Among the many observations in this installment; street dogs, Russian cigarettes, lice, the Polish war, competition between the Soviet and Romanov ruble, and Russia’s long summer day.

‘Moscow in 1920. Chapter VI’ by Dr. Alfons Goldschmidt from Soviet Russia (New York). Vol. 3 No. 19. November 6, 1920.

THERE is a lack of draft-horses in Moscow. The horses are not sleek, but you cannot see their ribs either. They are not normal horses, panye horses, as our soldiers in the East say. At least this applies to the work-horses; the cab horses are often more defective, for the fodder rations are scant and roundabout purchases expensive. And then, there are rascals of cab-drivers who think of their own pockets and let the horses starve.

A cab journey from the Nikolai Station to the Theater Square in May, 1920, cost three thousand Bolshevik rubles, or thirty to fifty German marks. At the beginning of the Revolution the Moscow City Soviet had nationalized everything, surely including the cabs. Now the latter are free from nationalization. Quite a number have been requisitioned for official use; the remainder are free and wait at all corners.

But I was more interested in the dogs than in the horses. I once read about the dogs of Constantinople as they were in the 80’s of the last century, of the unnoticed, hardly even kicked, neglected dogs of the Turkish capital. It was said that at Constantinople in those days there was a swarm of dogs, an army of dogs. The street of Moscow is not so rich in dogs as that, but the Moscow dogs are also neglected to the point of not even being kicked; they are unkempt, unattractive. Their skin, their glances, their places of refuge are outcomes of revolution.

They rest in gutters, against the walls of houses, and on the steps. They sleep all day long on these steps, and also at night. I do not know how and on what they live, for they do not stir from the spot.

There are shaggy dogs among them, yoke-yellow Saint Bernards, formerly master-dogs. They are long-sinewed Russian greyhounds, their white pelts soiled. The pelts are disheveled; the dogs’ eyes seem pasted shut. They are mere recollections of the splendid days. Moscow dogs no longer have system about them. The dog-days are over. There are no longer masters and dogs. Many among the dogs were once masters. The dog has had his day.

My wife had packed a tin with anti-louse preparation in my baggage. She said: “You will get lice. Every night you must spread some of this powder over your bed. I do not want a lousy husband. I want one with a clean skin, a whitecolored man, and not a mangy scratched-up wretch. Guard yourself against lice in Russia.”

I made no use of the box of “anti-lice”, and yet I got no lice, not even fleas. Not until I got back to Esthonia did the first flea alight upon me, when I was with the doctor at Reval. The doctor was issuing my non-vermin certificate, a certificate declaring me free of lice and fleas, and at that moment the first flea fell upon me. But at Moscow I was liceless and flealess.

There are some lice, however, at Moscow, also fleas and bedbugs. But the terror of typhus (lice carry the typhus) was past in May, 1920, at least in Moscow. I was told that there was still typhus in other parts of Russia. Physicians, medical investigators, should at least be sent to Russia, and they should have with them stocks of medicaments, of salvarsan, of quinine.

The chief typhus regions are the parts that were evacuated by Kolchak and by Denikin; I was told that these parts were afflicted with frightful epidemics.

Makhorka

It takes time to get used to it. There is some of the Russian forest and of the Russian meadow in it; at any rate Russian real estate. It exhales fragrance—many fragrances. It is a tobacco for men; it knocks you down. You have to get used to it.

All Moscow that smokes pipes, and a part of cigarette Moscow, puffs makhorka. It is a sort of minced landscape with a little tobacco in it, chopped very fine, with obstinate white pieces of resistance. It is an acquired taste.

I did not acquire it. I did not need to, for I had brought twenty packages of tobacco with me from Germany, and in addition Sasha gave us twenty-five Russian cigarettes every other day. They were cigarettes with long paper mouth-pieces and good tobacco in the paper.

But one of the members of the delegation was intoxicated with makhorka. The audacious man smoked only makhorka; he swore by makhorka and sang its praises everywhere.

Makhorka (which was smoked already in peacetimes) is a tobacco for poor people, a substitute tobacco, a growth of necessity, a make-shift mixture, for the fragrant tobacco days of Moscow are gone for the present. The wonderful one-kopec cigarettes are a thing of the past. In May, 1920, you paid the cigarette dealer 400 to 600 Bolshevik rubles for 25 cigarettes. These peddlers were crying out their wares in a thousand streets, out of the recesses of houses, on street corners, and as they ran through the street. They sold you makhorka and also the necessary cigarette papers.

Anyone who has gotten used to makhorka will never part with the habit. I offered English cigarettes to a former director of the Credit Lyonnais and now a director in an industrial combine. He declined on the ground that he 6moked only makhorka. He had given up all other tobacco.

All paper, every kind of paper is used for cigarette paper in Moscow. They smoked makhorka in wrapping paper, in newspaper, in tissue paper, in each and every kind of paper.

The matter is very plain. They did not paste the cigarette paper, they hardly licked it. They turned a little “toot” of wrapping paper or newspaper and smoked. It is not expensive and saves time.

