Builders and Deserters: Students, State, and Community in Leningrad, 1917-1941 9780773567979, 0773567976

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Builders and Deserters Students, State, and Community in Leningrad, 1917-1941

_ One of the most significant changes produced by the Bolshevik Revolution was the formation of an élite that identified with the new socialist order. Students in the rapidly expanding higher-education system were part of this new élite. In Builders and Deserters Peter Konecny makes use of an unprecedented range of previously unavailable sources to examine the academic, cultural, and political dimensions of student life in the Soviet Union’s second largest city, Leningrad. Being a student meant much more than simply attending classes. The new Soviet student was expected to engage in activities ranging from work in local Communist Party organizations to participation in collectivization brigades in the countryside. Builders and Deserters explores how student attempts to accommodate personal ambition and established cultural traditions with the numerous obligations that came from their privileged status led to a difficult relationship with the state. Konecny discusses changes in the higher-education system and everyday life from the pre-revolutionary period to the beginning of World War II. He also considers the world of politics and political activism, training in and out of the classroom, and the ways in which students both conformed to and deviated from explicit standards of social conduct and “Communist morality” under Stalinism. This is the first comprehensive analysis of the important role played by students in the Soviet socialist revolution during the inter-war period. The breadth of subject matter and thematic issues will interest scholars and students of Soviet history, as well as specialists in comparative education and youth culture. PETER KONECNY is adjunct research professor of history at Carleton University.

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Builders and Deserters Students, State, and Community in Leningrad, 1917-1941 PETER KONECNY

McGill-Queen’s University Press

Montreal & Kingston - London - Ithaca

© McGill-Queen’s University Press 1999 ISBN 0-773 §-1881-9

Legal deposit fourth quarter 1999 Bibliothéque nationale du Québec

Printed in Canada on acid-free paper This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for its activities. We also acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.

Canada

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Konecny, Peter, 1963Builders and deserters: students, state, and community in Leningrad, 1917-1941 Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-773 5-1881-9 1. Education, Higher — Political aspects — Russia (Federation) — Saint Petersburg. 2. Higher education and state — Soviet Union — History. I. Title.

LA839.5.L45 K65 1999 378.47'21'09041 C99-900681-9

in ro/12 Sabon.

This book was typeset by Typo Litho Composition Inc. |

For Dad

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Contents

Tables _ viii

Illustrations ix Preface xi Acknowledgments xv

Introduction 3 1 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism 16

2 Revolution and Civil War 38 3 Shaping the Community 62 4 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo 101

5 Inthe Classroom 142 6 Training fora New World 176 7 Studenty-Studentki 198 8 Disorder in the Community 229

9 Conclusion 258 Appendix 1 Student Life: Selected Archival

Documentation 267 Appendix 2 Major Institutions of Higher Learning in

Leningrad, 1917-1941 277 Abbreviations 279 Glossary 281

Notes 283 Selected Bibliography 343

Index 355

Tables 3.1 Gender of Leningrad Students 67 3.2 Social Composition, Selected Leningrad

Vuzy 67— ,

3.3. Social Composition of the Studenchestvo 68

3.4 Admissions to Vuzy 90 3.5 Membership in the Party and the

Komsomol 91 3.6 Living Conditions 94 5.1 Subject Scores for Entrants, Leningrad Vtuzy,

1935 163 5-2 Reported Examination Scores by

Institution 164 5-3 Lhe Graduating Classes 171

Illustrations

1 “Weightlifting” 81

2 The crowded dormitory 83 3 “Species of Soviet Russia” 105

4 “Soviet science” 106 5 “Inthe ring of enemies” 118 6 “Convenient handrails” 119

7 The overworked student 147 8 A different kind of practical work 182 9 “At the unProductive Practicum” 183 10.60. Adangerous game 193

tr “Types of activists: The district lion” 213

12 “The domestic hearth” 224

13 Anti-Semitism 235 14 Vodka equals violence 236 15 “Types of activists: We are drinking for the

cultural revolution!” 239

16 “Hooligans inthe club” 246 17 “Friendly jests” 248 18 “Friendly jests” 249

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Preface

On 25 December 1991 I sat with a group of Russian graduate students

in front of the television in our dormitory, watching Mikhail Gorbachev deliver his final speech as president of the USsR. One would ex-

pect that this momentous occasion — the formal dissolution of the Soviet Union — would have produced reflective thoughts, passionate debate, and even a few tears. Instead, we noted the event by retiring to an

adjacent room and engaging in a card game that went late into the night. Looking back, I could see that it had been a perfect moment that had captured not only the ambiguities of the deceased Soviet Union, but also the ironies of student life. Life in the dormitory, especially in times of social and political change, was full of unpredictable events. During the course of the 1991-92 academic year in St Petersburg, I lived in the Shevchenko graduate student dormitory — a place familiar to many Western scholars. I had come to St Petersburg to conduct research for my doctoral dissertation, which examined the political and academic development of Leningrad State University during the interwar period. Although the environment had changed substantially since the early years of the Soviet Union, many features remained the same.

Like our predecessors, we battled with the dormitory administrator (the “commandant”) for better sheets and furniture and we endured many cold nights without hot water. My student companions were probably not unlike the students I had chosen to study. That visit and several others over the ensuing years gave me a sense of the complex social and political environment within which student life in this city had evolved.

The dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 resulted in many new Opportunities for research. Documents made recently available have added to our understanding of Stalinist high politics, relations between Moscow and the regions, and the character of everyday life in the

xii Preface

USSR. This study of Leningrad students offers an opportunity to look at | them through the prism of previously inaccessible sources. Documents from the former Leningrad Party Archives and Leningrad Archives of the Great October Socialist Revolution were of central importance to my research. The latter archives house a vast body of material covering the political, administrative, and organizational activities of students.

Much of the documentation deals with curricular programs, admissions and funding committees, and students’ academic proficiency or attitudes towards school work. The Party archives reveal fascinating details on organizational politics, student opposition groups, investigations into scandals, and lurid affairs. This book complements material

from the Leningrad archives with relevant sources from the former Central Party Archives and the State Archives in Moscow. Most of the material drawn from the Moscow holdings deals with central directives

and campaigns related to political activities. | There were numerous periodicals related to students and higher education during the interwar period. Krasnoe studenchestvo (Red Students), published by the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students in Moscow, was the largest periodical devoted entirely to questions of stu-

dent life. It set the standard for all other student publications. Issues such as political activism, morality, and civic duty were treated regularly in its pages. Although discussion was usually one-sided, Krasnoe studenchestvo succeeded in reflecting the broad panorama of student life. Other periodicals provided equally interesting material but, unfortunately, were not published regularly or for any extended period. In Leningrad, Krasnyi student (Red Student), published from 1923 to 1925, was an important and often quixotic mouthpiece for the studenchestvo (the student body). Along with several other sporadically published periodicals and yearly bulletins, student publications provide

an important means of gauging the way in which major issues were

presented and discussed.

In order to look at cultural change and the projected images of cultured and civic-minded behaviour, one needs a broad understanding of a society, the issues, personalities, and landscape of the time and place. Newspapers offer one of the best means through which to assess pro-

cesses of political and cultural change. Through the mass press the Party-state relayed its conception of socialism. Newspapers were critical in the dissemination of propaganda, the distillation of powerful images, and the cultivation of a language and discourse specific to the period. Students absorbed daily events through mass-circulation newspapers such as Pravda (Truth), Izvestiia (News), and numerous affili-

ated regional newspapers. They also read about issues particular to youth and education in the Moscow-based Komsomol’skaia pravda

xiii Preface (Komsomol Truth) and the Leningrad newspaper Smena (Changeover),

both of which acted as official organs of the Komsomol. And, of course, they created and were influenced by their own newspapers. This is the first study to utilize the student newspapers of the time, a re-

source that provides rich chronicles of everyday life. Each school of higher learning (vuz) had its own newspaper and most had a number of

smaller “wall newspapers” (these were posted on walls around the campus). They often had creative names, such as the Electro-Technical Institute’s Krasnyi elektrik (Red Electric), the Polytechnical Institute’s Tovarishch’ (Comrade), and the Agricultural Institute’s Za sotsialisticheskoe zhivotnovodstvo (For Socialist Animal Husbandry). I employ a close reading of the newspapers to elucidate the problems facing students in Leningrad and to show how they dealt with them. The Library of Congress transliteration system is used in this book, except in certain cases involving familiar names (e.g., “Trotsky” rather

than “Trotskii”). For reasons of space, sources that appear in the Selected Bibliography as well as in the Notes are given in short form only in the latter. Note citations for all sources not in the Bibliography are given in full at their first appearance.

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Acknowledgments

The research for and writing of this book were made possible by generous grants from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Association of Universities and Colleges of Canada,

and by a Spencer Foundation Postdoctoral Fellowship from the National Academy of Education. I am very grateful to the aforementioned organizations for their support and assistance. The book has been published with the help of a grant from the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. I would also like to thank the readers and commentators along the way who have struggled through drafts of chapters and conference papers. Ours is a profession of selfinflicted punishment, and therefore I should thank myself for not abandoning this study despite feeling at many points that it was about to do me in.

The book incorporates, in modified form, the following work of mine that was previously published: “The Red Don Juan’ Assailed: The Male Role Model and Soviet Students, 1924-1936,” East-West Education 18, nos 1-2 (Spring and Fall 1996): 3 5-69; “Library Hooligans and Others: Law, Order, and Student Culture in Russia, 1924-

38,” Journal of Social History 30, no. 1 (Fall 1996): 97-128; and “Chaos on Campus: The 1924 Student Proverka in Leningrad,” Europe-Asia Studies 46, no. 4 (1994): 617-35.

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Builders and Deserters

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Introduction

In November 1935 the main student newspaper of Leningrad State University published a number of commentaries on the current state of the student population (studenchestvo) in the Soviet Union. The commentaries, under the headline, “What Makes the Soviet Student Dif-

ferent from the Pre-Revolutionary Student?”, contrasted the undisciplined behaviour of Russian students before the Bolshevik revolution with the well-mannered and disciplined conduct of the genera-

tion of the 1930s. Mathematician N.M. Giunter, in one of the six contributions submitted by faculty members, wrote that Soviet students were much more studious than their predecessors. Botany pro-

fessor V.N. Sukhachev concluded, “Soviet students are different because they recognize themselves as active builders of socialism.” He claimed that today’s pupils rarely exhibited the juvenile camaraderie characterizing the studenchestvo of previous decades: “The comradely

solidarity of the contemporary student comes not from covering the tracks of or protecting [another] comrade when he plays some kind of dirty trick or tries to get around existing rules (as it was before the rev-

olution), but in helping comrades in a constructive way to fulfil the goal for which they had enrolled in the university.” Sukhachev’s remarks were directed towards a new generation of Soviet youth targeted as the standard-bearers of socialism. His message was similar to the one repeated numerous times since 1917: without sufficient discipline and diligence, students could not become active builders in the Soviet socialist revolution."

This book examines how students responded to and participated in the socialist experiment in the formative years of the Soviet Union.

Students were part of a new social and political élite, forged in a higher-education system that was designed to train skilled professionals for positions in the economy, the Communist Party, and the state

4 Builders and Deserters

apparatus. In addition to functioning as training facilities, institutes of higher education (vuzy)* acted as nurseries for a new type of citizen. They created an environment in which ideologies clashed, and they

nurtured a community in which students responded to and formed new ideas about the world around them. Students were subjected to endless instructional campaigns and decrees designed to ensure that they conformed to established conventions, but they also took a formative part in reshaping the world around them. Students immersed themselves in the political world by crusading in the classroom against “bourgeois” professors, battling with authorities over issues ranging from mundane administrative affairs to allegations of sabotage, and participating in ambitious projects connected with the development of socialism. In short, they were in the vanguard both as the constructors

of Soviet socialism and as the constructed figures of a dictatorial Party-state.? In the years following the Bolshevik revolution, an expanding Partystate apparatus — embracing a multiplicity of political figures, organizations, and institutions, and the competing directives and channels of au-

thority that structured their development and interaction — became a dominant presence in the life of every Soviet citizen. Students viewed the

Party-state as mentor, friend, and enemy; it provided them with guidance and a focal point for self-identification, offering and denying them opportunities. The institutional environment in which students operated encompassed the studenchestvo, the professoriate, and the official organizations governing student life. It constituted something akin to a “state within a state” — a place in which voices of moral and political authority attempted to relay their vision of a socialist student community. However, while the Party-state managed to restructure the highereducation system, it faced formidable obstacles in its attempts to recast the studenchestvo in an awkward ideological and political mould. The situation that students in the Soviet Union faced contained a paradox common to all modernizing societies. Generally, students are encouraged to conform to prevailing social conventions because, as beneficiaries of professional training, they are designated to become part of a future social élite. At the same time, however, through their particular youth and “outsider” perspectives, students often feel compelled to question the established order. Despite the heterogeneous composition of higher-education enrolment in the late nineteenth century and thereafter, this feeling of exclusion persisted as a dominant feature of student life in parts of Europe and Asia (although less so in North America). Industrialization, military conflict, and resulting social crises drove an ever-deeper wedge between the older and younger generations as the latter sought to rectify social injustices. This feeling

5 Introduction

of marginalization cut across political lines, finding expression in the radical Marxist movements in pre-revolutionary Russia, in the conservative anti-parliamentary traditions in German corporatist organizations in the 1920s, and in the French and American radical movements of the 1960s. In short, students were caught in a familiar dilemma: the compulsion to act as social critic versus the desire to conform.‘ Being a student usually means undergoing a period of confusion, self-doubt, trial, and tribulation — all part of the normal complications of youth. With privilege comes social responsibility and pressure to sort out personal goals and priorities. From this perspective, we can see that an examination of students in the Soviet Union is much more than an exploration of the difficulties facing youth or even of the problems inherent in reorganizing a professional training system. The experiences of these students provided a barometer for a society caught in a whirlpool of conflicting values and aspirations, transforming power struc-

tures, and intense debate over how transfers of power should be handled. Such questions took on a particularly urgent character as the Communist Party attempted to transform state and society according to a changing blueprint, politicizing each issue as part of the gigantic task of building socialism. Focusing on the formative years of Soviet power, this book addresses a broad range of issues related to education, social opportunity, the formation of political attitudes, and the attempt to foster new social and political values that existing literature fails to cover. Samuel Kassow’s monograph on the pre-revolutionary student movement remains the best study of that period.’ The pioneering work of Sheila Fitzpatrick and Kendall Bailes on the development of education and social mobility after the Stalinist “Great Break” of 1928-29 sees the studenchestvo as a vanguard group pushing for rapid social and political change and as a target of Stalin’s social promotion strategies.° Fitzpatrick sees the students and aspiring Red specialists (graduates of the Soviet higher-education technical training system) emerging from the Stalinist revolution as the critical mass of the future “Brezhnev generation” that guided the postwar state. Bailes shows that in the late 1920s, when there was a tremendous demand for technical specialists, students were willing to endure formida-

ble pressures and hardships with the expectation that they would become part of the new professional class. Soviet historians with a different perspective tended to concentrate on the development of political organizations within the studenchestvo and on the structural changes in higher education. The general argument made in their work was that the higher-education system, despite numerous structural problems and policy “distortions,” produced new generations of Red specialists who became leaders of a progressive socialist society.’

6 Builders and Deserters

The creation of a professional training system that offered incentives

in return for conformity was a function of educational and political strategies. Many of the professionally trained specialists of the 1920s and 1930s emerged to become the political leaders, scientists, and cultural figures of the postwar period. But the higher-education experience included much more than academic training: it was a form of “training for life” in which students learned about formal exchanges of power and authority and informal ways of conducting social and political relations, all of which exposed the glaring contrast between Party doctrine and Soviet reality. This book adopts thematic and chronological perspectives in order to examine previously unexplored areas of the multidimensional student experience and to assess the multiplicity of conflicting messages students absorbed as they went through their professional training. The first two chapters cover the pre-revolutionary period and the civil war (1917-21), establishing the framework for the main period of focus, which runs from the initiation of the New Economic Policy (NEP) in 1921 to the outbreak of war between Germany and the ussR in 1941. J will examine the transformation of the highereducation system, everyday life, and the social-political edifices defining the student community. I will also explore changes in ideology, the

, development of organized politics, education in and out of the classroom, questions relating to gender roles and sexuality, the dimensions of deviance and misconduct within the “disordered community,” and

the presence of alternative lifestyles among the student population. | The idea of community is a central theme in this book. Communities play a critical role in formalizing relations between individuals and groups. Central to the community is its culture and, by extension, the social laws and conventions it recognizes above and beyond the “hegemonic culture” exerted by the state.2 The Communist Party employed its own version of a cultural hegemony to destroy remnants of the “old order” and set down universal guidelines for social conduct. The old student culture represented for the Party a remnant of the prerevolutionary order: before a socialist community defined by disciplined collectivism and civic-mindedness (obshchestvennost’) could be

created, the old culture had to be smashed. This could be done , through the nurturing of a new student community, one that would

cultivate a socialist world-view. | By the turn of the century the studenchestvo was heterogeneous in nature, a product of rapid social change and political instability. Nevertheless, a common thread linked students in this self-contained, insular environment — the desire to use their education as a stepping-stone to something greater. Collegiality and generational perspectives fostered particular student subcultures, and these became formidable obstacles

7 Introduction

to the Party’s grand scheme to create a “Soviet” studenchestvo. The primary architects of this project — the Commissariat of Education (Narkompros), the Communist Party, and their subordinate agencies —

treated students as a malleable commodity, but they found out that transforming social relations and the environment in which they devel-

oped could not be done by simple proclamation. Beginning with the civil war period and increasingly during the New Economic Policy era (1921-28), tremendous changes took place in the social composition of the student population and in the organizations that governed the student community. More and more children from working-class and peasant backgrounds enrolled in higher education, joining the ranks of youth from non-labouring backgrounds. They were immersed in a world in which a cacophonic symphony of interest groups — the League

of Time, the Committee against Drunkenness and Hooliganism, and others — offered their prescriptions for a “rationalized” lifestyle. Special projects sprang up to improve living conditions and change personal habits. Newspapers and other publications attempted to foster an atmosphere of “socialist community” by exhorting students to join sporting and recreation groups, “red nook” reading circles, and dozens of other cultural and political organizations. The social revolution was driven in part by the political battle to transfer authority in higher education to the Communist Party. A campaign to usurp the position of non-communist professors and administrators began in the early 1920s and intensified during the first fiveyear plan (1928-32). In the 1930s, a decade in which Stalin destroyed his remaining political opponents and cemented the foundations for a Party-state oligarchy, the vision of a socialist community was formalized through a vast propaganda machine. Students immersed themselves in a more disciplined work environment structured around predictable chores and a rigid set of rules governing personal habits, public duties, and carefully outlined ideological positions. But the vision of a socialist utopia remained far removed from the reality. Poor living conditions, the scarcity of teaching resources, and the unresponsiveness of Narkompros and other state agencies to students’ concerns continued to make life under socialism difficult.

Amidst political turmoil and material deprivation, the future Red specialists learned the finer points of how the Soviet system functioned. They were part of the “new class,” as Fitzpatrick, Milovan Djilas, and Vera Dunham have described it, a group prepared to accept hardships in exchange for implied social and material opportunities.? Thousands of graduates immediately took on important positions, and many of

them ascended to the highest echelons of political power. Nikita Khrushchev, a student at the Moscow Industrial Academy in the early

8 Builders and Deserters

1930S, was appointed by Stalin in 1935 as first secretary of the Moscow Party Committee, thereafter rising to the position of general secre-

tary and number-one man in the Kremlin after Stalin’s death. Alexei Kosygin, who graduated from the Leningrad Textile Institute in 1935, became the director of a textile factory in 1937, commissar for the textile industry in 1939 (at the age of thirty-five), and in 1964 prime minister of the USSR as part of the “triumvirate” eventually dominated by Leonid Brezhnev, another technical college graduate from the 1930s. Far from being static objects of totalitarian control, they participated in an ongoing exchange of power and authority and found their own ways to accommodate the regime.*° Students entering into a type of social contract with the state became aware that conformity granted them membership in a privileged group

and opened doors to professional opportunities. Evren Airapet’iants was one of the beneficiaries of this system. Airapet’iants enrolled as a graduate student at Leningrad State University, eventually becoming a junior faculty member and thereafter the head of academic affairs at the university and a prominent Party official. As with many others, Airapet’iants accepted the unpredictable aspects of higher-education training with the understanding that he would get something in return. The key was to perform as an individual but to maintain an identity within the collective. For this reason most students tended to conduct themselves conservatively, looking askance at peers who misbehaved. They were engaged in what Frank Pinner has called a process of “anticipatory socialization”: the act of submitting to forces of social regulation in order to realize personal or group ambitions."? Students aspired to become “good Soviet citizens” because they understood the implica-

tions of the term. :

Self-regulation and the contradictions between doctrine and reality became defining themes in the complex issues surrounding gender roles and personal relations. A sexual revolution took place in Soviet Russia after 1917, but it soon stalled after concerns for order and stability

smothered attempts to introduce a fundamentally different way of looking at gender roles. Amidst the furore surrounding the ideas of Bolshevik feminist Aleksandra Kollontai, Soviet youth found themselves confronted with discrepant notions of what, exactly, the “new morality” should entail.‘* Part of this new moral code focused on removing barriers dividing the sexes. Students were supposed to be the leaders of a new society in which men treated women as equals and everyone had an opportunity to serve the state. But it never turned out that way. By the end of the NEP era, the stark politicization of controversies related to morality and personal conduct made it clear that a number of deeply rooted problems were not going to be resolved by the

9 Introduction

progressive educational approach. Scandals involving “Red Don Juans” and other philandering types raised the spectre of a moral crisis

within the studenchestvo; it was a refrain that echoed the voices of commentators on youth before the revolution. Formulaic sermons on dating, relationships, and marriage failed to acknowledge the difficult

realities facing students as they tried to come to terms with a new moral code that was supposed to provide guiding principles for the New Socialist Man and Woman. Since 1991 historians have had the opportunity to examine in more de-

tail than previously the forces guiding political developments in the early Soviet period. Recent studies of local politics and the dynamics of the purges have put into question earlier assumptions about the nature of power and authority under Stalinism. The work of Stephen Kotkin, Robert Thurston, J. Arch Getty, and others has elucidated in more detail the complexities of the Party-state and shown how participation in and accommodation of this “Bolshevik” or “Soviet” political culture helped cement the new order.*3 Soviet political culture can be explained as a function of the contradiction between routinized political and social behaviour (based on defined values, symbols, and attitudes) and accepted cultural traditions that predated the revolution. Individuals were required to accommodate rules and regulations that seemed to defy reality. They accepted the maxim of “saying one thing and believ-

ing another” as part of their immersion into established “patronclient” relations.t4 Soviet political culture played a formative role in student politics. By the mid-1920s the old pre-revolutionary student movement had been replaced by a cluster of state-sponsored organizations, which thereafter experienced a steady erosion of their autonomy and authority. Projects and agendas carefully drafted in Moscow took the place of independent activism. Through the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students and its local organs, the Communist Party tried to fashion a political community of students that embraced specific ideological viewpoints and interacted within closely supervised organiza-

tions. An extensive purge in 1924 and a series of attacks on “alien elements” during the cultural revolution (1928-31), combined with the eventual subordination of the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students to state organizations in 1931-32, left little opportunity for students to engage in autonomous activities. Even at the height of the cultural revolution, when radicalism came to the fore, communist students experienced tight restrictions on their activities.‘5 Student politics became “professionalized” within a political system that enforced obedience to central directives but at the same time fostered multidimensional institutional and political rivalries.*¢

10 Builders and Deserters

Students learned to “speak and act Bolshevik” as part of their politi-

cal education. This system of indoctrination served to bifurcate the community into metaphorical categories of “builder” and “deserter,” separating supporters and opponents of socialism. In the political offensive that took place during the first five-year plan, proletarian students like Gordon Gorbachenko, who worked at the Leningrad student organization’s main newspaper and completed his engineering degree at the Chemical-Technological Institute in 1932, thought of themselves

as the new socialist generation that was destined to wrestle power away from “bourgeois” technical specialists. They were builders of socialism and front-line crusaders against the deserters — the people who

represented the antithesis of what every student should be. Student leaders, most of whom were Party members, exhorted their comrades to root out enemies in the classroom, the factory, or the Party cell. Students did this by denouncing comrades in meetings or by submitting

anonymous or open letters to newspapers, accusing individuals or groups of malfeasance. In the process the accusers left themselves vulnerable to the whims of the Stalinist police state. The terrible and destructive struggles that ensued within student organizations during the dark years of 1934-38 attest to this fact.

Although political affairs often dominated the lives of students, academic training was supposed to be the primary focus of their highereducation experience. The unbroken string of pedagogical and curricular reforms during the interwar period, however, made it difficult for students to obtain a well-rounded education. Ivan Nikiforov, who enrolled at the Leningrad Polytechnical Institute in 1926, endured four major overhauls of his degree program before graduating in 1931. His

case was the rule and not the exception for this period. As Larry Holmes has noted, education policy became nothing less than a political battleground of conflicting views on curricular content and pedagogical method in an environment marked by ongoing tensions between educators, institutional officials, and representatives of state organizations.’7 The fundamental goal of Narkompros and the Communist Party was to

create a higher-education system that fulfilled the political and economic needs socialism. However, sharp disagreement emerged over edu-

cational strategies. A running battle between “polytechnicalists” and

advocates of general and qualitative training produced an endless stream of policy changes. Politics upset the delicate balance between these two camps in 1928, when proponents of industrial-technical train-

ing prevailed. In 1932 the cultural revolution experiment came to an end and the state restored most of the formerly discredited institutions, teachers, and disciplines. Languages and literature, previously assailed

11 Introduction as un-Marxist, once again took their place in a curriculum that put emphasis on well-rounded instruction. Old icons of the academic community reintegrated themselves within a system driven by political and economic demands. The discredited “bourgeois” professors of yesterday became intellectual mentors for the students lauded — by the state as the most advanced in the world. Were Soviet students well trained or was the state engaging in an elaborate propaganda exercise? Little more than general evaluations (based on unreliable data), impressions from former students, and official government reports have been offered on this question.1® This study attempts to go beyond superficial assessments of the training system by examining the impact of policies at the institutional and indi-

vidual levels as the state moved from an era of uncertainty and experimentation into a period of relative stability in which the foundations for Soviet higher education took shape. Viewed within the framework of its ascribed importance, academic performance provides an Opportunity to examine some interesting cultural and political issues. Performance became a metaphor for appropriate cultural acquisition and a beacon demarcating the changing nature of the relationship between students and professors; therefore, the raw data revealing test scores and graduation rates assumed political as well as academic significance. Campaigns against teachers who refused to change their lecture styles, student protests against unfair or unpopular professors, and charges of “liberalism” in evaluations revealed aspects of a changing power relationship between students and teachers. Politics also drew the line between representations and reality. In dealing with cheating, poor performance, and the perceived need to re-evaluate the position of

professors as figures of intellectual and cultural authority, the state found that facile prescriptive solutions failed to resolve the actual problems encountered. The Soviet higher-education system devoted much time and energy

to expanding the frontiers of learning beyond the classroom. Putting into practice Lenin’s idea that socialism could be built only by cementing an alliance (smychka) between the working class and the peasantry,

students participated in practical work sessions in their degree programs. By uniting theory in the classroom with practice in the outside world, the state expected to produce graduates who were academically competent and cognizant of their social environment. Practical training

inculcated individuals with the virtue of physical labour and acquainted them with working-class life. At the same time, it introduced “sreen” students to the real world of chaotic production quotas, harried plant managers with little time or patience for eager recruits, and corrupt collective farm chairmen presiding over Potemkin villages. Ex-

12 Builders and Deserters

posure to the underbelly of Soviet life provided a hardening experience for apprentices, but it also accentuated an élitist attitude fostered by a recognition of their own privileged status.

Students may have been cast from the same mould, but not all of them

embraced socialism and the ideological precepts of Stalinism. The guidelines set down by the Communist Party changed frequently, and it was all but impossible to conform to them entirely because they failed to adequately deal with real-life problems. Beyond their participation in sanctioned Party cells and special cultural or political organizations, students were involved in a number of censured activities that defined

their contestation of the Party’s cultural hegemony. With an air of moral sermonizing, anti-alcohol and anti-hooligan organizations set their gaze on the Leningrad Polytechnical Institute’s Club for Madmen and other unsanctioned groups. But as institutional officials and Party organizations launched campaigns against misconduct and slovenliness in the dormitories, students continued to practise their much-vilified rituals. This tension between the image of an ordered community and

private codes of conduct suggests another dimension of life in the So- , viet Union.

The methods used to bring deviant students into line illustrate how the Party-state combined coercion with the use of peer authority and social instruction. Deviance is a term normally defined by a society’s

dominant ideology or class. The deviant is categorized and subsequently depersonalized through social typing (the assignation of spe_ cific character attributes to a person transgressing established norms), and society finds ways to pressure perceived violators of “normal” behaviour to conform. Deviance can be understood not merely as an isolated individual act but as a manifestation of a general social crisis.1? Social deviance in fin de siécle Russia served as a metaphor for systemic tensions within that modernizing society. Hooliganism and crime became a subject of morbid fascination in the popular press. Public discourse about hooliganism reinforced the paradigm of the

educated and privileged classes confronting lawless elements that were trying to disrupt the social order.*° This paradigm survived the — revolution, although its nodal points were altered. Analysts of social behaviour struggled to reconcile the instructional approach towards deviance with the requirement for social and political order. As I have suggested elsewhere,*? the Communist Party assumed a puritanical

stance with its goal of enforcing uniform moral and political standards on the studenchestvo. Anne Gorsuch’s work on urban youth cultures in the 1920s draws a similar picture of the relationship between youth and the state. In the 1930s the state hardened its views,

13 Introduction

the concept of social instruction giving way to harsh punitive measures against violators.”?

Strange organizations with eclectic memberships, late-night card games, and fistfight rituals were just a few of the many student subcultures that flourished. Subcultures embrace individuals or groups within

a recognizable set of beliefs, habits, and rituals. Subcultures are isolated from the dominant culture because they define discernibly different conventions and attitudes. But even so, they are unavoidably linked with society because they cannot function without relating themselves in an antithetical manner to prevailing social values.*3 Students in the Soviet Union embraced a number of subculture rituals and beliefs that allowed them to adjust to the world and express their sense of individualism. The practices of the Club for Madmen, of the “bohemians” of the Tiuvelev literary circle at Leningrad State University, and of other groups, the unspoken assumptions of classroom dynamics, and the mutually understood code of conduct in the dormitory translated socialist

theory into physical reality and fostered parallel communities that functioned alongside the institutions dominating the students’ lives.

The setting for this book is the city of Leningrad, the former Imperial capital originally named St Petersburg. Peter The Great had envisaged a grand city on the banks of the Neva that would provide a gateway to the economic and intellectual wealth of Europe. He and his successors commissioned Europe’s finest architects to create a magnificent urban landscape that inspired awe and fear among Russia’s cultural and intellectual élite. Whereas the writer Nikolai Gogol warned readers of the

evil charms of Nevsky Prospekt (the main thoroughfare), the poet Andrei Bely marvelled at the city’s majestic beauty during the famous “white nights” of late spring and early summer. St Petersburg was the political and cultural capital of Russia well into the twentieth century, and it was always a city of contrasts. While the upper classes danced gaily to the waltzes of Strauss and the mazurkas of Tchaikovsky, swell-

ing numbers of workers, prostitutes, homeless, and down-and-outs struggled to eke out an existence in a metropolis that at the turn of the century showed signs of bursting at the seams.*4* By then St Petersburg was home to liberal-democratic and socialist movements bent on chal-

lenging the legitimacy of the autocracy. Students in St Petersburg played an important role in the challenge to the Tsarist system. The student political movement was by no means stable and politically homogeneous, nor was it receptive to the parallel reformist movements led by liberal-professional groups. Nevertheless, students and other groups wanted Tsar Nicholas 11 to reform higher education and revoke many of the repressive measures that characterized autocratic rule.

14 Builders and Deserters

Petrograd, as St Petersburg was first renamed in 1914, became the cradle of revolution during the war, and its long-standing rivalry with Moscow was carried into the post-revolutionary period. Ravaged by the civil war, Petrograd lost over half of its population, many of its cultural leaders, and much of its urban pride. After the reins of political power were officially transferred to Moscow early in 1918, Petrograd had to settle for the title “Russia’s second capital.” In the 1920s the city on the Neva experienced something of a rebirth. One of the great centres of the avant-garde in fin de siécle Europe, Leningrad simultaneously embraced the vast spectrum of European cultural movements and the discordant voices of an experimental Bolshevik culture. Under the leadership of Leningrad Party secretary Grigory Zinoviev, the city and surrounding region retained its status as a pre-eminent economic region in the Soviet Union. Zinoviev’s dismissal in December 1925, fol-

lowing his declaration of opposition to Stalin’s policies, and his re-

placement by Sergei Kirov, presaged a new and tragic period for Leningrad. Although Kirov was a Stalin loyalist, he often pursued agendas and policies that were at odds with those dictated by Moscow. Leningrad experienced further upheaval as a result of the massive in-

dustrialization effort and the internecine strife within the Party after the assassination of Kirov on 1 December 1934. Mass repressions of intellectuals, Party members, and others turned Leningrad into a target for Stalin’s wrath. The new Party secretary, Andrei Zhdanov, presided Over a city at war with itself. Zhdanov attempted to create his own political kingdom by reinforcing a rigid Stalinist line, but by the time that

war broke out in June 1941, many felt that the city was but a brittle shell of its former self.*5

Leningrad, though it suffered terrible deprivation and hardship during the Second World War, emerged from three years of blockade and starvation to take its place once again as a major centre for culture and education. The development of its higher-education system during the interwar period provided a crucial foundation for the postwar economy. Leningrad had maintained a strong tradition of scientific and aca-

demic achievement after 1917. St Petersburg had given birth to the Russian Academy of Sciences in 1725, as well as to a number of academic institutions offering diverse programs of study. Leningrad State University (LGU), with the main campus situated on the banks of the Neva across from the Winter Palace, was the second largest university in the country. The university, founded in 1819, had a rich tradition of academic achievement in the sciences and humanities. Hanging in the long corridor of the main building were portraits of some of the great minds of Russia, all of whom had graduated from or taught at the university. The same corridor had been the scene of student demonstra-

15 Introduction

tions and feverish political speeches in 1905 and from 1917 to 1922. These episodes marked the first of many ideological and political struggles between Communist Party officials, the professoriate, and stu-

denchestvo during the interwar period. The Leningrad Mining Institute, established in 1773 on Vasilievsky Island (the westernmost district of the city), was the oldest of its kind in the world. The institute

had a rich history of scientific research, exploration, and mineralresource development in Russia. The Leningrad Technological Institute, created in 1828, was located on Moskovsky Prospekt not far from the city centre. This institute was a focal point for political protest in 1905 and 1917. Drawing from its extensive resources, the Technological Institute survived the revolutionary years and emerged as the largest industrial-technical school in the Soviet Union. The Leningrad Conservatory and the Academy of Arts had both earned reputations as fine in-

stitutions before 1917. The conservatory produced such famous graduates as Sergei Glazunov and Dmitry Shostakovich, while the academy cultivated new generations of artists who would be highly influenced by the avant-garde tendencies sweeping across Europe. During the interwar period these established academic institutions competed with the new offspring of the Soviet higher-education system. Petrograd Communist University, founded in 1918 (renamed in 1920 after Zinoviev and in 1930 after Stalin), promoted itself as a leading force in the training of a new generation of Red specialists and political leaders. Along with the Communist University, numerous smaller institutes for industrial training emerged in the late 1920s and early 1930s to serve as depositories for proletarian and peasant youth recruited into technical fields. (See Appendix 2 for a list of the major higher-education institutions in Leningrad.)

