Jacob's Ladder

38 First Exile

Stalingrad Tractor Plant

(1931–1933)

Jacob, it was likely, bore up under the misfortune that had struck him better than his family did. He knew how to begin again from scratch, but he took his entire previous life, his various interests and initiatives, with him into his new existence. Twelve large cities were now closed to him. He was transferred by omnipotent powers to the city on the Volga, where an enormous plant was being built according to an American design. He was appointed to work in the planning department. Though this wasn’t particularly interesting to him, his knowledge of English improved his position. Within a week, he had received a tiny room in the director’s office, where he translated American technical documentation. Two dozen girls hastily trained in the English language were not able to cope with the technical terminology. Jacob himself sometimes had to consult his American colleagues, of whom there were still quite a few in 1931.

Jacob liked the Americans. They were, for the most part, athletic fellows who dressed neatly and elegantly, and worked with gusto. In addition to the organization of production, their free time was also organized in a particular way—they had separate dining rooms, a restaurant, clubs, concerts for employees, and day care for the children. “As regards social achievements, the capitalists are ahead of us,” Jacob was forced to admit. Or was all of this specially staged for propaganda purposes? One got the impression that their scientific organization of labor extended to social life and the life of the community as well.

Jacob was not the only one who observed these things. Soon he became acquainted with other exiles, working in different branches of general construction, specialists like him who had been sent to the STP for political mistakes and an erroneous worldview. All of them were more or less Marxists, more or less socialists, more or less communists, but their thinking was out of step, and the divergences in their opinions and views led to interesting discussions about nuances and details. They initially met just by chance, but later began to go out of their way to gather over tea. Within a few months, their meetings had turned into informal seminars at which they presented papers and read lectures. They exchanged opinions, feeling in no way guilty about it.

In November 1931, Jacob’s son came to visit him. In the time during which they had not seen each other, Genrikh had grown half a head taller, his shoulders had become broader, and he had become a young man instead of an adolescent. Marusya did not come—she was burdened with work, ill health, a bad mood. They had a lively correspondence, according to an established scheme: they wrote letters every five days, beginning from the first day of the month, but no fewer than six letters a month; plus postcards, which didn’t count, and, if necessary, telegrams.

Genrikh rarely wrote to his father.

Jacob received official permission to show his son the plant, and on one of the first days of Genrikh’s stay, he took him around. The first thing Jacob did was to show Genrikh the American blueprint for the plant and explain the most unique aspect of it: it was conceived as a modular structure. Genrikh was thrilled. It was like his construction set! He recognized the similarity to his first toy, which had afforded him so much creative joy in his childhood. This entire plant was built as though some giant were putting it together out of blocks, only the blocks were much larger and more varied than the ones in his construction set. Jacob showed him on the scale model how the individual blocks were joined together, and how the same blocks could result in various structures. Genrikh observed the model, enchanted, a thought brewing in his head. Jacob enjoyed watching the eagerness in his son’s eyes and the thought processes that the muscles of his face betrayed.

“Dad, it seems like each block is a letter, and when you put them together they form words, and even whole sentences?”

“That’s a good way of looking at it, son,” Jacob said happily.

Genrikh nodded solemnly—it wasn’t often that his father praised him—and continued to think out loud. “I think that the whole world can be rebuilt out of letters just like this—now, that would be a real construction set!”

Jacob looked at his son attentively: thereb was certainly the germ of a serious thought in there, but in essence it was completely infantile. He needed a lot of polishing, a lot of polishing. STALINGRAD–MOSCOW JACOB TO GENRIKH (LETTER TO GENRIKH PRIOR TO HIS VISIT IN NOVEMBER)

MARCH 1931

Dear Genrikh, I met a person here that it would be good for you to get to know. You can’t imagine all the professions that are represented in our factory. Altogether, there are 170! Would you imagine, for example, that there is a toy specialist? It turns out there is. A master craftsman who makes scale models for our museum. A superb worker who knows how to do metalworking, woodworking, as well as working with cardboard—everything that’s needed. He is a joiner, a metalworker, an electrician, and a bookbinder. A master of all trades. His workshop is also like a play workshop—a little twenty-square-foot storeroom under the stairs. He has a tiny workbench, and his materials are stored on shelves suspended from the ceiling. He speaks quietly, thoughtfully. It’s pleasant to have dealings with him. He always works alone, in silence.

I am now preparing a big exhibit on the tractor industry. When I’m finished, I’ll send you pictures. Mama writes that it’s very clean and tidy in your room. That makes it much easier to live.

