We have spent days with lack in going over the plant. Amid the drum of machines, the alert figures of men and women shock brigaders tending their lathes, Alex's young face suddenly flashes before us. His cap cocked to one side, a notebook bulging out of an overall, pocket, he is swinging along with such gusto that we josh him, "Say, you act like you're the boss of the place." In the States, this would hold a bitter sting. Here, in the Soviet Union, it carries a different meaning. Alex answers us, "And so I am--one of its eleven thousand masters." He pulls out his notebook, "Look, Jack, here's how our Comsomol brigades are fulfilling their plans of production. You know out Bureau gave me the job of checking up. Not such a bad record, eh?"
We go over the figures. "Pretty good," Jack says, "takes our youth to do it, eh?" Adding quickly, "But the percentage of damage is still too high."
"That's right," Alex agrees. "That'll be the main point at our next brigade meeting. Well, so long. See you at the Commune tonight." And this one of the eleven thousand masters is off to the assembly department, notebook in hand.
How is this labour control of industry organized? In accordance with the principle of one-man management, the director of the plant is chief. He is appointed by the State Trust in agreement with the Party and the Trade Union and to him the managers of the various shops, departments, etc., are subordinate. But general co-ordination is secured by what is known as the Triangle, consisting of the director, the secretary of the Party nucleus and the chairman of the trade union committee. The Triangle coordinates the work of the management, the Party and the trade union organization for the more efficient running of the plant, for the organization of production and the mobilization of the masses for work, also questions affecting the material conditions of the workers. The Triangle at this factory consists of Nicholas Varonin, the director, Sergeyev, Chairman of the Union Committee and Kleminson, the secretary of the Party Committee.
Every department also has its Triangle, composed of its elected union and Party secretaries, and department manager, appointed by the administration. If workers of any department should find their manager unsatisfactory, there is an investigation and matters are corrected. If found necessary, the foreman is removed. As a matter of fact, Varonin's predecessor was taken from his post because of his inability to organize production so that the plant could fulfill its plan.
The main concern of the union, which embraces 98 per cent of all employed at the plant, is to assist production by mobilizing the masses, by fighting for labour discipline and a socialist attitude towards labour, by raising the cultural level of the workers and by locking out for the advancement of their working and living conditions.
The Communist Party supervises the work and sees to is that the general line of the proletarian dictatorship is carried out. Its members, together with the Comsomols, form over one-third of the factory's workers. Abroad, the Party is often misrepresented by a hostile press as a dictator. When Russian workers hear of this, they are amazed, resentful. "Those who say such things are either ignoramuses or deliberately misrepresenting things," Feodor says. "In our country, the power of governing is in the hands of no one group of organization, but in the hands of a class. That is us, the workers. The Party does not dictate to the working class. It carries out the will of the working class. It is flesh of our flesh, made up of the best from among us."
Andree's eyes narrow. "Here is the point which the other side tries to hide: as long as classes exist, one or the other will rule. That is as plain as the nose on my face! In other countries it is the big bankers and millionaires. With us, it is the labouring man." As Marx foretold in the Communist Manifesto, the working class is using its power to usher in a classless society.
Like Feodor, Jack, Sonya and Varonin, the Communists by their work at the machine, in the union, in cultural activities and community life, have won general recognition as the vanguard of their class. To them the eleven thousand look for leadership in ail phases of their lives.
As Feodor puts is, it is up to the Party to map out the way ahead, take the lead in overcoming difficulties, work out general policies, bringing them to the mass of workers to be considered and acted upon. Its job is to see that each man and woman understands the political significance of his tasks, enthusing him with class-consciousness and the desire to give and achieve his best.
Ivan, a non-Party man, sums it up, "The Communists ate humans, like the rest of us. Only you can count on them to see further and sweat more than the ordinary fellow." We drop in on one of the Red Triangle's daily meetings. They are held in the director's office--quarters to which the workers' administration fell heir when they took over the plant from Singer. A spacious, handsomely furnished room, its walls are covered with charts, while numerous sewing machine models are mounted on racks or shine forth from the window sills.
Behind a large mahogany desk, where Dixon once gave out his orders for speed-up and wage-cuts, we find the three workers, Varonin, Kleminson and Sergeyev grouped around model No. 31. Varonin is explaining the new solution of a technical problem connected with its manufacture.
On the table are glasses of tea, sugar, bread and sausage. It is already six o'clock. The day shift has gone long ago, but the Triangle is hard at it. Catching a bite in-between-times, they hash over problems arising from their work, and agree on what is to be done. Since each is busy all day, from seven on, with his special tasks, this is the best hour, they find, to get together.