Leningrad, as an urban centre peripheral to the locus of power in Moscow, offers a unique vantage point from which to examine the studenchestvo. The city had a unique cultural-political tradition but was also typical of most large cities, with its diversity of scientific and aca-

demic institutions. The contours of student politics, as well as of changing social and academic rules, were representative of broader trends in the ussr. And yet, the development of student politics in Leningrad was unavoidably influenced by the issues that defined that city’s

uneasy relationship with “the centre.” Leningrad vuzy struggled to cope with problems traditionally associated with large institutions with established reputations; they also faced issues specific to their subordinate status in the Soviet higher-education system. The mix of politics and higher education inevitably led to clashes between opposing forces, and it was the product of these struggles that determined the environment in which students lived and learned.

CHAPTER ONE

The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

“Students are always occupied with something: restaurants, women, or

politics.”* This trite analysis of Russian students, offered by Adam Lel’, an alumnus of St Petersburg University, was not far off the mark. A blend of troublesome social questions, mundane pursuits, and passions of the heart shaped student life in Russia. After the Crimean War, student youth began to call for reforms to higher education and a more open dialogue with the autocracy. As their sense of social duty grew, students found themselves encumbered in a crisis of self-doubt and moral introspection. Collegial traditions and the emergence of organized political movements gave students a sense of autonomy and sepa-

rateness, but the splintering of the political movement after 1905 reinforced lingering doubts and insecurities about their place in society.

Along with these higher moral and social issues, students occupied themselves with less lofty pursuits such as occasional drinking, rude behaviour, avoidance of work, difficult personal relationships, and bouts of depression and social alienation.

STUDENTS AGAINST THE STATE The Russian Empire was a multinational realm governed by a cumbersome bureaucracy, and in the first half of the nineteenth century its virtually unchallenged military reputation masked economic backwardness, illiteracy, and a bloated governing apparatus under Nicholas 1 (182555). Defeat in the Crimean War forced the new tsar, Alexander 11 (185 5-

81), to institute major changes. Alexander was determined to reform

Russia before forces of discontent toppled the autocracy. The tsar brought greater openness (glasnost’) to public discussion, easing censorship and promising substantial changes to the ailing serf economy and inefficient bureaucracy. This new era of public discussion culminated in

17 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

the Great Reforms of 1861-64, during which the tsar emancipated the peasantry, reformed the judiciary, and created new organs of local government (zemstvo). A decade later he introduced universal conscription and improved training programs for the military.* Alexander’s initiatives created high expectations but were stalled by political events. In March 1881 a member of the People’s Will terrorist group assassinated the tsar. The new autocrat, Alexander 111 (1881-94), used the assassination as a

pretext to roll back many of his predecessor’s reforms. Nevertheless, Alexander was unable to stem the tide of social change brought on by modernization. Industrialization spurred mass migration to the cities, leading to rising levels of urban poverty. Poorly treated and woefully underpaid workers became the target of an underground Marxist movement known as the Emancipation of Labour Group (the offspring of the Populist movement in the 1870s), established in 1883 by Georgy Plekhanov. By the time that the first congress of the Russian Social Democratic Workers’ Party (RsDRP) gathered in 1898, the fractious Marxist move-

ment had managed to organize a substantial underground network. After the split of the RSDRP in 1903 into Menshevik and Bolshevik fac-

tions (V.I. Lenin led the latter), the movement began to make greater inroads into the working class.3

Caught between the state and the people, Russia’s nascent professional class struggled to find its niche. Russian professionals represented the nucleus of a new civil society defined not by inherited social status

but by education and a desire to improve social conditions. Under Nicholas 11, who assumed the throne in 1894, these professional groups pushed for a more prominent voice in the modernizing society. Seeking

a broader participatory forum in which to promote their activities and contribute to social improvement, educated professionals and local government officials championed representative government and progres-

sive policies related to health care and education. The autocracy regarded their activities in town assemblies, schools, and professional practices with great suspicion.4 Education represented one of the many dilemmas confronting the autocracy as it attempted to steer Russia into the modern age. Education was critical to Russia’s industrialization, but the new ideas and the trained professionals issuing from academic institutions presented a threat to the autocracy. Universities became forums for open discussion following the Crimean War, and schoolteachers emerged as persistent social critics of the government. The government pledged to expand higher education but at the same time did not wish to delegate autono-

- mous powers to academic institutions. The Ministry of Education’s Janus-faced policy was evident in 1863, when, after a wave of demon-

strations in St Petersburg, it pushed through university statutes that

18 Builders and Deserters curtailed student rights and regulated enrolment. Alexander’s minister of education, D.A. Tolstoi, had proposed additional restrictions on academic council and student activities, but it was not until 1884 that Tolstoi’s strategy was implemented through one of his former assistants, I.D. Delianov. New statutes forced universities to adopt curricular programs that emphasized the classical disciplines, and the Ministry of Education assumed the right to nominate and dismiss faculty members. Further, the ministry employed special curators for each university to act as liaisons between state-appointed academic councils and the government.) St Petersburg occupied a unique place in the higher-education system, emerging as a leading centre for professional training and a focal point for opposition activities. Demonstrations at St Petersburg Univer-

sity in the 1850s had set the tone for ensuing decades of conflict between the state and the studenchestvo. The expansion and diversification of higher education in the capital made this relationship even more problematic. St Petersburg University, the largest in the empire, enrolled students in a wide variety of disciplines and acted as an important training ground for civil servants. Along with the Mining Institute, the Polytechnical Institute, and a number of fine arts institutions, the university engaged in an ongoing struggle for a greater voice in its own academic affairs. Running battles became nothing less than political contests as a series of crises brought issues of academic autonomy and freedom of thought to the fore. Student radicalism was fuelled in part by a growing disaffection among the nucleus of Russia’s educated liberal element towards the autocracy. As products of a tightly supervised political system in the first half of the nineteenth century, Russian students under Nicholas 1 exhibited ap-

athy. They did not enjoy the fraternal traditions and social status of their German counterparts.° The studenchestvo as a corporative entity began to change following the abolition of enrolment restrictions and the easing of censorship and dress codes in 1855. Students organized regional societies (zemliachestvo), held special discussion meetings, and developed mutual-aid funds (kassa vzaimopomoshchi). Utopian social- , ism and populism became popular subjects of discussion, and in the new political climate youth began to challenge violations of their personal freedoms and self-described corporative traditions.? Grievances with the autocracy arose from police harassment and the periodic banning or censuring of gatherings. When a student was expelled for insulting the rector or arrested for throwing objects at the police during street demonstrations, his comrades interpreted the punitive action as an insult to them all. In the 1870s and 1880s a small minority of stu-

19 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

dents participated in revolutionary groups, but the vast majority remained uninterested in grand political causes.®

The somnolent political movement awakened owing to a combination of factors related to changes in enrolment patterns and intrusive state policies. By 1880, higher schools had begun to experience an influx of petty-bourgeois and non-titled groups along with a modest de-

cline in the number of children from noble and civil-service

backgrounds. Changes in social composition and the age structure (the

average age of incoming students dropped slightly) contributed to greater cultural diversity. Furthermore, increasing numbers from small provincial towns enrolled in higher schools. Some students revelled in new-found freedom, but others felt overwhelmed. New faces, ideas, and religious faiths challenged entrenched beliefs and family values.? Police intervention compounded the difficulties associated with ad-

justing to a new environment. During the time of the Tolstoi and Delianov ministries, students had little opportunity to negotiate with the autocracy, and their activities were closely monitored by the police. In 1899 a series of events prompted students to take a stand against police interference, and in the process they ushered in a new era of political activism. The 1899 general strike was one of the defining moments for the student movement. It began with the promise of radical reform but ended with disappointment and the realization that students’ academic and personal concerns would continue to prevail over their interest in political causes. The nationwide protest arose from an ongoing feud between St Petersburg students and the local police and from the students’ determination to oppose the revocation of their right to convene meetings and organize activities. During holidays and other festive occasions rowdy students would roam Nevsky Prospekt and other major thoroughfares in St Petersburg. Their behaviour provoked confron-

tations with local shopkeepers and restaurant owners, and violence often erupted when police tried to quell the disturbances. On 5 February 1899, three days before the traditional festivities marking the anniversary of St Petersburg University (usually an occasion for revelry), Rector V.I. Sergeevich warned that severe penalties would be imposed on students who disrupted the celebrations.*° Angered by this declaration, students clashed in the streets with the police after the latter beat and arrested several protestors. Police brutality provoked outrage and prompted the Organizational Committee at St Petersburg University to pass a resolution calling for a boycott of classes. Moscow students expressed solidarity with their Petersburg colleagues, and by late February over 20,000 students across Russia had walked out of their classes.1*

Claiming that police brutality had insulted students’ honour and deprived them of basic freedoms, the university’s socialist-dominated

20 Builders and Deserters

student council called for fundamental guarantees of personal rights and liberties. But the declarations of the Organizational Committee could not mask disagreement among students over strike tactics and the ultimate goals of the protest. Marxist-oriented members suggested that strike action was useless because students remained isolated as a singular revolutionary force. Instead, they recommended unification with the working-class movement. In the end, the Organizational Committee faced a mass of students who refused to commit themselves to

| political action for fear of pushing the situation too far.’* The 1899 strike failed to achieve one of its main goals, the protection of student rights. The Ministry of Education, fearful of further unrest, tightened its grip. The Temporary Rules of July 1899 allowed the government to conscript for military service any students participating in political demonstrations. In November 1901 another set of regulations drafted by the State Council forbade the creation of any new student organizations except those approved by the rector and supervised by a faculty member. The Temporary Rules resulted in the recruitment of hundreds of students for military service.’3 The new regulations represented a clear restriction on the right of association, and they contrib-

uted to a more determined attitude among the leftists, who believed that reform through existing organizations was no longer possible." A united student movement failed to materialize during the 1899 strike, but the growing influence of the labour movement helped to radicalize individual student councils. Social Democratic proclamations urged students to reject the slogans of “university autonomy” and “moderate reform” as bourgeois concepts."5 The test for this revolutionary strategy came in 1905 as Russia descended into another period of upheaval. The situation had become increasingly unstable a year earlier, when Russia had engaged Japan in a struggle for control of naval ports on the Korean peninsula. And there were other areas of conflict: local government officials made more aggressive

demands for self-government; sporadic peasant disorders in the countryside threatened the livelihood of rural nobility; and a wave of labour unrest in the cities paralysed large enterprises and provoked | stern police measures. Civil unrest intensified in the wake of the Rus- | sian navy’s resounding defeat at the hands of Japan. During a peace-

ful demonstration held in the capital in January 1905, police shot and killed hundreds of citizens who had petitioned Tsar Nicholas to hear their grievances. The incident set off massive labour unrest and a general political crisis. After a general strike Nicholas was forced to

draw up a constitution in October 1905 (the October Manifesto), granting general civil liberties and giving sanction to a duma (parliament).*°

21 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

The cauldron of political unrest boiled over into Russia’s academic institutions. The 1905 revolution was a critical turning-point for higher

education and the student movement. Professors and students called for an end to government interference in academic life, amnesty for po-

litical prisoners, and guaranteed personal freedoms. In its weakened state the autocracy relinquished considerable control over academic institutions. Open elections for rectorships followed a Ministry of Educa-

tion decree in August 1905 granting each institution the right to appoint its own administration and rector independently of the government. Young radicals saw the political crisis as an opportunity to take control of the fractious student movement. At the onset of the RussoJapanese war in 1904, Marxist students launched protests to discredit

the “imperialist” conflict but arrests depleted their ranks. Consequently, Bolshevik supporters accepted a proposal by their Socialist Revolutionary (SR) counterparts to form a united group, called the Co-

alition Council, to work out a strategy. Members of the Partisans of Struggle (an unaffiliated leftist group) and the centrist Student Democrats also joined the council. This makeshift body lasted until October 1904, when it was absorbed by the Bolshevik-dominated Council of Student Elders.*7”

Outraged by the state’s reaction to peaceful protests, all but the conservative faction of the professoriate joined with students in their demand for a nationwide general strike. Regarding themselves as agents of social reform and bulwarks against arbitrary autocratic policies, professors demanded an end to restrictions on academic freedom. The creation of the Academic Union later in the year and the presentation of the “Note of 342” -— a manifesto that demanded freedom from police interference and greater financial support from the state — formed the basis for the professoriate’s platform over the next decade.'® More than 40,000 students went on strike in January-February 1905. According to one historian, student councils nationwide voted over 95 per cent in favour of the strike (it should be noted that less than half of all students actually voted). They passed a number of resolutions calling for personal freedoms and the eradication of government interference. At this point the Bolsheviks gained significant popular support among students, although the depth of this backing was soon tested.*9 Intense political activity went on in higher schools after they reopened in the fall of 1905. Mass demonstrations and heated debates turned St Petersburg University, the Technological Institute, and other vuzy into teeming public forums. For a brief time students stood side by side with workers and shopkeepers calling for political reform.?° As meetings convened and the discussion of tactics progressed, it became apparent that student groups were anything but united.2* Momentum

| 22 Builders and Deserters had shifted to the radical elements, but the revolutionary tide began to turn shortly after the October Manifesto and the general strike. Universities remained closed and students became victims of sporadic attacks by city dwellers annoyed by their continuously disruptive presence. The struggle reached a denouement in December 1905, when street battles in Moscow turned into full-scale armed conflicts between Bolshevik supporters and the police. Approximately 250 students joined activists who manned the barricades. After the revolt had been crushed, dozens of students were arrested (one source reports that twenty-six died in the uprising).** Without the support of the middle class and the army, the revolutionary movement was doomed to failure. Most students re-

mained reluctant to take up Lenin’s call for revolution.”3 , The events of 1905 produced a leftward shift in students’ political views. As Daniel Brower has shown, radicals generally came from middle-class and gentry backgrounds. They joined a jumbled mass of groups who championed Zionism, Great Russian nationalism, Christian humanism, and other causes.*4 According to L.A. Kleinbort, radicals had fickle views: “party-mindedness (partiinost’)” depended more on personal mood than on political consciousness. Kleinbort believed that the demands of the moment and youthful curiosity made it easy for students to embrace ideals or political platforms, but superficially. Pre-revolutionary Russia, he wrote, provided a forum for groups espousing grandiose causes. Students identifying themselves with the rad-

ical left liked the appeal of camaraderie, group identity, and the advocacy of self-sacrifice for the greater good.75 As Adam Lel’ wrote, radical students “wanted to show that they were a threat to the govern-

ment. If a search [of their place] was conducted, it filled them with pride. Being arrested was even better, but of course not for long.”?¢ Other commentators made similar observations. Both P. Ivanov and A.S. Izgoev, a liberal publicist who contributed to the famous collection of essays in 1909 known as Vekhi (Landmarks), implied that students were dilettantes who liked to experiment briefly with one social cause and then move on to another, believing that only they had the ability and vision to build a just society.”7 The intelligentsia’s perspective obviously was different than that of the students. Although they may have changed their views frequently or adopted allegiances without careful thought beforehand, student activists nonetheless remained committed to a struggle for individual rights and higher-education reform. _

The 1905 revolution had run its course by the spring of 1906, at which point the autocracy went on the offensive. The Fundamental Laws enacted in 1906 allowed the tsar a hand in all ministerial appointments and provided for the creation of the State Council as a counterbalance to the Duma. In July 1906, following several weeks of

, 23 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism political stalemate, Nicholas dissolved the parliament. When it reconvened in October 1906, the Duma refused to pass a series of agricul-

tural and local government reforms proposed by P.A. Stolypin, the chairman of the Council of Ministers. The deadlock allowed Stolypin to dissolve the Duma again in June 1907 and impose a set of new elec-

toral laws known as the “June 3rd system.” He revoked or reduced suffrage rights earlier granted to peasants and national minorities, thereby allowing the centrist and right-wing parties to dominate the Duma. Thereafter the Duma sparred intermittently with the autocracy but was, on the whole, ineffective as a political body. During this time the revolutionary movement struggled to make an impact. A wave of arrests during Stolypin’s tenure as interior minister (he was assassinated in 1911), extensive police supervision of their activities, and internal feuding over tactics undermined the agitation work carried out by Bolshevik, Menshevik, and Socialist Revolutionary activists. Although a brief surge of labour activism occurred between 1912 and 1914, the revolutionary movement remained fairly isolated, and for that reason it failed to have a profound impact on students.”° When Russian universities reopened in September 1906, students remained divided over strategies. The-autocracy launched a counterattack after introducing the June 3rd System. Fearing contacts between student and working-class Marxist groups, the Ministry of Education banned student meetings outright and the Okhrana (secret police) sent in agents to infiltrate subversive organizations. In 1908 the new minister of education, A.N. Schwartz, introduced measures restricting the enrolment of women and Jews. Students called for protests against these arbitrary measures. In response a coalition of student groups published an “Appeal to Russian Society,” in which they called for a general strike.2? By late September most institutions once again faced a disruption of classes. But 1908 was not 1905. Although support for action seemed to be quite strong, most of it came from leftist students. The strike lasted only a few days. Despite the fact that leftists dominated most student organizations, they were no longer able to mobilize protestors in large numbers.?° The weakening of student protest movements enabled Minister of Education L.A. Kasso (1910-14) to pass a series of measures in 1910II, retracting many of the 1905 reforms. Kasso subjected institutions to police harassment and banned all non-academic student organizations. Kasso’s measures provoked renewed protests at St Petersburg University and elsewhere. Interior Minister P.A. Stolypin’s concerns for public order took an earlier ban on student organizations a step further in January 1911, prohibiting outright the convening of meetings on campus. Stolypin declared that no longer would the police require the

24 Builders and Deserters

approval of the rector to sit in on classes (and, implicitly, to apprehend ) suspected agitators). These measures provoked calls for a semester-long strike. Street demonstrations resulted in 409 arrests on 31 January. By

the fall of r911 the police had rounded up 1,956-students, 1,453 of whom were from universities.3' The protests gained greater significance in the wake of a scandal at St Petersburg University involving a student, Brianov, who assaulted a professor as he exited a lecture hall and four other students who hurled objects at another. The professor’s demand for the stern punishment of Brianov further aggravated the situation. But the protests eventually fizzled out, as it became apparent that most students were far more concerned with completing their academic year. By late February mass arrests and expulsions had weakened the student boycott at the university. Although it continued for another month, student leaders realized that the strike faced insurmountable

odds.3 |

Restrictions imposed by Kasso allowed the government to maintain control of higher education, but they prevented further opportunities for constructive dialogue. Nevertheless, the higher-education system made significant advances during the twilight of the Imperial era. Enrolment expanded nearly tenfold between 1897 and 1914. As universi-

ties experienced fierce competition from specialized and technical institutions, their share of enrolment dropped considerably. At the same time, women began to make inroads. A relaxation of restrictions after the turn of the century allowed institutions such as the Bestuzhev

Women’s Courses, which after 1878 offered university-accredited courses, to expand significantly. 33 During the First World War the government tried to heal some of the

old wounds opened up by the Kasso administration. The new minister of education, N. Ignatiev, expanded enrolment and relaxed controls over liberal arts universities. Universities responded in a positive manner to the autocracy’s call for unity in the face of a common enemy. Academic institutions assisted the War Industries’ Committees and professors gave patriotic lectures. Students enlisted for front-line duties,

helped out in relief efforts, coordinated entertainment programs for soldiers, and lent their creative talents to the war effort by publishing literary collections such as Molodaia Rus’ (Young Russia) and donating the proceeds to war veterans.34

There was further cause for optimism in 1916, when university statutes standardizing procedures for faculty appointments came into effect. However, continued financial problems and a deteriorating war effort resulted in enrolment cutbacks in that year. With the onset of wat, commitment to political protest waned and the relationship between students and the state seemed to improve. Under Minister of

25 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

Education Ignatiev the government had problems providing for universities. Conscription, initiated in 1915, further reduced enrolment. Cut-

backs in fuel, building materials, libraries, and paper made it increasingly difficult to continue lessons, and in June 1916 the Ministry

of Education had to curtail planned enrolment in Moscow and St Petersburg because of shortages.35

Students who refused to support the war adhered to the socialist view that it was an imperialist conflict. Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, and Socialist Revolutionaries continued to find support among their peers, but Soviet historians tend to exaggerate their impact. In Petrograd (as St Petersburg was renamed in 1914), only 250-300 Bolshevik students were affiliated with the city’s RSDRP committee and involved in conspiratorial activities. In 1914 socialist students had formed the Coalition Committee in order to coordinate demonstrations and activities against the government. Along with other groups, they engaged in opposition activities. By 1915, however, many had been rounded up by the secret police.3° Although a broad stratum of the studenchestvo may have supported the principles of socialism, only a small minority remained willing to put their views into action.

THE STUDENT COMMUNITY When a nineteen-year-old peasant by the name of Vladimir Kurbskii enrolled at Moscow University, he entered a world of exciting events, new people, and new ideas. Kurbskii recalled the profound feeling of collegiality he experienced when first visiting the campus, as peers welcomed new students and gave them a sense of belonging: “They referred to us as ‘colleague.’ The first time I heard that word used to address me, my head went into a tizzy. Could it really be true that I was at this very moment a ‘colleague’? Has this long-awaited moment really arrived?! Yes, it has really arrived!” Aside from the camaraderie, Kurbskii was astounded by the variety of special groups, organizations, and social functions. He visited evening socials where students from the Penza region sang songs and drank heavily; he had a discussion with a Zionist who pledged all his efforts towards the founding of a Jewish state; he witnessed mass demonstrations and arrests during the r9rz strike; he walked the halls, reading propaganda leaflets, advertisements for study groups and societies, and pleas from desperately hungry students willing to do anything for their next meal.37 Kurbskii’s impressionistic account brings to life a community that was a sum of its contradictory parts — a place where obligation and irresponsibility, optimism and pessimism, collectivism and individualism coexisted uneasily.

26 Builders and Deserters

While studying the negative effects of urbanization and modernization, T. Ikov came to the conclusion that in a number of ways many students closely resembled the beggars and homeless that wandered the streets: “The pathology of the poor man differs little from the pathology of our starving student: a pale face with either a greyish or yellowish tinge, sunken cheeks, a protruding forehead sharpening the facial features — these are the distinguishing attributes. ”3° Ikov’s remark aptly summarized the situation for students. The average dinner consisted of weak tea with some black bread (rarely the better-quality white variety); lunch was the same, occasionally with cheese or sausage (Rolbasa) if one were lucky. Communal dining thus became a practical means of nutritional sustenance, although dining-halls (stolovaia) were not al- °

ways noted for their gourmet fare. As one disgruntled diner noted: “The devil knows what this stuff is. It’s simply impossible to eat. Slop for the first course, shoe soles for the second.”3? Students tried to cope

by establishing their own dining facilities. In Moscow a student-run stolovaia in 1902 was able to provide 11 per cent of its neediest patrons with free meals. Communal facilities became popular because they gave students the opportunity to control expenses and decide how the facilities would be run and what type of food would be purchased. The situation was not so promising for individuals who did not have access to communal dining-halls, as malnutrition, poor hygiene, and long queues for meals remained part of the student lifestyle.4° Most students had difficulty securing accommodation. They had to choose between unkempt dormitories or shabby apartments run by unscrupulous landlords. Approximately 50 to 60 per cent lived in communal apartments with roommates (rarely did students in the major cities have their own private apartment), since a shortage of dormitory space, particularly in Moscow and St Petersburg, forced young people to look for accommodation in apartment complexes or insect-ridden “student ghettos.”4t Anyone able to secure a dormitory space (St Petersburg had

thirty-four dormitories in 1914) was forced to deal with filthy, rundown, and overcrowded rooms. As one student explained, it was hard to study in the dormitory: “And if I — an inhabitant of this residence — am stupid enough at some point to attempt to study, then I must choose the moment when the mood of my eleven roommates corresponds to my wishes. When one student plays the violin, another two argue, and the remaining eight are quiet, this can be considered the most convenient time for study, because usually things are much worse.”4? But residence life was not always so bad. Some students created better living arrangements by taking the initiative of establishing reading rooms and assisting in management. The Lepeshinskii and Nicholas 11 dormitories in Moscow were two such examples.#3

27 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

Many students suffered ill health from poor diet and unheated rooms. The chief physician tor St Petersburg University in 1911 noted that by the end of the fall semester his clinic was overflowing with patients.44 Students tried to cope through self-help agencies. Communal dining-halls and student-run facilities lightened the burden and fostered a sense of accomplishment and community. The zemliachestvo and other mutual-aid groups performed similar roles. Zemliachestvo carried

on an important cultural tradition, determining migration, hiring patterns in factories, and social attitudes among the thousands of peasants employed as seasonal labourers in urban centres. Zemliachestvo had originated in the 1850s, assuming the functions of mutual-aid societies, discussion groups, and networks for moral support. Zemliaki (literally, “fellow countrymen”) provided a source of comfort and financial security for young peasants entering the workforce for the first time.45 By 1905 the student zemliachestvo movement was firmly rooted in most

major cities. Conferences brought together individuals from varied backgrounds to discuss financial and organizational problems. The Moscow University Society in 1909 included an explicit agenda to “forge cultural unity among the members on the basis of economic self-

help.” The general membership made all decisions based on “democratic principles.” Funds for the society came from membership dues, admission fees to concerts, and evening socials. St Petersburg’s students in 1911 could choose from over fifty societies representing various regional or ethnic groups. For example, the St Petersburg Lithuanian stu-

dent group gave fellow Lithuanians an opportunity to converse and share their common values and traditions. More importantly, members helped each other out during the academic year. By the turn of the century, zemliachestvo had become hotbeds for Social Democrats, but their supporters diminished after 1905.4° Mutual-aid societies, originating in the 1880s, coordinated communal expenditures on food and other rations; they also helped members secure part-time or summer employment. One of the largest, located at St Petersburg University, consisted of members elected directly by discussion circles (kruzhki).47 N.M. Mogilianskii, a former president of this society, noted that many of the members were Marxist by orientation and that they frequently quarrelled with other student groups.4® The societies took a leading role in mapping out political strategies in 1899 and 1905, but the reimposition of restrictions on student organizations after 1906 hurt their cause. Nevertheless, mutual-aid groups re-

mained autonomous spheres of activity that students fiercely defended.4°

The failure of the 1899 strike and 1905 revolution to secure substantial political gains intensified a lingering crisis of self-doubt within the

28 Builders and Deserters

studenchestvo. Their moral quandary — caught as they were between

confrontational tendencies and a realization that social conformity would bring them opportunities — led to difficult periods of soulsearching, particularly after the fervour of 1905. On top of this, the high ground taken by voices of moral authority, as they extrapolated a general youth crisis from the lingering social problems within the studenchestvo, indicated a widening of the generation gap. An ongoing discussion of youth’s sexual habits was part of a larger

struggle between established social conventions and the subterraneous , world of urban vice in Russia. As Laura Engelstein has noted, this de-

bate reflected public anxieties related to modernization and social change. Sexuality presented a challenge to traditional power relations and the conservative elements of moral restraint.5° Government officials, professionals, and conservative intellectuals believed that student youth were caught in the grip of a moral crisis. The Russian intelligentsia, perhaps remembering their own failures in the past, interpreted student radicalism as a symptom of moral depravity and the breakdown of society. Izgoev, in his Vekhi essay, wrote a scathing attack on the studenchestvo. He argued that educated youth had cast off their family ties, turned to a depraved lifestyle, and abandoned the disciplined work ethic characteristic of previous generations. The “corruption” of society and the dehumanization of urban life, Izgoev argued, had made an imprint on Russian youth. He claimed that students engaged in sexual activity and masturbation at a young age as a direct result of exposure to decadent literature. Izgoev concluded by comparing the studenchestvo unfavourably with youth in England and Germany, where hard work, discipline, morality (“You would not find that 75 per cent of the students in England are masturbators”), and concern for physical conditioning prevailed. Russian students preferred to hide behind the facade of political activism rather than work on character development and

“moral restraint.” 5?

Izgoev based much of his essay on a 1905 survey carried out by M.A. Chlenov, who found that over half the respondents acknowledged reading erotic literature in secondary school. In the conclusion to his report,

Chlenov noted the strong influence of urban life on the formation of student attitudes towards sex. Prostitution, the degradation of the working class, and the “tradition” of acquiring sexual experience through domestic servants provided many sources of temptation for youth. Consequently, it was not surprising that 77 per cent of the respondents stated that they had engaged in sex before entering a university.5* The easing of restrictions on literature after 1905 gave students the opportunity to read racy material. Novels such as A.A. Verbitskaia’s six-volume Keys to Happiness (1910-13), a tale about life on the street

29 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

and the sexual awakening of a young woman, were popular. Izgoev believed that the flourishing boulevard literature contributed to the higher rates of sexually transmitted diseases. More likely, an absence of health education was the main culprit.53

Chlenov’s survey provides but one example of how treatises on proper regulation of body and mind reflected a desire on the part of authorities to “rationalize” youth lifestyle and ease fears of social disori-

entation. In Britain, patriotic and socially minded youth societies became the prescription for untoward behaviour. Similar efforts in Germany invoked patriotism and restraint in an attempt to persuade youth to act in a socially responsible manner.54 Izgoev, Chlenov, and their counterparts in Germany viewed self-discipline as a critical element of youth instruction. Masturbation, as an act of self-desecration and moral cowardice, represented the ultimate act of sexual indiscipline. The masturbator, just as the individual who resorted to the use of prostitutes, succumbed to a desire for self-gratification. This paradigm of youth in crisis materialized again in the 1920s, albeit in altered semantic form, as one of the defining metaphors for the ordered and disordered communities. Changing values and aspirations had a significant impact on how student youth viewed gender roles. According to the data presented in surveys around the beginning of the century, more students than in the past favoured equal rights for women (leftists tended to be more progressive than supporters of conservative political movements).55 The impact of this trend on marital relations was ambiguous. Most students entered matrimony before the age of twenty-three. Continued dependency on parents or relatives presented challenges to marital arrangements. Ivanov’s sketch of Moscow students reveals how uncertainty

and poverty provided the backdrop for various types of marital arrangements. As one young woman commented, most students made the best of it and relied on love and optimism to carry them through difficult times: “We live together on forty-five rubles a month and feel

great. True, occasionally there is not enough money, but it doesn’t bother us as a couple. We are happy and content with little because each of us supports the other in moments of anguish. And it’s not that these moments of anguish never occur. We believe in the future — that is

paramount. I will finish my courses in a year, and we will then go somewhere to the provinces — there to find happiness.”5° But love was

not the only reason for getting married: arrangements based on economic expediency and purely platonic “Tolstoian” principles were not uncommon. With regard to the former, student couples who were forced to move in with parents often found themselves getting into rows with bossy mothers. The drunken father who arrived home late

30 Builders and Deserters

and quarrelled with family members added to the tension. Given these

common situations, it is not surprising that a substantial number of

_ students were happy to avoid matrimony. Determined to pursue their interests regardless of the consequences, a variety of personalities within the student community contributed to the perception that the younger generation lacked moral direction. Dilettantes, ascetics, dictatorial committee leaders, anti-social recluses, mentally unbalanced, shy, or unassuming youths went to classes together, ate together, and roamed the halls in search of fun, and in the process became the subjects of serious and light-hearted commentaries.

The editors of satirical publications offered literary affirmations of how students “really lived,” publishing stories, poems, or satirical sketches describing everyday life and its strange moments. One shortlived periodical, Zigzagi, unabashedly declared how its purpose was to bring humour and pleasure to all readers: The academic year approaches,

a tenacious mood arises: |

we need funding. The students literally have no materials, no rent money, no inheritance money. We give you the readers humour. We have tried it without politics, without quarrelsomeness. Well, excuse our deception: we are “zigzagers” who have made our way into your pocket.57

Writers provided their readers with light-hearted reflections on the personalities and habits of their colleagues. Putting their knowledge of Latin to practical use, the editors of a publication from Siberia produced new definitions for the species known as “Homo studens”: “A sub-species of s. germanicus, it comes in many varieties: repetitor [failing students], alio sepponens [procrastinator], academicus [studious types], antiquus [senior students], aeternus [perpetual student], etc. We find repetitor scrounging for sausage and tea; he is occasionally a vegetarian but is always starving.”5°® Satirical articles such as these offered

insights into the cultural environment in which students pursued their own interests. Ivanov discussed the “types” he encountered at Moscow University and categorized them by outlook and mannerisms. Firstyear students were a separate category. They were described as raw recruits soon to be transformed by the numerous temptations and infor-

31 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

mal regulations governing campus life. Newcomers eagerly immersed themselves within a collegial atmosphere that encouraged the questioning of established conventions and prevailing political views. Over the course of the year, they learned the ropes and began to moderate their

Opinions (a true sign of learning “the system”). “Unbalanced” students, according to Ivanov, insisted on reading anything and everything, but they lacked direction and tended to develop narrow-minded views. The “philosophes,” such as one Somov, who roamed the halls were much the same. Somov, a “hard-nosed loner” at the university, quickly lost interest in lectures and subsequently spent most of his time in a group devoted to the study of Emmanuel Kant. He pursued and romanced a young woman but was crushed when she left him after only ten days. Individuals who shunned collegiality for the pursuit of life’s little pleasures provided another source of curiosity. For example, the “decadents” lived in their own world, imagining love affairs with mysterious Dostoevskian women and behaving erratically or violently. Similarly, impetuosity and a surreal view of life marked the salient features

of “bon vivants” such as Denisov, who chose to pursue hedonism rather than studies. Ivanov liked to contrast studious and diligent individuals with Denisovian “bohemians,” especially when the latter’s habits led to a personal financial crisis.59 Ivanov’s impressionistic and entertaining account of student life was similar in tone and reasoning to accounts written by his Soviet successors. Rich in content and moral judgment, it betrayed the bias of a man no longer attached to the student environment. What Ivanov did not discuss in any detail was the inability of many students to cope with personal problems. School life foisted daily phys-

ical and mental pressures on students, pushing some of them to the brink of self-destruction. Writers expended a great deal of ink describ-

ing reasons for youth anomie. N. Frolov published a short story in 1910 that captured the essence of the two-edged sword of student life.