I thought about writing a story about a family who lived in a very crowded and disorderly space. Everyone bickered and squabbled, and couldn’t get on together. Then, gradually, they all picked up their rooms, introduced order into their lives, and began to live more peaceably. When I have some free time, I may write on this subject. Do you approve?

I send you a strong handshake.

Your dad, Jacob GENRIKH TO MARUSYA

NOVEMBER 8, 1931

Dearest Mama,

I’ve been here with Papa for two days now. When I arrived in Stalingrad, Papa wasn’t at the station, so I went looking for him and got on the train to the tractor plant. On the train, I asked every person if they knew where Ossetsky lived, until I ran into Mstislavsky. Of course he said “No. 516.” That’s all I needed. When I got off the train, there was a very fine bus waiting there, and I was easily able to find No. 516, but it was locked. Papa wasn’t home. Not getting discouraged, I took off my coat and my bag, left my belongings with the neighbors, and went to see the Volga. When I got back, my papa was at home, and he didn’t even recognize me.

The next day, on the 7th, I went on a boat for the whole day with Papa, and in the evening we watched people dance the fox-trot (it’s like they’re just dawdling, not dancing). From my first visit there, I’ve really liked the American dining room. Yesterday Papa read some German (the Nibelungenlied). I like Papa’s comrades, but not the Americans (they fight a lot).

With aviation-tractor greetings! A kiss, Genrikh JACOB TO MARUSYA

NOVEMBER 10, 1931

Dearest friend, I’m late sending this to you by three days. Forgive me! I’ve been busy with Genrikh, and with the Great October Revolution holiday celebrations. He has grown—he’s half a head taller than he was when I left him.

As for his general development, he hasn’t made a lot of progress. Every day, I teach him a bit of German. From the very first days, I noticed he was no more diligent than he used to be.

His visit has been like a great holiday for me, but I must tell you frankly that a visit from you would be an even greater holiday. I’m concerned about his development. You must make an effort to counter his interests with others that are broader and deeper. He is too technically oriented, one-sided. After his aviation craze, his new obsession is military affairs and technology. When we were taking a walk in the mountains, he said, “This would be a good place for artillery.” This is so unpleasant to my ears. He should stop attending that club for amateur snipers and gunners.

His studies seem to be going well, judging by his knowledge of trigonometry, which I checked. His knowledge of grammar is poor, and comes only as a result of much reading. We must encourage his literary interests. His innate taste and sensitivity to style will help.

Try to interest him in things that are far from him—an easy book on Darwinism, history, and so forth. The things we read at his age. I’m compiling a special reading list for him, if you approve of the idea. I’ll look for the books in the catalogue here.

I’m reading Genrikh the Nibelungenlied in German. I found a place that you had underlined—“Love and suffering always go together.”

I give you a kiss—a friendly, and even friendlier, one.

With all the passion of nighttime combat in which both come out victors.

FEBRUARY 8, 1932

My dear Marusya, I’ve fallen out of our regular rhythm of correspondence, because I can’t meet the quota of evening studies. On February 10, I have to submit all expedited work, and I’ll begin the cycle anew. And I’ll keep up my end of our correspondence. Another significant date—the one-year anniversary of my tenure here. I’ve taken a liking to this work. The entire tractor project is American, and the first tractor is also being manufactured according to a successful American model.

For the time being, I think it will make you happy that I have received a prize as a model worker. Unfortunately, the reward did not take the form of a special ID, as I would have preferred, but a monetary prize. I don’t know how much. I bought you galoshes, the smallest size, as you requested. If they don’t fit, you have only yourself to blame. Tell me Genrikh’s size—7 or 8? I’ll soon be able to buy them. In addition, I was issued a premium bond for seventy rubles. We’ll survive. And my lectures have been temporarily suspended. A pity. It kept me in shape to prepare every week. There are several top-notch economists here I like to socialize with. It’s a narrow circle; we get together and discuss this and that.

The package is ready to be sent out to you. It will go out the day after tomorrow.

I kiss you, little one. JACOB TO GENRIKH

MARCH 10, 1932

My dearest Genrikh, it’s hard for me to express my joy at your progress. You have achieved everything you wanted to, without any outside help. In fact, no one would have been able to help you in this. The Americans admire, above all, people who organize their own lives, on their own terms. They even have a term for this: a “self-made man.”

If you want to, you can manage to organize your life in order to achieve what you wish. There are four areas of activity that should take priority for you: your technical studies, physical training, literature, and helping your mother. She wrote to me about your visit to the airport. It’s too bad I couldn’t have gone with you. I would have liked to hear your explanations. We haven’t seen each other since last year, and now I can’t even imagine when we’ll see each other again. Let’s hope and believe it will be soon.

