Kirill has reason, then, to thank the Soviet power that saved his life, trained and promoted him, and in some way avenged his mother’s murder. He is nostalgic for the Soviet past, though not for Dubrovno or poverty. What he remembers is the discipline that formed him, the rewards for hard work, and his own faith in victory. He knew the system had its cruel side. He had seen plenty as a child. Dubrovno was not far from the Ukrainian border, and the refugees from the successive famines there began to turn up after 1929. They brought their stories of collectivization, of the slaughter of animals, the looting, the fear. Soon after that, his own family too was hungry, though the potatoes they grew on a corner of land saved them from real starvation. Nothing would shake the young man’s faith in socialism. What he went on to witness in the war would make his belief firmer still. He still thinks that collectivization brought more benefits than costs. The horses grew thinner, he remembers. People were hungry for a while. But all this was just a prelude. In time, the peasants would have tractors, each of which could do the work of a dozen men. One day there would also be hot water and electric light. Kirill was back in Tallinn later in the war. He saw what Nazi rule had done. He knew, and not from that visit alone, which system had destroyed his world and which rebuilt it brick by brick.
‘Education has brought amazing results,’ a German officer discovered as he marched through Soviet territory in the summer of 1941. ‘On the wall of every Russian schoolroom I found a large map of Europe and Asia on which all of Russia was marked in bright red while the rest was shown without color. The insignificant size of the European peninsula was contrasted unmistakably with the vastness of Russia.’ Beyond the schoolrooms, he reported little scepticism in adults below the age of fifty. Only the very old or the religious dared to be critical of Soviet power. ‘I talked with many young soldiers,’ he reported, ‘farmers, labourers, and also women. All of their thinking was patterned along the same line, and they were all convinced of the infallibility of that which they had been taught.’ Twenty years of schooling and propaganda seemed to have worked. To the officer’s racist surprise – for he considered Russians to be inert and long-suffering, more animal than man – the state had even instilled the need for ‘enthusiasm, initiative and vigor, the most essential prerequisites for great accomplishments not only in peace, but still more in war’.22
What this German was observing was the impact of a national policy whose aim, for twenty years, had been to engineer new kinds of consciousness among the young. There was still widespread hardship, to say nothing of resentment of the collectives and of harsh working regimes in factories and on construction sites, but the crucial generations, the soldiers who would fight at Stalingrad and Kursk, were born into the Soviet system and knew no other. Though older people might never be reconciled to the new world, and even younger ones made jokes and cynical remarks, the language and priorities of Soviet communism provided the war generation with the only mental world they knew, not least because alternatives were excluded. Even the offspring of peasants, the most resentful section of the population, had no chance of developing a different political outlook, or not, at least, in public. Children’s training began from the moment they stepped through the door of their infant school. As future Soviet citizens, they would start to learn about the revolution as soon as they could pick out the Cyrillic letters forming Stalin’s name. Where once their grandparents had chorused extracts from the psalms, these children chanted lessons on the triumphs of electrification, science, and communist morality. They also learned to be grateful that their elementary schools existed in the first place, for it was the Soviet regime, they were told, that cared to cultivate their literacy.23 By 1941, there were 191,500 primary schools among the Soviet Union’s villages and farms. Twenty-four million children were enrolled in them. If they worked hard, the best of them might be picked to join the 800,000 youngsters who enrolled each year in the country’s 817 colleges and universities. The very fortunate might even win a place at one of the Red Army’s special military academies.24
All children were taught that love for their motherland involved preparedness for future wars. While their parents were labouring to bring in the grain or working monotonous shifts to help fulfil the nation’s economic plan, these offspring learned that military service would be an adventure, a privilege. It would mean taking up the banner of the revolution, continuing the struggle for which the heroes of their Soviet picture books had died. Some Nazis might have envied Soviet educators their task. For one thing, unlike Nazism, communism had held sway for more than twenty years when the war came, so several entire generations had grown up under its influence. And for another, there were no defeats to be explained, no stab in the back, as Germany claimed to have suffered in 1918, to avenge. The Soviets spoke only of success. But both regimes presented service – military or civil – as an honour to which only the élite would be called, and portrayed death as something from which no hero would shrink. Such lessons at least motivated certain kinds of youth to train for war, whatever happened later on the battlefield.
Soviet students harked back to the civil war (not to the shameful defeats that tsarism had suffered) and celebrated the Communist Party as their inspiration and guide. The Communist Party identified itself with military struggle, presenting the Red Army as its instrument of progress, weaving ideology and war together. Every child would learn about the army’s record, and in particular about the model for all future wars, the historic success of the Red troops against the massed ranks of the Whites. While other European children were reading about the Somme, Verdun, and Passchendaele, Soviet students learned about the Don Front and the struggle to save Petrograd. In their free time, they played at ‘Reds and Whites’. The implication was that future conflict would be just the same, and in particular that morality and ideological passion were the keys to victory. ‘Our teachers were the people who had taken part in the revolution, in the civil war,’ wrote one future Red Army combatant. His physics teacher came to every class he gave dressed in a soldier’s uniform, complete with green tunic and gaiters.25 It was his way of being prepared to take up a gun again, just as he had in 1918 when the revolution faced its crisis. The pupils that he taught would never doubt that they lived in a beleaguered, embattled state. Many obediently believed that their own happy lives depended on armed struggle and pure-hearted sacrifice.
In this way, schoolchildren – or those from towns, at least – imbibed ideology and patriotism together, identifying field trips and sports clubs with the faces of Lenin and Stalin. When they volunteered to clear snow from the streets on their free days, these children’s energy was inspired, in part, by faith in future progress. The altruism natural to young people was channelled into a sense of duty to the party. Soviet teenagers would study, hike and train as part of a larger campaign to improve, to change, to build a better world. ‘It was both possible and necessary to alter everything,’ a Muscovite, Raisa Orlova, recalled. ‘The streets, the houses, the cities, the social order, human souls.’ She believed firmly in the new life, a life in the future. It would start, ‘properly speaking’, when she lived ‘in a new and sparkling white house. There I would do exercises in the morning, there the ideal order would exist, there all my heroic achievements would commence.’26