28
PARTISAN REVIEW
remembered that distant January? Dozens of men who had helped
Lenin to create the Bolshevik Party had proved to be foreign spies
and provocateurs ; and someone who had never occupied a central
position in the Party, who had never been highly thought of as a the–
oretician, had proved to be the saviour of the Party's cause, the
bearer of its truth. Why had they all confessed?
Questions like these were best forgotten . But tonight Krymov
was unable to forget them .. . Why did they all confess? And why do
I keep silent? Why have I never found the strength to say: "I really
don't believe that Bukharin was a saboteur, provocateur and
assassin. " I even raised my hand to vote. I signed. I gave a speech
and wrote an article. And I still believe that my zeal was genuine.
But where were my doubts then? Where was all my confusion?
What is it that I'm trying to say? That I am a man with two con–
sciences? Or that I am two men, each with his own conscience? But
then that's how it's always been - for all kinds of people, not just for me.
Grekov had merely given words to what many people felt with–
out admitting it . He had put into words the thoughts that most wor–
ried Krymov, that sometimes most attracted him. But Krymov had
at once been overwhelmed with hatred and anger. He had wanted to
make Grekov lick his boots; he had wanted to break him.
If
it had
come to it, he would have shot him without hesitation.
Pryakhin's words were spoken in the cold language of official–
dom. He had talked, in the name of the State, about grain pro–
curements, workers' obligations and percentages of the plan.
Krymov had always disliked the soulless speeches delivered by soul–
less bureaucrats- but these soulless bureaucrats were his oldest com–
rades, the men he had marched in step with . The work of Lenin was
the work of Stalin ; it had become embodied in these men, in this
State. And Krymov wouldn't hesitate to give his life for the glory of
this work.
What about Mostovskoy? He too was an Old Bolshevik. But
not once had he spoken out, even in defense of people whose revolu–
tionary honor he had never questioned. He too had kept silent. Why?
And Koloskov, that kind, upright young fellow who'd attended
Krymov's courses in journalism. Coming from a village in the coun–
try, he'd had a lot to say about collectivization . He'd told Krymov
about the scoundrels who included someone's name on a list of ku–
laks simply because they had their eye on his house or garden, or
because they were personal enemies . He'd told Krymov about the
terrible hunger, about the ruthlessness with which the peasants' last
