The meeting was scheduled for 5 o’clock, so knowing soviet practices I strolled in about quarter to six, counting on still having time on my hands before there would be anything doing. Speaking of unpunctuality, I remember an occasion in 1918 when I had to make a statement to the Samara soviet on some work I was engaged in. I wished to secure a hall for a public lecture on science by an American professor and received an official invitation to appear at the soviet at 5 p.m. to explain my object in detail. I attended punctually. At 5:30 the first deputy strolled in and, seeing no one there, asked me when the sitting would begin.
“I was invited for 5 o’clock,” I replied.
“Yes,” he said, “5 o’clock—that’s right,” and strolled out again. At 6 three or four workmen were lounging about, chatting or doing nothing to pass the time.
“Do you always start so unpunctually?” I asked one of them.
“If you have lived so long in Russia,” was the good-natured retort, “you ought to know us by now.” At 7 everybody was in evidence except the chairman. That dignitary appeared at 7:15 with the apology that he had “stopped to chat with a comrade in the street.”
The soviet meeting at Petrograd, scheduled for 5, began at 9, but there were extenuating circumstances. The still-discontented workmen had been invited during the day to listen to Zinoviev, who strove to pacify them by granting them holidays which had been cancelled on account of the war. The soviet deputies wandered up and down the lobbies and corridors, while the workmen streamed out talking heatedly or with looks of gloom on their faces.
The hall within the palace had been altered and improved. The wall behind the tribune where the portrait of the Tsar used to hang had been removed and a deep alcove made, seating over one hundred people, where the executive committee and special guests sat. The executive committee numbered forty people and constituted a sort of cabinet, doing all the legislation. Its members were always Communists. The soviet proper never took part in legislation. By its character, and especially by the manner in which its sittings were held, it was impossible that it should. The number of deputies was over 1,300, an unwieldy body in which discussion was difficult in any case, but to make it completely impossible numerous guests were invited from other organizations of a Communist character. By this means the audience was doubled. And one must still add the chauffeurs, streetcar conductors, and general servants of the building who also found their way in. Everybody took part in the voting, no discrimination being made between members and bidden or unbidden guests.
At 9 all was ready for the soviet to open. By sitting three at a desk there were seats for about 2,000 people. The others stood at the back or swarmed into the balcony. Sailors were very conspicuous. The day was warm and the air was stifling. Around the walls hung notices: “You are requested not to smoke.” In spite of this, halfway through the meeting the room was full of smoke. Following the example of others, I doffed my coat and, removing my belt, pulled up my shirt and flapped it up and down by way of ventilation. Performed en gros this operation was hardly conducive to the purification of the atmosphere.
I secured a seat at the back whence I could see everything. My neighbour was a woman, a dishevelled little creature who seemed much embarrassed by her surroundings. Every time anyone rose to speak she asked me who it was. While we waited for the proceedings to begin she confided to me in answer to my question that she was a guest, like myself. “I signed on recently as a ‘sympathizer,’ ” she said.
Suddenly there was a burst of applause. A well-known figure with bushy hair and Jewish features entered and strolled nonchalantly up to the tribune. “That is Zinoviev,” I said to my neighbour, but she knew Zinoviev.
A bell rang and silence ensued.
“I pronounce the Fourth Petrograd Soviet open,” said a tall man in clothes of military cut who stood at the right of the president’s chair. “That is Evdokimov, the secretary,” I said to my companion, to which she replied profoundly, “Ah!”
An orchestra stationed in one corner of the hall struck up the “Internationale.” Everyone rose. Another orchestra up in the balcony also struck up the “Internationale,” but two beats later and failed to catch up. You listened to and sang with the one you were nearest to.
“At the instance of the Communist Party,” proceeded Evdokimov in a clear voice, “I propose the following members for election to the executive committee.” He read out forty names, all Communists. “Those in favour raise their hands.” A sea of hands rose. “Who is against?” To the general excitement a number of hands were raised—an event unheard of for many a month. “Accepted by a large majority,” exclaimed the secretary.
“The Communist Party,” he continued, “proposes the following for election to the presidium.” He read the names of seven Communists, including his own. About half-a-dozen hands were raised against this proposal, to the general amusement.
“The Communist Party proposes Comrade Zinoviev as president of the soviet,” proceeded the secretary in heightened tones. There was a storm of applause. One single hand was raised in opposition and was greeted with hilarious laughter. Zinoviev advanced to the presidential chair and the orchestras struck up the “Internationale.” The election of the executive committee, the presidium, and the president had occupied less than five minutes.
Opening his speech with a reference to the recent elections, Zinoviev exulted in the fact that of the 1,390 members a thousand were fully qualified members of the Communist Party, whilst many others were candidates. “We were convinced,” he exclaimed, “that the working class of Red Petrograd would remain true to itself and return to the soviet only the best representatives, and we were not mistaken.”