I applaud your decision to leave school to study in the Workers’ University. This is the action of a real man. If you get accepted for the subway construction project, it will provide you with a very good education. What profession are you considering now? Write me about all your new experiences and impressions, about your activities, about your new comrades. Where is the Workers’ University, and how do you get there every day? I hope you have a book to read while you’re en route. Always keep a book handy, so you won’t waste time—a book you only read when you’re en route.

I give you a firm handshake—your Jacob. JACOB TO MARUSYA

OCTOBER 24, 1932

Well, Marusya, things are really looking up. At the moment, the money situation is good; and prospects for the future are also good. Yesterday I was very happy. Our first poster went to print. It’s very impressive. Things are moving apace now. I am responsible for all the publishing work—it’s far better than being in the planning department.

Today is a holiday. In the morning, I took an hour or two for my weekly general hygiene: washing in hot water, shaving, washing my hair, breakfast. An hour and a half to finish everything.

At ten, I’m already at my desk. The day is clear and sunny, but I’m under surprise attack. I have to edit a huge pile of manuscripts by the end of the day. Now, after four hours of work, I have two hours to catch my breath, take a walk, read the paper—then back I go.

The radio has been playing all day, but it doesn’t prevent me from working. They played the waltz from Eugene Onegin, and I got up and danced around the room. Back and forth, from one side of the room to the other. Then I smoked a cigarette and sat down at the desk again to work.

By November 1, I will have written a chronicle of events, and I’ll work on an exhibit the whole next month. I like this cooperation with American consultants. We have a lot to learn from them in the area of production organization. But I’ll be freed up after November. I’m lagging behind in my reading these days—I want to read literature, economics, mathematics, and other things. Interacting with colleagues is terribly interesting. People of my status.

What about your article on Gogol, and why was he being commemorated? Was it an anniversary of some sort?

I want to emphasize again that you don’t have to be a staff member—independent literary work is sufficient. Vigilyansky doesn’t have a regular position. Try to get admitted to the Writers’ Union, get involved with the activities of the House of Printing. They have a wonderful library there, where you can even borrow books to take home, and they have a good dining hall.

Marusya, I beg you to buy and send me a Handbook of Labor in the USSR. You will most likely find it in the store at the Communist Academy, which used to be located on Mokhovaya, opposite the university.

I kiss you, my dearest one. Soon I’ll be sending you some extra money, so that you may eat well. J.

FEBRUARY 7, 1933

Two years have gone by, and it is eight months since the last time I saw you. Your visit, despite all the joy it brought me, left me with a feeling of sadness and bitterness. There is a crack, a fissure between us that seems to be growing wider. Only one thing will heal this fissure: you must come here again! For a week, for three days, for three hours. It is so important: looking at each other, touching each other … Marusya, a marriage will not survive on postage stamps alone. Come! I’m not only summoning you because I long for my beloved wife and girlfriend. Every life has some sort of foundation on which it stands, grows, from which it feeds. You are my soil, my foundation. But there is a sense of alienation emanating from your letters. And mere letters will not allow us to overcome this alienation. Sometimes I get the feeling that you either read only superficially the long letters I write, or you don’t read them at all. Our correspondence is becoming chaotic, and keeps missing the mark.

Marusya, my love! Please come to me!

APRIL 18, 1933

My next postal money transfer will be delayed by several days. The book is nearing the end, but I can’t seem to finish it. Don’t be alarmed about my authorship: the book is truly a collective publication. I wrote to the publisher to make sure that the actual part of the work of each author was stipulated for each under collective conditions. I have learned something through this work. Several useful technical conventions have taken shape, and many new themes have suggested themselves, so work has played a big role. It can’t come out under my own name, of course, and perhaps I don’t even want that. One should write in solitude, not as part of a crowd. But the collective is on very amiable terms. There are several people with whom a serious discussion is possible. I hope that the publisher pays as they have promised to. I await with certainty good news from you. I kiss you, my friend. J.

APRIL 20, 1933

Your constant refrain—that the GTO physical-culture badge (“Readiness for Labor and Defense”) carries weight, and we can’t do without it—makes me wary. If you think carefully about it, this preoccupation with physical culture is really a replacement for culture, a substitute. You know that I have exercised and practiced gymnastics my whole life, and I believe that one must stay in good physical condition if one is to live a full life; but it isn’t valuable in itself. Thinking this way is understandable in an adolescent, but you could analyze the situation more deeply: why are efforts made to promote mass physical culture instead of intellectual culture?

