Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer E-Book

Kirsti Huurre

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 327

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

'A captivating story of courage, belief, and disillusionment under the persistent tyranny of Russian imperialism. Even after 90 years, Kirsti's story is a testament to the ongoing fight for Freedom.' - Ana Khizanishvili, Human Rights Lawyer Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer was originally published in 1942, as war still raged between Finland and the Soviet Union. The author of this memoir, Kirsti Huurre (a pseudonym, since it was far too risky to reveal her real name), was a Finnish woman who immigrated to the Soviet Union in the 1930s, convinced the new egalitarian state and workers' paradise would provide a better life for her and her young son; she was hopeful that, once settled, she would be able to send for him. What followed was vastly different to what was promised: a life filled with fear, suspicion, violence and state-run propaganda that spun a web of lies around its people. Kirsti eventually escaped – defying the odds when so many of her friends and loved ones did not. Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer is the first English translation of what became the second most censored book – second only to Mein Kampf – from Finnish libraries after the war. This is a gripping and valuable account of life in Stalin's oppressive Soviet Union.

Leseprobe

First published 1942 as Sirpin ja moukarin alla, by Werner Söderström Osakeyhtiö

First published in the English Language, 2024

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Kirsti Huurre, 1942, 2024

Edit and English-language translation © Anna Hyrske, 2024

The right of Kirsti Huurre to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 80399 670 7

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

Contents

Introduction by Anna Hyrske

Author’s Preface, 1942

Maps

1     8 October 1932

2     9 October 1932

3     10 October 1932

4     Late October 1932

5     November 1932

6     February to Summer 1933

7     Summer to Autumn 1933

8     October 1933

9     Summer 1933 to Christmas 1933

10   Christmas Eve 1933

11   January to May 1934

12   Spring 1934

13   Summer 1934

14   Autumn 1934

15   January 1935

16   Spring 1935

17   Summer 1935

18   August 1935

19   Mid-October 1935

20   Mid to Late October 1935

21   Late October 1935

22   December 1935

23   January 1936

24   March 1936

25   Spring 1936 to Autumn 1937

26   Autumn 1937

27   Summer 1938

28   Autumn 1938

29   Late 1938 to Late 1939

30   November 1939

31   Winter 1939

32   March 1940

33   Summer to Autumn 1940

34   Spring to Summer 1941

35   Summer 1941

36   Late Summer 1941

37   August 1941

Epilogue by Anna Hyrske

Introductionby Anna Hyrske

Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer (Sirpin ja moukarin alla) was originally published in 1942, as war was still raging between Finland and the Soviet Union, the outcome still unknown. (Finland was to remain independent but at the price of losing vast areas.) Subsequently, in 1944, with the Allied Control Commission (ACC) making demands on the Finnish government across a number of areas, the book fell victim to a rigorous Soviet-led censorship of literature. The ACC was controlled by its 150–200 Soviet members (Britain, for example, had only fifteen seats); in official communications its name was often displayed as ‘Allied (Soviet) Commission’, highlighting where the supremacy lay.

The Commission began its work in September 1944, and it lost no time in rolling out its book censorship programme. By October that year, publishers, bookstores and libraries had been contacted with the aim of curbing access to literature that could be considered detrimental to relations between the two countries.

A list of around 300 proscribed titles, Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer among them, was distributed to Finnish bookshops; the books were to be removed from the shelves and returned to publishers. Libraries across the country also received letters to demand the withdrawal of titles that might have been damaging to Soviet–Finnish relations, but it did not specify any titles: librarians had to judge for themselves. According to Kai Ekholm’s The Banned Books of 1944–1946, a PhD thesis published in 2000, the range and quantity of books varied significantly between libraries: most libraries withdrew books in their dozens whereas the Helsinki City Library removed 4,000 volumes. Ekholm’s research reveals that Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer was banned by 267 local governments during those years (out of around 400 at the time), second only to Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf, which was deemed unacceptable in 292 localities. It wasn’t until 1958 that researchers had access to the book, but only by asking a librarian to fetch it from the so-called ‘poison cabinet’ – the name given to a locked cabinet housing literature perceived as too dangerous for general consumption. I have seen copies containing an inscription made by the Finnish military in 1942–43: apparently, the book was awarded as a prize for outstanding achievement, presumably on account of its potential to further encourage anti-Soviet sentiment, which goes a long way to explain why the Soviet Commission was so keen to blacklist it.