Varonin asks his comrades, "What would you think of transferring five skilled workers into Number 31 department Several workers and also the foremen proposed it, when I was there today. They'd like one or two good Party members among them, to pep them up."
"An excellent idea," Kleminson says. "Which men would be willing to tackle it and what departments can best spare them?"
After this is settled, Sergeyev remarks, 'Now about the new nursery." And so it goes. When the Triangle adjourns, the town dock is striking nine bells. Swinging across the snow, the three men turn to look back at the plant which rises like giant cliffs, into the blue night. "Our factory," their eyes say. Ours--the eleven thousand, the one hundred and sixty-millions.
Linking his arm through his companion's, Varonin begins an enthusiastic description of a book on machine construction which he has just received from Germany.
When we reach the Commune, we find the general living room crowded with men and women, learning to read and write. Misha his Red Army cap still on, is busy with his class. He moves from one to the next, quietly helping, correcting. Nura, a beginner at forty-nine, is painfully forming the letters of the alphabet. Having recently wrestled with these mysterious Russian characters myself, I feel drawn to her.
Next to her sits Maria, spelling out the words in her first book, Our Village. Like the others, she comes from the peasantry, having been only a few months in the city. Her husband works at common labour in the plant; she scrubs doors in the dorms. When the Pioneers canvassed the town, they unearthed these remaining illiterates, whom Misha gladly took on to teach, as his social work.
He likes his task. His thin face glows as he looks over Nura's characters. "Why, this is much better, comrade. That 'j' is exactly right, for the first time."
Shaking her head doubtfully, she philosophizes, "Once you get the letters, maybe it comes easier. I go to sleep nights, with the little things dancing before my eyes." Her voice raises. "But I gotta read. When I look at him," pointing to the poster of Lenin, "I understand everything. When I take up a paper, I can't make out a word."
Reaching for the daily paper, Misha spells out with her its title written in bold black letters, Pravda (Truth,). Fascinated, she goes over it again and again, declaring that she will show her son, that very evening, that she can read.
Vasha, Sonya, Alex come in. They stand quietly watching, lending help when some learner appeals for aid.
Misha gives out assignments for the next class. "Anna, you're to write for me the word Mama. What your child calls you."
"But I can't."
"Yes, you can. You know all the letters quite well."
"But that's it. I know 'm' and I know 'a', but how to put the things together!" She reddens, laughs. Everybody joins in, sympathetically. Misha writes it out plainly, at the top of the page in her copybook.
Sonya brings in tea and cookies. With unconcealed relief, the learners put away their pencils, gulping the welcome tea. Nura begins chanting the story of her hard youth and womanhood, winding up with bitter complaints of her lot, today. With the canny illogic of the old-time peasant who makes a practice of grumbling loudly in case somebody might think he is satisfied and not wanting more, she combines scant fact with wild fancy in such a way that I marvel at the steady smile with which the youth listen to her. They interject occasionally, "But listen, Mama"--"Now, comrade, you're wrong there--" I know that her talk, growing out of her ignorance played upon by kulak whispers, is cutting them to the quick.
"It's all very fine for the workers," Nura declares, "the government backs them up in everything. But the peasants, aye, there's the rub! If they don't go into the collective farm, what chance has a poor peasant got?"
Alex and Misha, also sprung from the peasantry, argue, explain. True, things are a bit hard in the village. Does she know why and what is being done to change things? The others join in. Anna, a brooding look on her rather sullen, countenance, backs up Nura, hinting darkly that things are not the way they should be. When asked for facts, she subsides, murmuring only that in her dormitory the workers made her quit washing her dirty clothes in the general wash basin, and what was right about that?
Alex reminds Nura that nobody has to join the collectives, they do so of their own free will. Galya, pushing her shawl angrily off her shoulders, demands of Nura if she doesn't remember how things have changed in the village. In the old days, an a holiday, what did she have to dress up in? Now, peasants wear city clothes. Six or seven years back, the villagers clogged about in bast shoes, now most of them have leather. Isn't that so?
Nura, taken aback for a moment, bursts out triumphantly, "But the damn leather shoes are tight. They hurt your feet!" The room rocks with laughter. Misha says, "Nura, you just want something to complain about. Admit it!" She gives a good-natured shrug. Everybody rises to leave. Throwing her coat about her, Anna puzzles, "You young ones are willing to bother with us old women?"
Sonya puts an arm about her, "Of course. Why not?"
Nura has the Pravda tucked tightly beneath her arm to show her son.