I often read in your letters: “Why am I going through all this? I’m a proletarian,” etc. I can’t write you about this in detail—we need to have a long talk about it—but this phrase is absolutely meaningless. Think about it. The question is much deeper and more serious … You need another label for your unhappiness. Neither you nor I belong to the proletariat. We come from the professional class, the class of master craftsmen—this is not our achievement, nor is it our fault. Of course, if you want to represent yourself as a proletarian, that is your prerogative. But you are an actress, an artist, a bohemian of sorts, an intellectual—and there is more truth in this than there is in your desire to be a proletarian. Nadezhda Krupskaya is not a proletarian, either. Teachers and specialists are crucially necessary to the government, and the proletariat can’t move forward without specialists. But I love you, Marusya, despite whatever social portrait you choose for yourself. With what joy I would speak to you on this subject, hour upon hour. I kiss you, my dearest little friend. J.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1933

Dear friend, it’s a pity you didn’t accept the job offer at the toy magazine. You’re making a mistake. It’s applied, not pure, journalism. Whether you stayed involved in production would depend on you alone. Moreover, you would have a lot of free time there. You would be able to read and write. Working at some newspaper would be journalism without a particular subject; but a magazine with a very narrow application would be very much in keeping with your principles. Think about it, and weigh all the pros and cons again in your mind. I’m certain you’re making a mistake. But the main thing is that you need time for thinking and reading. Otherwise, nothing will come of it. Writing insignificant, random articles doesn’t add up to real authorship. If you work at a magazine, you’ll be expected to do something bigger—a series of stories or a book.

A small circle of like-minded people, with broad interests, has taken shape here. Two more new comrades, besides Lavretsky and Dementiev, have joined. At our last meeting we discussed Mikhail Zoshchenko, and there was a doctor with some very interesting ideas about aging as loss. Our gatherings continue; we present papers, and occasionally small communiqués. It livens up our routine existence.

SEPTEMBER 25, 1933

Dear Marusya, things are close to completion. There is just a bit of time to wait. About myself I can say the same things I said in previous letters. I finished my work on the museum. I translated tons of technical literature, and I can truly say that I have become highly qualified. The collection of articles about labor under conditions of modern mechanized production has also been submitted to a publishing house. I am healthy, energetic; I am studying history and mathematics. I practice gymnastics every day, and take a cold sponge bath. Between studies, I listen to marvelous ancient Cossack songs. My thoughts circle around folklore—it is an extremely undervalued source, and it contains great riches. No one studies it now! But it needs to be systematically studied and recorded.

All my anxiety concerns you and Genrikh. As soon as I return, I will immediately appeal to secure a reversal of my case. I would be disinclined to do this, but for Genrikh’s sake I’ll make the rounds of all those organizations. I hope the relatives won’t deprive you of support. As soon as I get out, I’ll take care of all the debts. I kiss you, sweet dear friends. Your Jacob. (An unsent letter, expropriated during the search and arrest of Jacob Ossetsky on October 14, 1933.)

OCTOBER 14, 1933

With each month, with each day, the end of my term, and my release, gets nearer. Only twelve weeks remain from my three-year term. I am summing up everything in my mind. I am making plans for the future. I wrote several letters to colleagues, and I have asked them to describe the current situation. I have broadened my skills significantly. I am able to do serious translation work, as well as publishing. My participation in the organization of the STP museum has given me new qualifications. I didn’t achieve terribly much during these two and a half years, but I haven’t lost any of my former knowledge, either. I’ve followed all the scholarly journals—Russian, German, and English—that I could find in the library. I couldn’t find any in French, but I’ve been able to keep up the level of my French through those two books by Anatole France that you sent me along with your disappointed critique. I truly long for music, and I haven’t lost the hope of finding some work in Moscow connected to music, in addition to my basic professional pursuits.

Dear Marusya! I am full of faith and hope that we can recover that fullness we knew with one another during the time of our marriage. Believe me, I am not given to complaining, but my only source of regret is that I have caused you and Genrikh so much difficulty. On the other hand, thanks to my exile, characteristics have shown themselves in Genrikh that afford me real joy. I never expected such courage, dedication, and self-sacrifice from him. His going to work in the Metro Construction Project is also evidence of the seriousness of his attitude to life. It is already not only a boyish enthusiasm and revolutionary romanticism, familiar to us from our own youth, but a real presence and involvement on the construction site. He is deeper than I imagined him to be two years ago. This is truly the path of intellectual labor of the proletariat: the Workers’ University, the technical college, and I’m certain he’ll enter an institute with a good engineering program. And your affairs will improve, Marusya, I’m sure of it. Think—only eighty-four days left! And we will live happily ever after, forever and ever!