Students enrolled with great expectations to learn and make new friends, but performance expectations compelled many of them to barricade themselves in their rooms with piles of books. The subject of Frolov’s story was a young student who arrived in Moscow and was quickly disillusioned with the apparent absence of collegiality and with the uncaring and (according to him) “bureaucratic” student affairs de-

partment. The protagonist ended up wandering around without any purpose, pining for his days at secondary school when he had been treated as an important person: “I go to the university every day just to

kill time, although I know that nothing interesting awaits me. It’s strange that I haven’t yet met up with an old comrade from the [secondary school]. Perhaps I met them but did not recognize them ...

32 Builders and Deserters

I only know that I am starving — my soul hungers, I starve from a lack of congenial company, lively events, intellectual friendship. I feel that without people, I will grow dull and stupid.”®° Frolov’s story fictional- __ ized a reality for many students. Despite being liberated from familial bondage, they quickly found that freedom and independence were not always so grand. Self-help groups like the post-1905 Christian student movement at-

tempted to redress this problem by offering students a spiritual focal point.°t Others came to the aid of depressed or suicidal students. St Petersburg University established the League for the Struggle against Student Suicides in 1910, following an apparent epidemic of suicides.®* A standard explanation for this trend was that the post-1905 letdown left youth confused and lacking in self-confidence. Confusion turned to depression and alienation as revolutionary gains were lost and Russia reverted to its former state of arbitrary rule. While it is unclear whether or not there was a de facto epidemic of youth suicides after 1905,°3 the authorities’ use of epidemiological terminology and their description of suicide among students as a pathogenic phenomenon were highly suggestive of the paternalistic approach taken by the state and the professional community. But as

Susan Morrissey has argued, suicide had become much larger than a purely medical-psychiatric issue. In post-1905 surveys, difficulties in adjusting to the social environment and lack of personal fulfilment were cited as the most common explanations for suicide. Professionals began to make the more overt connection between suicidal behaviour and social environment, interpreting individual acts of protest as metaphors for the dissipation of social order.°4 Similar trends occurred in Europe, as young

people participated in debates over morality and civic obligation. An apparent renaissance of nihilism and fatalism among European youth accentuated the social tensions produced by modernization and competing political forces.°5

Students found numerous outlets to cope with daily pressures. Escapism was a right of youth, a way of expressing consternation about the world or denying its existence. Perhaps the most pervasive form of release was through the bottle. Most contemporaries seemed to have the impression that students were heavy drinkers (a popular student saying was, “Life is short but vodka is abundant”). However, data on

drinking habits show that only 5 per cent consumed “excessive” amounts — defined here as more than two drinks per day. The stern dia-

logue on alcohol and youth could be heard beyond Russia and across Europe. Concerned about the proliferation of hooliganism and irresponsible social behaviour, authorities in France and Germany at-

, tempted to curb anti-social student activities through temperance and social instruction.°°

33. The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

Drinking was more than just a habit: it encompassed a culture of nonconformity, a means of escaping school work and stuffy old professors, and a way of meeting people outside of the school environment.

Ivanov’s account of student life in Moscow includes a sketch of the (in)famous Sedan beer hall, a popular haunt for students and the lower classes. With biting sarcasm, Ivanov described the significance of Sedan as an established institution: I am speaking of the beer hall at the Nikita Gates, widely known under the name Sedan and given the honorary title of “student beer hall.” This title belongs to it by right. In the course of many years, Sedan has been a major nurs-

ery for student alcoholism and has taken the form of a student club. Numerous representatives from the ranks of the student poor gathered there during evenings; it was a place to while away evenings for persons who could not get into restaurants and other spots because of the high prices. They came to rest after a full day of intensive lessons or to forget about the difficult solitude of student life.

In Sedan one could spend time with friends or languish in decrepit soul-searching solitude. The beer hall also provided a point of intersec-

tion between students and the lower classes, with alcohol being the equalizing factor.°7 In Russia’s rapidly changing society, it was not surprising that young people felt socially displaced. Expansion of the higher-education system

brought more students into the classrooms and, consequently, increased the potential for unrest, as students began to organize themselves. The failure of the student movement to capture that magically united political agenda should be seen not only as evidence of political factionalism and repressive state policies, but also as a manifestation of contradictory forces within the student community. As the relationship between the state and the studenchestvo deteriorated, voices of moral authority castigated students for a diminishing sense of social duty, immorality, and lack of direction. What the authorities often failed to re-

alize was that, beyond their studies, students faced a number of obstacles — both in adjusting to a new environment and in dealing with

material difficulties. These obstacles had a significant impact on the ways in which students learned in the classroom.

THE LEARNING EXPERIENCE Contradictory forces influenced the development of organized opposition to the autocracy’s education policies. The studenchestvo and the professoriate tried to force the Ministry of Education to liberalize and

34 Builders and Deserters

diversify curricular programs and allow for greater academic freedom.

, But students also demanded greater access to faculty members and more input into academic affairs. At the same time, they remained divided over the politicization of academic training. These conflicting positions made it hard for them to present an effective opposition to the autocracy’s policies.

Russia’s universities had six traditional disciplinary fields (usually differentiated as faculties): Eastern languages, history and philology, natural sciences, mathematics, law, and medicine. Although the expansion of higher technical education necessitated curricular reforms, the Ministry of Education remained reluctant to engage in far-reaching changes. The Tolstoi ministry’s strategy, emphasizing the classics in literature and law instead of modern Western texts, exacerbated tensions between students and professors. Near the turn of the century, the Ministry of Education faced growing pressure to offer students a choice in

technical disciplines and the liberal arts. Between 1880 and 1912, enrolment in history and philology dropped, while it rose substantially in law and the sciences. The study of law offered opportunities for a legal or civil-service career, whereas medicine and the scientific disciplines gave students a chance to enter the expanding fields of health care and scientific research. In contrast, the humanities suffered from censorship and restrictions on course content, as well as from pedagogy because of poorly paid teachers and an underfunded primary school system. The diversification of higher education paralleled the explosive increase in reading materials. The Russian popular press began to expand in the 1890s, with publications ranging from scientific periodicals to cheap tabloid-style newspapers. Literature exposed students to new ideas and to the debauchery of urban life. Reports on widespread crime and sex scandals became part of the general public’s daily diet of infor-

mation.®® Although students joined reading centres and clubs, they tended to prefer lighter fare to the dense and profound political literature that predominated in discussion circles. Reviewing data on reading habits and comparing them with the character of academic discussion groups after 1905, Kleinbort concluded that interest in collective discussion of important social and philosophical issues peaked in 1905 and thereafter declined. In its place students pursued individual interests and self-enrichment (or pure entertainment) through fiction and scientific literature.°? Kleinbort’s conclusions affirmed a widely held view: students lost their revolutionary fervour following the 1905 revolution. The 1905 revolution resulted in significant curricular changes, as academic institutions gained more control over their own programs. Stu-

dents at St Petersburg University followed the national trend by

35 The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

enrolling mostly in law and the sciences. A loosening of restrictions allowed for the formation of dozens of new academic societies. New curricula and fresh approaches invigorated degree programs and rekindled interest in learning, and students convened academic discussion groups

on a variety of topics. The brief liberalization of learning generated pressure on professors to become more accessible and less formal in their attitude towards students.7° Certain political issues produced a significant amount of rancour in academic groups. Most students complained about the teacher-student relationship, but they could not agree among themselves on the question of politicizing the classroom. Although many accepted the notion that academic pursuits should remain above politics, an even larger number

at this time held fast to the view that higher education could not be wholly isolated from contemporary political events. The St Petersburg University Academic Union, an organization formed in 1905, had diffi- _

culty dealing with this issue. The Academic Union’s rallying cry reflected its official agenda to put studies above politics: “Forward, academics! Forward, to the university! To the temple of pure science! Forward, to work! For the light of knowledge!” The union tried to enlist

apolitical, leftist, and conservative elements into its membership to present a united front on issues related to financial support, representa-

tion in academic councils, and curricular changes, but it was hard to enforce the principle that “members must not view the university as an arena for political struggles.” Supporters of the conservative Union of Russian People, as well as of the moderate Peaceful Renewal and Octo-

brist groups, all demanded changes to the platform and threatened retaliation if they did not get their way.7!

Students viewed professors both as potential allies against the state and as adversaries. According to P. Kapnist, a Moscow University professor who wrote a treatise in 1904 on the state of university education and the student-professor relationship, a number of factors had contributed to the deterioration in the quality of education at universities. Sporadic government intervention ruined the ability of universities to design coherent curricula best suited to their needs. Incoming students from secondary institutions were woefully trained, and this made it difficult for professors to teach the required subjects effectively. Furthermore, recent political disturbances made it all but impossible to enforce discipline in the classroom. Kapnist believed that students now acted in a much more self-assured manner and that they would not hesitate to question a teacher’s authority. Their insistence on participation in administrative affairs made things worse. Nevertheless, he acknowledged that students had legitimate grievances when they talked about the lim-

itations imposed on student organizations after 1863, the formal

36 Builders and Deserters

teacher-student relationship cemented by the 1884 statutes, and the reluctance of the professoriate to support student strikes. The 1905 revolution did nothing to improve the situation in the long term. Reforms

to the university statutes in 1905-6 allowed students to enrol in a greater variety of disciplines, but at the same time emboldened them to be more outspoken in their opposition to the state. Kapnist concluded his treatise by suggesting that the tendency of leftists to pronounce political and professional “judgments” on professors was making things

worse; he believed that enhanced representation for students in academic councils would only serve to paralyse the daily business of the institution and further poison relations with professors.7* Most profes-

sors agreed with Kapnist’s general position. They were determined, above all, to carry on with the business of education. Even the liberal professors who had stood with students in 1905 and joined the Kadet Party did not wish to abandon the hierarchical relationship between teacher and student completely. The professoriate concluded that before anything else their traditional authority in the classroom had to be restored. The Brianov incident in 1911 (recounted above) provides perhaps the best example of how differing perceptions of the classroom (as place of learning and political arena) and the haughty attitude of academic mentors prevented a reconciliation. The distant relationship between students and teachers caused problems even for highly motivated pupils. Nikolai Kol’tsov, a junior faculty member (privat-dotsent) at Moscow University after 1905, offered his opinion on the major stumbling blocks to better teacher-student relations. Professors tended to put students into programs that reflected

their own interests, designating and promoting a select few “favourites” while ignoring the others. Worse still, professors often refused to deal with students who were or had been politically involved, despite the fact that the Ministry of Education had published a circular stipu-

lating that these individuals were not to be discriminated against. Aside from this problem, students faced the grim reality of underfunding and shortages of textbooks and other materials. Kol’tsov wondered how, in this atmosphere, students could be expected to do well in their — studies.73

Although Kol’tsov had his own agenda (as a privat-dotsent himself, he was disgusted with the tactics used by professors to block attempts to improve the pay, working conditions, and representation of junior faculty members on academic councils), his complaints resonated with groups such as the Academic Union. The presence of “perpetual stu-

dents” (vechnye studenty), as Kurbskii called them, was due in no small part to the complexities of academic life. The politicization of is-

sues after 1905, coupled with the ever-present generational divide,

37. The Studenchestvo and Tsarism

made it easy for students to blame their poor performance on boring teachers and political agitators.74 Conversely, professors who were disappointed with their students recalled with nostalgia the betterqualified recruits of the past. It was a stalemate that could not be resolved to anyone’s satisfaction. When Narkompros launched its own ambitious plan in the 1920s to improve the learning environment, it was hampered by similar problems.

The tortured course of the student movement mirrored some of the fundamental contradictions governing Russian society during the twilight of the tsarist regime. Leopold Haimson’s influential work saw the Russia of 1914 as a polarized society: the autocracy was isolated from the professional class and from the working class and peasantry, and the intelligentsia found itself unable to bridge the gap between educated society and the broad mass of non-educated labourers. This tripolar split was a result of the overwhelming problems associated with

rapid modernization and autocratic mismanagement.75 The _ studenchestvo found itself in a similar quandary, isolated as it was by the autocracy yet unable to forge close links with potential allies among the educated professional class. Students were alienated from the autocracy because the latter pursued a Janus-faced higher-education policy. Aware that expanded enrolment required curricular reform and more-open admissions rules, the Ministry of Education tried to adjust changes by keeping a tight rein on students, sporadically revoking their

wards them. |

privileges and assuming a paternalistic and reproachful attitude to-

Social and political changes exposed some glaring contradictions within the studenchestvo. The Great Reforms helped transform the foundations of the higher-education system, as economic development and social changes combined with the permeation into Russia of new ideas from the West. Utopian socialist and populist movements gave way to the rising influence of Marxism and liberalism. After the turn of the century, when these ideas materialized in the form of underground organizations and legal political parties, the student movement desper-

ately attempted to place itself on the leading edge of progressive change. This proved problematic because students were unable to sort out their priorities. An unresolved crisis of self-doubt, accentuated by the panic-stricken voices of moral authority in Russian society, exacerbated internal divisions within the student movement. The collapse of

| the autocracy in 1917 offered hope that unresolved issues related to the studenchestvo would be addressed in a freer and more democratic forum. The promise of reform and renewal, however, faced equally for-

midable obstacles. |

CHAPTER TWO

Revolution and

Civil War

S.V. Soldatenkov, an active supporter of the Bolsheviks at Petrograd University during the civil war, offered a retrospective summary of the struggle that ensued between supporters and opponents of the new regime. He described oppositionists as over-the-hill romantics, bent on

sabotaging the socialist revolution. |

In my naive impression arising from the pre-revolutionary years, a student was a synonym for a revolutionary. This is because in old times newspapers often wrote about students as victims of police shootings and participants in revolutionary acts against the tsarist ministers and other servants of the monarchist regime. They frequently wrote about the death penalty being applied to student revolutionaries. So what was the studenchestvo of our university like at the beginning of the 1920s?

Among them were political philistines both in spirit and in interest. The grandiose revolutionary events, the rupture of old ways of life — all this had gone by. The leaders of these masses were older students, frequently of estimable age: representatives of the Kadet Party — Ianovskii, Aizenshtadt, Maizel’, Sokolov; the Socialist Revolutionaries — Zhaba; the Mensheviks — Abramovich and others. The whole atmosphere of social life at the university had an oppo-

sitionist character towards any measures of Soviet power.' }

Bolshevik supporters referred to their opponents as remnants of the “old order,” even though the latter had been struggling to promote change. For many students, this provided a severe lesson in civil war politics: former political activists now became enemies of a regime determined to use force and terror to construct its new order. During the civil war, students witnessed incredible events. In March 1917,” as a series of bread riots and strikes paralysed Petrograd, mass desertions in the army and the collapsing front lines spelled disaster for

39 Revolution and Civil War

the autocracy. After troops garrisoned in the capital failed to fire on the

swelling mass of demonstrators, government authority disintegrated literally overnight and Nicholas 11 was forced to abdicate. The Provisional Government promised liberty and social reform, but its inability to amass broad support resulted in political deadlock and confusion. The country fell under the sway of a volatile duality of power (dvoevlastie) shared by the Provisional Government and the Petrograd Soviet of Workers’ and Soldiers’ Deputies. A series of military blunders in the summer and an aborted coup attempt by General Kornilov in Septem-

ber threw momentum behind the Bolshevik Party. Confident that he had sufficient strength, Lenin (who had returned from a three-month period of hiding in Finland) convinced the Bolshevik Party’s Central Committee to go ahead with an armed uprising. On 7 November the Bolsheviks took the Winter Palace in Petrograd, arrested several members of the Provisional Government, and declared the formation of the Soviet Socialist Republic. Over the next forty months, the Bolsheviks engaged in an all-out struggle with the White forces for political supremacy in Russia.? Caught in the middle of the conflict, students assumed vanguard positions both for and against the revolution. Some of them fought in the

Red Army and joined communist youth organizations in major cities, whereas others formed clandestine groups determined to undermine Bolshevik authority; the rest tried to avoid politics and did their best to get by. The dissolution of the autocracy had given students an opportunity to put their visions for social reform into practice, but after the Bolshevik revolution, options for change quickly diminished in the face of political realities. Higher-education reforms were ambitious and farreaching, but they failed to take firm root owing to the chaotic situation. By the end of the civil war, independent student activism had been all but neutralized by the Bolshevik doctrine of “democratic centralism.” It was at this point that the studenchestvo lost its semi-autonomous role of social critic. Instead, students had to get used to their new

function as the indirect representatives of state power. Traumatic changes during the civil war also produced the ethos of a new socialist community of students. As the new class of privileged students from working-class and peasant backgrounds began to emerge, the remainder of the student body confronted a choice between conformity and ostracism.

THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT On 23 March 1917 A.A. Manuilov, former rector of Moscow University and the new minister of education, met in Moscow with represen-

40 Builders and Deserters

tatives from vuzy to address some of the major problems facing higher education. Despite a mood of optimism, Russia’s higher schools faced severe material deprivation and a number of unresolved political issues. Among other things, the meeting addressed questions related to student rights, the possibility of resuming lectures, and democratization of professorial elections. Institutional autonomy proved to be the most con-

tentious topic of discussion. Manuilov and many of his colleagues argued that universities should return to the situation that had existed following the 1905 revolution, when they had been granted the right to appoint personnel. Widespread professorial support for autonomy re-

sulted in a number of dismissals of faculty members who had been hired after Kasso’s crackdown on universities in 1911.4 The newly appointed academic council at Petrograd University greeted the revolu-

tion with enthusiasm and promised continued support for the war effort. The council made it clear to the Ministry of Education (as it had done earlier) that the university required additional funding in order to

resume classes. Foreshadowing future conflicts over institutional pre- , rogatives, Rector E.D. Grimm made it known that he assumed that the university would be given more extensive powers to manage its own

academic and administrative affairs.5 |

The deteriorating political situation in the summer of 1917 made the reform of higher education even more difficult. The new State Education Commission opened up admissions and gave institutions more discretion in hiring teachers and formulating curricula.® But the real test facing the Provisional Government was to bring together groups with sharply differing opinions to form a functional academic community. The dividing lines between students, the professoriate, and the state remained clearly drawn. Participatory rights in institutional administra-

tion and curricular reform were among the most contentious issues. | The Ministry of Education hoped reforms would unite professors and students who wished to advance the general cause of education. Liberal professors took the lead in this process, but their relative inflexibility

and distrust of student activism did little to promote a bipartisan agenda. N.I. Kareev, a renowned historian who taught at Petrograd University, called for professorial leadership through a revival of the old Academic Union. Warning of the mass of competing political interests emerging after February 1917, Kareev challenged the professoriate to work towards a better higher-education system that would serve neither the “narrow class interests” of the past nor the radical political agendas expounded by student groups. Kareev and Petrograd University historian I.M. Grevs did not hesitate to express publicly their suspicion of radical student activists.”?7 Most professors tried to ignore both the political situation and the complaints of junior faculty members,

41 Revolution and Civil War

who demanded that the Ministry of Education provide a clearer delin-

eation of their workload and salaries. The subordinate position of privat-dotsenty made them a natural ally of students, although the latter never fully utilized this alliance to their own advantage.® Professors remained adamantly opposed to student participation in academic councils. Running somewhat counter to this sentiment, the

platforms of all political parties publicly favoured autonomy for student organizations and prominent officials promised that highereducation reform would involve student groups.? But platforms and promises did not reflect the reality. Concerned that radicals would turn academic council meetings into a form of political theatre, the vast majority of professors fought against student participation. The Moscow and Petrograd University rectors refused to discuss the issue of student voting rights, pointing out that new regulations passed by the Ministry of Education technically did not provide for this.'° The unwillingness of the government and professariate to allow students to participate in academic councils provided the latter with a rallying platform. However, deep ideological and political cleavages

within the studenchestvo made formulating a unified agenda for change highly problematic. On the eve of the March 1917 revolution, mass gatherings at Petrograd University staged in concert by liberal and socialist students suggested that factionalism was a thing of the past, but unity quickly broke down as the country descended into political crisis. Kadets and monarchists heckled Bolshevik students in the streets, calling them German agents.*? At meetings across the country, student groups representing all the major parties found themselves continually at odds with each other over politics and the war. Fractious student councils became bogged down in bickering over proce-

dural issues, the nomination of candidates, the role of mutual-aid societies, and the dispersal of funds. In most cases, student councils ar-

rived at a stalemate or suspended their activities. Political disunity continued during the June 1917 First Russian Students’ Congress in Petrograd, during which the Kadet faction eventually stormed out in protest against the majority socialist group, Student House.'3 The walkout typified student politics during the summer and fall of 1917. Divided along political and ethnic lines (the Jewish Bundist student movement claimed substantial support in some areas), leaders of various factions had trouble seeing the forest for the trees. According to a member of the Bundist movement, student leaders had succumbed to temptations of haute politique while ignoring the basic concerns of their followers." The dilemma facing students reflected the troubling paradigm of power, authority, and democratization confronting the weak and dis-

. 42 Builders and Deserters oriented Provisional Government. Without power and authority, the government had no chance to engineer a viable program of social reform. At the same time, previously disenfranchised voices began to assert themselves as alternative representatives of legitimate authority. The Provisional Government managed to open a dialogue with aca-

demic institutions, but without adequate funds and a coordinated agenda not much could be done. United against authorities who intended to block their bid for greater representation in academic affairs, students tried to harness the momentum of a democratic revolution. Politics and petty feuding got in the way, as they had during the 1905 and rg11 strikes. Indeed, the complex issues and rapid pace of events

days of confusion. |

stymied the emergence of any kind of coherent movement during these

STUDENTS AND REVOLUTION Responding to a survey conducted by the Petrograd Technological Institute in 1918, a student by name of E. Poliakov complained that his living conditions had made it all but impossible to study. “I have a wife and a child. We have nothing to eat, no heat in our room, and no hope for the immediate future.”15 Poliakov was not alone. The country was swept into another period of destruction and hardship after the Bolsheviks seized power. In the ensuing weeks Lenin declared an end to military hostilities, instituted a program of economic nationalization and land reform, and created the Red Army and Extraordinary Commission in Combatting Counter-Revolution and Sabotage (Cheka). The new state had to deal immediately with the advancing German army. After a series of negotiations and protracted debate within the Party, Soviet Russia concluded the humiliating treaty of Brest-Litovsk with

Germany in March 1918. Meanwhile, anti-Bolshevik White forces gathered strength in southern Russia, the Far East, and the Arctic region. During the course of the 1918-19 campaigns, the Red Army was pushed: back into a central region (known as Sovdepia) that roughly

| corresponded to the area held by the princes of Muscovy in the seventeenth century. But the tide turned later in the summer of 1919, and by the end of 1920 the Reds had expelled most of the opposition White

and anarchist forces from southern Russia and the Far East.1© The military struggle siphoned all available resources from the domestic front and aggravated an already serious economic crisis. Lenin wanted to create a centralized administrative and political apparatus from which to build a socialist society. He instituted a program known as “war communism” in an attempt to control production and distribution. Nationalization of banking and industry, currency reform, and

43 Revolution and Civil War

requisitions of grain from the peasantry constituted the most important measures of this program. Lenin encountered formidable opposition, however, and by the spring of 1919 he was forced to reassess his economic policies. The proliferation of people’s commissariats, as well as their affiliated agencies and subdepartments, bloated the state apparatus and devoured the resources of a system that was already overtaxed. The growth of the new bureaucracy exacerbated financial problems and the human misery it produced. Russia’s major cities were especially hard hit. The population of Petrograd, the capital until 1918, dropped by almost 50 per cent. Food was scarce, and crime and unemployment

rates soared. A report from the Commissariat of Internal Affairs in 1918 noted that arrests for crimes skyrocketed from 1,411 in June 1918 to 2,267 the following month; in June alone, there were thirtynine murders and thirty-three suicides.'7 Public health suffered as the military situation worsened. Citizens roamed the streets in search of food and fuel, not knowing if they were going to make it through the night.?®

Petrograd witnessed a prolonged battle over higher-education reform and attempts on the part of competing political groups within the studenchestvo to assert their agendas. The struggle to reform higher education was played out as part of the debate over culture and power in revolutionary Russia. Lenin faced a strong lobby of Party radicals who believed that only a total elimination of all vestiges of bourgeois culture could provide the nurturing environment for a socialist revolution. Attacking the idea that there was value in the pursuit of “pure science,” proponents of the new cultural militancy argued that culture (and science) must serve the interests of society. The Proletkul’t (Proletarian Culture) group visualized a new cultural hegemony that would cater to the needs of the working masses. The Proletkul’t established its own

clubs, institutions, and discussion forums as a way of cultivating a state-sanctioned proletarian culture. However, the limitations of this movement quickly became evident. In the realm of art, literature, and education, the Communist Party eventually accepted the Leninist position that to build socialism one must draw from the resources of existing cultures and traditions. *?

A similar tension between socialist idealism and political realities guided higher-education reform during the civil war. The leaders of academic institutions regarded their autonomy as a prerequisite for coop-

eration with the new government. Responsible officials at Petrograd University, the Technological Institute, and the Mining Institute (almost

all of whom had been Kadet supporters or were politically nonaligned) defined autonomy as the right to appoint faculty members and design curricula without state interference. Not surprisingly, most aca-

44 Builders and Deserters , demic councils in Petrograd dispatched hostile declarations following the Bolshevik revolution. In reaction to several decrees by A.V. Lunacharsky, the new commissar of education, that effectively put institutes of higher education under state control, the Petrograd University academic council published a decree on 26 November 1917 that rejected opening a dialogue with Narkompros and condemned the arrest of several of its faculty members. The council registered its continuing support for the war effort against Germany and defiantly declared that the forthcoming Constituent Assembly was the only legitimate executive body in Russia. Even a group of “leftist” professors in Petrograd, who supported the idea of closer ties between the academic community and the state (they helped establish the state-sponsored Scientific Society of Marxists in 1918), warned that nationalization must not deprive academic institutions of the right to design programs that they believed

best suited their needs.*° |

Exasperated Narkompros officials could not resolve the stalemate during meetings in 1918. Preliminary statutes of April 1918 gave local soviets (councils), as representatives of the government, the right to par-

ticipate in decisions of the academic council. Later in the year, Lunacharsky approved new laws that eliminated admissions requirements for students and compelled all faculty members to submit themselves every ten years to elections before a council of local trade-union, executive committee, and Narkompros representatives.*? The reforms established a basis for the nationalization of the higher-education system and the subordination of its executive organs to the state. In 1919 the Council of People’s Commissars (Sovnarkom) created the [Main] Committee on Professional Education (Glavprofobr) under Narkompros. Regional departments in Petrograd and elsewhere were established, beginning in the spring of 1920. In an effort to streamline the preparatory system and — bring in larger numbers of working-class recruits, Sovnarkom created workers’ faculties (rabfaki) in September 1919 under the jurisdiction of the Committee on Professional Education. Rabfaki had three-year pre-

paratory courses in the sciences, humanities, and social sciences. The professoriate’s negative reaction to the workers’ faculties epitomized the stalemate at this point between the state and the academic community.

With their patience all but exhausted, Narkompros officials pushed through a final set of statutes in September 1921. The new regulations stipulated that rectors and deans were to be nominated and approved by the state. Higher schools now came under the direct scrutiny of the state, but the boundaries of authority between state organs, administrators, and student councils remained nebulous. On paper a centrally controlled system existed, but there remained plenty of room for opponents

of the new governing structure to manoeuvre.” :

45 Revolution and Civil War

Amidst these ongoing battles, Narkompros turned its attention towards students. As part of its strategy to provide greater accessibility, Narkompros declared a policy of open admissions to institutes of higher education regardless of the candidate’s social or political background. The new admissions rules swelled enrolment in the RSFSR (Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic) to 169,982 by September

1918. Shortly thereafter, Narkompros closed down schools located near military fronts and approved several mergers of higher schools. By spring 1920 enrolment had declined to 116,947.73 Petrograd vuzy were especially hard hit because of their location and their ongoing battles

with Narkompros (enrolment dropped by 1o,o00 between 1916 and 1919). The number of students who actually attended classes was much lower. For example, at the Mining Institute only 75 of the 398 students enrolled made it to class. Several schools, including the Civil Engineer Institute, closed entirely.74 One anonymous observer put it succinctly: “All the talk about reforming higher education, on the opening of new [vuzy], on the changes in programs, etc., falls by the wayside if the element for which academic institutions are created is absent. One cannot hide the truth. All the Petrograd institutions of higher education are empty. According to professors, only ro percent of the students attend even the most popular lectures.”*5 In this impossible situation the graduating class in Petrograd had shrunk to less than 100 by 1920.

The student community emerging out of world war, revolution, and civil war stood at the edge of a great social, political, and generational divide. As the first wave of working-class and peasant youth flooded into classrooms in 1918-20, they clashed with senior students who held ambivalent or hostile attitudes towards the new regime. With the backing of the Communist Party, a small socialist vanguard set out to wrestle control of the student councils away from the “former people” (as pre-revolution student leaders were called). But students of all political persuasions held fast to ideas of self-government, collegiality, and the untrustworthiness of authority. Deprivation, made worse by the effects of hyperinflation, was a defining feature of student life during the civil war. According to an alumnus of Petrograd University, the standard diet consisted of 400 grams

of black bread and perhaps a serving of “extremely disgusting” Red Army ration soup (doled out at the local dining-hall). Rations were cut in half by the spring of 1919 as the military situation worsened. Students called this the “horsemeat period,” when the only meat available was indigestible equine flesh. Owing to the lack of fuel, resourceful persons used wooden planks or newspapers to fire small stoves in order

46 Builders and Deserters

to keep themselves warm. Things were not that much better for anyone lucky enough to receive stipendiary assistance. The average range of

stipendiary support in 1920 (from 1,350 rubles per month for junior students to 2,700 for seniors) was not adequate for subsistence needs. *° A survey of 195 first-year students at the Petrograd Technological In-

stitute in 1918 provides one of the few detailed snapshots of student life during the civil war, even though this sample was not entirely repre-

sentative of the studenchestvo along social lines (most of the respondents were under the age of nineteen and almost all were men). The survey included questions pertaining to personal background, living conditions, academic work, and political views. As E. Poliakov told us earlier, accommodation and health were overriding concerns. Sixty-five per cent said that, owing to their financial situation, they were forced to live with their family. Just about everyone who rented accommodation complained of cold, damp, and dark rooms. As for food, the subsistence diet took its toll on personal health. The typical student was forced to work part time in one or more capacities, making it difficult to manage studies. In short, the average student was worse off than be-

fore the revolution.*7 | The desperateness of the students’ material situation created some-

thing of a paradox. Camaraderie seemed to wane because everyone concentrated on the mundane task of survival. As an alumnus of Petrograd University noted, the clubs, informal gatherings, and exclusive societies that had added spice to daily life began to disappear in 1918.7° On the other hand, the difficult situation encouraged students to draw from the self-help tradition. Collectivism became an imperative for basic survival. R.I. Markova, a young communist who studied at Petro-

grad University during the civil war, described with nostalgia the convivial atmosphere that flourished at her dormitory: On the sixth floor of Mytnia, where I lived, students from different departments

and faculties were packed tightly together. Every morning each of us went downstairs for hot water. The samovar was down on the first floor, and there was always a lively crowd around it. It was a great spot for students to get together. There you could find out the latest news from the university, listen to news from one another, meet with friends, or just have a chat with anyone who

was around ... The samovar was like a club. Here you could even listen to someone from the Department of Literature reciting poetry or something else.?9

Running battles between Narkompros and student councils over the | control of finances made the students’ situation worse. Narkompros

| asserted its authority through the Committee for the Improvement of the Social Welfare of Students (KUBUCh). Created in 1919, the commit-

47 Revolution and Civil War

tee delegated all funds for kuBUCh to the treasury of each institution. This system was intended to enforce financial discipline on student council leaders, whom Narkompros often accused of spending recklessly. KUBUCh agencies at the local level assigned certain tasks (industrial and social) to students, supervised the building and maintenance of dormitories and dining-halls, ran medical-care facilities, and looked after funding needs.3° Students who refused to take on work assignments were denied financial assistance — a rule that proved highly con-

tentious. At the November 1918 Petrograd student conference, Railway Institute student Kheladze and other delegates agreed that the state was responsible for the welfare of students but said that in return students should be expected to give something back: “There must be

obligatory work in exchange for aid for students: i.e., the studenchestvo that makes use of state help should put itself in the hands of

the state during the summer months; furthermore, the studenchestvo should give part of its time during the academic year to production according to a plan worked out by special commissions.” Most of the delegates seemed to agree with Kheladze, or at least they believed that students should contribute something to society. But Petrograd University delegate Ianovskii (a Kadet supporter) and several others openly opposed this position. Ianovskii considered compulsory labour service a surreptitious means of financially crippling students who did not support Bolshevism. He believed that by acquiring knowledge one was ful-

filling the highest duty to society: “Those who think that the state should provide only for those who will work according to its political aims are incorrect. Work on scientific activities is the highest form of service to the people.” Even the supporters of Narkompros remained suspicious of any attempt on the state’s part to dictate how student councils should spend their funds. In the end, delegates only managed to establish a commission that would look further into ways of providing adequate financial assistance for needy students.3' These disagreements demonstrate the fundamentally different viewpoints among the studenchestvo on its role and purpose. The Bolshevik agenda for higher education specified the creation of a socialist student corporation, subordinate to the state. On 22 November 1917 Lunacharsky spoke to a gathering at the Smolnyi Institute in Petrograd. The Bolshevik revolution, he said, was a triumph for socialism and democracy. Students would reap the benefits of free access to higher education, but only if they worked with the new state.3* Although Lunacharsky favoured a policy of persuasion, he eventually found this agenda overtaken by a political strategy based on military recruitment, intimidation of student councils, and persecution.