Under the Sickle and the Sledgehammer starts in 1932, seven years before the Winter War was to erupt and fourteen years after the Finnish Civil War. Finland had gained its independence peacefully from Russia in 1917, in the aftermath of the October Revolution and the downfall of Imperial Russia. The proletariat in Russia had enough to do maintaining stability within their own borders, and Finland seized the opportunity. For a little over 100 years prior to its independence, Finland – or rather the Grand Duchy of Finland – had been an autonomous state within the Russian Empire with its own currency and legislative structures. And for several hundred years before 1809, which marked the end of the Finnish War between Sweden and Russia, Finland had been part of Sweden.

Although Finland didn’t actually fight Russia for its independence, that is not to say the transition from Grand Duchy to an independent state didn’t involve bloodshed. Less than two months after the declaration of independence, civil war broke out between the ‘Reds’ and the ‘Whites’. Finland had undergone massive social change – population growth, urbanisation, resettlement – and these destabilising trends, coupled with the impacts of the power struggles of World War I, led to two polarised forces fighting for supremacy. The Reds represented a socialist world view and wanted the government to be formed by one proletarian party; the Whites had no common political view other than opposition to communism and socialism. The Whites were better equipped and had a greater number of professional combatants, and this afforded them the upper hand in war conditions. The Civil War was brutal – especially for the Reds. Casualty numbers in conflict were similar on both sides, but the Reds also suffered major losses through executions, deaths in captivity and those ‘missing in action’. Some reports claim that 12,500 Red lives were lost within prison camps compared with a White toll of merely four. This goes some way to explain the rawness of feelings – the emotional and physical wounds – within Finnish society in the early 1930s, with many of the crimes of the Civil War left unpunished. Indeed, the Civil War and its aftermath very likely acted as a catalyst for the effectiveness of Soviet propaganda promising a better life, better jobs and better housing across the border. Throughout this book we encounter characters who have traversed that border, and, as often as not, the question is asked: did they arrive legitimately or did they use clandestine means? The conversations we hear in this book suggest that many of those travelling without a passport had been previously interned in one of these prison camps. Kaarina herself, the narrator of this story, tells of having occasionally visited a friend in such a place. Others had apparently spent time in hospitals in conjunction with their term in a camp, the implication consistently being that conditions in the camps were harsh. This is a highly plausible motivation for wanting to find a more equitable place to live.

Despite having friends who fought against the Whites, and despite being intrigued by the proletariat movement in Russia, Kaarina was not active within the Reds; nor was her family. On the contrary, her father was a businessman with dozens of employees and a centrally located store selling tailor-made men’s and women’s clothing. Interestingly, the Helsinki city-centre building where he ran his business is today the home of a Louis Vuitton store. Kaarina’s first husband, and father of her son Poju, had a butcher’s shop in central Helsinki. He was not a communist supporter, so her interest in the utopia of a workers’ paradise must have been fuelled by outside influences, such as pamphlets, adverts, meetings and conversations with those who had already crossed the border or were planning to cross.

I have been aware of this story since my late teenage years because it was written by my great-grandmother. She is the Kaarina and the narrator of this harrowing tale, although for good reason she published under the pseudonym Kirsti Huurre (all the names in the story have been anonymised). The Poju in the story is my grandfather, and he is still alive. I have had the opportunity on a few occasions to talk to him about his mother’s life choices and their outcomes. He read the original version at some point in his life, but only once. He agreed without hesitation to my suggestion of translating and editing it. To him, though, it is simply part of his own life story, and he finds it intriguing that others might be interested in it! I never had the chance to meet my great-great-grandfather (Kaarina’s father in Helsinki) but I have some pictures of me as a baby with my great-great-grandmother. My great-grandmother Kaarina remained a distant character, living out the remaining years of her life in Sweden for fear of being deported from Finland as a Soviet citizen.