The English were better treated.

The Union of Tobacco Workers handed them great boxes adorned with dedications and containing long cigarettes. The English had a good time. Scheidemann, if he went to Moscow, would also get a big box with a dedication on it. He would not need to smoke makhorka.

The War With Poland

One day a young Communist came into the office of the combine. The manager signed something and the young Communist departed after shaking his hand.

“What have you signed?” I asked. “It is a front certificate. The comrade is going to the front. He has volunteered. Of course the population is being fine-combed, but this man, like many others, is a volunteer.” Before that I had heard nothing of the war with Poland. They spoke but little of this war. Russia has been at war for six years, and, war-weary as Russia is, war has almost become self-evident. It is no longer a matter of lashing up initial enthusiasm, no longer a matter of intoxication, but a simple self-evident truth. It is a pressure, but it will not press Russia down. They say very little of the war with Poland. The leaders, the political leaders, speak of it. They are confident; they do not think of defeat.

This confidence is evident if you have completely grasped Russia. For this country makes use, against each assailant, of its extent and of its millions of men. If the war is a people’s war, like the war against Poland, a national war, Russia is unconquerable. Who will conquer this length and breadth and these millions with the sword? Napoleon could not. Russia is one great Kutuzov.

The war is oppressive. For war means requisitions, means sucking out energy, means cutting off sources of supply. Every war is oppressive, even to Russia. Who on earth has any right to wage war with Russia? It is a beastly crime. The war weighs down upon the transport roads and cripples them; both the railways and the waterways. The war murders. War is terrible in any case.

Russia will not lose the war with Poland. In the fall of this year, at the latest, Russia will win the war. In the fall at the latest, the defeat of the Poles will be decided. Russia’s wars are autumn and winter wars.

Russia cannot lose the war with Poland. For the Poles are fighting with a demoralized rear, with bloodless peasants: the anarcho-Socialistic peasant of Ukraine is undermining the rear. The Poles have no firm redoubt.

There is no sense in attacking Russia. For many reasons there is no sense in it. England, the English Government understands this very well. There is an unheard of brutality, an incredible stupidity in waging war on Russia. Russia is a gigantic cauldron of foodstuffs, a colossal warehouse of possibilities for the whole world. Who has any interest in smashing this cauldron, in destroying the possibilities?

Europe has never before been guilty of an equal stupidity.

The Ruble

Once the ruble meant something in the world; it meant 2.16 marks, (50 cents American money). Of course there was a lot of trickery about it, a gold standard flim-flamming by Witte and Kokoytsev. For Russia never really had a gold standard, only a centralization of the gold to entice foreign traders. Inside of the country you never saw much of the gold standard. The paper ruble fluttered gaily, the little ruble, the debasing, prostituting, bribing little ruble. The ruble shot its poison into the souls of Russian officials, and to this day not all the souls of Russia have been purged of this poison. Already, in peace times Russia had a color psychology of rubles, a local agiotage, according to the age of the ruble, the color of the ruble, the size of the ruble. The Soviet Republic must reckon with this psychology also. Romanov rubles, Czarist rubles, are considerably higher in purchasing power than Bolshevist rubles. In May, 1920, a speculator would pay 20 to 22 thousand Bolshevist rubles for 1,000 Romanov rubles. Of course this is only true of speculators, for the state exchanges only at par.

Russian money, Bolshevist money is not money in the European sense of the word. It is only money of issue, not money of presentation. There is no institution in Russia that redeems the Bolshevik money, as for instance the Bank of England redeems pound notes. To be sure, the obligation to redeem in many countries of Europe is today not different from the case of the Bolshevik ruble. Redemption has ceased. The German Reichsbank, for instance, cannot redeem. It may exchange notes for notes, or notes for treasury loan certificates. But you cannot call that redemption. It is a sort of solution (viewed in the large) but not a redemption. For the present it is a humbug which is not admitted. But the Bolshevik ruble is an open humbug. The Bolshevik ruble is really an unblushing deception, while the European banknote is a veiled deception. That is the right way. Deception should be practiced openly, without a veil, if the whole monetary system is to be swindled out of existence; if that is your object you cannot swindle sufficiently. The Soviet Republic has thus far issued only 600 to 700 milliards of rubles. It cannot print as many as it would like, only a few million milliards a day. That is far too little if it is intended to deal a death blow to the monetary system. But it must be done to death, as it cannot be torn out by the roots at once or beheaded at a single blow.

That is what the system demands; and men will have it so. They do not want it to be decapitated at once; they want to be deceived and they do not notice that they are deceiving themselves. It is an interesting, delightful episode. It is caviar to the financial critic. The more magnificent the deception, the more luscious the morsel to the financial critic.

The Soviet Republic has now issued revolutionary certificates, notes with propaganda printed on them, in all the languages of the world powers; in all the important languages of the world you read: Proletarians of all Lands Unite! The notes are smaller than the old Bolshevik notes. I saw 500 and 1,000 ruble notes. The rallying cry of the Communist manifesto, of Marx and Engels, you may read in the German language, and then in the French language, in the English language, in the Turkish language, in the Russian language, etc., etc., right down the note.