48 Builders and Deserters

Most students met the Bolshevik revolution with the same degree of hostility and suspicion exhibited by the intelligentsia. At meetings in Russia’s major cities, Kadet and sr students insisted that the Constituent Assembly be preserved as a precondition for cooperation with the Bolsheviks. When several members of the assembly were arrested in December 1917, the Kadet-dominated Petrograd University student council published a declaration expressing its general solidarity with the apprehended delegates. Anti-Bolshevik activities occurred throughout 1917-18. One gruesome incident, involving the murder of six anarchist students by the police, resulted in a mass demonstration in April 1918.93

Communist students in Petrograd launched their activities on 25 No-

vember 1917 under the auspices of the Petrograd Committee of the Bolshevik Party. Several of the original seventy were members of the Bolshevik Party. Apart from carrying out duties on campus, they engaged in district committee and agitation work.34 In a November 1917 speech opening the second general meeting of the organization, chair-

man and university student N.A. Bukhbinder admitted that the vast majority of his peers were either apolitical or hostile towards the regime. Communist students, he said, faced the urgent tasks of mobiliz-

ing “apolitical” masses into collective and constructive work for socialism while at the same time weeding out “hostile elements.”35 The fact that “white-collar” students remained in the majority made the official task of political mobilization all the more urgent.3° The Petrograd Committee declared in January 1918 that its goal was to work for a society based on new social and political foundations. As Bukhbinder later noted, students in past years had succumbed to career-oriented

temptations. “The typical student from that time [was] a careerist, dreaming only of a diploma, an attestation, and a nice cushy job; others operated as speculators, strikebreakers, and police informers, and still others were well-known frequenters of cafés, avoiding professors and lectures; a third type — and there were quite a few of them — were their own persons ‘in secret’ [tsarist agents].”37 The Petrograd Committee published pamphlets and promoted its activities through lectures on “The Studenchestvo and Socialism,” “The Intelligentsia and the Socialist Revolution,” and other themes. By January 1918 the organi-

zation had recruited 200 members. However, as a former activist admitted in his memoirs, most were not ardent Bolshevik supporters and they spent a great deal of time disrupting meetings or criticizing the government.3° Merle Fainsod gave us one of the first glimpses into the chaos that reigned as local Party organizations attempted to strengthen their apparatus and deal with pressing matters.3? Creating an effective chain of

49 Revolution and Civil War

command between the centre and the periphery was all but impossible in this environment. Documentation in the Party archives related to the development of student organizations confirms this picture. The Communist Party had only modest successes in penetrating academic insti-

tutions during the civil war. A few Party organizations appeared in major institutes of higher education in 1918-19, but most did not begin their activities until 1921-23. Cells in student organizations, facul-

ties, and employee associations took on the task of coordinating propaganda campaigns and political activities. District committees (raikom) initially directed the Party cells of individual faculties, and municipal bureaus of student councils supervised the cell work of students. To plan its strategy, the Central Committee in 1918 appointed special committees in Petrograd and in other centres to study the development of local Party cells.4° The paucity of communist supporters and the absence of political direction hampered the effort to penetrate Petrograd higher schools. In the summer of 1918 the Petrograd Polytechnical Institute became one of the first vuzy to have a Communist Party organization. Elsewhere in Petrograd there was very little activity. The Medical and Civil Engineer

institutes did not enrol a single Party member until 1919, and at the Mining and Technological institutes there were only a few activists. At Petrograd University, the Party organization started its work in October 1918. Sofia Lappo, the first head (organizer) of the group, established links with the district committee. Later that year the Red Army called half of the nineteen-member group, including Lappo, to active duty at the front. As a result of several fatalities and transfers, the organization had shrunk to a total of five members by January 1920.47 Communist activists found themselves shouldering an impossible academic and political workload. For example, K.I. Kochergin, who was head of the Petrograd University Party organization in 1921-22 and had also served in the Don Rifle Corps, was concurrently the chairman of the student fraction at the Mytnia dormitory and student representative for the Vasilevsky district committee in the Petrograd Soviet. A. Ioselevich, a

student at Petrograd University, also had a very busy extracurricular schedule, having joined the secret police in 1918 and later been appointed

head of the Petrograd Cheka. The mass exodus of students to the front and the tremendous demands made on the individuals who stayed behind led to very little being accomplished. Communist supporters remained in the minority in most student councils, with the result that meetings dealing with the structure of student organizations, membership nomination, and military service continued to produce stalemates. Despite their repeated calls for the dismissal of current administrators, Party activists did not have a major impact during this period.4*

50 Builders and Deserters 3 The Communist Youth League (Komsomol) also failed to make a significant impact. The Komsomol emerged in 1918 as a working-class youth organization but it had trouble gaining support among students. It had a number of problems, the most serious being internal disunity over the issue of membership standards. Rivalry with local Party organizations further complicated matters. Although student groups eventually came into the Komsomol fold, there was concern that an influx of non-proletarian youth would dilute the working-class composition of the organization.*43 The first independent Komsomol organization, established at Petrograd University in February 1921, had a grand total

of three members. Feuding between local Party organizations and Komsomol organizations, with the latter claiming they were being shut out of the political process, further weakened Komsomol authority.“4

The Bolsheviks believed they could resolve the problems of organizational autonomy and financial support by eliminating independent student councils. For most students this represented the ultimate betrayal, but there was little they could do about it. A vaguely worded clause that granted student organizations a form of self-government was contained within the November 1918 declaration that democratized access to higher education. Student councils elected an elder to their university’s academic council who had the authority to participate in admin-

istrative meetings, manage funds, and address problems involving admissions. While student leaders interpreted this decree as a first step towards self-government, Narkompros was worried about the poten-

tial problems entailed in this arrangement. As early as June 1918 Narkompros began to backtrack on the issue of student representation

, in academic councils and sided with the professors, who complained that argumentative students paralysed council business. This discrepancy in the interpretation of participatory rights made reaching a middle ground difficult, particularly because student activists continued to demand an end to outside interference. The 1919 charter for the Petrograd University student council (in which Kadets dominated) declared that its duties were, among other things, to advise administrators on academic matters.45 The Bolshevikdominated student council at the Technological Institute offered a different perspective. Council representative Ilya Bychkov complained in January 1919 that students were powerless because funding was in the hands of commissariats and other agencies that tended to ignore their needs. Proposed statutes for the institute’s student council, formulated in January 1919, revealed a desire on the part of the formulators to tap the best traditions of student democracy and self-government. The council would put all policy matters to a general membership vote and

5x Revolution and Civil War

resolutions would be referred to the executive council of representatives. However, the creation of the government committee to aid students and the transfer of the management of funds from the student elder to the institute’s chancellery restricted the powers of the student council. Menshevik activist Sergei Zhaba, chairman of the Petrograd Central Student Committee (created in April 1919) and chief representative for the university, viewed the new state policies, coupled with the mass recruitment of non-communist students for military service later in 1919, as the beginning of the end for student democracy. Some of his Bolshevik counterparts must have felt the same way, but for different reasons.*°

The Petrograd Central Student Committee made a brief effort to bring non-communist elements into the fold, but the committee proved

to be too independent-minded for its own good. Constant quarrels over funding and the restriction of the powers of student council representatives were symptomatic of the problems inherent in sustaining a semi-autonomous student organization under the Party. Pressured by Communist Party student fractions, in July 1919 Narkompros reversed its decision taken eight months earlier to delegate financial responsibility to student elders. Instead, it transferred funding matters to committees on social provisioning attached to each academic institution.4” The public dialogue with student councils continued into 1920, but during

this period there seemed little hope that the students’ organizational autonomy could be preserved. Speaking to a general conference of Petrograd students in June 1920, Grigory Zinoviev criticized his predominately non-communist audience for failing to understand the difference between the “political revolution” already achieved and the “social revolution” still to be realized. The Petrograd Party leader

warned that student organizations would “not be tolerated by the working class” if they failed to support communism. Zinoviev offered the delegates a final chance, saying that it was “better late than never” for students to declare their loyalty to the state. He proceeded to criticize Zhaba, accusing him of being a monarchist and of attempting to subvert the “mood of reconciliation” among his peers. Warning that disunity threatened the survival of Soviet Russia, Zinoviev concluded: “You will laugh at today’s vacillation (whether or not we should cooperate), and you will acknowledge with pride that, if we had doubted ourselves, capitalism would have torn us to shreds.” Despite Zinoviev’s attempt to rouse his audience, only three Bolshevik supporters were elected to the student committee of twenty-five.4® While all this was going on, brute force was being used against independent student groups. The military recruited large numbers of stu-

dents from non-labouring backgrounds in order to make room for

52 Builders and Deserters

working-class youth. The Petrograd Technological and Polytechnical Institutes, both with a high proportion of students from non-labouring backgrounds, were specific targets.49 Early in 1921, amidst calls by Lu-

nacharsky and others for reconciliation between the state and opposition-minded students, the Cheka announced the discovery of several counter-revolutionary plots. One of the groups exposed was the socalled Petrograd Military Organization; its members — professors and other intellectuals - were accused of planning a coup. After the arrest and execution of several professors (including Petrograd University rec-

tor candidate N.I. Lazarevskii),5° student organizations too felt the heavy hand of the Cheka. By September 1920 several activists in the Petrograd Committee had been expelled. In August 1921 the committee disbanded, and in November 1921 elections were held to staff a new council with Bolshevik supporters. According to an anonymous correspondent, “X,” the Cheka arrested and incarcerated 362 students who had protested these measures. At Petrograd University a number of students had criticized the voting process during the November elections,

and their subsequent protests resulted in several expulsions. Events reached a climax in February 1922, when dozens were rounded up following attempts to block resolutions of communist student councils at the university, the Petrograd Railway Institute, and other institutions.5? What impact did the destruction of independent student organizations have on the political attitudes of students? Perhaps this can best be summarized by a former activist who was well acquainted with opposition groups in Petrograd. According to him, there were a few leftists and a few reactionaries, but “between them swayed, more or less, an inert mass.” Right-wing students rarely participated in academic or social affairs, whereas their leftist counterparts tended to be more active. Most non-aligned students preferred to concentrate on their education. When they protested, it was usually with reference to academic issues. Of course, academic-related grievances may have seemed like anti-Soviet activities in the eyes of authorities.5*

Students struggling to find a niche within the new state grappled with their misgivings about the socialist revolution. It was a dilemma faced by all groups during the civil war. Fellow travellers who supported Lenin’s blueprint for revolution quickly became disillusioned as

repression removed public venues for a dialogue with the state. The hostility expressed by Proletkul’tists towards any form of cultural compromise deepened the sense of alienation among the intellectual élite. As Kendall Bailes noted in his examination of natural scientists, many found it expedient to accept Lenin’s pragmatic policy of using their services for the socialist cause. Beyond that, however, the scientific community displayed little affinity for the Bolsheviks.53 There were similar

53 Revolution and Civil War

misgivings within the broad political spectrum that encompassed the studenchestvo. For radical students opposed to the Bolsheviks, anomie was based to a large extent on the perception that promises for a better society had been betrayed. The memoirs of T.I. Til’, a former leader of the student underground who wrote extensively about his experiences, shed light on the mentality of the Social Democratic and Menshevik student activists. Til’ suggested that they were driven by the romantic notion of belonging to an illegal organization and by the expectation that they would take a leading role in social reform. Rebels such as Andrei Kranikhfel’d, leader of the Moscow Social Democratic organization, devoted many hours to theoretical and philosophical argument and to the wording of declarations. Others were attracted to underground movements because of a particular attitude. Georgii Dmitriev was one such student. Til’ quoted some of Dmitriev’s reminiscences: “He would frequently say in a dreamy tone, ‘It was a hungry time and I often remember [thinking], glancing at the ceiling in a melancholy

manner, how wonderful it would be to eat a [couple of pounds] of meat.’ Like so many others, after years of wandering from prison to prison, he died in exile in the camps after 1937.”54

Alongside opposition-minded students, another casualty of the Bolshevik revolution was the large group of displaced youth from non-labouring backgrounds who faced social ostracism and discrimination in the classroom. Having this awkward status, they tended to adopt a cynical attitude towards the Soviet higher-education system. Financial difficulties forced some of them to drop out, while political persecution discouraged others. Those who remained learned that adaptation was the key to survival, as adherence to official rules and regulations became a necessary part of getting through the program. According to Nikolai Poppe, a former philosophy student who later became a professor, many of his peers would criticize non-Marxist professors in public but in private would work under them eagerly as protégés. Maintaining a profile of activism was often a necessary con-

dition for continuing to study. Former students recalled that they were forced to sign up for political and social work (agitation brigades, political discussion groups, and so on) but rarely participated in these activities. Ayn Rand, then a young student at Petrograd University, quickly recognized that official acceptance of public duties was a prerequisite for staying in school.55

The new generation of students, which was more favourably disposed (or at least not overtly hostile) towards Soviet socialism, had different expectations. The Communist Party expected these students to

carry the banner of socialism into their professional life, but as the framework for the instruction of young specialists and the incentives

54 Builders and Deserters

designed to integrate them into the new system had not yet become firmly established, most students remained ambivalent. The available evidence suggests that many had fairly high expectations for their future under socialism, but not all were convinced that the present gov-

ernment offered the solution to Russia’s ills. The Petrograd Technological Institute survey in 1918 provides an interesting crosssection of opinions related to these questions, although it is impossible to know whether the respondents were being completely honest in their answers (the questionnaire included a guarantee of anonymity). One of the questions was, “What is your principal attitude towards Soviet power?” Students had a choice of two responses: “favourable” (polozhitel’noe) and “negative” (otritsatel’no). Sixty-one per cent gave a pos-

itive answer, and only 5 per cent said they harboured a negative attitude. The remaining 34 per cent pencilled in their own responses: 60 per cent of these (22 per cent of all respondents) said “either way” or “all the same,” and the remainder (12 per cent of the total) failed to give an answer. Several of the individuals who had a favourable impression of Soviet power felt compelled to add qualifying statements such as “in general” or “either way — anything that will allow me to work.” Only two of the nine students who held an openly negative view of the government dared to add their own remarks. One may have echoed the

private feelings of others when he wrote: “Afraid to speak out.” The supplementary comments of one ambivalent student perhaps typified the attitude of those in the final category: “I am entirely uninterested in questions of politics and socialism.”

Judging from the results of the survey, it seems that a significant number of students were willing to serve in a professional capacity under the new state if they were given hope for the future, but many felt uncertain about their future employment. Public work and scientific or professional occupations were the most popular career choices. When questioned about how they could contribute time and energy towards the cultural and educational advancement of society, the vast majority did not respond. Among those who did, two typical answers were, “To conduct lectures and literary work among the people” and “To make use of our knowledge for the benefit of the people.” More indicative of

| political apathy was the fact that only 10 per cent gave an affirmative answer to the question, “Do you currently take part in political life?”5° This looming spectre of apathy became a dominant theme in the anxious dialogue between the state and the studenchestvo in the 1920s. Politics had an ambiguous impact on the attitudes of students who joined the Party and Komsomol. Eager young activists betrayed their immaturity by engaging in bombastic diatribes against professors and

faculty members or by getting involved in tendentious discussions

55 Revolution and Civil War

about Party democracy and strategies for replacing anti-Bolshevik teachers and administrators. Deans found themselves petitioning Narkompros at regular intervals, complaining that self-styled student “administrators” were walking into council meetings and telling professors how to run their institution. By the end of the civil war, commu-

nist youth began to exhibit a change in attitude towards political activism. District and regional Party organizations noted poor discipline, political inactivity, “passivity,” and low attendance at meetings. Students recognized that “rehearsed” (planned, formulaic) behaviour in Party cells (a tendency later to be labelled “careerism”) was essential for political survival and self-promotion. It should be noted that during the civil war quite a few students engaged in academic life with enthusiasm. Despite hardship, they became keen learners and were grateful for the privilege to attend classes. Some pupils were lucky enough to attend lectures by famous historians such as E.V. Tarle; such mentors provided inspiration for future studies.57

However, the Technological Institute survey suggests that the state faced formidable obstacles in its attempt to transform a heterogeneous mass of activist-minded, ambivalent, and apathetic youth into a cohesive socialist student movement. The process required weeding out “hostile” students through a combination of instructional and punitive measures, but to be effective it also demanded that the state do more to improve students’ living conditions.

CHANGES IN THE CLASSROOM During the civil war Narkompros attempted to construct an unbroken educational ladder, linking labour with knowledge through a system of preparatory, secondary, and specialist schools. The task of curricular reform became part of an ongoing political battle between the advocates of polytechnical instruction on the one hand and general instruction on the other. The Communist Party’s abrupt intervention in 1928, - granting a victory to the polytechnists, resolved this struggle. The polytechnists called for almost exclusive emphasis on the sciences, mathematics, and industrial training but the professoriate remained divided over curricular reform. A small group of professors called for the infusion of Marxist-oriented subjects and pedagogical methods, but the majority demanded a system based on generalist instruction within a free academic environment. Narkompros, placing itself somewhere between these two camps, at-

tempted to satisfy political demands while adopting an aggressive approach towards the professoriate. The leftist bloc, the chief represen-

tative of which was Glavprofobr chairman E.A. Preobrazhensky,

| 56 Builders and Deserters wanted to “militarize” the studenchestvo through rapid training programs in heavy industry and engineering. Preobrazhensky believed that universities and other institutes of higher education had to satisfy immediate economic and political demands and not their own narrow scientific and academic interests.5* The State Academic Council (Gus) was created in March 1919 to standardize curricular programs and to act as a central regulatory agency in this area. After initial discussions with institutional representatives, the GUS proposed a scheme for the “ration-

alization” of higher education and the institution of a number of structural reforms to faculties. Forced mergers of several smaller vuzy into larger ones in the same year were intended to eliminate duplication and cut down on potential arenas for resistance. In Petrograd the most notable result of this policy was the consolidation of the three universities, including medical and economic disciplines, into a single institution. Mergers aroused a great deal of opposition among professors, who interpreted the changes as a direct attack on institutional autonomy, but the financial situation made it impossible for institutions with duplicate programs to coexist. Academic disciplines came under greater scrutiny. The main goals of Narkompros — more practical training and the development of politically oriented disciplines — were outlined early in 1919, along with proposals for a new faculty structure designed to replace “bourgeois” disciplines and introduce Marxist approaches towards teaching and scholarship. Narkompros notified Petrograd University of the elimina-

tion of the “antiquated” Law Faculty and the transfer of the departments of Political Economy, Finances, and History and Philology to the new Faculty of Social Sciences (FON). The university’s professoriate was almost unanimously opposed to the new faculty. They feared los-

ing their jobs and the creation of what they deemed to be an illogical realignment of requirements in the social sciences and humanities. The student council believed that the new system discriminated against se-

niors who had almost completed their education and that juniors would be forced to take extra courses halfway through their degree program. Some of the more outspoken professors, such as historian N. Kareev, surmised that the new faculty put far too much emphasis on Marxist methodology and teleological conceptions of history.5? But the reforms went ahead anyway. The Faculty of Social Sciences was es-

tablished in the summer of 1919 in universities all across Russia. At Petrograd University, the FON replaced three of the four existing faculties (History and Philology, Eastern Languages, and Law). The other faculty, Physico-Mathematics, united the disciplines of mathematics with the pure and applied sciences. Under the new system, Social Sci-

ences became the largest faculty. In 1921 the faculty was reformed

57. Revolution and Civil War

once again, leaving it with three departments: Law, Economics, and Socio-Pedagogy.°°

Whereas most professors vehemently opposed attempts to reform

their chosen courses, student representatives on the academic council | (the majority of whom by 1921 were either Party members or sympathizers) tended to favour the measures, believing that they would result

in necessary changes to an outdated system. According to the new structure, students took general instruction for their first two years and then specialized for their final two years of study. Narkompros emphasized the importance of the social sciences for students not specializing in this area, because it introduced the basics of Marxism and dialectical materialism. In fact, it was the proposal to include new “socialist” disciplines that generated the most controversy. Following the arrest and deportation of professors and the disbanding of anti-Bolshevik student organizations in the spring of 1922, Sovnarkom introduced new compulsory “political minimums.” Courses on “Capitalism and the Proletarian Revolution,” “The Political Structure and the Socialist Tasks of the RSFSR,” and similar subjects became compulsory.**

The dire economic situation created an obvious need for technical specialists. In May 1920 all higher technical schools (vtuzy) were instructed to condense their programs and open up admissions in order to graduate students at a faster rate. This mandate included the enrolment of 1,245 students in special fast-track programs at the Mining, Technological, and Polytechnical institutes.°* The new system of higher technical schools was designed to produce specialists in areas such as engineering, metallurgy, and applied chemistry. Instead of the four-year

program specified for universities, most of the technical institutions adopted, for the time being, a three-year course of study consisting of a balance between lecture and laboratory training, with summer practicums and an honours project in the final year. These institutions, how-

ever, suffered from the same problems and high drop-out rates afflicting other branches of higher education.®°

| Pedagogical and medical education also underwent substantial changes. In November 1918 the Third Pedagogical Institute in Petrograd

(later known as the Herzen Pedagogical Institute, the largest in the Soviet Union) opened its doors. The Humanities, Physico-Mathematics, and Natural Sciences-Geography faculties offered broad training to aspiring teachers. Academic disciplines were divided into general and specialist “cycles,” with junior students taking subjects in the sciences and humanities.°+ Petrograd’s medical schools - the First Medical Institute, the Military-Medical Academy, and the Psycho-Neurological Institute —

were very active during the civil war. Hundreds of students took on medical duties at the front and behind the lines in army clinics. Many

58 Builders and Deserters

received two-week crash courses in sanitary disinfection in order to aid front-line and civilian casualties.°5 The basic plan for medical education was to combine lectures in general fields with laboratory work, but the dearth of facilities and the financial crisis brought enrolment numbers down by 1919/20. Less than 300 medical students graduated during the civil war.°° By September 1920, when most of the curricular and structural reforms

had been put into place, the higher-education system had become more clearly delineated along disciplinary lines. There were seven categories of

vuzy under the control of Narkompros: general instruction (socialeconomic), pedagogical, fine arts, medical, agricultural, economic, and technical. Universities and general instruction institutions continued to dominate enrolment. Of the forty-five institutes of higher education in Petrograd in the fall of 1920, the five largest — behind the university — were the Medical, Polytechnical, Pedagogical, and (two) Technological institutes. There were glaring gender imbalances in some areas: in socialeconomic vuzy, 54.9 per cent of the students were female; in pedagogical schools, women accounted for 79.5 per cent of the students; in higher technical schools, only 7.1 per cent were women.°7 Increasing the proportion of students enrolled in higher technical education and the number of women in fields such as engineering, agronomy, and the applied sciences became priorities for Narkompros following the end of the civil war.

Along with instituting curricular changes, Narkompros attempted to deal with the issue of how students were to acquire knowledge. The Bolshevik revolution ushered in new ideas about state-building and

the need to bridge the gap between city and countryside. A union (smychka) between workers and peasants became the basis for the idea that hands-on acquaintance with the rudimentary processes of production and social organization would create an educated population with a social conscience. Pedagogue V. Aleksandrov and others argued that the old university system encouraged a passive absorption of knowledge —- a process that hindered the development of applicable skills and practical knowledge. Established techniques of laboratory training and lectures, Aleksandrov wrote in 1919, gave students little _ of the practical knowledge they needed to cope with real-life demands. Rather than the mindless repetition and “scholasticism” inherent in old methods, Aleksandrov promoted a new system of instruction — incorporating hands-on experience, excursions, and individual projects —as a way of giving students “illustrations of real life.” This combinative approach of theoretical and practical training became the basis for

apprenticeship work in the 1920s.°° |

Implementing the system proved an entirely different matter. Despite their precarious political situation, professors hostile to the Bolsheviza-

59 Revolution and Civil War

tion of higher education could declare a partial victory in the war that played out in the classroom. By 1922 many prominent intellectuals had been arrested or exiled, and those who remained were forced to deal with the regime on its own terms. Nevertheless, in addition to resisting or ignoring revolutionary proclamations concerning academic training as best they could, professors used financial and logistical problems to their advantage. The opening up of admissions produced a growing mass of unqualified, even illiterate, students who held others back. A significant majority of students bypassed the secondary school system (the subject of fierce criticism) after Narkompros decided in 1918 to abolish entrance examinations and eliminate the requirement that each candidate submit a certificate attesting to completion of a secondary school degree. The regulations created an artificial levelling of candidates and brought in a new cohort whom professors believed were wholly unqualified for advanced studies. Their displeasure translated into sustained pressure on Narkompros to reintroduce entrance examinations for all students. Sociologist Pitrim Sorokin noted that the “zero students” (communists, mostly from a working-class background, who had managed to enrol only because of the new regulations) were so poorly prepared that any effort to teach them was fruitless. V. Stratonoy, who taught at Moscow University, echoed this complaint. Communist students, he wrote, “gushed into Moscow,” expecting to be admitted just because of their status. Stratonov and many of his colleagues simply refused to teach them, partly because the majority had no grasp whatsoever of the fundamentals of the social sciences, but also because the professors wanted to make the political statement that socialism could not produce higher academic standards merely by decree.°?

The quality of students was not the only factor responsible for unimpressive academic achievements during the civil war. As student councils noted time and again, the ongoing financial crisis and the shortage

of textbooks made it difficult for newcomers to receive qualitative training. Furthermore, students complained that very little time was de-

voted to their practical training: anyone enrolled in technical disci- | plines had to receive practical training in order to qualify for work as an engineer or foreman. Given the chaos at the time, it was not surprising that little effort was expended in improving the situation.”° Perhaps the most effective strategy employed by the professoriate was simply to ignore official decrees and carry on as usual. Memoirs from this period attest that professors sincerely believed that few, if any,

of the changes would last. Philosophy professor N.O. Losskii conducted a course on materialism, but he blatantly disregarded its guidelines and taught it from an anti-materialist perspective. N.S. Timashey,

60 Builders and Deserters

a sociologist at the Polytechnical Institute, openly criticized Marxist interpretations of law.7* At the same time, there was a great deal of resistance against attempts to change the hierarchical relationship between

students and professors. Students seemed to have an alternating respectful-fearful attitude towards their professors. Almedingen, being of non-labouring background, re-enrolled in medieval history studies at Petrograd University in 1919 after a three-year absence and was forced to take some difficult entrance tests. She recalled discussing with other students a Professor Dobiash, who had a reputation for toughness: “Once or twice, when calling at the college library, I heard someone mention Dr Dobiash. ‘Thorough, isn’t she? And what a teacher!’ ‘Yes,’ replied someone else, ‘but doesn’t she just grill you?’ [With that] my heart sank below all conceivable depths.”7? S.E. Frish and D.P. Konchalovskii described a similar environment, with professors haughtily dis-

missing students they deemed unworthy and becoming particularly annoyed if upstarts attempted to challenge their intellectual authority.73 Even if it could be said that the professoriate’s strategy of ignoring political events was no more than partially effective (the events of 192122 confirm this), the new generation of students was even less success-

ful in its attempts to overturn the hierarchical relationship in the class- __

room. Concerned about the disruptions caused by these ongoing battles, Narkompros and even the Communist Party had weighed in and concluded that before any kind of fundamental transformation could take place, the classroom would have to be put in order. Indeed, the problem of reining in over-eager students became a dominant theme © in relations between students and the state over the ensuing decade.

The civil war ended with a bloated Party and state apparatus, a ruined economy, the countryside in revolt, and a violent uprising by Kronstadt

sailors against the state. The intelligentsia, a victim of the political wrath of the Bolsheviks and of the physical and emotional devastation of the civil war, emerged as a shrivelled and dyspeptic remnant of its earlier form. The revolutionary political, economic, and cultural policies envisioned by Lenin had undergone drastic modification owing to

the immediate demands of maintaining power. Beyond that, power gradually became an end in itself for the growing mass of competing groups and political figures at all levels of the apparatus. The blueprint for a dictatorship of the proletariat was never realized. Instead, the foundations for a bureaucratized state had been established, although the major economic and cultural initiatives remained subject to a number of factors related to the growing rivalry within the Party leadership. The transformation of higher education during the civil war materialized within this paradigm of massive structural changes exacerbated

61 Revolution and Civil War

by burdensome social and economic realities. A centrally managed sys-

tem of higher schools, with the student body altered by a series of changing admissions policies, took the place of the old system but had yet to become firmly rooted. The Communist Party had minimal success creating a political and academic environment reflecting a Bolshevik vision of the future. As a new wave of proletarian recruits flooded the classrooms in 1918, it quickly became evident that higher schools were unable to accommodate them. The Party managed to dismantle

autonomous student councils and other opposition organizations; however, the more difficult task of recasting the studenchestvo within a new “socialist community” had yet to be completed. Student leaders remained independent-minded, suspicious of state authority, and extremely defensive when it came to defending their academic and institutional prerogatives. And from the perspective of the Party leadership in the 1920s, students remained politically apathetic. These issues were addressed repeatedly during the years of the New Economic Policy and the first five-year plan, with vastly different solutions offered as the political environment underwent a further series of drastic changes.

CHAPTER THREE

Shaping the Community

By 1929, when the New Economic Policy had been abandoned in favour of the maniacally ambitious first five-year plan, it was clear that many of the promises offered by the revolution had not been fulfilled. Poor living standards, unstructured academic programs, bureaucracy, and the mere facade of a socialist community had left many students cynical and embittered. Looking back, a student by the name of Donskoi, a resident of the Leningrad Agricultural Institute’s main dormitory, felt that the state had failed on many fronts. His remarks

at a general discussion convened on the problems of everyday life (byt) resonated among students throughout the 1920s. Although access to higher education had been improved, the living situation remained unsatisfactory and officials continued to ignore students’ requests. Worse still, there remained little sense of community. “We don’t only lack friendship but also simple comradeliness ... People live for three or four years in the same room but hardly ever get to know each another. Rarely do they use the first name and patronymic of a comrade.” Others chimed in, noting that senior students rarely helped newcomers and that the reading material they were forced to work with was terribly unsatisfactory.’ These complaints were symptomatic of the widespread problems in

the formative period for Soviet higher education. In the spring and summer of 1921, students demobilized from military service gradually , filtered back into Petrograd to resume their academic training. Joining others who had struggled through three years of hardship, the young war veterans aspired to be part of an emerging socialist student community in higher education. However, the higher-education institutions much like the state institutions, faced many problems as they desperately tried to adjust to endless structural realignments and contradic-

tory decrees. The struggle for the Party leadership during the NEP

63 Shaping the Community

years, a growing Party-state apparatus, and the forging of political em-

pires at the regional and local levels all complicated this struggle. Lenin’s premise — that society could be transformed only through modernization and education — was applied to students on the assumption

that they were going to be among the leaders of a new society. The Communist Party tried to create a homogenized community, forged from civic instruction (vospitanie) and policies regulating the social composition of the studenchestvo and the new learning environment. Coercion, moral suasion, and the eventual abandonment in the 1930s of the principle of “social-levelling” in favour of a meritocratic system granting incentives to recognized achievers marked the course of this grand social-engineering project. In this chapter I will examine the structural transformation of the higher-education system and the social and cultural beacons defining the new community from 1921 to 1941. The ideas of community and community-mindedness (obshchestvennost’) were consecrated through

iconographical, discursive, and instructional strategies within the changing spectrum of social and political relations in the Soviet Union. Having little opportunity to develop during the civil war, the ambitious strategy for social engineering began to mature in the 1920s, but even

in the 1930s, the contrast between proclamations and social realities made a “model” community seem an illusive goal indeed. As Donskoi noted, things were so tense and frantic that the lofty goal of socialism usually took a backseat to more pressing concerns.

THE NEP AND THE TRANSITIONAL COMMUNITY Following the defeat of the White forces in the spring of 1921, Lenin launched his New Economic Policy by ending grain requisitions and eliminating some of the restrictions on private trading and manufacturing. At the Tenth Party Congress in March 1921, Lenin made the case that a disciplined retreat from war communism was necessary in order to resuscitate a devastated economy that did not have enough trained specialists. Congested urban centres and a stagnant rural economy informed the fledgling state that without modernization, technology, and professional training, the socialist revolution would stall in its tracks.” The task confronting Narkompros was to develop a coherent system of professional training that fulfilled economic demands. But as Larry Holmes has written with reference to secondary education, Narkompros’s propensity to continually redefine academic goals in the face of criticism or political pressure undermined its own strategies.3 Similar

problems governed higher education as Narkompros and its rivals

64 Builders and Deserters

struggled to devise the new training system. The task was further com-

plicated by differences between the politically oriented goals of the Komsomol and the practical economic concerns of the Supreme Eco-

nomic Council (vsNxkh).4 The civil war ended with Narkompros gaining greater control over

the administration of higher education but facing significant institutional opposition. At the Eleventh Party Congress in March 1922, the Central Committee declared that the primary duty for Narkompros was to “transform schools from a weapon of bourgeois class domination into a weapon for the total destruction of class divisions within so-

ciety.” Lunacharsky proposed that access to institutes of higher education be expanded and that the curricula be drastically reformed in

order to meet the demand for a closer link between theory and practice.5 Such high-minded principles faced formidable obstacles, as finan- ,

cial problems and political conflicts intermittently threw highereducation policy off course. As early as August 1922, a budgetary defi-

cit forced Narkompros to close or merge eighty vuzy and seventy workers’ faculties, reducing overall student enrolment in the RSFSR by more than 30 per cent.°® The desperate financial situation was exacerbated by “institutionalized localism” (the practice of pursuing local interests and resisting central di-

rectives), and internal Party struggles politicized these conflicts.” In the

sphere of higher education, drawn-out conflicts between Narkompros | and its persistent critics — the Komsomol, trade unions, and the Supreme Economic Council — made it all but impossible to work out coherent policies. Disagreements over ideological affiliation, political power, and edu-

cational theory extended to the recruitment and political training of students, seriously hampering professional education. The most strident critics of Narkompros demanded a proletarianization of the classroom

and the expulsion of “bourgeois specialists” from higher-education schools. Narkompros, after 1921, tried to accommodate the proletarian agenda by promoting the development of workers’ faculties. Critics of the rabfaki (senior professors, foremost among them, became convenient political targets because of their remarks) correctly pointed out that unqualified, fast-track working-class graduates placed a tremendous burden on the higher-education system. Nevertheless, workers’ faculties assumed an important place in the new professional training strategy over the next

decade.®

The Soviet higher-education system expanded considerably during the NEP period, although not without growing pains. Enrolment increased threefold, while the number of institutions decreased. Leningrad vuzy experienced difficulties similar to higher schools in other cities. An inordinately large number of smaller institutions — formed as

65 Shaping the Community

a result of the splintering of disciplines during the civil war — struggled

for financial and academic survival. In December 1921 there were twenty-six vuzy in Petrograd, enrolling more than 45,000 students. Many of the smaller ones, such as the Institute of Firefighting Engineers (which had all of twenty-seven students in 1922), competed for scarce funds while trying to justify their continued existence. Financial cutbacks in August 1922 preceded a process of “rationalization” that

began with the closure of six Petrograd vuzy and ended with the merger of several others into larger institutions.® Within the context of severe financial problems and ongoing political

battles, the state attempted and then abandoned a series of curricular experiments; these will be noted here and examined more closely in chapter 5. The NEP “system” could be defined as a combination of shifting policies, persistent shortages of teaching materials, and disputes over

methods of instruction. In 1922 the State Academic Council (Gus) attempted to reduce the number of disciplines offered, condense course material, and force students to specialize early on in their degree programs. In the spring of 1924 Narkompros restructured the Faculty of Social Sciences in all universities and liquidated parallel courses in economics and related disciplines. A little more than a year later, this faculty was eliminated altogether and replaced by Soviet Law and EthnographyLinguistics (lIamfak). The Gus, criticizing lectures as a passive learning technique, replaced them with the group-seminar method and obligatory

political education courses. In 1926 the GUS made further reforms, lengthening most degree programs and instituting stricter entrance standards.*°

The intelligentsia experienced increasing pressure to conform as the institutional changes came into effect. This was part of what Katerina

Clark has called the “quiet revolution” against the old order.‘? In higher education this revolution was evident in attempts to remove professors who harboured ambivalent or hostile attitudes towards the regime. Although Lunacharsky favoured a policy of persuasion and guarded cooperation, the Central Committee after Lenin’s death in January 1924 seemed less willing to compromise. The perception that pro-

fessors continued to run their own academic kingdoms fortified suspicions that the “soft line” was not working. Younger Marxistoriented teachers, many of whom had joined the Party or Komsomol as

a way into the system, had begun to gain a foothold in vuzy by the mid-1920s. The vast majority of senior academics — they continued to command the highest levels of professional and administrative authority — remained reluctant to join the Party. The absence of communist teachers gave the Party additional ammunition as it launched an all-out

offensive against the professoriate in 1926-27. In February 1925 the

66 Builders and Deserters

Central Committee ordered that regional and institutional Party organizations conduct “re-elections” in academic councils, the goal being to replace senior professors with communist sympathizers.** This campaign quickly bogged down in institutional infighting. By 1928 Leningrad’s regional Party committee announced that it had successfully cleansed academic councils of bourgeois specialists. This claim was exaggerated. At Leningrad State University and other vuzy, electoral battles more often than not resulted in the appointment of compromise candidates. Frustrated deans and department heads reported to their Party organization that the situation was out of control." Changes in the social and political composition of the studenchestvo must be understood within this ongoing process of institutional restructuring and conflict. Data on social composition are highly problematic. Archival and published sources often fail to provide comprehensive yearly reports on admissions and social background, and in many cases only a checkerboard picture is available. Furthermore, the confusing and inconsistent nature of the classification system produces additional complications.'4 Students were expected to fill out questionnaires on their social background, current occupation, and previous political and academic training. Quite naturally they would have been tempted to exaggerate or falsify their qualifications. Nevertheless, data on social com-

position do allow us to draw a portrait of the changing student community. In 1923 peasants and workers combined to make up 41 per cent of the student population in the ussr. By 1928 this figure had risen to 53 per cent. The problematic nature of these data has sparked a debate over their relevance and accuracy. Although the temptation for fal-

sification was high, the data presented in Tables 3.1-3.3 suggest that working-class and peasant representation in the higher-education system had, in fact, changed considerably since 1917.15

Changes in the social composition of the Leningrad studenchestvo reflected patterns at the all-Union level. They show the expansion of working-class enrolment accompanied by a social and political segregation of students by discipline. Candidates from working-class and peasant backgrounds gained wider access to higher education. Women experienced the opposite effect: in the 1920/21 academic year women outnumbered men in vuzy and predominated in medical and pedagogical institutes, but after demobilization men once again constituted the majority in higher-education schools, as in pre-revolutionary days. Women did not succeed in penetrating the technical disciplines traditionally associ-

ated with men until the late 1920s (Table 3.1). In sum, the social revolu- , tion in higher education during the NEP produced some significant changes, although by 1928 the majority of students in most institutions

were from “traditional” backgrounds (Tables 3.2 and 3.3). |

Table 3.1 | Gender of Leningrad Students (per cent)

1920/21! 1926/27 1935/36 Male Female Male Female Male Female

RSFSR 51.0 49.0 69.2 30.8 48.3 51.74 Leningrad 48.2 51.8 73.5 26.5 67.0 33.0 Leningrad State Univ. 45.3 54.7 56.7 43.3 60.6 39.4

Medical Institute 13.9 86.1 33.2 66.8 24.1 75.9

Mining Institute 95.3 4,7 96.4 3.6 74.9 25.1 Technological Institute 94.1 5.9 92.0 8.0 46.7 $3.3 Sources: (1) Narodnoe obrazovanie po osnovnomu obsledovaniiu 1920 goda, 1; 129. (RSFSR figures do not include 34,579 students who did not specify their gender.) (2) Narodnoe prosveshchenie v SSSR, 1926-1927, 161-2. (3) TSGA SPb, f.6276, op.35, d.85. (4) GARF, f.2306, op.70, ed. khr.3618, |.14 (figures for institutions under Narkompros, fall 1937).