I have been toying with the idea of translating this story into English for a very long time because I believe it’s a story worth sharing. But it was the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 that propelled me into action, convincing me that this story really needs to be retold and brought to light once again. The Russian approach of vilifying its neighbours, the fake information used to justify an attack – it is all disconcertingly reminiscent of what happened in the 1930s. Then, just as now, it’s the general population – the ordinary people – who suffer from the decisions made by people clinging to power. My great-grandmother took at face value the narrative that was being circulated by some Finns or their Soviet comrades: power is in the hands of the working class, access to fulfilling work and good-quality housing for all, and your role in society is not determined by money or family background. By the time she’d seen through all the layers of propaganda, it was too late. In the book she conveys how the Russians ardently believed in this ‘freedom’ as something to strive for, but in the face of all the evidence still failed to realise that it was no such thing. Those who had imigrated to Soviet Russia from abroad, such as Americans or her fellow Finns, were able to take a more objective view and make comparisons with what they had left behind.

A modern English-speaking reader can at times feel quite distant from the book’s original Finnish audience, both historically and geographically. In acknowledgement of this, I have added a few footnotes where I thought an explanation might help. There are many place names, which as well as being potentially unfamiliar, have both Russian and Finnish forms. Even the book’s title requires some explanation. It is not ‘the hammer and sickle’, the customary emblem of the Soviet Union, but rather a deliberate play on this: the word ‘sledgehammer’ was chosen to emphasise the violence, force and power exerted over members of the population who didn’t fit into the mould, came from the wrong background, or dared to voice their opinions, even about the most trivial issues. To help readers locate the events in the book, there are maps on pages 14–15. This also offers an overview of the physical distances involved in Kaarina’s travels – although bear in mind they were not always achieved at the speed we might expect today, as evidenced by a 250km train journey that lasted a week!

I am pleased that, over eighty years after its original publication, my great-grandmother’s first-person testimony will finally reach an English-speaking audience. I believe it’s a valuable voice that should be heard, bringing more detail and experience to debates about government propaganda and violence, and the importance of free speech and media.

The opinions stated here are my own and mine alone. They do not reflect the views of my past, current or future employers. The rest of the book is the voice of Kaarina – how she experienced changes in society and the prevailing mood as war approached. With my translation and editing, I feel I have done justice to Kaarina’s writing, ably assisted by Dean Bargh from Witchwood Production House, without whom this project could not have succeeded.

Anna Hyrske, HelsinkiMarch 2023

Author’s Preface, 1942

This book is no spur-of-the-moment thing. It evolved as my life evolved in the nine years I endured living in Soviet Russia.

Most of the people in this book appear under pseudonyms because, so long as we still await a major resolution, I don’t have the right to betray their faith and jeopardise my unfortunate friends still trapped on the other side of the Soviet border. In addition, there are many families in Finland who are not yet ready to share in public the suffering of their loved ones.

My intention in writing this isn’t as propaganda to warn any Finns who might still be entertaining dreams about the sledgehammer and the sickle. I simply want to provide an honest account of what my friends and I had to live through under the ‘Stalinist sun’.

The Author, Olonets28 February 1942

Areas Finland lost during the Winter War of 1939–40 and the Continuation War of 1941–44.

Map of Karelia.

1

8 October 1932

So now here it was at last. The awful act of abandoning that I had been dreading for weeks and never ever really wanted to happen. But it had to be. I had forced myself to go down this path. So I couldn’t just leave silently, like a thief in the night, no word of goodbye.

Besides, we didn’t have to be apart for long – me and Poju,1 my little bright-eyed love, who had watched in wonder as I made my week-long preparations. Whatever must that little man be thinking about all this? But perhaps it would have been wiser to take him with me rather than leave him with my parents? Although that would have hurt my mother and father probably more than anything I’d done before. The boy meant the world to them, especially my mother, for whom he was the only fixed point in her life. And even if my own right as a mother to be with Poju was undeniable, it was equally undeniable that I shouldn’t be dragging Poju out of this loving environment, where he had spent his whole life. And it was far from certain how soon I would get everything in order in my new circumstances – how soon I would be standing on my own two feet and be able to give him the equivalent of what my parents could give him. This was also the way my relatives saw it. Altogether, it was probably the wisest course of action. Only the future will tell. The date today is 8 October 1932.

The light in the second carriage was rather dim. I couldn’t read, and sleep was out of the question. As the memories darted about here and there like distressed winter sparrows, my tears kept welling up, filling my eyes every now and again and blinding me. Poju’s eyes seemed to be staring at me from every wall, even as night fell. But, dispassionately and steadily, the iron horse devoured one kilometre after another, taking me farther and farther away from my loved ones.

