Of the results of these so-called “freight weeks” little need be said beyond the fact that the experiment was never repeated because of its complete failure to solve the problem. It is true that the government supplies did increase very slightly, but the population was in the end much hungrier than before, for the very simple reason that the stoppage of the passenger traffic materially interfered with the comings and goings of “sackmen,” upon whose illicit and risky operations the public relied for at least half, and the better half, of their food supplies!
The workers’ revolt subsided, not through the better feeding of the men, but because they were effectually reduced to a state of abject despair by the ruthless seizure of their leaders and the cruel reprisals against their wives and families, and because this moment was chosen by the authorities to reduce their numbers by removing a large draft of workers to other industrial centres in the interior. Still, on the occasion of Lenin’s visit, the workers did make a final attempt to assert themselves. A delegation from the largest factories was sent to present their demands, as set forth in resolutions, to the president in person at the Narodny Dom. But the delegation was refused admission. They returned, foiled, to their factories and observed to their comrades that “it was easier to approach the Tsar Nicholas than it was to gain access to the president of the ‘Soviet Republic.’” What, I wondered, would the Third International have thought of such words?
After the experiment of the “freight weeks,” the next expedient resorted to when the self-same demands were again presented was a strangely inconsistent but an inevitable one. It was a partial concession of freedom to “sackmen.” After long and loud clamouring, a certain percentage of workers were granted the right to journey freely to the provinces and bring back two poods (72 lb.) of bread each. Thus they got the nickname of two-pooders and the practice was called “two-pooding.” As everyone strove to avail himself of the right the railroads naturally became terribly congested, but the measure nevertheless had the desired effect. Not only was there almost immediately more bread, but the price fell rapidly. The workers travelled to the grain-growing districts, came to terms with the villagers, who willingly gave up to them what they hid from Bolshevist requisitioners, and journeyed back, jealously clutching their sacks of bread. I happened to be travelling to Moscow at this time, and the sight of swarms of wretched “two-pooders,” filling all the cars and clambering on to the roofs and buffers, was a pitiful one indeed. But just at the moment when it seemed that a genuine solution of the food problem in the capitals had been found, “two-pooding” was summarily cut short by government edict on the ground that the congestion of the railways rendered impossible the transport of the government’s supplies.
For over a year more the Bolsheviks strove their utmost to stave off the inevitable day when it would no longer be possible to forbid the right of free trading. As the feud between themselves and the peasants deepened, and the difficulty of provisioning increased, the government sought by one palliative after another to counteract the effects of their own food policy. But recently, in the spring of 1921, the fateful step was taken. In spite of considerable opposition from his followers Lenin publicly repudiated the communistic system of forced requisitions and restored, with certain restrictions, the principle of freedom in the buying and selling of food.
This was adopting a policy of desperation, but it is the most important event since the Bolshevist coup d’état in November, 1917. For it is a repudiation of the fundamental plank of the Communist platform, the first principle of which is the complete suppression of all free trading, private business initiative, and individual enterprise. There is no limit to the possibilities opened up by this tragic necessity—as it must seem to the Communists. But having taken it, however reluctantly, why do they not release their opponents from prison and invite their co-operation—those opponents whose chief protest was against the stupidity of the Bolshevist food system?
The explanation is that with the Bolshevist leaders the welfare of the workers and peasants, and of humanity in general, is completely subordinate to the interest of the Communist Party. And this attitude is inspired not so much by selfish motives as by an amazingly bigoted conviction that the Bolshevist interpretation of Marxian dogma is the only formula that will ultimately lead to what they regard as the “emancipation of all workers.” Astonishing as it may seem in these days, when the better elements of mankind are struggling to temper prejudice with reason, theory is all in all to the Bolsheviks, while facts are only to be recognized when they threaten the dictatorship of the party. Thus the concession of freedom of trade to the peasantry does not imply any yielding of principle, but merely adaptation to adverse conditions, a step “backward,” which must be “rectified” the moment circumstances permit. That is why, since Lenin’s announcement, Bolshevist sophists have been talking themselves blue in the endeavour to prove to home and foreign followers that the chameleon does not and never will change its colour. “Free trading,” they say, “is only a temporary unavoidable evil.” Temporary? But can any one who believes in human nature conceive of a possible return to the system Lenin has discarded?
One day there occurred in Petrograd a startling event that would have made foreign protagonists of proletarian dictatorship, had they been present, sit bolt upright and diligently scratch their heads.
A re-registration of the party took place, the object being to purge its ranks of what were referred to as “undesirable elements” and “radishes,” the latter being a happy epithet invented by Trotzky to designate those who were red only on the outside. A stringent condition of re-entry was that every member should be guaranteed by two others for his political reliability, not only upon admission but in perpetuity. Such were the fear and suspicion prevailing even within the ranks of the party. The result was that, besides those who were expelled for misdemeanours, many Communists, disquieted by the introduction of so stringent a disciplinary measure, profited by the re-registration to retire, and the membership was reduced by more than 50 per cent. A total of less than 4,000 was left out of a population of 800,000.