Table 3.2 Social Composition, Selected Leningrad Vuzy (per cent)

Technological Medical Leningrad Institute Institute State Univ.

Worker 20.2 17.4 15.3 Peasant 7.0 4.1 36.5 1924/25

Other 72.81 78.53 48.29

Worker 36.9 25.4 18.9 Peasant 11.4 20.1 15.9 Other 51.7 54.54 65.26 1927/28

Communist Industrial — Electro-Technical State Academy

University Institute Institute Conservatory — of Arts

1935/36

Worker 58.7 61.3 62.1 26.6 35.3 Peasant 31.3 3.6 4.1 5.8 5.8

Other 10.0 35.1 33.8 67.6 58.9

Sources: (1) TsGA SPb, f.3025, op.1, d.4475, l.2. (2) Leningradskii tekbnolog, 20 October 1928. (3) TsGA sPb, f.3132, op.1, d.136, Il.1-6. (4) Pul’s, 25 June 1927. (5) TsGA IPD, f.24, op.1b, d.261, 1.28. (6) TsGA IPD, f.984, op.1, d.249, 1.1. (7) TsGA SPb, f.6276, op.35, d.85.

68 Builders and Deserters Table 3.3 Social Composition of the Studenchestvo (per cent)

1924/25 1929/30 1935/36 Worker Peasant Other Worker Peasant Other Worker Peasant Other Total RSFSR

Students 40,412? 171,9001° 519,300!1

RSFR 21.8 25.8 52.612 26.9 24.2 48.913 n/a Total Leningrad

Students 12,2007? | 42,0318 63,9903

Leningrad

Average 20.8 22.1 57.1! 496 34.3 16.12 56.2 10.4 33.43 Leningrad

State Univ. 15.3 36.5 48.24 22.0 17.6 60.45 44.1 9.4 46.53 Mining Institute 27.3 30.6 42.16 47.9 26.3 25.87 64.2 7.6 22.23 Sources: (1) TsGA SPb, f.6276, op.69, d.35, 1.8. (2) TsGA IPD, f.24, op.1b, d.261, 1.28. (3) TsGa SPb, £.6276, op.35, d.85. (4) A. Ross’e, “Proverka,” Student-proletarii, no. 3 (1924): 1. (5) TsGA IPD, f.984, op.1, d.370, 1.30. (6) Leningradskii Gornyi Institut, 39. (7) TsGA SPb, £.2556, op.2, d.371, Lg5. (8) TsGA SPb, f.6276, op.70, d.33, Il.162-4. (9) Narodnoe obrazovanie v RSFSR za 1923-24 god, 218-31. (10) K.N. Plotnikov, Ocherki istorii biudzheta sovetskogo gosudarstva (Moscow, 1932), 152.

(rr) K.N. Bukhman, “Vtuzy i vuzy sssr k nachalu 193 5/36 uchebnogo goda,” vTs, no. 2 (1936): 133 (figure is for USSR only). (12) Narodnoe obrazovanie v RSFSR (1926), 185. (13) Narodnoe prosveshchenie v RSFSR, mdi 1929 g., diagramma 31.

New recruitment strategies and attrition brought on by the civil war reshaped the face of the student population. Pressured by the Communist Party to ensure higher working-class and peasant enrolment, in 1923 Narkompros introduced a system of nomination and selection by organization affiliation (Romandirovanie). The arrangement stipulated that priority be given to students from workers’ faculties, trade unions, and the Communist Party (white-collar students competed for the few spots not reserved for specific groups). Narkompros instructed regional and institutional admissions committees to establish specific quotas by social category and for Communist Party and Komsomol candidates, depending on the type of institution and the given faculty or department. Technical and agricultural institutions, given their special role in the economy, received higher quotas for workers and peasants than universities and others specializing in the social sciences.*® Between the Party demanding that more communists and workers be

enrolled and vsnkh officials pushing for improved preparatory training

69 Shaping the Community

(particularly for those entering higher technical schools), Narkompros found itself in a no-win situation. Following the student verification in 1924 (see chapter 4), advocates of higher admissions standards were temporarily discredited and quotas for non-rabfak graduates and noncommunist candidates diminished once again. Although more stringent entrance standards gradually came into effect, workers’ faculty students remained exempt from writing admissions examinations. The Communist Party’s pursuit of a “Face to the Countryside” policy in 1925 put pressure on admission committees to pay more attention to applicants from the countryside. The poor quality of peasant recruits forced academic institutions to choose between meeting the political demands of the state and satisfying the requirements of their academic programs. Faculty deans often resisted the quota system and tried to find ways of admitting better-qualified students. All these factors resulted in wide disparities in student composition between technical and general instruction institutions. Admissions quotas of 45-60 per cent for workers and 30 per cent for peasants were rarely met in the latter. The reluctance of institutions to conform to guidelines that did not take their needs into account was understandable, given the fact that their reputations depended to a considerable degree upon the quality of students.’7 Building a New Student Community

Structural reforms to higher education and the segregation of students along social, political, and academic lines were the preconditions for altering the dimensions of the student community. Speaking at the Second All-Union Conference of the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students in January 1927, FE. Eideman, the new chairman, repeated what had become by then a standard refrain: “It has been noted at the allUnion level and at all local student conferences that our student com-

munity in vuzy has declined significantly, that our cultural work in vuzy and political instruction of the studenchestvo are not at a sufficiently high level.”*® Eideman’s remarks reinforced a prevailing assumption that to this point students had failed to live up to the tasks of building socialism and that efforts to construct a “socialist” student community had so far been inadequate. The would-be builders of this community — Narkompros, the Communist Party, the Komsomol, and students — attempted to ratchet ideological doctrine onto academic study, political activity, and civic instruction. The community setting acted as a “common place” in which narratives on culture and politics combined with symbols and established institutions to form idealized landscapes, organized both spatially and discursively. As the goals of higher education and civic instruction became linked with the broader

70 Builders and Deserters

cause of building socialism, the idea of “campus” stretched far beyond the confines of academic institutions. Student newspapers played a critical role in this process of public engagement, associating official directives with the moral authority of the community and offering models for cultured and responsible individuals. The newspapers assumed an important role by presenting the prevailing values of the day and contrasting them with spectacular examples of what not to do, how not to act. Furthermore, they brought to light the seamier realities of everyday student life in undigested form. Articles on hooliganism, indiscipline, truancy, and the unmasking of political “enemies” provided glimpses into the binary world of socialist order and Soviet chaos. The newspapers offered a point of association between culture and knowledge, performance and reward, suggesting possibilities open to the achieving

individual and contextualizing issues related to students within the day’s major issues. At the same time, they illustrated the limits of an “official discourse” that tended to paper over deeply rooted problems.?9

The problems of everyday life could not be solved merely by enunciating ambitious social engineering strategies. Through new forms of social organization, leisure, and work, the socialist visionaries believed they could transform society fundamentally. In this era of experimentation and social criticism, the state found itself unable to fulfil many of the promises made after 1917. Students lived the example of this gap between promise and reality. In 1926 the Leningrad Technological Institute completed one of the most detailed surveys of student life ever undertaken in Russia. The survey, conducted by a five-member committee of students, physicians, and administrators (Rector L.I. Veller edited the final version of the survey results), had the goal of constructing an “objective picture of student life” at the institute and examining

the changes that had occurred since the war. Although it might not have been definitively representative, the survey did offer an unprecedented insight into the lives of students. It included ninety-seven questions related to personal background, health, living conditions, sexual relations, academic and public work, and political attitudes.*° At the bottom of the form students were asked to add general remarks about any aspect of their academic, political, or personal lives. Their comments, which were never formulaic in nature and which represent a cross-section of student attitudes in raw form, give us a rare opportunity to hear the anonymous and anxious voices of the revolutionary

generation. More than of anything else, the students spoke of overwhelming physical and psychological exhaustion. Inadequate financial support, a rushed academic program, political pressures, and a spartan

living environment were major factors contributing to fatigue. One

71 Shaping the Community

respondent’s remarks summed up the situation: “As a result of an over-

burdened academic schedule and too much public work in the past year, I developed severe anaemia and neurasthenia. I lost my memory faculties, which had serious consequences for my academic situation. I need to take six months to one year off, but [the Dean’s Office] isn’t allowing it. They should increase the program length in the vuz to seven years.” Acknowledging that nothing much had changed under Soviet power, Veller noted in his concluding remarks to the survey: “Students as a whole live in poor, unhealthy conditions and eat poorly; therefore they get ill, quickly wear themselves out, and lose much of their ability to work long before the end of the [academic] year.”*! The wide variety of responses to this survey suggests the ambiguous

state of the “community” in which students found themselves. The problems related to academic programs, political pressures, and personal isolation (which will be examined later on in this book) had a great deal to do with this austere environment. Technological Institute respondents overwhelmingly listed financial support as their biggest concern (“For the delegation of stipends, the administration should pay less attention to social background than to material need,” one student commented). In response to the question “What changes of an academic nature do you feel should be implemented to improve student life in vuzy?” another wrote curtly: “Decrease the number and increase the quality of stipends.”?” A number of political and financial factors determined the funding situation. Students received various forms of state support depending on their social origins, academic performance, academic program, and, in many cases, political outlook. The financial crisis confronting Narkompros at the end of the civil war resulted in the reversal in January 1922 of the ban on tuition payments. All students except for Komsomolites, Party members, and workers’ faculty graduates were compelled to pay tuition. Narkompros established a new agency in charge of student funding, the Central Stipend Commission, under the direction of the Committee on Professional Education. Three types of funding opportunities existed: state stipends, private stipends, and those awarded through industrial enterprises or state orga-

nizations. State stipends were the most common form of funding (students from working-class and peasant backgrounds were given priority). Serving as another option, a network of funding agencies and la-

bour groups provided students with financial assistance and work opportunities.” In the 1920s only one-third of all students received some form of stipendiary aid; yet even for individuals blessed with stipends, the money always seemed to fall short of basic needs. In the mid-1920s stipendiary support ranged from ro to 30 rubles per month (most received less

72 Builders and Deserters

than 20 rubles). However, student leaders estimated that individuals required 22-25 rubles per month for subsistence living in the two major cities.*4 Private stipends, donated by institutions or individuals, funded

no more than ro per cent of all students in the 1920s (most students from non-labouring backgrounds obtained support from parents or relatives). Stipends through “contracted out” work became an increasingly important means of funding students. All of this had the effect of pushing the issue of financial support into the spotlight as the most consistent grievance registered by the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students (TsBPS) and its affiliated student organizations. At meetings of local, regional, and central student organizations, blame was deflected upwards — from local to central student representatives, and from the TsBPS to offices of harried state officials, each in turn promising to address the financial plight of students.*5 The housing situation was another example of how bureaucratic in-

ertia and inadequate resources left students out in the cold. Here is a sampling of grievances pencilled in by Technological Institute students

in 1926: “Total darkness”; “Dampness”; “Always cold”; “Too windy”; “There is never any sun”; “The sixth floor”; “Neighbours with kids.” As the following short sketch of a typical moment in the kitchen of an overcrowded dormitory at the Leningrad State Institute of Medical Technology reveals, communal life was never easy. Mayhem reigned in the crowded kitchen as all the residents tried to prepare their dinner at the same time. After one young woman finished her cooking, a struggle of “stove-top imperialism” ensued for rights to the burners: “Comrade, are you going to be done soon?” a cook asks. “Yes, but I have a candidate for this spot.” “What do you mean by ‘candidate’? This isn’t an election to a parliament,

you know.”

An argument and shoving match ensue, with the result that both leave — disarmed by spilt soup.

Students at the institute often complained about missing items or the annoying habits of others. Occasionally, comrades left messages in the kitchen: “To the person who mistakenly took the copper pot with soup in it, please return it to room no. ...”; or “To the person who mistakenly took the silver spoon from the kitchen, please return it. With com-

munist greetings, Student N.”*® This scenario was repeated in communal kitchens all across Leningrad. There was little improvement in access to private housing (rent goug-

ing and negligent landlords were common). Instead, Narkompros devoted its resources to improving student residences. Dormitories

73 Shaping the Community

brought students together in an enclosed space and promoted an intensive form of socialization. The problem was that many dormitories were a considerable distance from their associated institution (the Mytnia facility for Leningrad State University was over one hour away by tram).

Furthermore, putting students together in cramped and poorly heated quarters, and in many cases with non-students, fostered problems. As an anonymous commentator noted in 1927, students continued to live far below the standards aspired to by Narkompros. Reviewing fortythree dormitories in Leningrad, the commentator described impossible study conditions in inferior quarters. “Those who have felt boots and warm clothes can get settled in ‘not too poorly’ during lessons,” but for others it was just a question of keeping warm. Furthermore, residents were forced to deal with a commandant (the dormitory administrator) who most often was less interested in good management than in using his position for access to black market goods. In the ongoing war between students and commandants, the former often described the latter as a bureaucrat and class enemy.*7

The lamentable housing situation contributed to a litany of other problems. A survey of 1,351 students at the Leningrad Medical Institute in 1924 linked poor living conditions with bad health and negative general attitudes. E.V. Poliakov, the physician who compiled this report, wrote that the combination of physical hardship and stress related to studies had created a generation of unhealthy students, many of whom “suffered from a psychoneurosis” or had exhibited other signs of psychological strain and apathy. Poliakov found that while 69 per cent lived one or two to a room, the overwhelming majority reported unsatisfactory conditions, problems with excessive noise, or troublesome roommates.?° Poor hygiene, improper diet, lack of exercise, and the generally hectic pace of life also affected students’ health. Hygiene became a priority in the 1920s, as legions of officials from the Commissariat of Public Health

(Narkomzdrav) attempted to establish instructional programs and improve the abysmal state of health care.*® Soviet sociologists and physicians, in their attempt to “rationalize” byt, conducted a number of timebudget studies to find ways of improving health and health services. A cursory review of seven surveys from Leningrad and elsewhere shows the

extent to which students were burdened with a wide variety of obligations, including an average of three to four hours of public work per day (these consisted of political duties and work in labour brigades and social organizations). Exhaustion was a pervasive theme in these surveys. Long queues for stipends or food, two-hour trips on public transportation to and from class, and interminable hours spent waiting for administrators to deal with complaints took up a great deal of time and energy.3°

74 Builders and Deserters

Improper diet constituted the norm for workers and peasants in the

1920s. The situation was no different for students, as communal dining-hall (stolovaia) patrons continued to put up with bland fare. Students relied on the dining-hall as a chief source of nourishment because of its low prices and proximity to campus. Some of the stolovaia were managed by student cooperatives, while others were sponsored by

the municipal government through the local housing bureau (zhBk). , Almost every higher school had at least one dining-hall, although very few could claim to offer high-quality fare. Because they were dependent on supplies from local cooperatives, dining-halls quite often fell victim to the bottlenecks that commonly plagued the food distribution network. A meal with fresh vegetables or milk remained the exception rather than the rule. Even though most students spent 40-50 per cent of their income on food, few could afford fresh goods when they were

available. The main dining-hall at the Technological Institute was fraught with problems typical of communal dining facilities at other institutes. Many of the survey respondents noted their disgust with the

daily offerings. The food was bad, line-ups for various dishes atrociously long, and the atmosphere generally unpleasant. The “perpetual question,” as one student put it, entailed how could the quality and variety of food be improved without exceeding the dining-hall’s limited operating expenses. Apparently, no one was experienced in the area of

culinary algebra. The omnipresent “permanent cutlet” — a dry and stale piece of breaded so-called meat presented as the main course — at-

tested to this fact. Concerns about rude employees and poor kitchen hygiene rounded out the complaints. Apparently, students could take

only so much, and in 1925-27, visits to the dining-hall dropped sharply.37

All this was part of the picture of poor health and diet for students in the 1920s. The absence of adequate health-care facilities or prescription drugs, medical personnel at local clinics complained, made the situation worse.3?

From one perspective, everyday life in the 1920s was not so very differ-

ent from previous decades. Poverty, poor health, and overcrowding united students in a culture of material despair. But that was only one dimension of student life. An entirely new sphere of organized activities emerged during the NEP, many of them based in student clubs. Clubs

had traditionally offered students a place to relax or to discuss the burning political issues of the day. Clubs began to expand their activities in 1922, when communist student councils took over club adminis-

trative duties and promoted their own agendas. Whereas the Commissariat of Public Health promoted clubs as an ideal way of

75 Shaping the Community

broadening the horizons of education, the Communist Party and Kom-

somol focused on agitation and propaganda work.33 The October Club, opened in November 1922 at Moscow State University, was one

of the largest. With over 2,000 members, the club established “red nooks” (krasnye ugolki) and a number of discussion circles devoted to political education, oratory, and team sports.34 Leningrad clubs, the largest of which were at Leningrad State University and the Technological and the Polytechnical institutes, expanded rapidly after 1923. The student councils appointed a “cultural committees” to manage the various sections of the clubs. Students were encouraged to take advantage of excursions to museums and galleries, watch films, and read newspapers. The Technological Institute by 1924 had a thriving club scene. Its club reported 7,500 reader subscriptions to local and regional newspapers. Students regularly visited the theatre and went on other “cul-

tural excursions.” Club members spent evenings discussing Party doctrine, the work tasks in the countryside, and other issues.35

The development of organized sports sections in student clubs reflected the emphasis at the time on physical culture and collectivism. Recreational and competitive sports began to grow in popularity in the 1920s as mass spectacles, the cult of body, and synchronous production-line labour came into fashion. Mass sporting events (spar-

takiad), promoted as an alternative to bourgeois competitions, epitomized the ethos of a strong body being essential to a healthy social attitude. Similar to their counterparts in Western Europe, Soviet sports theorists believed that sports moderated the young person’s libido.3° Although the Komsomol played an important part in staging

mass events, local trade unions assumed control over sports. The largest clubs — the Dinamo and Red Army — spawned a number of

smaller affiliates. Komsomol activists, in conjunction with clubs, launched in 1924 the first sporting events in vuzy. Not much went on until the early 1930s, when sports became an obligatory part of the curriculum.?7

Clubs offered special lectures on current topics, but students often found them to be boring propaganda sessions rather than informative seminars. In the wake of scandals involving the Leningrad Party organization and the Komsomol (see chapters 7 and 8), the student club at the Polytechnical Institute in the fall of 1926 hosted lectures and discussions on “Heroism of the Revolution in the Days of NEP,” “Esenin and the Eseninshchina,” “The Sex Question and Youth,” and other controversial topics. Other clubs convened discussions on the dangers of tuberculosis and the importance of good hygiene. There were even educational films about the countryside, the evils of capitalism, and the importance of good personal grooming.?°®

76 Builders and Deserters

Another dimension to club life escaped the grasp of authorities. Students embraced clubs as meeting places and centres for cultural and political activity, but often not in the way that organizers had imagined. Students would commonly sign up for an activity with enthusiasm but then find that they had neither the strength nor the desire to pursue it. Furthermore, their personal conduct was often not up to Komsomol standards. Clubs acted as retreats for activities like smoking, lounging around, and raucous debates injected with foul language.

Most of the films that were shown at the clubs did not reflect the tastes of their audience. As Denise Youngblood has noted in her study of early Soviet cinema, the general public seemed to be more interested

in watching Hollywood movies starring the swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks and his wife, Mary Pickford, than in viewing propaganda pieces or cheap productions with thin plot lines. Until 1926, when new censorship and import rules came into effect, the foreign films shown to Russian audiences far outnumbered domestic productions.3? Students had similar tastes, preferring big-budget imports to educational fare. Acknowledging the popularity of foreign movies, the Communist Party made every effort to convince audiences to give more of their attention to educational or politically useful pursuits than to popular films. But this plea usually fell on deaf ears.4°

The following question was included in the Technological Institute survey: “What interests do you have aside from your studies at the institute?” Many indicated that they were interested in theatre, concerts, the literary classics, or sporting activities. On the other hand, a little

more than half failed to elaborate on this question, suggesting that nothing struck their fancy or that they had not given it much thought. Perhaps the response of one young woman offers a plausible explanation for this seeming apathy: “I am interested in a lot of things, but I have no time.” Most students claimed to have read more than just academic material. Fiction and social and political works were popular choices, but only zo per cent said that they read mass-circulation newspapers like Leningradskaia pravda regularly. Reading may have been a

popular pastime, but academic work and survival remained priorities.41

THE “GREAT BREAK” In May 1929 the Fifth All-Union Congress of Soviets formally adopted

an accelerated version of the first five-year plan, instituted one year earlier. The amended plan projected a 236 per cent increase in gross industrial output and a 110 per cent elevation in labour productivity over the next four years, thereby allowing the ussR to “catch up and over-

77 Shaping the Community

take” the capitalist states while building a fortress of socialism in one country. During the five-year plan Stalin moved against remnants of the Party’s opposition and, through a policy of forced collectivization, against the wealthy peasants (kulaks) who had been demonized as class enemies. The Stalinist Great Break of 1928-29 marked an attempt to expand the dimensions of the revolution and create a new social élite. The working class, discontented with low wages, poor living conditions, and the continued presence of bourgeois managers in industry, in some ways benefited from this massive effort. The announced discovery in the spring of 1928 of a conspiracy by Soviet and foreign engineers in the coal-mining region of Shakhty to overthrow the Soviet government, followed by their subsequent trial, underscored the urgent need to promote workers and peasants as future leaders of the Soviet system. Changes were occuring at breakneck speed, with Soviet society constantly having to catch up as the state raced forward. Stalin’s Central Committee presented the five-year plan as a time for action, not for patience and compromise. The denunciation of Bukharin’s “deviationist” Right Opposition and the execution of several Shakhty engineers in 1928 confirmed this position. In every city, Soviet citizens were

exhorted to struggle for the five-year plan and stand guard vigilantly against saboteurs and class enemies. Sergei Kirov, who took over as Party secretary for Leningrad in 1926, loyally implemented the heavy industry and collectivization targets dictated by his superiors in Moscow. As a major industrial centre, Leningrad became critical to the success of the five-

year plan. Russia’s second capital remained a centre for professional training, and for this reason it was subjected to intense pressure from Moscow to restructure its schools of higher education. A reckless storming of the ivory towers of academia occurred during the “cultural revolu-

tion” from 1928 to 1931, casting aside the old order and replacing it with an unmanageable and incoherent system. The proletarianization of the classroom, an attack on the administrative organs governing higher education, and a complete reorientation of academic programs constituted the main themes of this period. The eventual retreat in 1931 from these excesses suggested that revolutionary experimentation had been repudiated, but as Gail Warshofsky-Lapidus has noted, the rejection of experimentation following the “cultural revolution” did not signal a total abandonment of the reforms introduced in 1928-30. The Stalinist highereducation system of the 1930s resurrected some of the old Russian cul-

tural icons, but it did this within the framework of Marxist-LeninistStalinist ideological orthodoxies.43

In July 1928 the Central Committee introduced measures to mobilize Communist Party recruits (*thousanders — so named because the Party

, 78 Builders and Deserters demanded that no fewer than 1,000 communists be recruited for higher education) with no less than four years of work experience for enrolment in institutes of higher education. The ’thousanders and other promoted workers (vydvizhentsy) were part of a new generation of recruits

targeted as the eventual replacements of the predominantly noncommunist, politically hostile intelligentsia.44 Meanwhile, the Central Committee stepped up its political war against Narkompros, replacing Glavprofobr chairman Khodorovskii with A.Ia. Vyshinsky (special prosecutor in the Shakhty trials) and launching a massive purge of the commissariat in 1929. The attack on Narkompros was too much for Lunacharsky, who resigned in protest. He was replaced in the spring of 1929 by A.S. Bubnov, a former member of the Organizational Bureau and a firm supporter of the Stalinist line.45 The new emphasis placed on industrial-technical training resulted in a transfer in June 1930 of most scientific and technical disciplines under Narkompros jurisdiction to professional schools controlled by the

| Supreme Economic Council and its affiliated commissariats.4° These measures provided momentum for a frontal assault on universities as outdated institutions. A contributor to the main student periodical in 1929 described universities as “an unwanted conglomeration of the most variegated faculties, united in the single aim of creating a more potent ‘higher-scientific’ bureaucracy.” University officials realized that their institutions were on the brink of extinction and that a new system

of professional training was on the horizon. Although Narkompros was unwilling to totally abandon the concept of universities, the commissariat found itself in a politically precarious position. Instead of reorganizing vuzy into consolidated centres with specific specialties, the new measures broke them up into competing institutions with parallel programs.‘7 Several new industrial and technical institutions in Leningrad, most

of them modest in size, emerged in 1930. The Institute of Marine Transport Engineers, the Institute of Soviet Trade, and the Institute for

Mechanics and Optics competed with larger and more established schools. Factory-technical schools created in 1930 to link institutions more closely with industry, represented part of this new group. A remarkable structural transformation had taken place. Enrolment in agricultural and medicine increased fivefold in the RsFsr, while higher technical schools witnessed a jump from 48,900 in 1928 to 221,400 in 1932 (this was due in part to the transfer of departments and faculties previously attached to universities).4° A similar leap forward in higher technical education took place in Leningrad, where authorities projected that over 12,000 engineering “cadres” would graduate over the course of the first five-year plan.*9

79 Shaping the Community By spring 1931 the damaging effects of policies instituted over the pre-

vious three years had become clearly visible. As the available pool of working-class specialists dried up and economic planning was complicated by panic-stricken managers of enterprises desperately trying to meet quotas, the industrial sector increasingly complained about the counterproductive aspects of “specialist baiting.” During his June 1931 speech, Stalin ordered that there be more individual and group responsibility for

enterprises and other organizations; he also decreed the institution of wage differentials and an end to the harassment of technical specialists.5° Stalin’s speech signalled a move away from a discriminatory system in

higher education that favoured workers towards a system based on a meritocratic model. The retreat of 1931 contained an implicit admission that the institutional war launched against higher-education schools, and in particular against universities, had produced some deleterious effects. New policies, introduced by Narkompros in the fall of 1931, set the task of reunifying specialized programs in higher schools and making them more responsive to economic demands. The brigade-laboratory method of instruction (whereby “brigades” of students were assigned to specific , tasks and evaluated on a collective basis) was discredited. Academic institutions had to integrate their research projects more closely with current state demands while enforcing stricter rules of conformity in the areas of teaching, course content, and administrative procedures.

Three years of chaotic upheaval had a significant impact on the social composition of the studenchestvo. Working-class representation in Leningrad’s higher-education schools increased from 32.5 per cent in 1928/29 to 51 per cent in 1930/31. In addition to imposing discriminatory admissions quotas favouring proletarian candidates, the state poured more resources into a special program for the rapid promotion of selected students. The Supreme Economic Council had established the Institute for Vydvizhentsy in 1926 in order to regulate the training of specially selected apprentices (almost all of them from workingclass or peasant backgrounds) in designated enterprises. By 1930 there were 558 promoted workers in Leningrad, 65 per cent of whom were working-class or peasant youth; 262 were members of the Communist Party and 171 belonged to the Komsomol.5' As the figures in Table 3.3 show, there had been a massive influx of working-class youth into

vuzy by the fall of 1929. The political composition of the studenchestvo exhibited a similar transformation. The Central Committee in 1930 introduced communist student quotas of 10 to 20 per cent, depending on the institution. Admissions figures for Leningrad reflected the changes brought about by these new recruiting policies, Party and Komsomol candidates accounting for over half the incoming students between 1929 and 1931.”

80 Builders and Deserters

| A Community in the Vanguard Changing the social composition of the student population proved easier than constructing a new type of community. Commenting in the winter of 1928 on the current mood of the studenchestvo, V. Balkin, a Komsomol student at the Leningrad Technological Institute, suggested

that an “everything for yourself” attitude had appeared over the pre- | ceding few years. He was especially concerned that cultural activity and a “spirit of struggle” among his peers had declined: “The reactionary flower of pessimism, arising out of hesitancy, is visible from the following fact: a young female rabfak student and Komsomolite mentions in her diary that she does not believe in socialism, that Darwinism contradicts Marxism; besides that, she generally doubts the purpose of some-

one building socialism. Occasionally other comrade Party members, having grown soft, echo this type of pessimism: ‘It’s too bad that we need to struggle and that these are relevant ideas,’ they say.”53 Balkin’s comments fit the tone of the period. Collective struggle, vigilance, and

the promotion of a new generation of Red specialists constituted the new benchmarks for the socialist student community. Their assault on apathy, as I will describe here and in subsequent chapters, pervaded all dimensions of student life during the cultural revolution. This was a pe-

riod during which the walls of individualism, bureaucracy, political resistance, and laziness were broken down and a new collectivized order took their place. “We Are Collectivizing Life,” one headline proclaimed in the Leningrad student newspaper in 1929 vis-a-vis the

transformation of dormitories into communes. “A New Form of

Wrecking,” another declared with reference to suspicious activities go-

ing on in a dormitory. “We Give a Decisive Rebuff to Rightist At-

tacks,” one commentator wrote, condemning students who had deserted their brigade duties in the countryside. In response to demands that they move in record time to help complete the building of socialism, Komsomol and Communist Party students announced that they would storm fortresses occupied by bourgeois professors, perpetual students, bureaucrats, and class enemies, ridding the student community of anyone who failed to conform. Obshchestvennost’ implied leadership from Komsomolites, Party members, and working-class students. Attempts to improve students’ living standards constituted part of the strategy to promote socialism. The financial situation for students had improved only marginally since 1922, as the chairman of the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students noted disapprovingly in the fall of 1928.54 New funding policies in 1928 explicitly discriminated in favour of workers (using “worker coefficients”), workers’ faculty graduates, and peasants. In 1930 stipends

81 Shaping the Community

Tamenan arneruka Pic. TP. PO3E

Illus. 1 “Weightlifting.” Writ-

|| ten sign:for “Average standardonofthe living a worker.”

, a a TT Below it, a student stands on a platform marked “Five rubles.