From time to time, I allowed myself to think that it was just one of those bad dreams that foretell a terrible future. But no! I really had mercilessly parted company with my boy and fled my homeland. This journey was taking me to a new country, a new world, whose beautiful purple colours were reflected all around, making the hearts of the workers beat faster, harder and bolder. I was on my way to a country where power lay in the hands of workers, not money, privilege or ruthlessness, a country where you could be free and happy. For the sake of this country, how many of my comrades had defied the night, the sea and the bitter cold, braced themselves for the struggle, and left behind a relatively good life in their homeland, quietly heading in search of the values and the kind of life they had always dreamt about? Several of them had found themselves unemployed, or were enduring some other hardship, and that made it easier for them to see this displacement as the answer; and some of them had been smuggled across the border in suspicious circumstances.

But what about me? It wasn’t external forces or necessity that were driving me away. There was nothing at home that I could point to and say that was the reason. But neither was I was one of those fortunate ones whose path was laid out before them. I had simply been listening to those stirring words and seen in my mind the picture that had been so skilfully painted for me, my eyes wide with excitement. I desperately wanted to be there, too. And, once I had made up my mind, nothing could stop me from going. My life was so flat, so colourless, so it was downright madness to stay when I had the opportunity to leave. My boy was the only anchor. ‘What should I do? What should I do?’ The words hissed in my ears incessantly. After many sleepless nights, I finally resolved it. For now – and only for now – I would leave him with my parents until I had managed to get my life organised and I could come and get him or send for him. This all played in my mind repeatedly as I leant back on the soft carriage seat, alone and miserable. Not that I wasn’t aware of my fellow travellers. I was surprised to find only two others in the carriage with me: two men. One was leaning casually against the wall, feet up on the edge of the bench opposite. A little further away, a blond gentleman was sitting diagonally across, trying to read his newspaper. Every now and then, I saw him looking inquisitively at my attempt to fight back my tears. A suspicion flashed across my mind that he might be one of the escorts that the police department (or so it was rumoured) deployed for everyone travelling to the Soviet Union. For some reason, the thought felt so childish that I dismissed it straight away. What could they possibly expect to achieve with something like that? It was a silly idea, just like that funny situation at the train station as I was leaving. Someone I knew had pulled me aside and somewhat nervously exclaimed that a representative of the state police, a man in a bowler hat, had also come to see me off. This had seemed strangely exciting, so I asked my acquaintance to discreetly point out the uninvited escort. And what do you know, my friend walks behind my dear unsuspecting father and then waves clumsily, signalling to me. Poor Daddy, not saying a word – and of course upset by our impending separation – had been standing a little way from me, nervously prodding his walking stick here and there. I laughed to see my ‘informant’ and was amused by his embarrassment.

The thought passed. Have I ever spent such a miserable night? It dragged on so slowly, my heart pumping and my nerves straining. I greeted the first morning with eyes still open, dry lips, and a throbbing temple. It was a relief when I could actually see something emerging in the gradually brightening landscape. Soon the forests were running along the side of the track, in yellows and reds shining in the peaceful Sunday morning sun. I got out for a walk at Vyborg Station. In a restaurant that looked like a ballroom, I had a coffee, and it felt like I was drinking something historically significant. It depressed me at first, but at least the coffee relieved my headache.

Rajajoki!2 Was that Rajajoki? How unimportant it looked, and how much of a dividing line it was all the same, separating two completely different worlds. How many had crossed it, closing all the doors behind them, burning their bridges in pursuit of happiness? Would I find my happiness and fortune after I’d crossed it, or was it written in the stars that my path would be one of pain and suffering? Just like it always had been. A sequence of events swept rapidly through my mind like an old film, depicting so much: my short and bitter marriage, a time in my life which had only one good thing in it – my boy. Everything else I wanted to forget. Dear boy, whom I – crazy, crazy, crazy me – dared to leave behind! I wished I could turn back right now, go home again, wrap my little loved one in my arms, and whisper a thousand silly things in his little ear, things that only a mother and her child can understand.

________________________

1     Poju means ‘My boy’.

2     The Finnish word for the River Sestra – literal translation is Border River.

2

9 October 1932

But it was too late now. Rajajoki, the river that marked the border, had been crossed. My eyes puffy, I looked out, and the numbness subsided as my interest stirred.

