The Iron Curtain

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Text originally published in 1948 under the same title.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE IRON CURTAIN

BY

IGOR GOUZENKO

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

CHAPTER I—The Case of Potekina 4

CHAPTER II—My Hostages to Freedom 12

CHAPTER III—Life in Moscow 18

CHAPTER IV—Food, Labor and Education in Soviet Russia 22

CHAPTER V—Study and Romance 28

CHAPTER VI—Behind the Curtain 35

CHAPTER VII—Spy Centre 43

CHAPTER VIII—The Comintern is Dissolved 55

CHAPTER IX—Prisoners of War 64

CHAPTER X—Anna, My Wife 72

CHAPTER XI—The Soviet and the Jew 80

CHAPTER XII—Instructions for Abroad 89

CHAPTER XIII—Zabotin and Canada 99

CHAPTER XIV—Bickering Paradise 110

CHAPTER XV—Fifth Column Incorporated 125

CHAPTER XVI—Alias Alek 139

CHAPTER XVII—A Spy in Parliament 148

CHAPTER XVIII—On The Eve 153

CHAPTER XIX—Difficult Escape 158

POSTSCRIPT 172

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 173

CHAPTER I—The Case of Potekina

ALTHOUGH I never saw her standing on a high cliff laughing down at a stormy sea, as a salty wind whipped her long blonde plaits behind her, that is the way in which I picture Potekina, imagination coloring my boyhood memory.

She was the first girl I noticed as being differently personable than any other girl, but always from an awed, admiring distance until that awful day on the road to a Pioneer camp near Moscow. Suddenly a hand seized mine, and I looked down to find it was Potekina’s. We were both fourteen years old, yet memory portrays her now as a girl standing on the threshold of early womanhood.

Potekina was vivacious, always gay, thin of waist, and a natural leader in sports as well as studies. Even in winter her skin looked tanned, and her ready laugh revealed gleaming white teeth. The other boys would tease her by pulling her blonde plaits, but there was enough of the tomboy in Potekina, and enough of speed in her shapely legs, to chase the teasers around the school yard. Her eyes—they were blue, I think—held a kindliness that seemed out of keeping with her tomboy vigor. But on that particular day those eyes were filled with tears, which both surprised and worried me, overcoming even the thrilling significance of her hand in mine.

Our noisy column of young Pioneers—your equivalent of Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, with a political propaganda angle added—had been halted. Being towards the end of the column we could not see at first what had stopped us. Then gradually, coming from the opposite direction, a slowly moving line of people took shape.

They were the strangest men we had ever seen: dirty, unkempt, with faces an ashen gray. Their clothes were a patternless mess of rags, their feet wrapped in tatters. Among them was one who attracted my attention. His face seemed young, yet the rest of him was old. A piece of cloth, cut out of a bag, and wound around his head like a sort of turban, protected his ears. He had a sparse beard, and a large bluish marl at the top of his nose. His chest had fallen in, and his ribs showed through holes in the shapeless coat that clad him. There was something about him that made me think of a grotesque scarecrow, with a terribly human expression of tiredness and pain. He gave us a little furtive wave with a hand which we noticed was caked with dirtied blood.

Bread! he whispered in an oddly croaking voice.

I reached automatically into my kitbag to find a piece but another boy found one first. He handed it to the poor wretch, and the latter chewed away like a dog while his companions looked on ravenously.

All of us were probing for food leftovers when a uniformed girl escort came hurrying down the straggling line. A tight leather belt made her heavy breast bulge in her khaki windbreaker; horn-rimmed spectacles made her pale eyes look like those of a dead fish.

Don’t dare give them bread! she shouted excitedly. They are enemies of the people.

Other guards in the uniform of the secret police, the NKVD, hurried to the commotion centre and snatched the bread from the young man with the caked blood on his hand. As the bread fell to the ground, a guard stamped it into the dirt of the road. The poor wretch was given a shove. He stumbled, but recovered himself, looking back for a moment to the spot where the bread lay on the ground. His eyes were dull and deep.

It was that gesture, the tired, sick eyes looking back to the road, as if wondering whether it would be worth a gamble to reach for any remaining scraps, that apparently touched Potekina. It was then that I felt her hand in mine, and saw that she was crying.

I recall the strange feeling that came over me in the clear way one does some flashbacks to childhood. There was a curious sensation of pride that she should reach for my hand and not that of one of the bigger boys around us. I knew there was something I should say, something I should do, but what?