>”he “Oh! ITcan’t that .' \, Stipend. high! ...,” says. (KP,jump 24 Sep-

‘ nd A tember 1929)

.=\a

. |US oes \" i wQe —_ —— \ i=

CTUNEHAMAT: Ox! He ponpeirnyte!...

for those in the priority categories increased by approximately ro per cent, and a differentiated scale according to type of institution came into effect (higher technical schools received priority). Candidates from non-labouring backgrounds lost out in this system. Left with no other recourse, they desperately appealed to local officials and even to Lunacharsky for a chance to enrol.55 In 1931 Narkompros tried to balance financial and political demands by establishing a special commission for students, the Commission for Social Support, but this new body failed to make much progress. During the first five-year plan, issues related to everyday life became further politicized. The housing question, for example, remained a major grievance. Such issues mobilized collective political forces after the promises for a better life had faded into the background. Commandants, often perceived as standing in the way of better living conditions, had become symbols of bureaucratic disinterest and corruption. Student councils denounced despised commandants as slovenly bureaucrats and petty tyrants who ignored requests and embezzled funds. An article in the Agricultural Institute newspaper in 1929, titled “We De-

mand the Dismissal of the Commandant” and undersigned by a “Light-Cavalry Brigade,” offered an example of how easily grievances could become politicized. The “brigadiers” attacked their commandant for neglecting his duties and ignoring complaints. Because the article

82 Builders and Deserters

appeared during a massive Party purge, everyone understood the intent of the exposé: “The fact that the commandant, Smirnov, downs vodka daily is well known to all those living in the dormitory; no one can get a hold of him or find him. There was a suggestion from some of the fel- _ lows about establishing office hours — he didn’t take it up. There was

talk about the poor work of the cleaning lady (she worked only two hours a day and wasn’t maintaining a clean dormitory) — measures were not taken. The rooms for washing up are filthy and flooded. To this point a list of students hasn’t even been posted. So, you can see, we need decisive measures (‘Light.’).”5° Commandants probably felt that they had a thankless task. Harassed by state officials and pestered by students, even the diligent ones could not avoid getting into trouble. Communal living offered a practical alternative to both costly apartments and dormitory life. Communes offered an environment for so-

cialization and security to students seeking financial assistance or camaraderie. They drew from a romanticized tradition dating back to the revolutionary era of N.I. Chernyshevskii in the 1850s, a time when individuals aspired to live collectively in harmony, to work together to produce a better living environment, and in the process to help establish a new way of life. The student commune movement experienced steady growth during the early 1920s. In 1923 only two officially registered communal organizations in Leningrad existed (one at the university, the other at the Polytechnical Institute), and they had a combined total of twenty students. By 1929 there were twenty-five communes with a total of 2,500 members; membership ballooned to 7,700 members in 1930, inhabiting sixty communes.57 Most communes established detailed rules and administrative structures — partly for practical purposes but also to lend them greater legitimacy. The commune for water transport students at the Polytechnical

Institute, established in December 1923, had twelve members. They voted on issues in a collective assembly.5? The Leningrad ElectroTechnical Institute commune, created in 1924, started with sixty students (the majority from first and second year), most of whom were poor and had difficulty coping with studies and part-time work. A former commune member, M. Iankovskii, recalled that he and several other Komsomol students organized a discussion circle that dealt with a range of issues; members talked about the need to improve the quality of meals, the domestic and international political situation, and other grandiose causes. The commune was governed by an executive threesome (troika) that controlled the finances. General meetings usually took place in the dining-hall, the “club and parliament of the commune.” Students were expected to exhibit exemplary behaviour and to devote all of their energy to academic work. All noise was banned after

5 Crt 83 Shaping the Community

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Seat peebsnA ‘SS rySee ageseR SETI a een we,8 «BeinonHHiM» H «nepeBbiInonHHMy, Illus. 2 The crowded dormitory. Written at the top: “Moscow Construction Union.” Written on the barrel: “Dormitory.” At the bottom: We are “fulfilling” and “overfulfilling.” In a satirical reference to the five-year plan slogan of “fulfil and overfulfil,” a Moscow bureaucrat is shown trying to stuff as many students as possible into the dormitory. This was one of many cartoons addressing the problem of crowded quarters — a common complaint among residents. (KP, 9 October 1930)

11:00 P.M., and a sign stating, “Those who do not have the mind to rest, do not have the mind to work,” reinforced this point. Honours students conducted study sessions for fellow members. The commune developed several other services, including a special reading room in which members could peruse various newspapers and journals along with the commune’s own wall newspaper.>?

Buttressed by the official policy to change every dormitory into a commune, the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students in 1929 called for a conversion of all available dormitory space into communal units.

In June 1930 a conference of the Leningrad Bureau set the new agenda: “The commune is a voluntary organization of proletarian students, setting its tasks as conducting propaganda, practical instruction

84 Builders and Deserters

on the socialist way of life, and the education of a new collectivist per-

son, a proletarian specialist - an organizer, an active fighter and builder, freed from the ways of private property.”°° This doctrine complemented mass-recruitment policies for workers and the emphasis placed on political education. The principle of turning every dormi-

tory into a commune encouraged a pooling of resources and the revocation of private space in favour of public interaction, which in turn were designed to accelerate the development of a collectiveminded and socially conscious individual. In reality, these communes were nothing more than enclosed dormitory communities with fancy new governing regulations. Faddish administrative appendages, such as “revision commissions” (they periodically checked commune members’ work performance) and “academic-domestic committees” (they managed cultural-education, academic, sanitary-domestic, and finance “sectors”), bogged down the decision-making process. The collective form of administration and decision-making inevita-

bly led to conflicts over group and individual needs. At the ElectroTechnical Institute, heated debates arose over whether or not members

should have to keep their doors open. At one point, Jankovskii recalled, the leftists argued that members should be available at all times and should hold no secrets. But a few students noted that without privacy it would be impossible to have girlfriends or boyfriends as guests. In the end the leftists won out, confident in their belief that commune members were better off casting aside petty-bourgeois notions of personal privacy. Other problems revolved around members failing to do their assigned chores or hoarding personal items. Commune members (the term kommunar was often used, directly borrowed from the days of the Paris Commune), not surprisingly, had difficulty accommodating individual requests while maintaining a spirit of collectivism and the integrity of the commune’s rules. Apart from that, they complained about the negligent elected administrators who had left them in 1930 with a budgetary deficit. By this time attendance at commune meetings had dropped substantially. Students took matters into their own hands and secured the local Party control commission to conduct an investigation. Here and elsewhere, problems related to discipline began to dominate business at general meetings.*! Interminable political campaigns, compressed academic programs, and the generally miserable housing situation tended to strain the collectivist ethos. In 1929 the Technological Institute’s Party committee encountered the protests of students exhausted by the convergence of numerous pressures. An ongoing dispute at the institute’s Egorov Dormitory, involving two fourth-year students Party members Znamenskaia and Pirnavskii, took up a fair amount of the time that the committee devoted to a study

85 Shaping the Community

of the general mood among students. Like Donskoi, whose comments

were introduced at the beginning of this chapter, Znamenskaia and Pirnavskii did not have a rosy perspective on life. Several of Znamenskaia’s peers complained that she had become withdrawn and was rarely around to take part in communal activities. For her part, Znamenskaia claimed that she was only reacting to difficult circumstances: “Every day I work from nine o’clock in the morning to eleven or twelve in the evening. We study with Beller [another student], so that I have little time left for self-education or anything else.” According to Zbarovskaia, one of the roommates who was interviewed, Znamenskaia’s self-imposed isolation was symptomatic of the larger problem of poor relations between com-

rades and the propensity of a few to take an élitist attitude towards

others.

The situation at the Egorov Dormitory was not unique. It exposed a thinly veiled truth: the cultural revolution had done little to improve the living situation for students — and no amount of official proclamations could convince the students otherwise. In addition to the ongoing housing issue, nagging problems related to communal dining remained unresolved. Empowered by the rhetoric of class warfare, students used the lessons not learned from past mistakes as political ammunition. Communist students kept a watchful eye on the operations of communal dining facilities, sending in letters to the editors of student news-

papers exposing corruption, sloth, and mismanagement. The bureaucratic problems were such that even the normally silent voices of students from non-labouring backgrounds joined the condemnatory chorus of communist activists. Complaints from Leningrad State University students at dining-hall no. 8 suggest a typical scenario. The food was of very poor quality, and dining-hall employees cheated students out of their bread rations (they were getting less than 300 grams instead of the allotted 400 grams). Patrons were forced to line up for an average of thirty to sixty minutes for each meal, for a total of two to two and a half hours per day in queues. To make matters worse, the cooks ignored a basic rule of hygiene, using unwashed meat knives for chopping or slicing other foods. The bad feeling in the dining-hall led to many incidents of swearing and rudeness between employees and students.®3 Dining-halls had closed down all over the country as financial shortfalls left the People’s Commissariat of Provisioning (Narkomsnab) with inadequate operating expenses. In the Vasilievsky district of

Leningrad, budgetary cutbacks forced the district council to close down three cafeterias that regularly served over 3,000 students.*4 Stu-

dents who spoke of “apocryphal menus” (“I have never seen the twenty-five meat dishes [in a month] that the chairman of the regional

bureau talked about in his report,” one patron commented in 1930)

86 Builders and Deserters

class enemies.°5

mused aloud that managerial negligence must have been the work of The cultural revolution could not resolve the contradictions. arising from inadequacies in the physical living space and material support for students. Naturally, these generated significant disaffection and feelings of isolation among students. The Party chose to deal with the problem

by promoting a more intensive program of civic and cultural instruc- : tion. Forging ahead with the construction of socialism, students found themselves participating in a number of political campaigns described as “cultural activities.” They read brochures and watched films on industry and agriculture before setting out for the countryside in antireligious or collectivization brigades.®* With all this going on, students had neither the time nor the energy for such interests as leisure reading and other recreational activities.°”7 As for how they chose to use their

disposable income, they continued to spend a greater share of their budget on tobacco and alcohol rather than on reading material or cultural activities. As a survey of 180 students at the Agricultural Institute

in 1929 showed, the average student spent more on alcohol and tobacco than on theatre, cinema, and newspaper subscriptions combined.

This may not have been a valid comparison, as tickets to cultural

pursuits.©°

events were generally quite cheap, but in any event, the survey made it clear that students needed to devote more time and energy to cultural

In summary, the massive mobilization effort in 1928-31 failed to

overcome systemic difficulties and entrenched viewpoints. In the areas of academic training, politics, and social conduct, the cultural revolution had had an important but ambiguous impact on students. Clearly, the state had not lived up to its promise to be a better provider than the earlier regime. Ironically, the cruel and destructive Stalinist political system of the 1930s would become the students’ official benefactor. During the first five-year plan, however, students simply did not have the time or energy to be political activists, scholars, and community role models, all wrapped neatly into one package.

, AND RUIN | THE DECADE OF CULTURE

The departure from radical schemes implemented during the cultural revolution marked a transition to the era of “socialist meritocracy.” As Nicholas Timasheff wrote in his pioneering work, this “Great Retreat” from the ruptures caused by Stalin’s revolution from above was the natural consequence of a revolution that had run its course. Rather than seeing it as a Thermidorian retreat, as Trotsky insisted it had been,

87 Shaping the Community

Timasheff believed that the return to conservative values and the Great

Russian tradition represented part of the state’s carrot-and-stick approach towards the new social élite.°? Historians initially accepted much of Timasheff’s argument, although now most tend to modify it by describing Stalinist society in the 1930s and beyond as a synthesis of Russian nationalism, “practical” applications of Marxist-Leninist ideology in the system of patron-client relations, and a resurgence of con-

servative social values supported by the general population.7° The Stalinist dictatorship erected its edifices of official culture on the pillars

of ideological orthodoxy and institutionalized power structures. The rise of Moscow as a political and cultural centre symbolized this new social order in which the former intelligentsia sank to appendage status and cities such as Leningrad were relegated to ancillary political and cultural roles. In his attempt to cast Leningrad as a “special area” with particular cultural characteristics and economic policies, Kirov eventually incurred the wrath of Stalin. The general secretary commanded a system based on the primacy of the leader (vozhd’), the centralization of authority, and the tight regulation of public discourse. During the 1930s the foundations of the Soviet higher-education system as it would exist over the next five decades took shape, and the political and social dimensions of student life changed accordingly. After September 1932 universities once again assumed a prominent role, and declarations in the press duly lauded their scientific excellence and high intellectual achievement. New university statutes in 1934 elevated the status of directors (the title of “rector” had been abandoned in 1929)

and restored the humanities to a prominent position. Several of the smaller technical colleges that had sprouted up after 1930 were merged or closed down.”* The resurrection of universities and the elevation of science and learning suggested that ad hoc planning had given way to

more considered educational strategies, with an emphasis on quality and discipline.

The thin veneer of order, however, could not conceal turbulent changes below the surface. The assassination of Kirov in December 1934 ruptured the fragile cohesion within the Party and let loose uncontrollable forces of hatred and suspicion. Leningrad, a city that had experienced modest economic growth under Kirov’s tutelage, was swept into the torrent of political intrigue. The intelligentsia became

helpless victims of Stalin’s wrath. Black vans marked “Meat” or “Milk” (known as “Black Ravens”) indiscriminately paid visits to terrified apartment dwellers. As poet Evgeny Shvarts recalled, it was diffi-

cult to gather hope from the surrounding despair: “A storm broke, whirling everything around it, and it was impossible to guess who would be killed by the next bolt of lightning. And no one ran and no

88 Builders and Deserters

one hid. A man who knows he is guilty knows how to behave: a criminal gets a false passport and flees to another city. But the future ene-

mies of the people stood without moving, awaiting the blow of the terrible Antichrist brand.”’* Prominent Party officials, as well as intellectuals and bureaucrats, faced the threat of dismissal and arrest as in-

cidental victims of the terror campaign waged by the state police (known after 1934 as the NKVD). But soon the house of cards built by the Leningrad Nkvp began to fall. The dismissal and later execution of I.V. Zaparozhets, the security chief for the Leningrad NKVD, triggered a

wave of arrests and deportations of intellectuals, government employees, and police officials. The exile of “alien elements” and the execution of Zinoviev, Kamenev, and other discredited Party members in 1936 presaged the final phase — from 1937 to 1938 — of Stalin’s attack against his former rivals.73 Higher education was one of the many battlegrounds transformed by

the Stalinist revolution. Although the restoration of faculties and the creation of a special body in 1932, the Administration for Higher Education, reaffirmed Narkompros’s jurisdiction over universities and ped-

agogical institutes, the commissariat failed to regain control of the institutions lost in the June 1930 transfer. The Committee on Higher Technical Education, established in 1932, became the new governing body for higher technical schools. The committee coordinated its work with the subdepartments for “cadres” in each commissariat. The creation in October 1936 of the All-Union Committee on Higher Education (VKvsh), under the jurisdiction of Sovnarkom, marked a further decline in the status of Narkompros. The official mandate of the vKvsh was to “unify leadership of the administration for higher-educational affairs in the UssR.” Over the next three years it instituted new guidelines on professorial ranking and salaries, administrative regulations, and programs for the study of Marxism-Leninism.74 Institutional realignment resulted in a net decline in all-Union enrolment in higher technical schools from 188,700 in 1932/33 to 166,400 in 1935/36, while in agricultural vuzy during the same period the number of students increased from 62,000 to 68,000, and overall in the USSR from 469,800 to 519,300. Similar trends occurred in Leningrad, with a reduction in the total number of higher schools in the city to sixty-seven by 1933.75 The surviving higher schools reasserted themselves as leading centres for scientific and academic achievement. Authors of instructional calendars and brief historical essays extolled the accomplishments of these institutions and enthusiastically invited students to enrol. In 1934 the orientation pamphlets for the Industrial and Mining institutes included praise for the achievements of their graduates, while in 1937 and 1940 prospective candidates for Leningrad

89 Shaping the Community

State University read about the rich history of that institution and the fine opportunities a degree from it would offer.7° In this decade of hero worship and myth-making, overachievers dominated the headlines. Explorers journeyed to the Arctic Circle, aviators made daring transoceanic trips, and Aleksei Stakhanov — a coal miner who in one shift exceeded all previous piece-rate standards — spawned a mass movement encouraging individuals to go beyond their assigned tasks. The Stakhanovite movement, as the Central Committee outlined in December 1935, would lead to higher production standards and a more sophisticated level of cultural and political awareness for Soviet citizens.77 Universities, because they trained students in a broad array of disciplines, had a special role to play. They responded to the Stakhanovite movement

by launching “socialist competitions” throughout 1935-36 (see below, pages 96-7). They also focused on raising the level of independent work, eliminating wasted time, improving the condition of dormitories and dining-halls, and elevating the “cultural level” of the studenchestvo. Entering the public arena of Stakhanovism with rehearsed declarations, universities claimed their status as participants in the active construction of socialism.7® At the same time, the internal Party crisis subjected universities and other vuzy to tremendous pressures. Directors and institutional personnel were singled out for harbouring Trotskyists and other enemies. Political vendettas and purges of administrative personnel and students

made it all but impossible for the vKvsh and its subordinate organs to maintain cohesion. Exhortations for better classroom performance, emphasis on Marxist-Leninist courses, and the elimination of inflated student evaluations all took place at a time when political terror reigned. As political intrigue undermined the governing apparatus for higher education, new recruitment policies indicated that the strategy of “so-

cial levelling” had run its course. Between 1932 and 1935, enrolment

in industrial-technical institutions experienced a net decline, even though this continued to be the largest sector in higher education. Abandonment of the ambitious proletarianization schemes resulted in a gradual levelling off in admissions of candidates claiming workingclass or peasant origins.7? In Leningrad the preponderance of higher technical institutions resulted in a slightly higher proportion of students from working-class backgrounds, reaching a high of 56 per cent in 1935. As Tables 3.4 and 3.5 illustrate, a disparity persisted between

industrial-technical and general instruction institutions.°° In the 1920s non-Russian peoples experienced an opening up of enrolment Opportunities, but in the following decade this trend abated. The pro-

portion of Russian students (approximately two-thirds in the mid1920s) enrolled in RSFSR vuzy experienced a net increase in the 1930s; the proportion of Jews declined, while the number of Ukraini-

(per cent)

Table 3.4 ,

90 ©6Builders and Deserters

Admissions to Vuzy .

1924/25 1926/27 1928/29 1930/31 1932/33 1935/36

RSFSR 28.7 42.3 38.9 — — 49.6 25.0 25.3 26.1 29.0 — 22.9 20.5 46.0 31.7 32.1 — 27.5 —54.5 Moscow State University"

Worker 36.7 23.6 48.0 67.0 60.0

Peasant 34.6 20.3 19.7 13.0 9.9 n/a Other 28.7 52.1 32.3 20.0 30.1* |

Leningrad Vuzy

Worker 61.6 Peasant40.6 30.937.2 18.840.5 25.548.4 27.3 4.8 n/a Other 28.51 44.03 34.03 24.35 33.6?

Leningrad State University Worker 37.6 26.3 50.0 40.7 45.0 46.0 Peasant 22.7 16.8 16.1 29.8 15.0 9.0

Other 39.72 56.92 33.94 29.55 40.06 55.010

Mining Institute

Worker 61.7 48.0 68.5 55.8 70.1 57.8 Peasant 26.5 20.0 17.9 24.6 11.1 4.0

Other 11.88 32.08 13.68 19.68 18.87 38.2?

Sources: (1) TsGA IPD, f.16, op.9, d.9920, 1.33. (2) TsGA IPD, f.984, op.1, d.242, 1.84. (3) Otchet Leningradskogo proletarskogo studenchestva, 6. (4) Ibid., 18 (figures are for 1929/30). (5) TsGA SPb, £.6276, op.70, d.3 3, ll.162-4. (6) LU, 14 June 1932. (7) TsGA IPD, f.80, op.1, d.317, 1.3. (8) TsGA SPb, f.8811, op.2, d.83, 1.3; Otchet Leningradskogo proletarskogo studenchestva, 18. (9) TsGA IPD, f.25, op.10, d.ro, Il.1-5. (10) Lu, 1 September 1934. (11) Pervyi universitet, 7 November 1927; 11 October 1928; Za proletarskoe kachestvo, 12 August 1932; 16 September 1934 (*figures available only for 1934/35). (12) Figures for 1924-32 (1928 exclusive) are from Narodnoe prosveshchenie v RSFSR 2a 1929 goda, 34. Figures for 1928 are from GaRF, f.5574, op.6, ed. khr.33, 1.67. Figures for RSFSR (universities and pedagogical vuzy, 1937/38 only): GARF, f.2306, op.70, ed. khr.3618, l.14.

ans increased modestly.’ During the 1930s women made further in-

roads into higher education. The 1935 admission figures for Leningrad’s higher technical schools show that 29.5 per cent of the in-

coming students and 33.0 per cent of the entire student population were women. Perhaps the biggest change in enrolment patterns came with the massive influx of students who had joined the Komsomol. By

the mid-1930s they had replaced Party members as the “political workhorses” in vuzy.

91 Shaping the Community Table 3.5

Membership in the Party and the Komsomol (per cent)

Leningrad Leningrad Technological Medical Mining

Average State Univ. Institute Institute Institute

Party 10.0 10.2 4.2 4.3 15.6 Komsomol 13.0 13.2 5.1 8.1 19.1 1923/24

Other 77.0! 76.62 91.77 87.64 65.3°

Party 20.922.0 6.722.8 9.2 8.0 6.18.8 17.8 Komsomol 9.7 1927/28

Other 57.1° 69.57 82.88 85.1? 72.514

Party 26.9 18.6 11.8 26.1 Komsomol 40.9 35.8 43.4 n/a 25.2 1933/34

Other 32.210 45.613 44,811 48,712

Party 29.436.9 11.7 19.8 6.0 18.4 Komsomol 45.0 40.9 30.0 52.0 Other 33.7 43.3 39.3 64.0 29.6 1935/3614

Sources: (1) TsGA SPb, £.6276, op.69, d.35, 1.8. (2) TsGA SPb, f.6276, op.69, d.3, 1.36. (3) TsGA SPb, f.3025, op.1, d.4475, 1.7. (4) TsGA SPb, f.3132, op.1, d.5o0, 1.49. (5) Sbornik LGI, 39. (6) Otchet Leningradskogo proletarskogo studenchestva, 5. (7) TsGA IPD, f.984, op.1, d.249, l.1. (8) TsGA SPb, f.3025, op.1, d.4475, 1.7. (9) Pul’s, 25 June 1927. (10) TsGA SPb, £.6276, op.35, d.17, 1.57. (11) TsGA spb, f.3025, op.4, d.282, ll.14-16 . (12) TsGA IPD, f.80, op.1, d.317, 1.39. (13) Arkhiv Istorii Leu,

fru, d.208, l.4. (14) GARF, f.5574, op.4, ed. khr.37, l.2 (figures for 1926/27).

Forging a Stalinist Community

Vigilance, “communist discipline,” cultural and civic instruction de-

fined the student community of the 1930s. Ideas associated with kul’turnost’ (literally, “becoming cultured”) dominated the state’s instructional strategy. Kul’turnost’ embraced a broad set of principles guiding students’ academic and leisure activities. It implied an unwritten social contract promising the benefits of socialism in return for ful-

filment of civic obligations. Students became part of the new generation of consumers, encouraged by outward signs of prosperity and materialism but discouraged when base realities confronted them. Although they might have absorbed this image of prosperous socialism, students constantly had to readjust their perspectives when life failed to

92 Builders and Deserters

measure up to expectations. During his speech to the first all-Union congress of Stakhanovites in November 1935, Stalin proclaimed, “Life has improved, comrades. Life has become more joyous. And when life is joyous, work goes well.”®* The “Stalin Constitution,” introduced the following year, with its apocryphal guarantees of individual liberties and proclamations about recent achievements, served to glorify the

general secretary and the ussr. But was life, in fact, becoming more joyous for the average student? The data on funding, accommodations, nourishment, and health suggest that improvements were in most cases marginal and relative. Stalin’s new generation was privileged in some

ways but in other ways deprived. , In the 1930s, funding policies changed to reflect the new meritocratic order. Stipends ostensibly were no longer rewarded on the basis of a candidate’s social origins. Instead, regulations introduced in 1932 created a graduated funding system based on merit, subject discipline, and seniority. One year later Sovnarkom attempted to improve its reputation with students, increasing bread and sugar rations and stipends by 15 rubles per month. Stipends went up once again in 1937 (they ranged

from 130 to 200 rubles per month).°3 Contemporary commentators proudly pointed to the overall increase in the percentage of students receiving stipends as evidence of higher living standards, but the adjusted level of funding actually received by students tells another story. Data from five Leningrad vuzy in 1933-35 show that from 69 to 88 per cent of all students received stipends. Budgetary figures from three of these reports indicate that almost half were living below the subsistence level (taking into account the fact that expenses were much higher in Mos-

cow and Leningrad than in other cities). Although expenses on monthly rent declined, the proportion spent on food and miscellaneous items rose from the previous decade.*4 Did life get much better for students living in dormitories? Most accounts — and students offered plenty of them — suggest that little had changed. According to one veteran resident in 1938, the fact that expectations had been raised made the marginal improvements all the more discouraging.®5 The government had launched several well-publicized attempts to improve the situation. Sovnarkom, for example, delegated

additional funds for housing and supervised socialist competitions, which were designed to encourage students to promote the dormitory as a “model cultural living space.” Sanitary and hygienic conditions and the organization of reading rooms and other cultural facilities all came under the microscope, drawing both neat and slothful students into the spotlight.8° The generally lamentable state of dormitories remained a fa-

miliar news item throughout the decade. Each month the Leningrad

93 Shaping the Community

Party daily ran stories about dilapidated, unsanitary, or overcrowded dormitories in Leningrad. Correspondents blamed the mess on negligent dormitory officials, the broken promises of Sovnarkom, and the sloppy habits of residents. A story in a September 1935 issue of Leningradskaia pravda was typical. The author, V. Volgin, profiled two dormitories at

Leningrad State University. Mytnia, the main residence, was to have undergone yet another round of repairs before the start of the academic year, but the work, as was usual, fell behind schedule, and incoming stu-

dents found themselves studying amidst hammering, plastering, and scaffolding. Residents were forced to become highly mobile. After students on the first floor received orders from the commandant to evacuate their rooms, they tied personal possessions to a pulley and hoisted them to the fourth floor, where they stayed until the repairs had been

completed. At the other dormitory, repairs had “officially” been finished two weeks earlier, but no one would have known it from the scaffolding, half-plastered walls, and broken furniture lying around. In the opinion of Volgin (no doubt wishing to promote cultured living standards), this messy situation encouraged students to let other things fall into disrepair at the dormitory.*”

Overcrowded dormitories continued to produce tense situations. From the limited figures available, it is difficult to tell whether or not there was an overall improvement in living space for the individual student. The proportion of students living in dormitories rose as the state funnelled more money into residences, but there was only a marginal increase in the amount of space actually available. From this perspective, it is hard to make the case that the environment was more “cul-

tured” than in the previous decade. Personal feuds and selfish behaviour, despite exhortations to promote a more cultured studenchestvo, did not disappear overnight. Complaints about theft, noisy

neighbours, and the annoying habits of other students continued to plague everyday life.°®

The emphasis on individual achievement tended to have a deleterious effect on the communal movement. Student newspapers reported that much of the enthusiasm for communes had dwindled considerably by 1931. Financial crises and quarrels over work assignments occurred now and then to further erode the movement. At the Electro-Technical Institute, the reduction in funding for communes after 1931 and the waning interest of students precipitated a number of reforms. Housing committees affiliated with the student organization assumed stricter control of communes, subjecting them to tighter fiscal discipline. A spate of critical articles in student newspapers cast blame on residents and appointed executives for their uncomradely conduct; some went so

94 Builders and Deserters Table 3.6 Living Conditions

1927 1929 1933 1935 1937 Average Living Space in Dormitories (m?)

Leningrad Average 3.51 6.12 403 4.04 5.68

Mining Institute n/a 6.42 4.03 4.59 5.59 Living in Dormitories (Yo) _

Leningrad Average 27.06 32.07 35.63 37.04 43.98

Mining Institute | nla 49.0? 48.23 nla n/a Sources: (1) TsGA SPb, £.6276, op.70, d.3, l.2 (figures for vtuzy only). (2) TsGA SPb, f.6276, op.70, d.6, 1.45; TsGA IPD, f.80, op.1, d.138, 1.5. (3) TsGA SPb, £.6276, op.35, d.3 5, Il.3-5. (4) TsGA SPb, f,6276, op.35, d.75, L.61. (5) TsGA SPb, f.8811, op.3, d.32, l.21. (6) Otchet Leningradskogo proletarskogo studenchestva, 33.(7) TsGA SPb, £.6276, op.7o, d.6, 1.45. (8) GARF, f.2306, op.70, ed khr.3618, l.50. Figures for percentage living in dormitories are for RSFSR only.

far as to question the validity of communes. Problems with food, hygiene, and finances at the Chemical-Technological Institute’s main commune led one student to call for a consolidation of overcrowded communes into a singular organization that admitted only “proven communalists.”®9 In 1934 communes were officially disbanded and the

Leningrad Council of Trade Unions (Losps) took control of their space. In their place, student councils established managerial committees for every twenty-five dormitory residents; these committees were to coordinate cultural and political work and provide for the “sanitaryhygiene needs” of members.?° The withering away of communes reflected broader trends in higher education. By consolidating communes as administrative units, the state was able to achieve its dual goal of cutting expenses and centralizing control over communes. Nevertheless, students themselves were the ones ultimately responsible for killing communes. Concerned with maintaining high academic standards and managing a busy personal schedule, they lost enthusiasm for collective tasks. Education was now a business that demanded their full

attention.

Problems related to communal dining facilities added to the perception that the state was incapable of delivering on its promises. In 1933 Sovnarkom launched yet another campaign to improve the situation in

dining-halls by increasing bread and sugar rations and reassuring everyone that cutlery shortages and long line-ups were now things of the past. Student publications encouraged this effort by sponsoring a competition for the best dining-halls.9* While claims soon abounded

95 Shaping the Community

that the situation had improved, the indignant tone of local reports suggests that the old issues of food quality, hygiene, and employeepatron relations had not disappeared.?” Added to that, the diet for students had scarcely improved. According to a survey of several dining-halls in 1935, the average monthly menu included the following offerings: meat courses on thirteen days; fish on six days; and whole grain dishes and fresh vegetables, five and - four days respectively. Black bread, soup, potatoes, pancakes (bliny), and cabbage constituted the bulk of the diet.93 Authorities urged local officials to discipline employees who smoked in the kitchen, failed to use proper hygiene, or ignored patrons’ requests. Students continued to engage in shouting matches with employees and to behave rudely in the dining areas. In this atmosphere it was difficult to create the kind of model dining-hall that would meet the lofty goals of Sovnarkom.™4 Health care had improved somewhat by the mid-1930s, with most vuzy establishing medical clinics, but this did not necessarily translate into a better health situation. The demands of study and extracurricular work, combined with daily frustrations involving housing and diet,

continued to take their toll. Medical reports in the late 1920s had noted that exhaustion, nervous disorders, and chronic ailments were serious problems,?> and there was little change in the following decade.

Reports from the Mining and Chemical-Technological institutes in 1933-34 indicated that the number of illness-related lost work days had risen. The Mining Institute’s clinic gave figures on the average height and weight of students (168.1 cm and 63.3 kg respectively for men, 159.8 cm and 58.0 kg for women). The unnamed physician who compiled this report believed that poor general health and lack of physical activity were the major reasons that most students did not have a

robust constitution.°° His conclusions echoed the remarks made by physicians near the turn of the century and in the 1920s. Despite all the

declarations about progress, students still faced substantial physical and material problems. After all, being a member of a privileged generation did not come without a cost. Stricter conventions with respect to conduct and behaviour marked student life in the 1930s. Rigorous personal comportment, disciplined study habits, and ideological orthodoxies — issues that will be examined more closely later on in this book — acted as guiding principles. To

complement their “well-rounded” upbringing, students were ordered to have more fun. Dancing, social occasions, and friendly chats once again became acceptable. All of this arose from the idea that citizens of a maturing socialist society required diversions. It was all right to exhibit “joy and relaxation” as long as it was part of an overall plan that rationalized and directed the individual’s life.97

96 Builders and Deserters

In his attempt to promote the principles of Rul’turnost’ in everyday life, I.G. Vaisman in 1932 conducted a detailed study of 500 students at Leningrad State University. He examined living conditions, study habits, and recreational activities. Vaisman was concerned about the glaring imbalance between work and recreation. Students spent an average of nine hours per day on studies and thirteen hours per ten-day period on public work. Meanwhile, they devoted eighteen minutes to theatre and cinema, three to eight minutes to newspaper reading, and only six minutes to sports. In a follow-up survey conducted one year later, Vaisman found that the situation had changed little. Students, he said, continued to devote far too little time to cultural activities. Of equal concern to him was the fact that the emphasis on public work and studies did not promote the idea of a well-rounded, broadly educated student with a high level of cultural awareness.?° Vaisman’s conclusions would have been seen to support the ongoing

effort to raise the level of kul’turnost’ in the student community through independent reading and organized recreational activities. However, exhortations for students to improve their general knowledge

and show more of an interest in non-academic activities betrayed an underlying contradiction in the Stalinist higher-education system. How was it possible for students to devote time and energy to “inconsequential” affairs if at the same time they were expected to achieve and main-

tain high academic standards? The most frequently applied solution involved obligatory cultural and recreational activities. State-sponsored festivals, mass sporting events, and the expansion of club activities by the mid-1930s formed the core of the state’s strategy for cultural education. Regional affiliates of the all-Union student organization staged official “student days” that emulated the hallowed tradition of orientation weeks. Students gathered to promote socialist competitions, volun-

teer societies, and the development of reading rooms. Many of the gatherings reached a massive scale. In May 1934 a giant “proletarian student festival” opened in Moscow. The festival, attended by 80,000 students, included open-air concerts, sporting competitions, and fireworks. The head of the Moscow Komsomol and the commissar of heavy industry gave speeches praising the studenchestvo and urging students to transform each and every higher school into a “cultural university. ” 9?

The “cultural university” was any institution offering an appropriate

balance of academic, cultural, and political work. As the idea of kul’turnost’ — encompassing much more than literature, theatre, and recreational activities — gained acceptance, communal living quarters were transformed into arenas for cultured competition. Dormitories conducted socialist competitions between floors to single out the neat-

97 Shaping the Community

est kitchens and rooms. Clubs offering the best variety of films, books, concerts, and so forth received the honorary title of “most cultured.” Even though their administration and organization were rarely of the highest calibre, the clubs run by student organizations in cooperation with local housing committees encompassed a wider range of activities

than in the previous decade. The Mining Institute’s club had its own cinema and red nook, but they were poorly maintained and not always open at the specified hours. Plans to arrange a gallery of portraits of Soviet leaders in the lounge and install radios were still up in the air in 1934. But the club claimed success in the development of new drama and music groups, as well as in special “cultural lectures” on the historic sites of Leningrad.'°©°

The clubs organized trips to theatres, cinemas, concerts, and museums. The works of past and contemporary Russian composers, artists, and writers once again took a prominent place in the cultural curriculum. The cinema played an especially important role in cultural educa-

tion and leisure time. In the 1930s Sovkino, the state film agency, maintained a tight rein on film content. Western imports, which had dominated the silver screen during the early 1920s, had been replaced by a new genre of Soviet productions that emphasized content over form and rendered oblique political messages. Students were exposed to a variety of films. Some involved espionage committed by capitalist agents or domestic enemies of the people (Wife of the Statistics Secretary, shown at the Chemical-Technological Institute in 1932, was of this genre). Movies such as Genghis Khan were approved because they emphasized the new Party line, focusing on the role of the heroic individual in history. Many films featured themes of vigilance and the inev-

itable triumph of socialism. Party Card, a production shown to the Leningrad Forestry Academy’s Komsomol organization in 1936, met all the necessary requirements. According to the academy’s “film critic,” the movie offered important lessons to all young Komsomolites. The story begins with the murder of a Komsomol cell secretary by a kulak, who takes the victim’s Komsomol membership card and uses it

to infiltrate an arms factory. He slowly “gains the confidence of the workers and the administration in the factory ... through his cunning ways.” But the evil genius is ultimately foiled, rather predictably, by a dedicated proletarian girl. The villain falls in love with the heroine and marries her, but because of her vigilance and the steadfastness of the local Party organization, he is eventually unmasked and arrested for at-

tempted sabotage. Kriger, the film critic, concluded bluntly: “Every student at the academy must see this interesting and useful film.”1°? The expansion of “volunteer” societies, public fund-raising, and recreational activities reinforced the new ethos of cultured and collective

98 Builders and Deserters

work. The Komsomol took a leading role in this movement, sponsoring special fund-raising campaigns in support of the construction of dirigi-

ble airships, expeditions to the Arctic, and volunteer groups that assisted the Red Army in building up its defensive capabilities. Founded in 1927, the Society of Friends of Defence and Aviation-Chemical Construction (Osoaviakhim) became a major part of the recruitment drive for mass participation in “volunteer organizations.” By 1938 almost

every institution had a subsidiary organ of Osoaviakhim. Summer camps became a standard part of this new volunteer ethos. Sponsored mostly by local Party and Komsomol organizations, the camps combined recreational activities with instruction on civil-defence preparations and basic physical training. The idea was to promote a healthy body, cultured mind, and patriotic attitude.’