For today was a Sunday, and it had been the same familiar tableau at every Finnish station: people in their Sunday best passing the time by watching the trains come in and seeing who was getting off. Everyone glowing with their customary Sunday tranquillity. But here it immediately looked different: a couple of men on either end of a strange saw, each pulling back and forth. It would take me a while to get used to the Soviet weekly schedule.

I survived Customs without much difficulty, for which I could thank my dear father, who had vehemently opposed excessive hand luggage. In trepidation, I followed the man to whom I had given my passport. I found myself in a small room in which a soldier with very stern eyes seemed to view me as the enemy, to judge by his attitude. He demanded I show him the contents of my handbag, and reveal all those vain, superfluous items you find in a woman’s bag. There was no sign of any softening in his eyes when he inspected my meagre supply of cash: I suppose I should have had more. I casually asked an interpreter of some sorts where I could exchange my Finnish money for the local currency. To my horror, my 39 Finnish marks were valued at just 1 rouble and 90 kopeks by the ‘finance minister’ sitting in a corner of the hall. Was he a real money changer, or just someone doing it for fun? I still don’t know today.

After the Customs inspection, I climbed into the carriage with a cheerful old Ingrian woman, whom I ended up talking to. She was only permitted to travel in one of the carriages designated for those from her country. My second-class carriage had already been detached from the train; I didn’t have a ticket for the sleeping car.

The train was an experience. Black, dirty and full of noisy passengers. Makhorka3 fumes parched my throat and made my eyes water. There was this one big man who blew his makhorka smoke quite shamelessly straight into my face and made me choke. But Grandma didn’t even notice and went on telling her stories. I don’t remember whether the trip took one or two hours before we stopped at Leningrad’s Finland Station; I just remember the timidness, fear and uncertainty, which gradually, metre by metre, expelled all else from my mind. I waited anxiously for new developments.

Through the carriage window I glimpsed a tall man as the train pulled in. I assume he saw me, too, because when I got off the train I found myself facing him, with a shorter man alongside him. ‘Well, there you are!’ I heard him say. How good it was to feel the squeeze of a familiar hand.

I had known the tall, gaunt Aatto long ago, before he left for Russia. He was a working-class boy from Turku, a talented dreamer, but also ready for action when needed. He had travelled in secret back to Finland, where he was apprehended and imprisoned and sent to the Ekenäs prison camp. He ended up in hospital for quite some time, and I used to visit him a lot. Soon after that, he disappeared to Russia, where he worked as a teacher with his young American wife.

The other member of the welcome party was Arvo, a sturdy, roundish, good-natured man. I already knew him as Aatto’s companion from the Ekenäs days; he had lived in Russia for many years, perhaps since the rebellion.

All the while I was staring at the chaos of the station around me, scanning in vain for the others who were supposed to be receiving me. I felt the buzz of the big city. I could see the misery and squalor. It dulled my senses and left me feeling just a vague sense of disappointment. But I tried to rally myself and find the encouragement and reassurance I needed. I mean, here I was in this country with all its great potential where, very soon, the common people would be granted a decent standard of living. Of course, setbacks are inevitable; mistakes happen: Rome wasn’t built in a day. But I firmly believed in this ideal of the classless state and that it would ultimately prevail. And so here I was again, like so many times before, whipped up into a passion that was almost like a kind of ecstasy. I barely heard a word my companions were saying until I caught Aatto speaking to Arvo: ‘You’ve still got time to buy those tickets. Get the comfy seats, though, for Kaarina.’

‘How about we leave it till tomorrow, so she gets some time to look around here?’

‘But where on earth are you off to, boys?’ I asked.

Aatto explained, ‘Look, Kaarina. It’s probably best for you if you rest for a while at the travellers’ hostel. Arvo has already arranged that side of things – it’s simply a case of staying there a short while. Then, after a few formalities are dispensed with, you can be on your way to Moscow to find office work. In any case, you can rest assured that we have done our utmost with your best interests in mind. You won’t understand now, but you won’t have anything to complain about. Trust me.’

That was a solemn-sounding speech, especially the way Aatto delivered it, with he and Arvo both standing there stiff and formal. It sounded rather as if Aatto had decided to take charge and let me just tag along. All of which I found pretty annoying. Besides, I had no idea at this point what Moscow might have to offer and I was therefore strongly opposed to the idea.

‘I’d prefer to be here in Leningrad, thanks, at least for now. Here I can call my boy in the evenings; and besides, I’m closer to him here.’