There was something evil about what we had seen, but we felt it must be right. Potekina was drying her eyes hurriedly with her sleeve. One of our escorts, a tall young communist of vigorous build, yelled:

Now then, children! Let’s sing! What the devil are you downhearted about?

We formed ranks and began to march. Several voices started a song. I tried to join them. Soon the few voices faded into silence. We marched with our own thoughts.

My next memory of Potekina is of a later period. We had graduated from Pioneers to the Komsomol which were the Young Communist Youth. An urgent meeting of the Komsomols of the tenth class was set for four o’clock in the afternoon.

Everybody came. This was something new, with an air of special seriousness about it. Admission was restricted to those presenting a Komsomol membership card.

At exactly four o’clock three men entered the classroom where we were assembled. I knew two of them. They were former pupils of the school who had finished the previous year and were now taking the first course at the Military Academy. One was Zayikin, who was dressed in the uniform of the Academy. He had a bright, energetic face with high cheek-bones, and very short blond hair which stood upright on his rather square-shaped skull. He was studying in the branch of communications. The other was Potapov, also in uniform, but less handsome. A short, plump chap with a tiny uplifted nose, he was in the mechanization branch of the Military Academy. They had been well-known Komsomols. The third man, of medium height and surly expression, wasn’t known to any of us.

The chairman of the Komsomols Committee, a thin student with a long nose, carried on a brief conversation with the stranger, then rose:

"We have one question for today’s meeting. Comrade Gromov, Komsomol organizer from the Central Committee, will address the meeting."

The stranger bowed, then walked to the front of the platform. He glared at us a full fifteen seconds before speaking. His shoulders were broad and so high that he seemed to have no neck. His thin eyebrows were ruffled into a single line. He stuffed his massive fists into his pockets and took a deep breath:

"Comrades Komsomols! he began in a heavy, ominous tone. Today’s meeting was called on the recommendation of the Central Committee of the Komsomol. It was called for the purpose of discussing one question: the question of Komsomol member Potekina."

My heart skipped a beat. Was I hearing things? Potekina? All heads were turning. I followed their gaze, afraid of what I should see.

Potekina sat huddled in her seat. Her face was white as chalk and her startled eyes were going from Comrade Gromov on the platform back to us.

We had been waiting for anything, but not for this. Only this morning she had been organizing a games party for tomorrow afternoon.

Potekina! the chairman was yelling with a severity that frightened us, Come to the speaker’s table at once!

She rose slowly to her feet as if in a trance, and walked up to the table where she stood staring at Gromov.

Gromov didn’t even glance her way. Instead he spoke to us.

"It is the opinion of the Central Committee of the Komsomol that this Potekina should be expelled from the Komsomol as an unworthy member who has lost political vigilance and has not been able to uncover an enemy of the people who lived under the same roof with her...."

He paused dramatically, then continued, The fact that she has not been able to uncover this enemy was not an accident. Maybe she shared the views of her father,.... his voice rose to a shout, her father who has by now been arrested by the NKVD as an enemy of the people!

Potekina, her face pale, looked at us as if to read our faces. I felt afraid she would look at me and make some gesture to evoke sympathy.

Her father, we knew, was the financial director of the Dynamo plant, the largest electrical equipment manufacturing plant in the Soviet Union, situated in the Proletarsky District of Moscow. Because of his position, Potekina had the benefit of special rations. We had noticed her shoes especially, which were always better than those of her schoolmates.

Comrade Gromov was thundering:

This girl’s father has been arrested for conspiring to establish a Trotzkyite-Boukharine bloc in the Dynamo plant!

His voice had risen to a high pitch. The silence that followed was disturbed only by the sound of flies buzzing over the windows. We sat motionless, staring at Potekina. Abruptly, she spoke, her voice a bare whisper, but audible throughout the room.

I was born in a working-class family, she said.

Gromov smiled crookedly at her.

Yes, she repeated, this time a little frantically, in a worker’s family.

You had better tell us what you and your father used to talk about; what political views you had.

Potekina seemed a little hysterical: I did not share his views!

Aha! shouted Gromov triumphantly. So you knew before that he was a Trotzkyite! Why then, did you not tell the suitable organ? Why did you not disclose an enemy? Eh? He looked about the audience victoriously.

You did not understand me aright, the girl spoke nervously. I did not share the Trotzkyite views for which you say that he was arrested. I did not know that he held such views. He never discussed them with me. He never....