This propaganda bank note, this tendentious ruble note is worth less than the old Soviet note, the Red note: 10,000 Red Soviet notes are worth in Moscow, or were worth when I was there, 11,000 manifesto notes. There are also old Red 10,000 ruble notes; you do not see them frequently.

They print small notes, hardly larger than postage stamps, of green, yellow, brown color. Some of these also are manifesto notes, but the rallying cry is printed on them only in Russian. There are also Kerensky notes, whose purchasing power fluctuates between that of the Romanov notes and of the Bolshevik notes. Notes, notes, notes. Heaps of ruble notes, crumpled notes, patched notes, and lost notes. The little postage stamp notes hardly receive any attention. They are worth practically nothing. You pay with whole perforated sheets of such notes. The individual note is hardly even paper, it is trash. It is a caricature, a money joke, a parody on the capitalist money system.

People do not count in Moscow in rubles but in bread. To be sure they say: “How much bread shall I get for so many rubles”; or “How many rubles must I pay for so much bread?” The emphasis is not on the ruble but on the “bread”. Bread is the measure, the standard, not paper. There is a profound meaning in this, a Socialist meaning. This is already one of the consequences of the systematic gigantic devaluation, of the magnificent relegation of money to the background, of the huge mass-production of money. The ruble is therefore a psychological matter, of color, of size, a calculation on a scale according to the size and color. The ruble is no more; money is no more. This is the catastrophe of money, a feverish production of a supplementary purchasing power. If the people do not steal (from a Socialist standpoint), this whole deception would be unnecessary. But as it still has capitalistic tendencies, it must be deceived in this way. That is the essence of this printing of paper money.

In foreign countries the Bolshevik ruble is worth nothing. Nor need it be worth anything, for Russian foreign trade is financed differently, is financed with gold, with foreign goods, with concessions and products. The sellers to Russia need not worry; the Soviet Government pays promptly, and in good money, or the equivalent of good money. It does not need to deceive foreign dealers. It has enough wherewith to pay. It has a devaluated standard (if you can speak of any standard at all) in the interior, but its money standard abroad is of high value, of the highest value. No country in the world has a standard of higher value, not even America.

Moscow Time

The clock is set ahead in Moscow. In the summer it is set hours ahead. For that reason, the working-day begins very early and ends very early. As time is counted in Berlin, the offices and factories close at noon. This arrangement is good, for it permits of recreation during the daylight hours. Moscow needs recreation. Moscow nerves are no longer peace nerves. They need walks in the open, relaxation, lounging lassitude.

Of course, there are also nerves in Moscow that cannot escape their torment. The administration heads slave for twelve and fourteen hours, and more. Chicherin is such a slave, and many others toil from early morning till late at night. They are helpless and perplexed because there is such a scarcity of labor, and such a tremendous amount of work. Chicherin begins his work late in the afternoon and continues until six in the morning, Moscow time. But these are intensified exceptions.

There is plenty of time in Moscow. There has always been plenty of time in Moscow, even today. Russia is large, and time is slow in Russia. What is an hour more or less!

Often I lost patience, I stamped my foot, I struck my fist on the table, I could not get used to Moscow time. I liked the summer schedule of time, but not the Moscow sense of time.

A horrible nuisance is the following practice: I am speaking with the head of a department. The thread of our subject weaves back and forth between us. The door opens and some one stumbles over the carefully spun thread, breaks it in two, and talks with the department head ignoring my presence. I am bursting with rage, I stamp my foot, I tremble with impatience, for I have no time. The thread-breaking man or woman goes out, smiling as though nothing had happened, and immediately another breaks in and speaks over my head. There is no rational system in this method of holding conferences, time is frittered away, the department head loses his perspective. There is no sense of order, no sense of sequence, of consecutiveness. Lenin has this sense, and there are others who have it. With them one thing follows another in consecutive order, is assorted, registered, announced, cancelled, admitted. Order, order, order. Blessed folk!

Soviet Russia began in the summer of 1919, published by the Bureau of Information of Soviet Russia and replaced The Weekly Bulletin of the Bureau of Information of Soviet Russia. In lieu of an Embassy the Russian Soviet Government Bureau was the official voice of the Soviets in the US. Soviet Russia was published as the official organ of the RSGB until February 1922 when Soviet Russia became to the official organ of The Friends of Soviet Russia, becoming Soviet Russia Pictorial in 1923. There is no better US-published source for information on the Soviet state at this time, and includes official statements, articles by prominent Bolsheviks, data on the Soviet economy, weekly reports on the wars for survival the Soviets were engaged in, as well as efforts to in the US to lift the blockade and begin trade with the emerging Soviet Union.

PDF of full issue: https://www.marxists.org/history/usa/pubs/srp/v3n19-nov-06-1920-soviet-russia.pdf