Moscow Nights
I believed him when he first offered praise, only to feel the knife twist in my back. Then again, it was hardly unreasonable for those who had already succeeded in one revolution to question those of us leading a new one. If Comrade Trotsky focused on the physiology of revolution, Comrade Stalin seemed far more concerned with its practical realities.
Germany had modernized at breakneck speed after unification in 1871. The challenge was to transplant the core of that complex industrial system—woven together by landlords, capitalists, and bourgeois interests—into socialism without destroying the machinery itself. The same problem would confront us if the revolution spread to Western Europe, to France and Britain.
“Well, I believe capitalism’s greatest asset is not machinery but information,” I explained slowly. “Capital maintains its dominance over the people by controlling information that should be public to the proletariat. A dictatorship of the proletariat, then, means the proletariat itself must own that information—cost structures, logistics flows, statistical data on consumption and need—managed not by exclusive councils but by workers’ councils open to the entire people.”
“Workers’ councils managing information?”
“Yes. Even now the All-Union Congress of Soviets manages all information and makes it public to the people, precisely to prevent corruption.”
“Quite right, Comrade Heinz.”
Surprisingly, the Soviet Union maintained a clear separation between the policy-making People’s Council (the Soviet Congress) and the administrative body that carried out those policies, the Council of People’s Commissars. The judicial People’s Court was likewise independent. All three organs remained subject to the absolute oversight and recall power of the people.
“Germany is already industrialized, and it has no shortage of quick minds. The point is to let workers—not managers—handle the bookkeeping and social ownership of the means of production, so the revolution completes itself.”
“This aligns with the Worker’s Factory project, does it not?”
“One could see it that way. By entrusting both ownership and management to the workers, we are already sketching the society that will come after the revolution.”
“But in the chaos immediately following a revolution, the working class may be overwhelmed by such responsibilities—especially if we intend to transplant Germany’s vast industrial structure intact.”
“That is why we incorporate the existing engineers and managers into the post-revolutionary order, not as permanent administrators but as temporary solutions to administrative inefficiency.”
“And you are certain these former managers will accept their new roles?”
“Some will refuse, others will cooperate. After all, even if they once worked with capitalists, they are not capitalists themselves. In the broader sense they belong to the propertyless class. We respect the administrative expertise that kept the factories running, but only as a bridge—over time that expertise must pass into the hands of the workers so they can fully own and manage the means of production.”
“In other words, you intend to recycle the old system.”
“To a certain extent, yes. It would be a waste to destroy every capitalist production element we have inherited and start from nothing. Instead we let workers directly manage information while training the existing managerial layer to educate new workers, guiding society toward the post-revolutionary order. It is a kind of reassembly.”
“And this process will be entirely voluntary?”
“Even if some workers refuse collectivization, that is acceptable. So long as we remember our goal is not to oppress the people but to make them masters of their own fate, we can restrain bureaucratization while preserving a measure of administrative efficiency.”
At least in theory.
“A sound approach. It resembles engineering more than revolution.”
“Running an economy after the revolution is, in the end, also a matter of engineering, is it not?”
Stalin, who had maintained his usual steel expression, suddenly burst into laughter.
“I took you for a fiery revolutionary, yet you possess a surprising sense of reality.”
Nikolai Bukharin, who had been sipping tea, chimed in. “A revolutionary, yes, but also a politician with a firm grasp of reality. Who else but Comrade Heinz could bring the Social Democrats onto the same side as us?”
“Now I understand why Comrade Thälmann places such trust in you,” Bukharin continued. “Who says revolution must always be paid for in blood? If the people simply seize the means of production and hold them in common, the revolution is complete. The fewer who suffer, the better.”
“Your words are true, Comrade Bukharin, yet we must view revolution more realistically,” Stalin replied. “We must always remember that Russia’s path—advancing into the post-revolutionary era without war or rebellion—was an extraordinary stroke of luck.”
“That is certainly true, Comrade Stalin. But if it worked in Russia, why should it not work in Germany, in Europe, across the entire world?”
“If we must fight, then we fight. The day we export revolution to the world is drawing near. How fortunate.”
Lev Trotsky, Joseph Stalin, and Nikolai Bukharin—the three men seemed to represent the opposing poles within the Soviet Communist Party itself.
“Still, I have many questions, Comrade Heinz,” Trotsky said. “If we absorb the entire proletariat and reuse existing production structures, might the revolution lose its dynamism and settle into complacency? If the temporary structures created right after the revolution harden instead of renewing themselves?”