You are getting confused, my dear Potekina, Gromov interrupted with a grim smile. First you say you did not share your father’s views, then you say that your father had no such views. You have not been called here to defend your father, who no longer needs a defender.

Potekina tried to speak again but Gromov waved her to silence.

It appears to me that we have heard enough of Potekina, he said with slow emphasis. "She can tell us nothing new. Let the Komsomols now tell us what they know of her."

We were all silent. Nobody would venture to speak, caught unawares and quite stupefied by the proceedings. We all liked Potekina, lively, energetic, clever at literature and apparently always a staunch patriot. It seemed unthinkable to accuse her of some kind of hostile views. Finally, her best friend, a girl called Zenina, stood up. She was tall, lean, with short dark hair combed like a boy’s, and a stubborn chin.

I have known Potekina for a long time, she said, "and have always esteemed her as a successful pupil. She has always been an active Komsomol. I don’t understand why she must be expelled from the Komsomol unless it is because her father has been arrested. That seems unjust because she is a patriot and enjoys the respect of all members of our class. I am sure that other comrades share my views...."

Speak for yourself, Gromov cut in harshly. Don’t speak for others.

Zenina had a lot of courage. "I do not consider it is necessary to expel Potekina. She is a good member of the Komsomol and will be a good member of the Party."

From other parts of the room other voices spoke up. "Potekina is a good Komsomol! She will be a good member of the Party! She had nothing to do with her father’s crime!"

Gromov’s face became dark with anger. He wheeled around and faced Zayikin, the former Komsomol, who was looking worried. Zayikin jumped to his feet.

"Comrades Komsomols! I look at you and wonder if you are really Komsomols or just sucklings. A question of principle is involved and you are acting like a bunch of high-born maiden ladies. A good Komsomol, you say? An excellent pupil, you say? So what? The enemy tries to penetrate under the mask of good members and excellent people."

He pointed directly at Potekina.

"I tell you, this girl is an enemy. The better the enemy is able to mask himself, the better his chances of doing damage. Where is your political vigilance? Where is your Komsomol keen-sightedness?" Zayikin cleared his throat and continued with biting sarcasm:

"Are you the Komsomols who will enter the higher educational institutions this summer? What use are you with your childish views? Zenina sings praises for a friend. Is that a Komsomol discussing a serious matter or a friend befriending a friend? How does Zenina expect to enter the Academy of Communications? I can assure you such views aren’t in fashion there. I believe that Potekina knew her father was a conspirator, yet covered up for him. In that way she was guilty of a double crime. You must say firmly: ‘There is no place for Potekina in the Komsomol. She must be expelled’!"

The class had grown still. Tarantov, who was sitting beside me, arose. I felt excited because Tarantov was a leader among the boys and a husky athlete. I had often watched him slipping notes to Potekina and seen her laugh in reply.

"Komsomols! he cried. We are behaving like children. As one of your elder comrades I have a right to speak. At a moment when the Party is carrying on a merciless fight with the enemies of the people we are singing the praise of Potekina, who refuses to report one of those enemies. She is guilty of hiding a traitor to her fatherland. I consider Potekina should be expelled and that everybody will support me."

I could hardly believe my ears. I had expected Tarantov, the strong boy leader of the class, to speak in Potekina’s defense. I had even thought she was his girl. Dumbly, I looked from Tarantov to Zayikin and saw Zayikin smiling and nodding approval. Then I remembered that Tarantov was intending to enrol in the Stalin Academy for Mechanization and Motorization of the Red Army. It was all clear to me then.

Potekina had sunk down onto a chair. Her eyes were now cast down to the floor at her feet. For a moment I thought of saying something, but there was nothing I could say. And besides, would it be wise for my own future?

Gromov was standing again.

Let us proceed with the voting! he ordered briskly. "Those in favor of expelling Potekina from the Komsomol, raise their hands!"

Everybody raised their hands; even Zenina. I could see by her face that the threat about her views not being in fashion at the Academy had frightened her greatly.

Gromov looked slowly over the audience. The decision is unanimous. I now command Potekina to surrender her card and leave the meeting at once.

Slowly Potekina left her chair and approached the table. Her shoulders were bent a little. She seemed on the verge of tears and I suddenly recalled that day on the road near Moscow.