Additional money and resources went into other forms of recre, ational activity. Organized sporting events, promoted as an aspect of the cultured union of a disciplined mind and body, played their part in civildefence preparations. The slogan first approved in 1931 by the Central Committee, “Ready for Work and the Defence of the Ussr,” formed the basis for an official organization of that name, with responsibilities in the areas of military training and civil defence.t°3 Organized sport in. vuzy developed as part of the expanding network of mass sporting clubs

and spartakiads in the ussR during the 1930s. The main goals behind these activities were to promote mass public participation, showcase Soviet achievements, and provide an additional dimension to the struggle against the bourgeoisie. Annual spartakiads began in 1934, pairing off institutions and people’s commissariats against each other in team and individual sports. The winter spartakiads included skiing, skating, curling, and hockey competitions. The largest of them, sponsored by the Komsomol in 1935, brought in thousands of competitors. Institutions

competed against each other with the idea of promoting personal achievement and institutional collegiality. Winners of competitions went

away with special certificates and front-page profiles in their student newspaper, and all competitors, as a rule, received diplomas in recognition of their participation. Although the standards achieved by the winners normally were not particularly high, the competitions generated a great deal of enthusiasm among athletes and spectators alike.*%™ Politics,

however, inevitably got in the way of pure sport, as commissariats scrambled frantically to recruit the best teams and individual athletes so that they could declare victory both on the physical culture front and on the playing field.'°5 All this was a far cry from the anti-competition phi-

losophy of physical culture advocates during the 1920s. | All these activities involving physical education and civil-defence training took place amidst an increasingly unstable international situa-

99 Shaping the Community

tion. Following the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact in August

1939 and the German invasion of Poland in the same year, Stalin moved to secure buffer zones by annexing Bessarabia and swallowing up the Baltic states and the eastern half of Poland. The Young Pioneers’ slogan — “Always Prepared!” - became the catch-phrase for all students. When the Germans invaded the ussr on 22 June 1941, students rushed to join the “patriotic” war effort. By December 1941 the Germans had reached the outskirts of Moscow and surrounded Leningrad, beginning a 900-day siege of the city that would starve the population into submission. People had to try to survive on less than 100 grams of bread per day, selling their possessions on the black market for a day’s rations; some resorted to cannibalism.'°® Hundreds of senior students were given the chance to finish their program one year early, owing to

wartime circumstances. Many of them did so during the winter of 1941/42, but by the spring thirty-eight vuzy were evacuated and thou-

sands of students went to the front without having completed their course of study.

The blockade conditions made it all but impossible for students to continue their studies. Lena Kazantseva, a student at the Bibliographic Institute, recalled those days: “It was hard to attend lectures in a coat and felt boots, in an auditorium so cold that the blackboard was frozen; it was difficult making one’s way daily to the institute in a state of hunger in this extraordinary cold ... The feeling of starvation overtook everything else. Quite often we had famine-induced hallucinations. The hardest task was to think not about food, but about lessons and passing tests and examinations.”*°7 The Technological Institute alone sent Over 3,000 students and teachers to defend the city and man the barricades. Students from Leningrad State University formed special brigades that were mobilized for a wide range of activities. More than 700 students failed to return. It was not until 1947 that those who survived the war could resume classes and finish their degree.1© The transformation of the higher-education system and the interventionist role of the Party-state provided the framework for the development of a new type of student community. The revolution in higher education was multidimensional in nature. It was a political revolution, fundamentally altering the structure and goals of the higher-education system, and it also entailed a social and cultural revolution, with ambitious strategies designed to introduce a new form of byt, one germinated from socially discriminatory policies, schemes to “rationalize” lifestyle, and attempts to organize students as a cohesive unit. The transformation of higher education and the accompanying changes in the student population were impressive in scope: as the system ex-

100. Builders and Deserters

panded and diversified, new generations of students from previously disadvantaged backgrounds climbed rapidly up the ladder of social and professional mobility. But the ultimate impact of the revolution on student life, as the remainder of this book explores, is ambiguous. The clash between doctrine and reality forced students to repeatedly readjust their life and education strategies. Proclamations concerning lifestyle improvements and the attainment of high levels of culture stood in contrast to daily tensions, near-poverty living conditions, bureaucratic quagmires, and indifference to the plight of individuals. All of these factors had an impact on the multidimensional student experience of politics, professional training, and social interaction, and they serve to highlight the tremendous difficulties entailed in re-educating a

generation according to the convoluted models formed by Soviet socialism.

CHAPTER FOUR

Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

In 1936 Leningrad Communist University student A. Knopova stood up in front of her political discussion group and blurted out the following: “I disagree with Stalin when he says that everything is all right with the peasantry. In several regions the attitude of peasants towards Soviet power has become noticeably worse. Extraordinary measures have been used to repress the middle peasantry. If we continue with these policies, they will lead to a razsmychka [breaking] with the peasantry. Stalin addresses the issue very optimistically. He has followed

through with the farm policies but they lack any planning.”* As a Communist Party member and a student, Knopova clearly was aware that outspokenness would land her in trouble. Indeed, she was expelled from the Party and reprimanded by the university administration for uttering these remarks. Knopova, and thousands like her, experienced the pressures that accompanied membership in an organization that did not tolerate dissent. This chapter examines the process by which the Communist Party reined in student activism and established a new framework for student organizations. The Party used its ancillary agency, the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students, to accomplish this goal. Between 1917 and 1926,

the crude machinery of Party politics processed the raw material of youthful political and ideological vigour. After the usurpation of independent student councils, independent-minded students became targets for intimidation and repression. During the first five-year plan a new generation of student activists, identifying their goals with socialism, attacked the NEP system and its holdovers, but the tide of radicalism was

checked as it began to threaten established channels of authority in higher education. By the mid-1930s, with student organizations firmly under the control of trade-union councils, the studenchestvo had been relegated to the status of a state-sponsored corporate group.

102 Builders and Deserters

Although they faced the arbitrary intervention of the police state, students were not entirely powerless in shaping their own environment. In politics students assumed a dual role as objects and precipitators of political acts. Communist students led periodic attacks against imagined enemies of the state, participated in “public work,” and pressured negligent officials to redress their grievances, but the empowered student remained vulnerable to unpredictable outbursts from within the Party. Students who belonged neither to the Party nor to the Komsomol (by the early 1930s, non-affiliated students were in the minority) usually chose anonymity as their survival strategy.

REORGANIZING THE

STUDENCHESTVO, 1922-28 Punitive campaigns against student opposition groups took place in the first years of the NEP. Arrests in the spring of 1922 and the promulgation of new statutes for higher schools brought the days of independent

student councils to an end. Early in 1922 the Communist Party took further steps to integrate student organizations into the Party apparatus. The Central Committee in February instructed student leaders to form cells and report to the Party bureau, which was in charge of work organized through special sectors. In April the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students was established to coordinate political and social activities. By February 1923 it had united thirty-seven regional bureaus with a total of 22,000 members.3 A vertically integrated apparatus administered student organizations, with each vuz organization reporting directly to the regional bureau charged with sending delegates to Central Bureau meetings. The administration for student organizations came under the jurisdiction of the All-Union Council of Trade Unions (vTssPs) to facili-

tate the recruitment process. Trade-union sections (profsektsiia) appointed a governing trade-union committee (profkom), uniting the “sectors” of activity under each organization and linking them to tradeunion organs. A mass-recruitment drive began early in 1923, and by the fall of that year the TsBPs reported that over 4o per cent of all students had officially joined trade unions. By the spring of 1926 the Leningrad Bureau of Proletarian Students managed to register 64 per cent of all

students (with wide variations according to institution), although far fewer than the total actually participated in activities. Being a member of a trade union did not necessarily mean that one had become a communist. Only 23 per cent of Leningrad’s students had joined either the Communist Party or the Komsomol — a slightly higher proportion than in Moscow. Career-minded students, however, realized that trade-union membership was the best way to get ahead in the new system.4

103 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

The 1924 Proverka

In November 1923 rectors and representatives from Narkompros met in Moscow to discuss the ongoing crisis in higher education. A budgetary deficit and the poor quality of students were the dominant issues discussed during the session. Amidst the turmoil that had followed the release of Trotsky’s “Declaration of 46” in October 1923 (Trotsky had criticized the Central Committee’s restrictions on policy discussions), rectors struggled to formulate a viable educational strategy. The crisis culminated in the May 1924 “verification” (proverka) of students. The proverka had a three-pronged strategy: to purge non-proletarian elements and Trotskyist supporters, to weed out academic underachiev-

ers, and to assume a hard-line stance in higher-education policy. Although it failed to meet most of its objectives, the proverka had a profound impact on the studenchestvo. Aside from resulting in the expulsion of thousands of students, the purge permanently changed relations between student councils, the Communist Party, and academic institutions.

The architects of the student verification had conflicting agendas. The Communist Party, although publicly professing a desire to bring apolitical elements into the student movement, utilized the purge to eliminate political opposition groups and cleanse higher schools of social undesirables. Narkompros focused on unworthy academic candidates and perpetual students who allegedly had clogged up the system. The Party betrayed its motivations for the purge in its rigid categorization of students by political attitude. Beginning in 1921, the Central Committee instructed its subordinates to fill out monthly or bimonthly reports on students. Local Party organs assessed the activities of students and classified them according to their attitude towards Soviet

power, most often using the terms “hostile,” “ambivalent,” and “active supporters.” The reports tended to be peppered with the kind of language that would convince central Party organizations that local officials had been vigilant.5

The issue of political opposition came to dominate student politics, and nowhere was it more controversial than in Petrograd/Leningrad. Tensions between the Petrograd Bureau and the TsBrs from the outset provided ammunition for the Central Committee as it prepared to subdue “localism.” The widening rift between Petrograd and Moscow symbolized the growing pains of the cumbersome Party-state apparatus during the 1920s as it tried to reconcile centralization with local political and economic needs, Petrograders were reluctant to submit

to demands that they establish a regional bureau with direct links to Moscow. Sirotinin, the Petrograd Bureau chairman, was a very

104 Builders and Deserters

stubborn fellow. Having joined the Party in 1920, he referred to “Party democracy” in his unrelenting insistence that discussions take place on

this problem. But the Central Bureau, its patience exhausted by the time of the first plenary meeting in March 1924, rejected his proposal. Insubordination in the Petrograd Bureau had already prompted the Politburo in March 1923 to investigate opposition sentiment, and Sirotinin’s issue added to the perception that things were out of hand.® After

a long and heated debate, Central Bureau chairman N. Vaskan’ian, with the support of almost all other regional delegates, officially censured Sirotinin and his delegation. Vaskan’ian, who had joined the Party in 1917 and worked in various administrative capacities, person-

ified for Sirotinin and his delegation the archetypal bureaucrat. He chaired a hand-picked bureau of 196 members, 181 of whom were’ ~

men and only 30 non-Party delegates.” | Tensions between Petrograd and Moscow had surfaced amidst the crisis over the Trotsky opposition. According to a Leningrad Agitation and Propaganda (Agitprop) Bureau report, students accounted for almost half of the delegates voting against the censure of Trotsky at a Party conference in the fall of 1923.° Trotsky appealed to youth, and to students in particular, because he attacked the bureaucracy, was outspoken, and insisted that the interests of the working class not be sacri-

ficed to the compromises of the NEP (the latter appealed to the beneficiaries of open enrolment policies). Numerous discussions in Party meetings and top-secret circulars warning of the distribution of “Trotskyite literature” created the impression that students were about to stage some kind of coup.? In this atmosphere an “academic verification” in the fall of 1923 revealed its own hidden political agenda. The verification brought to light the extremely serious problem of classroom performance (in Moscow and Petrograd, 11 per cent of the student body were expelled for substandard performance and 23.5 per cent faced the threat of expulsion for failing one or more courses), but students reviewed by the verification committees were also expelled for allegedly falsifying their social origins or for harbouring, among other things, a “bourgeois outlook.” As one member of the central verification committee admitted later in his report, white-collar students faced enforced “coefficients” (quotas) for expulsions.*° The contrasting priorities of Narkompros and the Communist Party emerged once again after April 1924, when the Committee on Professional Education issued instructions for a verification. Paring down en-

rolment, reorienting students towards more “practical” tasks, and carefully checking each student’s social and political background constituted the official goals of this proverka. A Central Purge Commission supervised its regional and vuz affiliates; the proverka was to run

105 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

Tun copbreKoh Poccin. , Puc. Mad.

(E2* my as Re SS a, ‘to ii reat UN ae M : (]“442 i Ce ae Wy yy 7 .PEO 4 Y, y No fmm n | ag YP en yy Ale yj oe Oo Y, y7yy i ] |||4|Wy =I } 7

Bl ly. O Y LLf7ivy S ) Yy| yXt7| |s/7Yiij Hohiall\ye LALLY Abaya. . Monxorzo’i uecnonbr. Cryacnrs. Uepnopasoulit.

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ole \ ER, | FSA be UY nh SS Tif} Ce 46 Uy —™ iy | : 4 Sra: fi] =r O a Ga 7 eTMAD Cyapa. Manrwimxa na no6tryuxaxs. Viagehnnit KomMynncrn. Kontppenomouloneps.

Illus. 3 “Species of Soviet Russia.” An émigré newspaper satirizes the kinds of people and fashions that have been produced by the Bolshevik revolution. Top row, from left to right: “A girl”; “A young man”; “A student”; “An unskilled labourer [in this case, a member of the intelligentsia].” Bottom row: “A people’s judge”; “A street urchin running errands”; “A communist with firm ideological principles [on his badge: cpu]”; “A counterrevolutionary.” (Rul’, 12 May 1924)

from 5 May to 6 June. Statements in the press emphasized that the verification would seek to identify non-performers and perpetual students.

Good students, even those from non-labouring backgrounds, would have nothing to worry about. Officials projected that 20-25 per cent of the studenchestvo would be dismissed, although I.I. Khodorovskii, appointed to direct the Central Purge Commission, denied the existence of quotas for expulsions. He lied.**

If the Central Committee intended to use the purge to intimidate opposition-minded students, all indications are that it succeeded. Reports by Party organizations framed their observations in the appropri-

ate political lexicon, justifying the purge as a measure necessary to weed out unreliable elements and toughen the moral and political fibre of the studenchestvo. But the purge was uneven: faculties, Party organizations, and the Committee on Professional Education reported discrepant expulsion rates by social class and discipline. In the end, mass reinstatements (up to 40 per cent in some institutions) reversed some of the effects of the purge, resulting in a net decline in the proportion of

106 Builders and Deserters COBLTCHaN HayHa.

BEE cottamrora ts ms NCO: Benner ne , Pie, Mane , | Illus. 4 “Soviet science.” “8,586 stu-

OES dents were expelled from Moscow’s

Haas higher-education institutions. (Newspaim (i pers.)” Below: The thuggish-looking N | ( |ieAS , character on the leftconducted turns to the sor and says: “We theprofespurge 7 ay by the rules.” This cartoon, from an émi_ A f nw o7 gré newspaper, gives an interpretation of

A hil ple] Sonnet =] y 7 a if Pes 6 June 1924) )

NS | , 4 A how Party officials got rid of so many

oe,aeasWf, /{4Ly (| — Vexmouenie x cxbratn mpapioms,

working-class students in September 1924. In the long run the purge had a number of other effects: it alienated and intimidated much of the student population, angered the professoriate, and incurred the wrath of local Party officials, who complained that too many “hostile” students were being readmitted. The verification, although a poorly coor-

dinated operation, did manage to accelerate the process of centralization by subordinating student organizations to the state.™*

Communist Students in Crisis, 1925-28

The verification targeted not only the “former people” of the prerevolutionary era, but also the new cohort that had emerged under the socialist education system. Communist students who expected to have a greater role in political life found the reverse to be the case after January 1925, when the Central Committee drastically cut the number of student organizations and narrowed their scope of autonomous activities. This directive preceded attempts to ban student participation in academic councils. With respect to the ban, Agitprop deputy V. Iakovlev wrote early in 1925: “Do we now need student organizations to direct higher schools? The answer seems clear — no.” Iakovlev demanded that student organizations act as “normal organs of administration” under vuz Party organs, rather than as quarrelsome groups that pursued vague agendas. Professors supported this ban because they believed it would

107 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

rid them of self-styled administrators who constantly disrupted council meetings with their petty criticisms and political declarations."3 Restrictions on the administrative activities of student organizations were accompanied by further structural changes in 1925. The Committee on Professional Education and district Party organs took control of nominations for student council leaders, while trade-union sections secured a greater role in management. These reforms were part of a strategy to promote communist leadership and to supervise academic and political work.'4 The student council at the Leningrad Communist University in 1925 provides a good example of how the new structure took shape. The executive bureau, the chief governing unit, coordinated activities in five sectors: academic, financial aid, “organizational trade-union sections,” treasury, and comrades’ courts. The academic committee was in charge of student orientation, reviewing academic programs, scheduling extra-help sessions, and addressing grievances against professors. The financial-aid sector was responsible for matters related to funding and cultural/club work. The trade-union sections took care of job placements and other forms of labour. The treasury looked after the student organization’s financial situation and budgetary outlays. Finally, the comrades’ courts presided over disciplinary hearings, examining and investigating disputes in their institution.'5

As the Communist Party underwent its own metamorphosis in 1925-28, student organizations experienced enormous pressure to conform to the changing Party line. Vaskan’ian, the TsBPs chairman dur-

ing this period, presided over an organization that in 1926 had 214,000 members. More than 6o per cent of all students in the ussR had joined trade unions affiliated with the TsBps (the proportion of trade-union members in Leningrad was slightly higher), and 40 per cent had joined the Communist Party and/or the Komsomol. The largest trade-union affiliates — the Educational Workers, the Metallists, and Medical Sanitation — engaged students in manual labour brigades and

various cultural and educational campaigns. Being a communist was now a prerequisite for anyone wishing to take a leading role in organized politics on campus, but it also meant that one was vulnerable to the machinations of internal Party politics. Oppositionist attitudes, increased cynicism about and resentment towards state paternalism, a careerist mentality, and a more calculated approach towards organizational politics, all had their roots in the internal Party crisis that unfurled in the mid-1920s. Most of the overt political opposition had been crushed following the 1924 verification. The expulsion of Trotsky’s supporters forced the remaining disenchanted communist students into silent but involuntary acquiescence and most certainly convinced students who remained

108 Builders and Deserters

outside the Party that it would be wise to accept the current order. As an anonymous contributor to the Menshevik émigré chronicle noted in 1924, just about everyone was resigned to the new routine of “unanimous” decisions reached in council meetings.'® In 1925, however, the

rapid deterioration of relations between Leningrad Party secretary Zinoviev and Stalin revived the possibility of an internal opposition movement. Zinoviev, who originally supported Stalin in his battle with Trotsky, had begun to openly criticize the general secretary by the summer of 1925. The Leningrad Party leader stated his concerns about the impact of higher grain prices on the working class and expressed anger over Stalin’s dictatorial methods in the Politburo. With industry showing signs of strain and the Leningrad regional Party committee voicing its concerns about the restrictions on policy discussions, a serious clash between Moscow and Russia’s second capital became more likely.'7 Archival documents indicate that support for Zinoviev in Leningrad vuz Party organizations was fairly solid but conditional on his contin-

ued opposition to the Central Committee line. On the eve of the December 1925 Fourteenth Party Congress (when Zinoviev was defeated) and well into January 1926, student councils published resolutions calling for more policy debates. Following the congress, Party organizations engaged in heated discussions about the Central Committee resolution restricting debate. A. Nikitin, a student at Leningrad State University and a member of the Party bureau, did his best to force

a discussion on the issue but was censured after several of his colleagues warned that any further deliberation would be “anarchistic.” Elsewhere, threats and intimidation had succeeded in forcing Party organizations into line by January 1926, although a significant number of Zinoviev’s supporters remained in their positions and continued to speak out.'®

Restrictions imposed on regional student bureaus in 1925 reinforced

the suspicion of communist students in Leningrad that the Central Committee was deliberately persecuting them. At its plenary meeting in April 1925, the Leningrad Bureau of Proletarian Students charged that

the Central Bureau and Glavprofobr deputy M.N. Pokrovsky had strangled their independent initiatives.'? Naturally, the Politburo viewed this regional-minded attitude as an oppositionist stance. At a meeting with Leningrad Communist University students in January 1926, Politburo member V.I. Molotov had trouble convincing his audi-

ence that the discussion of and opposition to Party policies had to be _ curtailed. After Molotov finished his sermon, Minin, the student council leader, left in a huff with several of his supporters. Meanwhile, a delegation of five students, sent from the Sverdlov Communist University in Moscow to rally support for the Party line, encountered problems.

109 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

The Leningraders greeted them with uniform hostility - and a few punches. With the brute force of the Central Committee behind them, the Sverdlovites reported that eventually they “convinced” their counterparts that the Party line was correct.*° Factional activities following the defeat of the Leningrad Opposition

left local Party organs vulnerable to criticism for lack of vigilance; hence they compiled confidential reports on opposition activities, replete with strategic recommendations. Opposition members were characterized as two-faced, cunning political artists (“chameleons”) with a talent for deception, and thus everyone would need to display greater vigilance to root them out.?? After the formation of the United Opposition, under the leadership of Trotsky, Zinoviev, and Kamenev, in the summer of 1926, the Central Committee in November of that year issued a resolution demanding a ruthless offensive against all forms of factional activity. Party organizations in vuzy, told to uncover and expel opposition members, responded quickly with “counter-propaganda campaigns.” Reports of conspiratorial meetings at the university and elsewhere added to an already strained atmosphere in the early months of 1928. Most accounts did not single out students by name, although some did target specific faculty members and administrators as “rightists” or as individuals “hostile to Soviet power.”** If we are to believe the reports of student cells and faculty sections of vuz Party organizations, expressions of alarm at the muting of discussion had reached ep-

idemic proportions among students. Redozubov, a student in the Physics Faculty at the university, provides but one example. He had stood up and asked what others were afraid to ask: Why was “socialism in one country” the correct way to go, and what had happened to Party democracy? The Physics Faculty Party cell responded curtly to Redozubov’s claim that he was only pursuing a Leninist line, expelling him from the cell by an 88 to 3 vote.”3 The political fracas of 1924-28 contributed to fears that communist youth discipline was not what it used to be. Gone were the days when youth had struggled valiantly in the front lines of combat during the civil war. Now, with the NEP, it seemed that top officials in the Komsomol and Communist Party had convinced themselves that moral decay had infected youth. Membership in the exclusive club of the Komsomol had its privileges but also its drawbacks. Critics charged that the Komsomol had become nothing more than a convenient means of career advancement and that young communists exhibited an atrocious lack of discipline. In 1927 the Leningrad Komsomol committee published a long report decrying the “unhealthy” mood among the studenchestvo. This report expressed the general climate of intolerance by identifying patho-

logical and social defects as part of an all-embracing political crisis.

110 Builders and Deserters

“Despite some improvements there are some unhealthy views, among

which is a decadent mood among a substantial part of the student body,” reported Simich, the main author of the report. Simich cited several cases of suicide as evidence of a nihilistic mood among students. He rounded out his narrative by referring to drunkenness, absenteeism

: from political meetings or classes, a generally uncaring attitude, and the presence of opposition sympathies among Komsomol students. Noting the proliferation of “decadent” literature, such as Lev Gumilevskii’s Sobachtt pereulok (Dog Lane, 1926), Simich and the Komsomol committee concluded that more needed to be done in the area of moral instruction. Liublin, one of the officials who contributed to the report, lamented the careerism prevalent among Komsomol students: The majority of Komsomolites now coming into vuzy are newcomers, not having had the toughening experience of Komsomol work during the civil war, not having had to worry about the problems of the Komsomol, and not having experienced the joy of achievement. They have a careless attitude towards fulfilling their basic obligations (attending meetings, paying membership dues, etc.). In general, it seems to me that this stratum is attracted not by the Komsomol, but by the Komsomol membership card. They do not have the fighting spirit of members of a class organization ... instead, they are producing a dilution of the ranks.*4

Although it would be tempting to dismiss this report as generational bias and political grandstanding, some of the charges had foundation. Students could easily become cynical when they saw how the governing ranks of the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students and its affiliates

had isolated themselves from the rank and file, and when they witnessed the reward for outspokenness. Delegates to TsBPs plenary sessions from 1925 to 1928 consistently noted that students had lost faith in the ability of elected executives to protect their interests. Instead, the rank and file regarded appointees as bureaucrats who used the system for personal gain.*5 The Leningrad Bureau reported a noticeable drop

in attendance at meetings after 1924 and a reluctance on the part of members to offer candid remarks. Respondents to the Technological Institute Survey in 1926 displayed their own brand of cynicism. Although the majority indicated that in principle they supported: Soviet power, dozens pencilled in ambiguous or outright hostile comments. Two comments captured the mood: “I don’t like any of them,” and “None whatsoever, because all parties, including the RKP(b), chase af-

ter the blessings of the people and then forget about them.” In other words, students remained suspicious of established authority in any form.

| t11_ Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo The repression of opposition groups and the restriction of the administrative functions of student organizations made students much more cautious; they were now encouraged to accept the system of patron-client relations. Those who had been expelled during academic purges appealed directly to authorities and used the mantra of a difficult personal life or financial hardship in bids for a second chance. Sometimes parents got into the act — physician Iu.G. Malis used his acquaintance with M.N. Pokrovsky to secure the reinstatement of his son after his expulsion during the 1924 verification — but not everyone had recourse to personal contacts.?® Of course, the apolitical and ambivalent mass of the studenchestvo faced an entirely different problem: social displacement and disenfranchisement. Youth from non-labouring

backgrounds were caught in a quandary. Forced to work part time, they found it difficult to manage extracurricular obligations. As Ayn Rand noted in her semi-autobiographical account of life in the 1920s, the students from the “former people” category signed up anyway, realizing that it was dangerous not to participate with a brave face in cultural and political activities.*7

Political Education during the NEP

Speaking to a group of students at the Leningrad Communist University in 1926, regional Party official A. Minin enunciated the guiding principle for each communist student: “In all respects [Party members|] must be universalists, we must acquire an affinity for everything. All our actions must be geared towards one goal — the class struggle.”*° Minin expected each student to develop a sophisticated world-view

entailing a high level of political awareness and political literacy (politgramota). The political education program was based on the idea that ideological training would make students think and act like Bolsheviks. It acted as a

great equalizer, forcing everyone to learn the basics of MarxismLeninism. The Main Committee on Political Education (Glavpolitprosvet, under the jurisdiction of Narkompros) was responsible for rudimentary political education and propaganda.”? Preparatory schools for advanced professional training and mass-education institutions offered instruction

in rudimentary grammar, politics, and the social sciences. Secondary schools, workers’ faculties, technical secondary schools, factory training schools (FZU), industrial trade schools, and trade-union schools provided basic professional and political training for students entering the workforce. Other institutions were established for the sole purpose of training “politically literate” specialists. The Communist Academy and its affiliate, the Institute of Red Professors, trained specialists to replace “bour-

112 Builders and Deserters

geois” scholars. Communist universities and Soviet Party schools instructed students at rudimentary and intermediate levels. Numerous pedagogical and general instruction academic institutions in the 1920s joined the two original communist universities — the Sverdlov University

in Moscow and the Petrograd Communist University. The latter grew from the Worker and Peasant University, created in 1919 under the initia-

tive of writer Maxim Gorky and others. Communist universities had a mandate to teach a “singular system of a Marxist-Leninist world-view” and to conduct programs for instructors in Party history, the fundamentals of Marxism and Leninism, and dialectical materialism (workers had the option of enrolling in a correspondence program). By the onset of the first five-year plan, Communist higher schools enrolled 9,400 students and Soviet Party schools 43,400.3°

Political discussion circles (kRruzhki), which before 1917 played an important role in spreading Marxist doctrine among workers,3! were permanent fixtures in higher education during the 1920s. Two types

existed: “study circles” combined academic and political material, while “activity groups” concentrated on cultural excursions and public work. Higher schools established study groups in faculties and departments. An elder (normally a Party or Komsomol member) headed each group and reported to cell and institutional Party secretaries. Activity groups conducted political discussions and organized cultural activities and competitions with other schools. In study circles, students learned about the Marxist conception of history, state, and society, and discussed current events. This was all part of the general strategy to acquaint students with the basics of Marxism and dialectical materialism. By 1924 political kruzbki had become the most important venues for

political education. In Leningrad the trade-union section of the regional government helped organize a special “political library.” At various institutions discussions took place on Leninism, political economy, anti-religious movements, and other topics, along with excursions to villages and factories. At one factory a group of thirty Komsomol students from the Technological Institute helped out with the wall newspaper and invited workers back to the campus to watch “educational

films.” 3?

Students at the Leningrad Communist University received assign-

ments specifically related to their task of “actively assisting in socialist

construction.” They journeyed to far-off places and did their best to proselytize the locals. Petr Briukhanoy, a second-year student at the communist university, travelled to Dagestan in the summer of 1925 to conduct discussions about Soviet power. Briukhanov reported that while his meetings were well attended, the villagers had difficulty understanding his talks - on weighty topics such as the Communist Inter-

113 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

national and Zinoviev’s deliberations on various matters — because they

had a poor command of the Russian language. Another communist university student, A. Russkova, went to the March 8 factory (named after International Women’s Day) in Leningrad in April 1924 to do political work and examine the situation for women workers. When only a handful of workers showed up for the first meeting, the trade-union

committee threatened to blacklist all truants. Sixty attended the next meeting, but Russkova reported that female workers met her with “dead faces and a total lack of interest in participating in women’s work.”33 Such were the obstacles facing ambitious political activists. Changes to the political education curriculum reflected some of the broader trends in Party politics during the NEP. The Central Committee decreed in 1922 that all students should receive at least rudimentary ‘instruction in topics such as “Capitalism and the Proletarian Revolution” and “Political Structures and Socialist Tasks of the RsFsrR.” Students were required to complete one hour of classes per week, one term per year, in each of these subjects.34 The new subject of political economy, uniting the fields of politics, economics, and sociology, became a

core discipline. In 1923 M.B. Vol’fson published the first political economy textbook for vuz and Party school students. In the introduction to the second edition, Vol’fson defined political economy in the following way: “Political economy is a social science. It examines the general area of relations between people or between groups of people in society (the area of social-labour relations).”35 The political econ-

omy course was intended to teach students how social processes worked and how labour provided the cornerstone for building socialism. The idea was to apply theories of political economy along with the practical skills acquired at school to the task of socialist construction. By 1925, with the expansion of research activities conducted by organizations such as the Institute for the Study of the History of the Communist Party, the Central Committee had begun to pour more resources into the political education program. The creation of special Party history courses in February 1925 widened the scope of political instruction in vuzy. With the elimination of the Social Sciences Faculty, core subjects in political education took over a larger portion of the curriculum. Norms for most institutions included two to four hours per week of instruction in political economy and Party history during the junior years, followed by similar allotments of Leninism and dialectical materialism in the senior years. (The communist university and the technical vuzy offered more hours for such courses than was offered by general instruction or fine arts institutions.) Students read E.M. Iaroslavsky’s History of the vKP(b), M.N. Pokrovsky’s History of Russia from the Earliest Times, M. Vol’fson’s Textbook for Political

114 Builders and Deserters

Literacy, along with numerous works by Lenin and Marx and the Civil

Code of the RSFSR, annotated with commentary by a group of law professors. After 1926, works by Zinoviev (his History of the RKP(b): Essays came out in 1924) were gradually removed and replaced with several of Stalin’s short treatises (Path to October; The Foundations of

Leninism) 3° How much did students absorb from the assigned material? Not much, if we are to believe contemporary accounts. Party officials constantly complained that students lacked a basic knowledge of Marxism and current events in the Soviet Union and abroad. One survey conducted in 1925 found that 33 per cent failed their political education courses and 44 per cent received marginal grades. Authorities disagreed

over the reasons for this abysmal performance. The poor quality of teachers (most had little or no experience) provided one obvious explanation. Some commentators blamed the situation on the fact that existing programs were far too narrow and abstract.37 Others claimed that morale in the kruzhki was the source of the problem, that truancy and

apathy in discussion groups constituted major impediments to improved standards of political education. Inconsistent attendance at political discussions, especially after the 1924 verification, supported the

latter point. Some groups noted 90-100 per cent attendance rates, while others reported only 40-50 percent. In any event, the discussion circle remained an important part of the political education program.3®

During the verification, the Central Committee instructed purge committees to pay attention to a number of things when they examined discussion circles, factors such as the student’s social background, “attitude towards other comrades,” academic performance, and “Marxist qualifications.” Commentators frequently remarked on the low level of

political knowledge among students and offered curt verdicts on socalled social aliens and students who consistently failed their courses. Although insufficient political knowledge was not officially recognized

as grounds for expulsion, purge committees often added comments beside the names of expelled individuals to the effect that they were “politically illiterate” or had “insufficient Marxist standing.” Clearly, students had a hard time absorbing so much material and such a vast number of new concepts within a relatively short time period. When they misinterpreted the ideas in assigned texts or made political errors, they were usually corrected quickly and occasionally assigned supplementary instruction to ensure that mistakes were not repeated.3? Problems related to ideological indoctrination were symptomatic of

the difficulties facing the Communist Party as it attempted to transform the studenchestvo from a heterogeneous mass into a coherent political appendage of the state. As the Party apparatus expanded and the

115 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

supervision of its diverse constituencies became increasingly complex,

tensions grew between the “disenfranchised” rank and file and the higher echelons of the executive. Leningrad’s isolation and its subjugation under Muscovite control had a dual effect on the studenchestvo,

deepening their sense of alienation and cynicism and encouraging activist-minded students to adopt a more career-oriented perspective on politics and public work. Students understood the formulae offered in political economy textbooks and other materials as part of an unwritten social contract: loyalty to the Party in exchange for the possibility of moving up in the world. Opportunities were far greater for

communists, workers, and peasants than for students from nonlabouring backgrounds. The communist student, as part of the new vanguard, assumed the leading role within this transforming community. But leadership had its costs.