He paused. “But I will not ask them now. After all, everyone has gathered here for the Comintern World Congress, and we have only two days left. There will be time enough then.”
“The schedule for this congress has been arranged with ample room for discussion,” Stalin added.
“We shall meet again, Comrade Heinz—and all the comrades who have come from Germany. Rest well.”
With that, the informal gathering dispersed.
That evening the sun slipped below the horizon, and darkness settled over the cold city. The night view of the Kremlin from Red Square was magnificent. Lights illuminated the palace, making it glow brightly even in the dark. The long line of the Kremlin’s walls stood proudly in their grandeur. Lenin’s red-brick mausoleum still shone with its name. What greater honor could there be for the man who first proved, through living practice, that workers could be liberated through revolution?
Red Square, true to its place at the heart of Moscow, held more than the Kremlin. To the left stood St. Basil’s Cathedral, now a museum; to the right, the State Historical Museum; behind them, the GUM building, once a department store in tsarist times and still the center of the labor market. The name sounded odd, yet it was simply “GUM.” St. Basil’s, once a symbol of the old regime, now rose above Red Square like a faded mirror reflecting that bygone era—except the crosses on its spires had been replaced by stars representing communism. Much more pleasing to the eye.
Leaning against the railing on the street opposite Lenin’s Mausoleum, I drank in the scene. It was a peaceful place.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? N’est-ce pas magnifique?”
While I gazed at the illuminated palace and square, someone approached and spoke. In French?
“Yes… it is lovely. C’est magnifique.”
“Hmm. Anyone who can describe the Moscow night view with nothing more than ‘lovely’ must come from a truly, truly beautiful place.”
“Does capturing the beauty of a landscape really require elaborate adjectives? ‘Lovely’ seems quite sufficient to me.”
“I suppose that is true. Ich schätze, es ist wahr.”
He suddenly switched to German. “You are German, then?”
“No—how did you…?”
What was this, mind reading?
“Who else in the world could have such a lamentable aesthetic sense if not a German?”
“Ahaha…”
He was right, unfortunately.
“Of course, I am joking. I saw your face and name on the Comintern delegate list. Comrade Emilia Heinz, correct?”
“Ah…”
So that was it. He had startled me for nothing.
“Yes. Emilia Heinz, representative of the German Labour Party. And you are?”
“Boris Pilnyak. Have you heard the name before?”
“Comrade Pilnyak… No, I have not.”
Was he famous in Russia?
“What do you do?”
“I write novels. I have published several works in Berlin as well, though apparently they did not make me famous.”
“Ah… I have not had many occasions to visit Berlin myself.”
Although Berlin ranked among Germany’s five largest cities and, unlike the political center Frankfurt or the cultural center Vienna, was often mentioned as a hub for books…
“Russian novels are surprisingly unpopular in Germany. I have only read a few works by Tolstoy and Gorky myself.”
Lev Tolstoy, who symbolized pre-revolutionary Russian literature, and Maxim Gorky, who symbolized revolutionary-era Russian literature—those were the only two I really knew.
“Both Tolstoy and Gorky are remarkable figures. Comrade Gorky lives nearby. Since you are here, why not meet him while you have the chance?”
“I would like that. But what brings you here?”
“I was about to ask you the same. I live in Moscow, after all. I am curious why a member of the German delegation is standing here in the middle of the night.”
Was that so…? Well, since I was the outsider, perhaps I should answer first.
“I was simply bored and came out to see the night view.”
“Moscow is beautiful, of course. There is something amusing about the irony—these colorful lights and cathedrals no longer symbolize an unjust old regime but have become faded antiques reflecting a difficult past within this new society.”
“Indeed.”
He was a novelist, after all. He certainly had a way with words.
“May I think of you as a revolutionary who has come from Germany?”
“Think whatever is convenient.”
It was not important.
“Understood. Comrade Heinz is a revolutionary from Germany.”
He leaned against the railing beside me. “I understand you are very young. According to the newspapers you were born in 1906, which would make you the youngest among all the world communists gathered here at the Comintern. Like myself in my youth, you must have recognized the irrationality of capitalism and feudal society and wished to abolish it. But I have another, rather different question.”
He placed his hand over mine where it rested on the railing.
“Revolution is not a path of flowers. It may require killing people with your own hands and watching blood run in the streets. Can you bear that?”
“…”
What exactly was he asking? Without turning to look at him, I answered.
“Of course.”