She had been crying then; crying for the enemies of the people! Another thought came to me. Had anybody seen her holding my hand and speaking with me? Would somebody accuse me of being sympathetic to her? I felt a dryness in my throat and knew I was sweating, but didn’t dare wipe it off my forehead because somebody might notice and start thinking. Tarantov, for instance.

Potekina was having trouble finding her card among other papers. Her hand was trembling like a leaf. Rudely, Zayikin reached over and pulled it out. He threw the card on the table.

Potekina turned and began walking toward the door. As she neared it she broke into a half-run. The door closed behind her.

As we left the meeting, none of us looked at each other. I could not imagine how we could sit with Potekina at lessons. We had been friends. If she spoke to me, what would I do? Other members of the class, I knew, had the same fears but didn’t dare bring up the subject.

There were more lessons to be done before going home, and there in the classroom we found Potekina sitting alone. When we entered, she looked startled, as if she had forgotten there were more lessons and had come to hide.

Nobody sat near her. Even Zenina went to a far row of desks. The teacher entered a little late and stopped short when she saw Potekina. The teacher’s face deepened into a frown and she announced that instead of the regular lessons she would talk on the necessity of reporting even one’s best friends when there was healthy suspicion.

She was a thin, blonde, middle-aged woman. Rolled-up plaits covered her ears. She wore rather washed-out sweaters, a worn belt, and her frocks revealed visible patches. Her usual way of speaking was soft and persuasive, but now she seemed to want to harden her voice, and the sound of it was strangely metallic.

The teacher spoke with great praise of children whose information had sent their fathers and mothers to Siberia or before the firing squad. Her narrow lips curled up, her eyebrows were raised, and her eyes burned with enthusiasm as she declared they were national heroes, living examples of the highest patriotic sense of values. She warmed up particularly when reminding us of young Pavel Morozov, whose family had been exterminated owing to his denunciation, and who was considered so great a benefactor of the Soviet regime that a monument was to be erected in tribute to him.

My sister has a girl friend whose example you would do well to consider also, said our teacher. She married and lived happily with a man who one day was publicly declared an enemy of the people. Did she then cry and beg for his life like a weakling? Did she forget her duty, her first duty? No! She announced she would divorce him officially and, at the very next meeting of the Party, she delivered a speech disowning her husband. She had the courage to curse the day she had been foolish enough to marry such a man. Today that woman is married again and respected for her public spirit. Nothing can be more important. Remember that!

When class was dismissed, I took a quick look in the direction of Potekina’s desk, but she was gone.

Outside the school, Tarantov was laughing loudly with a few members of the class. I heard Potekina’s name mentioned and I felt suddenly angry.

I walked home alone. It was still bright and sunny and warm, but the day seemed gloomy. Mother had just arrived in our room and was busy getting the soup ready for supper on the Primus, our little oil stove. She looked at me closely and asked if I were sick. I said I wasn’t sick and took my seat at the table with my sister Ira and my brother Vsevolod.

Ira asked me if it were true that Potekina had been expelled from the Komsomols?

Yes, I replied shortly.

Silence fell as mother gave us the thin soup and a niece of black bread each.

As mother was eating she told us she was worried about Olga’s condition. Olga, daughter of a neighbor, had married a Korean we knew as Kim. Three weeks ago Kim had been asked by the NKVD to report to their offices and he hadn’t been heard of since.

Olga had gone repeatedly to the NKVD and asked for her husband only to be told he would be released soon, that his case was being examined. Two days ago she had returned to the same NKVD officer whom she had already interviewed on several occasions only to have him answer:

Kim? What Kim? We have never heard of any Kim. Olga collapsed. She was several months pregnant and worry had increased her nervousness. Several women in the waiting room helped revive her but would not take her home. She had called mother from the sidewalk and mother had made her lie down for a while in our house before going home.

It is a shame, the poor girl! Mother exclaimed, her own eyes heavy with sadness. Now she is talking of suicide, rather than have herself and her child go on like this. It is a shame, I tell you! Before the revolution there was none of this awful treatment of people by such brutes...

Looking back through the years, I can see myself still, as plainly as if I were a movie actor on a screen. I can even see the broken sink in the corner, the table with the soup bowls and bread beside them, my brother dropping his spoon slowly to look at me, my mother’s pained expression, my sister simply staring.

I can see myself livid with anger standing there. I can hear my words tumbling out as if from a mouth not my own:

"Shut up! Shut up! I command you as a Komsomol! Potekina may have been a weakling, but not I!"