‘Oh Lord, you’re expecting to be making calls home in the evening!’ Arvo exclaimed, laughing and gesturing.

‘No, Kaarina, that’s not going to work! No calls like that, or anything else for that matter. Anyway, how would you support yourself? What would you do and where would you live?’ Aatto asked in amusement.

I flared up. How would I support myself? By working, of course! After all, there was zero unemployment in the Soviet Union and I had equal status as a woman. I could stay with my aunt until I got my own room. I grew agitated.

The men seemed like they were having fun; they were laughing at me and were keen to prove how silly I was. I hate laughter when it’s used as a weapon to prove a point. It undermines you and only serves to make you defensive. It can get me really angry sometimes.

All the same, I listened quietly to what they had to say. They thought I was that special kind of crazy who didn’t understand what was in her own best interests. Everything would be ready for me in Moscow, whereas here I would face unknown dangers, being unfamiliar with the language and not knowing my way around. I said no more and the matter remained unresolved. Arvo suggested going to a restaurant. After we’d eaten, we could find a suitable place for me to stay.

‘But I’ve got somewhere already. It’s in a place called Vasilyevsky. I even have the address. I just don’t understand why my aunt – my grandmother’s sister – didn’t show up at the station. Maybe we just didn’t recognise each other after all these years? Anyway, it would be rude for me to go anywhere else when I have relatives here.’

The boys glanced at each other again. I started to feel embarrassed about constantly arguing with all their suggestions. But it couldn’t be helped.

So, before long, we were sitting on a tram heading to Vasilyevsky Island.

Auntie’s apartment was in an unpleasant-looking wooden courtyard. There was no one in; with relief on their faces, the men spun around to make their exit. But we ran into my aunt and her husband in the courtyard so we all found ourselves climbing up to the apartment together.

Auntie looked like an old witch. I struggled to equate her with the elegant woman I used to know: the woman who had married a Russian officer in Helsinki, where they had had a good life. They were forced to leave Finland in 1918, and took as much as they could with them. But the contrast between then and now left me speechless. Auntie read my expression, pulled me aside and burst into doleful sobbing. Between the sobs, she spoke: ‘Kaarina, dear, that’s what this is all about. You will fall apart here, too, just like this home. Do you remember those beautiful red chairs? They were so lovely and the velvet was so soft. It’s been fourteen years now. Nothing lasts forever.’

It was hard to listen to, and I could offer no comfort. First, during the war years, they had sold possessions to keep themselves from starving, just so they could eat. What still remained was worn out, and they couldn’t afford anything new.

I acquired the necessary permission to move in with them, although apparently the Housing Committee had some very strict rules when it came to foreigners. All the same, in all honesty, their apartment made me nauseous. It was a poor excuse for a home. The kitchen was the worst, with some unspeakable smell, stale and heavy, hanging over everything.

But, for the time being, we parted, and Auntie cried and moaned for an age. How could they be content living like this? A sense of despair engulfed me as I recalled the bright Soviet workers’ homes depicted in the advertisements we used to see back home.

I was quite hungry by the time we found ourselves in a hotel restaurant: a long, narrow hall full of diners. The food was good, and there was plenty of it, but it was so heavily seasoned that I was gasping for air between mouthfuls. The orchestra was very accomplished and played briskly.

My first day turned out to be a varied one: we went to a couple more cafés, visited some apartments, and spent the later part of the evening in another hotel with a big ballroom. I didn’t know any of the members of our party, but they were friendly. They all seemed to be having fun but I couldn’t partake in their joy. I just watched it all as if from a distance. By the time we left, it was so late that it was considered wiser for me to spend the night in the apartment of one of the girls from our party.

And yet, lying under my blanket, I felt miserable and alone. I cried with a longing to go back to where I’d come from.

________________________

3     Nicotiana rustica, or strong (or Aztec) tobacco.

3

10 October 1932

When the following morning greeted me, I awoke completely rested; I felt like another person. Arvo and I walked into town and ended up at Auntie’s place again, where a surprise was waiting for me.

Some time ago I had asked a small favour of a young man called Kari. When I was leaving for Russia, I wrote to him asking him to notify my aunt’s family of my arrival. Despite that, my aunt and I had managed to miss each other at the station so I hadn’t seen her until I got to her courtyard. Kari had visited my aunt the previous night and waited in vain for me until 1 a.m. But he had left a letter for me, in which he expressed a hope to meet me the following evening. Naturally, I intended to be there.

