she cited the example of her sister, who has been eating human meat for three weeks, has got back her strength and feels much better. Imperiously she said that she would brook no hesitation, that it was a question of life and death, and that the next morning she would call round and they would go to work together.
Valentina Antonovna didn’t sleep all night. At one and the same time she refused, outraged, even to consider the suggestion, and convinced herself, looking at her sleeping grown-up son, that for his sake she ought to agree. But then she began imagining in detail what it would actually involve, and leapt up: ‘No! Anything but that! I would lose my mind!’ Before morning she had again convinced herself that it wasn’t murder, that the girls were dead anyway, and that if she didn’t do it her tall, broad-shouldered son would die of starvation. On this she went back to sleep, awoke this morning, and waited for her guest. But when the woman appeared Valentina Antonovna’s reaction, quite unexpectedly, was a furious refusal. The woman left, viciously swearing and cursing.36
Overall, 64 per cent of those arrested for ‘use of human meat as food’ were female, 44 per cent unemployed or ‘without fixed occupation’ and over 90 per cent illiterate or in possession of only basic education. Only 15 per cent were ‘rooted inhabitants’ of Leningrad and only 2 per cent had a criminal record.37 The typical Leningrad ‘cannibal’, therefore, was neither the Sweeney Todd of legend nor the bestial lowlife of Soviet history writing, but an honest, working-class housewife from the provinces, scavenging protein to save her family.
Remarkably, Leningrad’s medical authorities made at least one attempt to have those driven to eating human meat classified as mentally ill. On 20 February 1942 the head of the Leningrad Front’s medical services called a special meeting of seven senior psychiatrists — academics, the head of a psychiatric hospital, the chief court psychiatrist and a representative of the army medical service — to decide whether or not corpse-eaters should be held criminally responsible for their actions. The doctors’ verdict, from the judicial point of view, was contradictory: corpse-eaters were sane, but also not incurably criminal. One dissenter argued that no mentally healthy person, by definition, could resort to cannibalism, but that they should nevertheless stand trial: ‘These are inadequate and socially dangerous people! We need to deal with them strictly!’ In conclusion it was decided that most cannibals were mentally healthy, but ‘primitive, of a lower moral and intellectual level’. Though all were dangerous, ‘periods of isolation’ should be determined individually, taking into account the circumstances of the crime (‘active or passive corpse-eating’) and the offender’s personality.38
In practice, however, all cannibals — sane, insane, murderers or harmless ‘corpse-eaters’ — were treated as criminals. Since no provision for cannibalism existed in the Criminal Code it was included under the catch-all clause of ‘banditry’ (the Code’s article 59–3). By the time the psychiatrists convened, 554 ‘special category bandits’ had already gone before military tribunals, and of these 329 had been shot and 53 given ten-year gaol sentences. At least another forty-five had died (presumably of starvation) in custody.39 But although no official distinction was made between murderers and corpse-eaters, variations in sentencing suggests that in practice the latter got off relatively lightly. Of the 1,913 cannibals whose cases had been processed by early June, military tribunals sentenced 586 to execution and 668 to prison terms of five to ten years.40 What happened to the remaining 659 is unclear. They may simply have awaited sentencing, but it is perhaps not wishful thinking to discern — in police reports’ habitual observation that a particular ‘user of human meat for food’ was an unsupported woman with dependent children and no previous convictions — coded pleas for clemency. It would be good to know that they were answered.
16. Anton Ivanovich is Angry
An incongruous reminder of peacetime life, for people making their way down the Nevsky in the winter of 1941–2, was a series of flyers advertising a film comedy that had been due to open at the beginning of the war. Its title, pasted up on lamp-posts in large black letters, was
How angry were Leningraders, and why did their anger never break out into open revolt? On one level this is a frivolous question — Leningraders, like other Soviet citizens, felt loyalty to their country if not to Bolshevism, hated and feared the Germans and were too exhausted and emaciated to do more than strive for their own bare survival. On another, it is a conundrum. Hundreds of thousands had already directly experienced repression and impoverishment at the hands of their government before the war; now almost all were either close to death from starvation themselves, or watching helplessly as family and friends died around them. The hypocrisies and inequalities of Soviet life, moreover, were sharper than ever. People could see with their own eyes that the lights in government buildings stayed on, that corruption was rife, that their bosses’ children ate while their own starved. Moscow was cut off, the rank-and-file police in almost as desperate a plight as themselves — what did they have left to lose? Bread shortages, a disastrous war and fury at government incompetence had sparked the February Rising in 1917. Why didn’t they do the same a quarter of a century later?
That they would do so was certainly the expectation of the Nazis, whose pre-war confidence that invasion would immediately spark anti-Bolshevik revolt took a while to wear off. In particular, they vastly overestimated the importance of Russian anti-Semitism, every minor indication of which got top billing in SS and military intelligence reports. Their Russian-language propaganda was also startlingly inept, simultaneously denouncing the ‘Jewish- Stalinist’ Soviet government and boasting of the invincibility and ruthlessness of the Wehrmacht (‘Finish your bread, you’ll soon be dead’ was one slogan; ‘We bomb today, you die tomorrow’ another).1 Army intelligence began to correct itself in the autumn, admitting that though the ‘Jewish question’ was ‘increasingly actively discussed’ by Leningraders there was ‘no evidence of organised or active resistance to the Communist authorities’. Leaflets air-dropped over the city, it was noted, were not being passed from hand to hand, but hidden away for future use in case Leningrad was abandoned. Another report twelve days later concluded that although the public mood was febrile and anxious, the ‘Red government, with the help of terror and vigorous propaganda, holds the population strongly in hand, and at the present time an organised rising against the enemy cannot be counted on’.2
The SS’s intelligence service, the Sicherheitsdienst (SD), persisted in its wishful thinking for longer, passing on every gloomy rumour and anti-Semitic
The Germans were not wrong, though, in thinking that Leningraders were angry. Gauging overall public opinion is hard, but the diaries show Leningraders raging as much against the incompetence, callousness, hypocrisy and dishonesty of their own officials as against the distant, impersonal enemy. Among the best evidence for what ordinary people thought of their government, paradoxically, is the records kept by the regime itself. Unlike other dictators, Stalin and his satraps never made the mistake of believing themselves beloved — on the contrary, they saw plots under every stone. Paranoia aside, the reports Zhdanov received every few days from the head of the ‘instructors’ department’ of the city Party Committee were remarkably sophisticated, collating overheard snatches of conversation into quite rounded summaries of the issues preoccupying Leningraders at any one time. The age, sex, ethnicity and socio-economic status of each speaker were noted, but only if criticisms were overtly political were his or her details passed to the NKVD. Military censors, intercepting private letters to the front, tracked the percentage containing ‘negative communications’ (it rose from 6–9 per cent at the beginning of January 1942 to 20 per cent at the month’s end5). Letters from members of the public direct to Zhdanov were similarly grouped by subject matter, and totals calculated monthly for each type.6 Though the orders to sort out this or that problem that Zhdanov issued in response to this mass of data often went unfulfilled, he never went uninformed.
Support for the authorities rose and fell in line with ration levels and progress at the front. The wave of
