldn't possibly answer. It's truly ridiculous."
"Y-you little—! What did you just—!"
I carefully picked apart his words and retorted.
"Dictatorship, etymologically speaking, means an 'emergency situation in a republic,' and the dictatorship of the proletariat refers to the emergency measures by which the working masses, becoming the whole of society, eliminate existing contradictions and absurdities for the defense and perpetuation of the revolution. Dominating inferior classes? Where in the world does one use the word 'dictatorship' in that sense?"
"……!!!"
The concept of the dictatorship of the proletariat was first conceived by none other than the father of communism, Karl Marx. And the man who refined that concept and first succeeded in a socialist revolution was none other than the founding father of the Soviet Union, Vladimir Lenin.
"And to say that the peasant class must be dominated? Are you still spouting such outdated nonsense?"
"W-what? The peasants are creatures steeped in the maggot-like greed of private property! How could they ever stand on equal footing with us, the subjects of the revolution!"
"…Comrade Voronin, do you not know of the Smychka?"
"Worker-peasant equality? What of it!"
"Not equality—alliance."
Voronin, apparently failing to grasp the hidden meaning in my words, only raised his voice further.
Wait—something felt off. The Smychka, that is, the worker-peasant alliance, was the current program of the Communist Party. In 1925, the Soviet Union's pro-peasant policies were at their peak, after all. So why did Voronin know nothing of it? Had the actual political situation of the Soviet Union diverged from what I knew?
I cocked my head in puzzlement, and then my eyes fell on the other two interviewers. Saveliev was shaking his head left and right as he looked at Voronin, while Instructor Lapin wiped his sweat and watched with restless eyes.
They're looking at Voronin as if he's pathetic… Ah!
Only then could I relax.
I wasn't wrong—Voronin was simply ignorant!
I stared at him in disbelief, and he pushed up his glasses, twisting his lips into a sneer.
"Ha! Still a greenhorn after all. What? The Smychka is the Party's program and the very essence of the dictatorship of the proletariat?! Nonsense!"
Did he know, I wondered? That he was right now tightening the noose around his own neck.
"Are you denying the Smychka at this very moment?"
"You—what do you know of the Party's program that you keep spouting off! Enough! Interview or not, get out of here this instant…!!!"
"There's one thing I haven't mentioned yet, but the words Comrade Voronin first asserted do strike a familiar chord."
"…What?"
"Regarding the peasantry as a principal enemy on the same level as the bourgeoisie. Doesn't that sound rather like Menshevik doctrine?"
"Me-Mensheviks?! Comrade, how can you say such a thing…!"
The sneer that had hung on Voronin's lips slowly froze. He seemed only now to realize the danger of the words that had left his own mouth.
"Surely the teaching Comrade Voronin meant to impart to me isn't about reconstructing the factional activities within the Party that were concluded by the Kronstadt rebellion of 1921?"
"Th-that couldn't possibly be…! I-I merely meant to say…"
The gestures with which he had tried to overwhelm me by waving his hands had long since stopped, and through the lenses of his glasses I could feel the fluster in his eyes.
Mensheviks. A word meaning "minority faction" in Russian. They were enemies and targets of liquidation for the currently ruling Bolsheviks, and for a political commissar, "Comrade, you sound like a Menshevik" was no different from saying "Comrade, your ideology is truly seditious and reactionary."
In other words, I had openly cast doubt on Voronin's ideology right to his face. But Voronin could not refute me. If he retracted the words he had uttered, it would mean bowing to me; if he insisted on his point, he would become a communist who truly held Menshevik ideas. And with witnesses present, taking it back would not be easy.
"…Pfft."
At that, Saveliev, who had been sitting with his arms crossed the whole time, let out a short laugh.
"Comrade Voronin. In my view…"
He pointed at me with his chin.
"If you don't apologize to Comrade Svanidze right this moment, you'll be branded a Menshevik… Are you fine with that?"
"O-of course I'm not fine with it!"
Voronin's face flushed bright red. He worked his lips for a long while, then finally bowed his head to me.
"…Comrade Svanidze."
His voice came out twisted, as if through clenched teeth.
"Just now… I was rash. Please forget it."
But you know… Just like that? With nothing to back it up? His posture as someone asking a favor seemed rather lacking.
When I said nothing, he raised his head and, maintaining as kindly an expression as he could, made me an offer.
"Listen, Comrade Svanidze. Let's handle this amicably, yes?"
His voice was so soft it was hard to believe he had been looking down on me just moments before.
"I may not look it, but I have quite a few connections in the Leningrad Party Committee. If you wish, I could introduce you to them."
The Leningrad Party Committee… So Voronin is with the Zinoviev faction?
That would explain why he was speaking this way. The Zinoviev faction would soon ally with Trotsky to form the Left Opposition against Stalin. Behind his glasses, his eyes were trembling like aspen leaves.
"In-instead… about that 'Menshevik' business just now. Forget it the moment you leave this room. We never spoke of it, and you never heard it. How about it? Not a bad deal, is it?"
Voronin spoke to me with the utmost humility. He seemed to know better than anyone that the moment the Menshevik-leaning views that had left his own mouth leaked outside, he would have his ideology questioned and be dragged off to the Gulag.
But…
"Why should I do that?"
"……?!"
"Even if you seal my mouth, what good would it do? The two instructors here already heard everything Comrade Voronin just said."
So shouldn't he be persuading the other two as well, not just me? As I thought that leisurely, Saveliev spoke again.
"Comrade Voronin."
He still had his arms crossed.
"Surely you don't mean to silence the two of us as well? With Chairman Zinoviev's power…?"
At Saveliev's single remark, Voronin's face went deathly pale. With the two interviewers seated at the same table staring daggers at him, a deal with me alone could never have worked in the first place.
"Enough. Let's put an end to these worthless jokes."
Saveliev cut Voronin off with a wave of his hand.
"Tsk… At this rate, I can't tell who's the political commissar and who's the interviewer."
Voronin's face flushed like a ripe persimmon. He looked mortified and resentful, but there was little he could do about it.
"We've seen enough of your military knowledge and ideology… There's no need to dig any further."
Saveliev stacked the interview papers neatly as he continued.
"Guts, brains, character… We've already seen it all."
Saveliev opened a desk drawer, took something out, and rose from his seat.
"Comrade Svanidze, take this."
He handed it to me casually. It was a small metal badge stamped with a red star.
"You've passed, Cadet Svanidze."
"……!"
At Saveliev's offhand acknowledgment, a strange swell of emotion rose in me. I picked up the badge and clenched it tightly in my hand. The heavy touch of the metal was cold… and at the same time warm.
"…Thank you!"
"That's enough. What thanks are needed? You earned it yourself."
For the first time, Saveliev smiled faintly. Beside him, Lapin clapped his hands lightly a couple of times, while Voronin, still unable to meet my eyes, glared only at the documents.
"Here, let me."
Saveliev himself pinned the badge to my chest.
Yakov had said: rather than borrowing Stalin's hand, he would rather crawl into the third-rate by his own power. Of course, this place was no third-rate.
I was glad. Because my ability and knowledge… had been recognized. Even if it was not the path I had originally wanted.