That evening, I dared to venture out from my aunt’s apartment alone. My courage had returned and once again I believed I was on the right path. Even with all its drawbacks, Leningrad was magnificent, and I was intoxicated by its splendour. Come what may, I had to push ahead; the disappointments had to be overcome; frustrations had to be suppressed; we had to adapt to the current situation and have faith in the future. Or that’s what I was telling myself as I walked through the city on my own. I felt happy to be alive; the life that lay before me was like a blank sheet of paper. Because of my Poju, I had to succeed. I had to create the best opportunities for him.

There were no quiet whispers in my ears. No pre-warnings. Nothing. No sense that I was walking heedlessly towards the worst nightmare of my life. Towards the darkness. Nobody alerted me.

Auntie seemed pleased to receive me in that narrow space she called her hallway. I went inside where Kari had apparently been waiting for me for an hour. Here was a tall, blond, slender man wearing a Red Commander’s suit. His dark-brown eyes were smiling. It was a rare and striking combination, the light hair and the dark eyes.

I was startled to hear him talking to me so effortlessly, even addressing me by first name, yet at the same time there was something honest and refreshing about it. Before long, I found myself discussing my family. How intently and sympathetically he would listen, even though he wasn’t disclosing much about himself. The evening flew by, and when midnight came I almost longed to depart with him. He held my hand for a long time and said cordially, ‘I just started my month vacation here. I would very much like to be your guide if I may. Could it be agreed that I pick you up around midday? We will go somewhere together. I was born and raised here, so I ought to know my way around this place: it’s my home town.’

Why not? I gratefully made a promise to be ready.

In my mind I went through everything I knew about him. His parents had come from Finland to St Petersburg at a young age, his father to be a jeweller’s apprentice, his mother into service. After Kari, the family grew with a daughter and then another son. In 1918, their father was claimed by smallpox while in the army; their mother passed away, too, some time after that. With his brother and sister, young Kari went to Finland to live with his relatives in Helsinki for several years. His sister married, as, later, did his brother. Kari, though, decided to return to Russia, where he was obliged to attend military school; he rose rapidly to become commander. That’s all I had found out.

The next morning Aatto and Arvo turned up. Aatto looked even more nervous than usual, with the calm Arvo playing a more conciliatory role. There would definitely have been a falling-out between us on the subject of going to Moscow had Arvo not tried his hardest as mediator. We finally reached some sort of settlement. I would stay in Leningrad for the time being: about a month. If by that point I hadn’t worked out for myself the difference between Leningrad and Moscow, it would be all the same as far as they were concerned. They would wash their hands of the situation and that would be that.

The evening saw Kari return. We had already spent the day looking at the city and now we were taking a long tour along the promenades by the River Neva. I was happy just to be able to talk freely about myself: my son, my parents, everything in my life. I kept on talking all night and Kari, kind soul that he was, just kept listening. There aren’t many people who really know how to listen and let you open up, but Kari was one.

The days began to pass more quickly. And each one brought a host of new things. I sought out acquaintances in this city of millions. Some were in schools, dotted around, others were working as clerks or other such jobs. There was quite a lot of difference in how they all received me, although, at first, they all gave me the same look of amazement, followed by the same questions: how had I got into the country? Was I a defector? Did I have a passport? Or had someone ‘organised’ one for me? Before long, their behaviour towards me warmed, and I was not deprived of company.

Soon, Kari became my shadow, spending all his free time with me. Often, we found the days not long enough, so we would pass evenings at the theatre or, more likely, the cinema.

I had decided I would find work before the end of that October, although I wasn’t going to commit myself to anything. I ate anywhere, at any time, mostly with my comrades or with Kari. Everyone stressed what an affordable option Moscow was. However, a phone call to Poju would cause nothing but trouble, apparently, if it were even possible. So only by letter was I able to express my longing for him, to enquire about him, and put into words my hope for an opportunity to bring him to me.

I put my passport details into the register at the House of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs and was given my temporary residence permit. The Housing Committee permitted me to live with my aunt, and my passport had to be checked only once a month at the district police station on behalf of the Housing Committee. So for the time being I was anchored in the city of Leningrad.

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