BUILDERS AND DESERTERS The political landscape in Soviet higher education underwent a drastic change in the fall of 1928 as the cultural revolution took hold. Calls for

vigilance and an ideological struggle fuelled assaults on various “fronts.” Shock-work brigades, a feature of the new generation of builders of socialism, accelerated the pace of work in competition with one another. Ideological militants actively sought out and “unmasked” enemies of the state. Students unable to follow the Party line melted into the realm of depersonalized categories: “panickers,” who worried over the fast pace of collectivization or industrialization; “deserters,” who had abandoned their assigned tasks; and “social aliens,” who concealed their class origins and work against the state. Communist stu-

dents grasped this critical opportunity to assume the position of a revolutionary vanguard. Shock-workers and shock-work brigades challenged symbols of the old order at every turn, demanding the destruction of outdated institutions.4° The lexicography of cultural revolution was accomplished through student newspapers, political meetings, and organized campaigns. This new revolution had both a destructive and a

reconstructive purpose: to smash the walls of the ivory tower and to build a big Red one, thrusting students from peasant and proletarian backgrounds into leadership roles. Rather than simply ferreting out vo-

cal opponents of Soviet power, the Party demanded that the broad mass of the apolitical studenchestvo participate in this second socialist

revolution — otherwise they would be relegated to the category of “class enemy.” Adopting a tone of alarm, student newspapers and other publications reported stories about individuals who concealed their social origins or aided their kulak relatives in the countryside. —

116 Builders and Deserters

Editorials declared enthusiastic support for an all-out offensive against

enemies of the state. | oe

~ The cultural revolution spawned a new student movement that, unlike its predecessor during the civil war and early years of the NEP, was sanctioned by the Communist Party. But the limits of the Party’s sup-

port for the movement soon became apparent. As described in the previous chapter, experimentation led to complete chaos in higher edu-

cation. The mobilization of student power worsened an already bad situation. When the struggle between local and region student bureaus, the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students, and Narkompros reached its apogee, enthusiastic Red brigadiers were reined in. Even the most ardent radicals began to realize that they had no choice but to accept the new education system with its emphasis on order and discipline. The Political Offensive

During its plenary meeting in May 1928 the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students outlined the major tasks facing the membership, which | had grown by 40,000 over the past year. Central Bureau chairman F.

Eideman, who was appointed in 1927, steered his organization through three difficult years. Eideman personified the new generation of communist student-bureaucrats. He joined the Party in 1922 and enrolled at the Leningrad Technological Institute, serving in various capacities in the student council, Party organization, and administration. Eideman directed the regional bureaus and local student organizations to push for the proletarianization of higher education, the development of political and cultural education programs, and improved funding.*" Eideman and the new chairman of the forty-two-member executive branch of the Leningrad Bureau, A.A. Nazarov (a thirty-two-year-old Party member, former OGPU employee, and workers’ faculty student who had taken over from L. Koz’min), found it difficult to juggle their roles as students and representatives of executive authority. Nazarov used his position to pressure the Committee on Professional Education on the issues of curricular reform and student funding, while taking care to show that he maintained vigilance against class enemies. Concerning this latter aspect, Nazarov reported that 593 Leningrad students had already been expelled during the 1928/29 academic year for “concealing their social origins.”4* But the Leningrad Bureau found that its power was limited. Moscow stymied Nazarov’s efforts to take specific initiatives related to curricular reforms and funding. During plenary meetings Leningrad delegates complained about the lack of effort on the part of the Central Bureau to secure more financial aid and about its propensity to impose “unworkable agendas” (for example,

117 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

elections of delegates without due warning). Several other regional bu-

reaus, echoing the complaints of Leningraders, noted that their con-

cerns had not been addressed.43 Politics took precedence over ideological crusading, exacerbating tensions between the Leningrad Bureau and its subordinate student organizations, which were constantly criticized by the former for failing to apply sufficient pressure on professors and administrators. Accusations and counter-accusations perpetuated the circular flow of complaints, joining local and regional student organizations with the Central Bureau and its adversaries in Narkompros in established rituals of blame and grievance. Even the most ardent students who championed ideological militance now realized that they could not bypass the ossified machinery of the Partystate apparatus.*4 In January 1929 representatives from vuz Party organizations met with regional Party committees to assess the political situation. Taking their cue from a report released by a special Central Committee commission on industrial-technical education, delegates focused much of

their discussion on the mood of the studenchestvo. Two delegates talked about a “resurgence of counter-revolutionary activity” and cited examples of anti-Party statements they had heard — all of them, in

their minds, encouraged by the hostile actions of professors. Others noted a deterioration in academic performance, although they disagreed on the causes.45 The meeting presaged a political battle in 1929-30 following Stalin’s defeat of the Right Opposition and his attempts to forge ahead with industrialization and collectivization. The Party purge of 1929/30 combined an intensive examination of Party members with a sweeping review of the political and academic creden-

tials of all students. The purge escalated from an exercise in internal verification into an act of ritualistic class warfare. Armed with figures showing that 23 per cent of the studenchestvo had failed the 1928/29 academic year, that non-communist professors were resisting the implementation of recent reforms, and that the studenchestvo included “politically hostile” students, the Central Committee called for an extensive examination of the higher-education system.4° Enemies were uncovered everywhere. Newspaper exposés profiled students who spoke negatively about the tempo of industrialization or collectivization. Anyone who was truant, caught with alcohol, or heard uttering pessimistic remarks about the future could be relegated to the broad category of “alien element.”47

The purge lasted from the fall of 1929 until the spring of 1930. During this time students attacked senior professors and openly challenged their authority, Party committees engaged in an intensive examination of members, and students battled among themselves for

, , 118 Builders and Deserters ,

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Thus. 5 “Inthe ring of enemies.” At the bottom: “ Several [Komsomol] cells are sleeping peacefully, not noticing the class enemies around them — petty tradesmen, priests, rabbis, and | sectarians.” This warning was directed towards Komsomolites

a in 1928 as the Party geared up for an offensive against class

enemies in the countryside. (KP, 7 March 1930) | |

political survival. In their reports the purge committees, appointed by

the district Party committee, noted problems similar to those discussed in J. Arch Getty’s study of the Communist Party: apathy, widespread drunkenness and indiscipline, the presence of “familyness” (the term used to describe nepotism), and a generally low level of political knowledge — especially among the younger proletarian _ students. Alcohol-related scandals topped the list. Charges of -alco-— holism were used to discredit communists with little clout, but influ-

ential Party members who had a drinking problem could usually count on getting away with a mild reprimand. The problem of politi- | cal illiteracy was not far behind. “Most students displayed an incor-

rect understanding of the July 1928 plenum,” wrote one purge committee member at the Technological Institute. Indeed, numerous reports noted a pervasive lack of political activity and poor political

awareness among the rank and file. This situation provided Party

-.«. OC eer

119 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

Ynoouble nepwnbiia

Uysal eeNent yacto mpommneet B BYB, MOAI ACH

CNPABKAMH COABCOBCTUB, upohconaos H PheHHMn peromcn Aa

we Puc. P. YEPHSKA

BY. Illus. 6 “Convenient handrails.”

| Caption at the top: “The alien ele-

Se fone ment often penetrates the vuz by makae sf ing use of references from sel’soviets

=) foe y > (1 (l [rural soviets], trade unions, and a me Pon a NN iD | | through other recommendations.”

Gr On his way an institute of higher “ i WT | , ai ieducation, anto“alien” (dressed to look a ——— Cryall like a bureaucrat) makes use ofa ae f ic cl ' handrail, case and by Eas AREAS | UNrepresented th f jate, thin | this soviet, ee | ran) Pye € professoriate, the rural soviet, an ees : \ oe ee =the trade union. At the bottom: “Hold oe FUL VRS bce yeaa MORIA, pa 9 ’ ee . h on to them,” the alien says, “I'll be

eURRE SU ECG nae11' .April 59 . eee SS going a longBGA way.”ae(xP,

ee ee Tee an 93 ‘ Tlepkace 3a HX, A Aaneko novpy. |

officials with the justification they needed to make a case for the imposition of tougher political education standards.4° From the Central Committee’s perspective, the purge revealed serious problems with the rank and file. The Central Control Commission reported that 11.8 per cent of all-Union Party membership had been expelled.49 Ultimately, the internal dynamics of vuz Party organs shaped the outcome of the purge more than the categorical imperatives of discipline and ideological training. As the beneficiaries of Stalin’s political revolution, members of the new Party élite exhibited considerable reluctance to remove their own supporters. The purge illustrated how local Party organs employed defensive tactics in order to minimize the damage to their own apparatus. Some of them took ten months to complete the purge, while others carried it out in less

than four months. The reported expulsion rates — ranging from 0.5 per cent (1 of 191 Party members) in the Leningrad Communist University to 6.3 percent in the Technological Institute — suggested

that some purge committees balked at undertaking an aggressive housecleaning.5° The new power structure that was rooting itself in vuzy and other organizations materialized as an entrenched bureaucracy, devoting much time and energy to the protection of local interests. As part of this new cohort, students made the rough transition

120 Builders and Deserters

from impulsive activists to individuals facing complex choices in po-

sitions of responsibility. |

Radicalism Eclipsed

The cultural revolution had its limits. Once things got out of hand, the Communist Party’s agenda, previously hidden behind a facade of vigilance and ideological crusading, came out into the open: the intention was to gain a tighter hold on student organizations. The “simplification” of the trade-union sections of student organizations in the fall of 1928 was a first step. This measure, in direct response to the criticism from the Central Bureau executive that regional deputies over the past

few years had lost touch with their constituencies, was intended to “bring students closer to the masses”; of course, it was the executive who had lost touch with the rank and file.5* The reform was part of an effort to prevent interference in administrative affairs. The Central Bureau dutifully went along with this and instructed its membership not to disrupt institutional affairs. Student councils underwent another reorganization in the summer of 1930, when their activities came under the direct supervision of local trade-union organs. The new arrangement, consisting of numerous “bureaus,” represented little more than a renaming of the existing system — save for the fact that student organizations found themselves more dependent than ever on trade-union organs for finances.5* These structural reforms were early steps in a process that would see

the eventual liquidation of regional student bureaus in January 1931 and the transfer of all authority to regional trade-union organs. The

chairman of the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students in 1931, L. Artemov (a Leningrad student and long-time Party member who had replaced Eideman in the fall of 1930), and his successor, M. Mitiukhin, who took over in January 1932, presided over the convoluted reorganization process. In the spring of 1931 the newly created Organization — Bureau (Orgburo) replaced the existing Secretariat, a body which at that time consisted of thirty-nine delegates from Moscow, Leningrad, and

several other regions. The Organization Bureau was in charge of the newly named Student Section under the all-Union trade-union council and its regional affiliates — a title that suggested its subordinate status within the trade-union apparatus. Regional organs of the TsBPS were liquidated, and the Leningrad Bureau had its functions transferred to the Leningrad Council of Trade Unions and its subdepartments. In its resolution on the liquidation of the Leningrad Bureau, the TsBPs declared that the “old opportunistic elements” of the latter had been purged (there are few details available on the housecleaning activities

121 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

that took place). Under the new system, responsibility for the mobilization and practical training of students shifted to various state organs. The revived communist student movement, after three years of turmoil, had served its purpose.>3 Instead of agitating in meetings and disrupting

studies, as one speaker noted at a Leningrad conference of shockworker students in April 1932, student organizations now turned to the

more important tasks related to disciplined learning, the mastery of technology, and the forging of closer links with production.*4 More complicated reorganization accompanied the September 1932 higher-education reforms, making it difficult for the average student to

understand exactly who was responsible for what. The Organization Bureau continued to coordinate the work of regional and district student organizations (sections). A new creation, the Central Bureau under the Central Committee of Trade Unions, controlled the Organizational Bureau. At this point a vertically integrated structure for re-

gional and local student organs reappeared (similar to what had existed in the 1920s). Trade-union committees now governed local or-

ganizations, and the “student group” acted as the general assembly for each faculty and/or department. Improvement of standards in academic, political education, and cultural work, along with questions of everyday life, became the official priorities. The Central Committee of the Communist Party made it clear that student organs were to work

under trade unions in a supportive role, rather than in the vanguard capacity they had assumed previously. The whole system rested tenuously on an explicit demarcation of duties among the responsible state agencies.) Student activists had experienced a full cycle of political change over four years, from the euphoric heights of activism in 1928-29 to neutralization in 1932. As these changes occurred, communist students altered their approach towards politics while unaffiliated students did their best to avoid being targeted as an enemy or “class alien.” The bipolarity of socialism versus anti-socialism — forced students to think and act in categorical imperatives, testing their political will and rein-

forcing the wall that existed between public ritual and private discourse. Through the use of appeals or petitions, students learned how to defend themselves against accusations. Communist students used several tested methods of self-defence. They blamed another person, other people, or administrative bodies for their situation, they admitted guilt but declared themselves redeemable after submitting to peers for mercy, or they offered emotional testimonies in the hope that officials would take into account their difficult material situation or their social origins. Of course, individuals from non-labouring backgrounds had less chance for a successful appeal.

122 Builders and Deserters

Files of the Leningrad Communist University in 1931 contain letters

of complaint and appeal, many from students who had been disciplined or expelled for specific violations. These letters give valuable glimpses into the lives of Soviet students for this period. The most common consisted of pleas for compassion in view of their difficult situa-

tion and declarations of “guilt with an explanation,” which usually included a request for redemption; the latter can be linked with the self-criticism movement within the Party, driven by Stalin’s attack on the Right Opposition. Some students explained the accusations against them as an unfortunate misunderstanding. Most of the appeals based on family needs arose not as a result of accusations of misconduct, but. from a desperate personal situation. A.P. Bogdanov, who requested a leave of absence and stipendiary support so that he could take care of his ill wife and son (both had contracted tuberculosis), was only one of many who used medical reasons as the basis for a request.5° Students accused of political or disciplinary violations tended to react either by admitting guilt and asking for forgiveness or by casting blame on others for their own alleged shortcomings. In his attestation, Gurianov, a third-year student at the Leningrad Communist University, tried to win back the confidence of the Party after having been accused of questioning Stalin’s policies in the countryside: I submit that while working on grain procurements in western Siberia, in the village of Andreev, under the sway of a difficult class struggle for bread, I expressed an opinion on the unrealistically high [procurement] plan for this village. I expressed and defended this opinion at a Party bureau meeting of 25/x11/30 in the neighbouring village of Korobinkov, and on 26/x11 at a plenary meeting of the [district committee] bureau and the [district control commission], for which I was expelled from the Party. At this time I consider this opinion as an example of ghastly rightist opportunism, because it occurred in the countryside during a period of very intense class struggle for bread and for collectivization ... Therefore, recognizing my entirely grievous political error, and my sincere wish to correct it in the struggle for results during the third year of the five-year plan, I ask the committee not to hold it against me.57

It would be an exaggeration to say that student politics always contained an element of logic. The curious affair of Pauper, a university student who worked on the editorial board of the student newspaper, brings to life this convoluted process of accusation and negotiation. Pauper allegedly had concealed the fact that his brother had served in the White Army; he was also accused of committing “political errors”

and refusing to acknowledge them. At a hearing before the control commission, several witnesses chimed in that Pauper was a very

123 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

unpleasant fellow who ignored others’ wishes. But Pauper fought back aggressively in his final statement to the commission: “The comrades speaking out against me, save for Danvolid, are doing this exclusively for personal motives. My relations with the group are poor because I always raise issues directly, and within the editorial board there is [nep-

otism| and the correspondence was all against me.” Pauper was confirmed as a Party member. Later on the control commission reversed its decision and expelled Pauper, prompting the defendant to send another strongly worded appeal refuting the charges against him. As a result, the commission changed its stance once again and merely assigned him a reprimand for “self-promotion.”5*® The picture here speaks of a sys-

tem wrapped up in negotiation, process, accusation, and counteraccusation. By engaging in these rituals, students learned important lessons in politics, patron-client relations, and survival tactics. The New Communist Elite

How did the targeted cohort of proletarian and communist youth fare during the first five-year plan? This “privileged” group — defined and shaped by state policies and social engineering strategies, beginning with the vydvizhentsy and Party ’thousanders (mobilized in 1928 by the Central Committee) — was supposed to form the core for the new generation of Red specialists (see pages 170-4). The task facing vydvizhentsy was a demanding one: “excel in scientific and mass work” and act as role models. Students targeted as vydvizhentsy had normally enrolled in a higher school by their second academic year. They had a supervisor and were given priority for accommodations and stipendiary support. Admissions committees selected vydvizhentsy on the basis of their political and social credentials, with academic qualifications a distant third priority. Mikhail Sherstiuk was one of the successful candidates at the Technological Institute in 1929. Sherstiuk was born in 1905 to a peasant family in Kiev. He began working in Petrograd in 1918 as a manual labourer, enrolled in a preparatory course in 1922, and later that year was admitted to the Technological Institute. From 1924 Sherstiuk led discussion groups; he worked with the Komsomol promoting links with factories and joined the production-apprenticeship and housing committees. After completing his examinations in 1926 Sherstiuk worked as a railway machinist for two years, whereupon he became a candidate member of the Communist Party and pursued additional studies. Sherstiuk was married but had no children. Aside from being a student for a slightly longer period than his colleagues (most of the forty vydvizhentsy at the institute in 1929/30 had first enrolled in 1923 or 1924), he was a typical promoted worker. 5?

124 Builders and Deserters

How well off were the vydvizhentsy and ’thousanders? Their status, like the political situation for the communist student vanguard, was in many ways tenuous. A report by the Leningrad Bureau of . Proletarian Students in 1929 suggests that despite many promises, the *thousanders faced housing and funding problems similar to © other students. Their average living space of three and a half square metres was in many cases insufficient, especially for those who were

married. The average stipend of 125 rubles per month, although higher than what most students received, was not enough to support a family.°° Poor relations between ’thousanders and other students became a major problem, the latter frequently showing jealousy or

resentment towards the “anointed” ones. The “thousand aristo-

crats,” as one student put it, were always quick to question the views of professors, particularly if professors displayed hostility towards © -anything to do with Marxism. In factories meddlesome ’thousanders

quarrelled with foremen and openly expressed their disdain for workers. The Leningrad Bureau acknowledged these problems and

blamed the following factors: }

1. Comrades from the ’thousanders regard themselves as politically superior to other Party students (in one incident [a ’thousander] refused to convene a meeting with the designated [Party] secretary, instead demanding [that the

Institute]) ... | |

meeting be with] the district committee Party secretary himself [Mining 2. The managing supervisors of higher technical school students ... with thinly veiled “smirks,” present their own living conditions and comment that they are to be part of the “privileged ’thousander” lifestyle, etc."

Ironically, the *thousanders, though the Party’s chosen group, became outsiders in their own community. In 1929 a group of students at the Agronomy Institute circulated a rumour that the ’thousanders had plotted a “coup d’état” against the administration and that they were trying to occupy the “commanding posts” of the institute. To further weaken the reputation of the ’thousanders, unnamed students spread the story that they had hosted orgies.°* Their arrogant demeanour and rapid promotion to the most sought-after production training posts set

them apart and created an uneasy situation. A poem by a student

named Igolkin characterized the problem: _ Asa promotee, he set off for the factory, but he left his books, his studies, behind,

And he is the type of promotee, 7 Who has become nothing less than a self-promoter.*

12§ Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

The isolation of and resentment directed towards ’thousanders were outward signs of how the student community felt about individuals granted privileges beyond those deemed appropriate. Traditional notions of collegiality, even at a time of sharp social-political differentiation, challenged the new artificially constructed categories. Indeed, the privileged communist was never fully trusted. Recruited as the best representatives of the proletariat, the ’thousanders epitomized both the artificial designs of higher-education policies and the limited ability of state power to transform the higher-education environment fundamentally. Lacking an accommodating infrastructure and, most importantly, a peer community amenable to privileged castes, the studenchestvo as yet had failed to live up to the expectations of its Soviet constructors.

POLITICS AND PURGES

IN THE 1930S From 1932 onward academic discipline and carefully delineated extracurricular work became priorities. In September 1932 the chairman of the new Organization Bureau, N. Mitiukhin, and his colleagues dutifully hailed the reorganization of the student administration as a correction of recent “distortions” - namely, the unauthorized and disruptive activities of student organizations.°4 The all-Union and Leningrad organs of student administration complied by conducting rather bland discussions related to the state of dormitories, inconsistencies in the marking schemes of professors, problems with dining-halls, and efforts to organize special cultural days and excursions. Student organizations took on the task of “examining all faces, all moods,” rooting out suspected Trotskyists and other enemies of socialism.°5 The Komsomol, representing “Stalin’s best,” began to take a leading role in student affairs. The Komsomol Central Committee directed its student constituencies to take command of cultural work and efforts to secure better living arrangements, but not to undertake any more than six hours per week of extracurricular duties. Socialist competitions and a special contest related to preparations for the Seventeenth Party Congress in June 1934 took up much time and energy (in the latter, the Leningrad student orga- | nization won top honours for its work).°° Komsomolites acted as role models for others: “rudeness, tactlessness, lack of self-control, and timewasting” were not countenanced. During meetings of the Leningrad student organization and the Komsomol in 193 5-37, in the midst of a serious political crisis, topics included “political-moral upbringing” and the obligation of trade unions to address students’ complaints. Unlike in previous years, students with no political affiliation were expected to conform to Komsomol standards.°7

126 Builders and Deserters

The reforms of 1931-33 failed to resolve administrative confusion or _ ease rivalries between regional and central student organs. Any casual

observer of student politics in the mid-1930s must have been confounded by the parallel channels of administration and authority. In an attempt to reduce the confusion, in September 1933 an executive instructor (Mitiukhin) was appointed, with regional assistants, to super-

vise the student affairs section. The Central Bureau of Student

Organizations became the new all-Union supervisory agency, but it could do little to eradicate ongoing disputes between local student sec-

tions and trade-union committees over funding.®® |

Subordination to trade-union organs may have given students a medium through which to pursue grievances, but it also placed additional burdens on leading activists. In the 1930s senior students, promoted

through the preparatory training system or through Soviet Party schools, shouldered the bulk of political duties in vuzy. As a result, they required special extensions to finish their degree programs — a situation that produced conflicts between Party organizations and faculty mem-

bers. Hardly anyone obeyed the strict rules limiting the number of hours devoted to political work. Communist students found that their political duties had expanded rather than diminished, and in many cases their requests to be excused from duties owing to difficulties with

microscope. :

school work were refused. In short, communist students were overworked, subjected to numerous pressures, and put under the political

Leningrad’s Descent into Terror The city of Leningrad experienced the full force of Stalinist brutality in the 1930s. It was a brutality nourished by a series of political crises and the growth of a vast police-state apparatus. Historian Robert Conquest has written that the 1930s were the decade in which Stalin’s “blueprint

for terror” subjugated helpless citizens to the arbitrary whims of the NKVD and the general secretary’s own paranoia. While not denying the

existence of an apparatus of terror, J. Arch Getty, Gabor Rittersporn, and others have suggested other ways of looking at the Party crisis of the 1930s. In broad terms they explain the dynamics of state-society relations as a product of multi-strata struggles within the Party apparatus that generated forces beyond the capacity of Stalin and his deputies to control. Although political terror after December 1934 emanated from above, movements triggered “from below” produced their own dynamics. In the recent work of several historians, it has been suggested that local and regional Party executives, rather than the rank and file, were the primary victims of the terror. The rank and file and those outside

127 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

the Party acted in many cases as the main accusers, employing the omnipresent discourse on “enemies of the people” and conspiracy theories to their advantage. Paranoia also swept through rural communities, allowing peasants to present grievances against corrupt local officials and give political agency to personal accusations.°? How did the higher-education system experience this decade of political terror? Although work has appeared recently on the impact of the purges in the scientific professions,’° very little exists on their impact in higher education. One can find evidence that simultaneously supports the “centre-periphery” conflict model, the thesis of the terror as Stalin’s blueprint, and the idea of purges as fora for the politically disenfranchised. The terror had a particular impact in Leningrad. The assassina-

tion in 1934 of Kirov sparked a wave of denunciations and power struggles within vuzy and their affiliated Party organs. Interest groups representing students and professors sparred with each other, raising the political stakes of professional-academic issues, as we shall see in the next chapter. The terror further complicated the ambiguous role of student activists, empowering them as political actors but also engendering a conspiracy psychosis. The post-Kirov witch-hunts made vic-

‘tims of individuals caught unavoidably in this whirlpool and left anyone vulnerable to a wide range of charges. Komsomol and Party members engaged actively in practices of denunciation while defending their positions of authority. Students connected the political terror with aspects of their everyday life, at times manufacturing explanations or

justifications for persecutions as a prescriptive solution to their personal or collective problems. They were forced, like everyone else, in historian Stephen Kotkin’s words, to “speak Bolshevik” at the right time and place. Their personal reactions to the terror mirrored the emotions recorded in reminiscences of the period: anger, guilt, and resigned hopelessness.7*

Stalin’s attacks in 1932 on the Syrtsov-Lominadze group and other so-called anti-Soviet organizations showed that the general secretary was determined to purge any potential opponents from the Party apparatus. In January 1933 the Central Committee announced a general purge (chistka) of all Party organizations “to ensure iron proletarian discipline in the Party and to clean out all unwelcome, unstable, and parasitic elements from its ranks.” In April it named the targets of the purge: class aliens, double-dealers, degenerates, careerists, and undisci-

plined elements. The Central Committee tried to “popularize” the purge by appointing only the most trusted communists in local organizations to conduct evaluations of the members. The idea, at least officially, was to avoid personal witch-hunts.”* In its instructions to vuz Party organizations, the Leningrad regional control commission noted

128 Builders and Deserters

the importance of making clear to students the goals and procedures of the purge. Rules had to be explicitly spelled out and publicized in stu-

dent newspapers. In order to encourage rank-and-file participation, control commissions ordered the placement of special boxes in which anonymous contributors could deposit attestations on the character or

past conduct of anyone.73 , The Central Committee’s declaration encouraged a revival of anti-

bureaucratic and class warfare rhetoric, but the final outcome of the purge revealed conflicting forces at work. The Trotskyite or “doubledealer” (dvurushnik) who hid behind many masks, became the new enemy. The flimsy evidence upon which Trotskyites were indicted showed

that their being “discovered” had more to do with political manoeuvring than anything else. Mints, a third-year student at the Polytechnical Institute, was one of many who fell victim to the paranoia. We know little about the unfortunate Mints except for the fact that he was dehumanized by the editors of the student newspaper: “Mints has shown himself as a demagogic Trotskyite. In the [study] group, he spoke out against honours projects.” Earlier, readers were told, he had concealed his social background in order to gain admission to the institute. “All of this speaks of Mints as a class enemy, worming his way

into the Party and into the institute.”74 Unlike its progress in most other organizations, the purge went ahead in higher education on schedule. Final figures for expulsions show that the purge had a more

damaging impact on the student population than the housecleaning had had in 1929, but was less damaging than the all-Union average. Expulsion rates ranged from 7 to 11 per cent, and the majority of those expelled had joined the Party after 1929.75 Factors addressed by the Central Committee in its fall 1933 reports — the tendency of local Party bosses to protect top officials while expelling others without sufficient evidence; cynicism among the rank and file — had a significant impact

on the results of the purge. Records of the exchanges between local Party organs and control commissions show how the former came under pressure to reassess some of the expelled members. In the fall and winter of 1933, district control commissions reviewed hundreds of appeals from students. A substantial number were upheld, suggesting that the commissions had duly noted the Central Committee’s directive.7° In the wake of Stalin’s disastrous collectivization campaign and his attempts to obliterate all remaining dissent, there were signs that both high-ranking and low-level officials had lost favour with the general secretary. Fearful of the repercussions of open dissent, individuals became much more cautious in their public and private utterances. Students tended to internalize misgivings while publicly acclaiming the benefits of socialism. As a former teacher explained it, even the apolitical students

129 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

had learned how to utilize a formulaic Bolshevik-speak effectively: they displayed vigilance by submitting notes to Party committees or making public accusations about the illicit activities of a roommate, acquaintance, or classmate; those accused, in turn, were forced to respond immediately to the charges.””7 The fate of Andrei Bezruk, a second-year student at the Chemical-Technilogical Institute who was investigated

after his group leader wrote a long note to the Party committee, was characteristic of the times. Bezruk, who had no political affiliation, was

accused of truancy and concealing his social origins. He first denied having falsified his background and then accused others of deliberately slandering him. His appeal was unsuccessful and he was expelled from

the institute, becoming one of many victims of the new era of vigilance.7°

While non-communist students did their best to avoid trouble, Party members faced in the purge the most intensive test yet of their political and psychological fortitude. Each faculty and vuz Party committee had to submit an activity report that noted the presence of any class aliens

and that described ongoing political work. Purge committees were careful to include profiles of class aliens in their reports, wanting to prove that they had done their job. They were particularly thorough when exploring the background and current political work of members. Issues of moral conduct, discrepancies in autobiographical information, and past opposition activities all came up in purge hearings. Students also faced tests on their political knowledge. The stenographic reports for the Chemical-Technological Institute in the fall of 1933 offer examples of the detailed process of questioning and evaluation. Stu-

dents were asked to comment on questions such as “What does our Party signify?” and “What is the difference between the Right and Left

Oppositions?” They tended to have trouble with “What is power?” and other theoretical questions. After the questioning, peers and purge committee members rendered final evaluations for each individual.79 Interrogators tried to dissect the members’ past work and evaluate it within the context of current orthodoxies, using methods that were tough, probing, but at times erratic. Individuals with skeletons in their closets faced harsh examination. Many of them emerged with tarnished reputations or worse.°®°

After the murder of Kirov on 1 December 1934 by Leonid Nikolaev, a mentally unbalanced young man who had somehow gained access to the Smolny government building and surprised his victim as he left a meeting, there was furious activity throughout Moscow. The Central

Committee reported that terrorist gangs — who constituted the socalled Moscow and Leningrad Centres, organized by the discredited opposition members Trotsky, Zinoviev, and Kamenev — continued their

130 Builders and Deserters

nefarious activities aimed at undermining the Soviet state. Institutions

and public organizations cried out for swift and merciless justice. Throughout the student community, fierce and vigilant resolutions were made to “unmask” enemies of the state. All across Leningrad student organizations met to discuss the implications of Kirov’s murder. Leningrad State University staged a mass mourning for Kirov, at which one student demanded the death penalty for Nikolaev (he got his wish). Several reportedly wept during a huge meeting at the Electro-Technical

Institute, and others accused some of their peers of being Trotskyist sympathizers. Students at the Forestry Academy denounced three professors as accomplices in the Kirov affair. The Mining Institute’s student organization declared its preparedness to act as a vigilant crusader

against Trotskyite bandits. Some demanded that a monument be

the fallen leader.*"

erected in honour of Kirov, while others composed poems dedicated to The NkvpD had been conducting its own witch-hunts well before the

assassination, and in the early part of 1935 it intensified its efforts against so-called subversive elements.®* In a top-secret memorandum, the Secret Political Affairs Department of the NKVD reported that by

February 1935 it had arrested 843 persons in connection with the Leningrad Centre. Always suspicious of seditious activities, particularly among the intelligentsia and youth, the police undertook a special offensive to root out Trotskyites and Zinovievites in vuzy, the Komsomol, and scientific research institutions; this resulted in the expulsion of 240 communists and the arrest of dozens more.®3 By the end of 1935 the Central Committee reported that 9,861 Party members had been expelled from the Leningrad Party organization. From this total, 1,600 were listed as members of a Trotskyite-Zinovievite or “White Guard” group or as persons having “connections with ene-

mies”; 250 students were among them.*4 |

By January 1935 the witch-hunts in student organizations had reached a frenzy. Newspapers published sordid details about “enemies of the people”; student leaders demanded that each Party cell and po- |

litical discussion group pay special attention to the behaviour and words of their members, because Trotskyists and White Guardists, they said, were particularly adept at masking their hostile political activities with soothing words.*5 Taking this cue, students sent letters to their Party committees denouncing anyone suspected of concealing his

or her social origins or engaging in oppositionist activities. Ol’ga Borodina, a student at the Chemical-Technological Institute, was one such victim. One of her roommates, Timofei Kalesnik, sent the following letter to the institute’s Party committee: “I ask the Party committee : of [the institute], in connection with its directives concerning alien

131 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

elements, how the daughter of an arrested merchant — Borodina, Ol’ga Olimpiadova — ended up in the institute. I submit that Borodina got into your institute having concealed her social origins and that, at the present time, she is a candidate for the working class, wishing to continue her studies in the above technical institute. ”*°

Vigilance, loyalty, and suspicion of fellow communists fostered denunciations and recriminations but also, barely beneath the surface, cynicism, denial, self-purgatory, and guarded political conduct. Students displayed the same level of cynicism as the general population, fed up as they were with bread rationing, poor living standards, and corrupt political officials. Kirov jokes, along with all kinds of rumours concerning Stalin’s role in the murder, made the rounds.’7 Some students registered their cynicism by indulging in more private rituals of defiance, such as defacing the portraits of Soviet leaders or scribbling anti-Soviet graffiti on walls. Through such acts of protest, students affirmed their role as opponents of autocratic or arbitrary authority. However, a private act quickly became unpleasantly public when the offender was caught. The future was not bright, for example, for two students accused of scribbling “Stalinist dead-end” and “Shoot the GPU” on washroom walls.*8 Fearing the consequences of inaction and intimidated by Party edicts,

students took a bolder stance against negligence and corruption or what they perceived as injustices. Students wrote letters to Party leaders and other prominent officials complaining about their personal situation, petitioning for better housing or funding, and denouncing negligent officials or neighbours as enemies of the people. The events played out on campuses have been described by Fitzpatrick and Getty in recent work as being in the realm of “socialist populism,” in which citizens informed state officials about particular problems or individuals. Thousands of letters poured into the offices of Party leaders, many of them exhibiting faith in the ability of the state to dispense people’s justice. Were they naive pleas for help or sophisticated strategies designed to force officials, who would be motivated by fear of exposure, into ac-

tion? This question of intent is extremely difficult to answer, but the tight semantic construction of the appeals and denunciations suggests that supplicants had a keen understanding of the mechanics of the Soviet polity.8? The shape of this discursive strategy can be seen in the let-

ters and attestations sent to the Zhdanov Commission on Higher Education, formed in 1935. The commission examined several problem areas in higher education and encouraged students to write about their concerns. It received a flood of long and detailed letters personally addressed to Zhdanov, Stalin, and other top leaders. As the Central Committee had already instructed its subordinate bodies to deal with each

132 Builders and Deserters

letter or complaint, local authorities felt it wise at least to look into individual grievances (the student section of the Leningrad trade-union body was responsible for investigating complaints). The letters bear annotations and remarks about the status of the complaint, suggesting that specific grievances had been investigated. The most common types of letters had to do with pleas for mercy owing to difficult material circumstances, accusations against administrators for their “heartless” attitude, and appeals for a second chance. A letter from medical student EF. Bortnikov is a good example of the latter. Bortnikov wrote to Stalin in March 1936, hoping to secure the general secretary’s personal intervention in an earlier decision expelling him from the Party: Dear lusif Vissarianovich, From all of my heart I wish you health and a long, long life. I ask you to excuse me for the fact that I just wanted to gain your attention for a few minutes so that you personally, the beloved leader of the Party and of

, all toiling people — that you read these lines of an average member of the Party, the Party of the great Bolsheviks, of our native borderless land, the leader of which you are, most beloved great Stalin. A Party bureau member of the cell at the institute, [believing] that I was con-

nected with [enemies of the people], started to avoid me and ignore me ... I could not establish any kind of authority among the communists of the faculty.

Not having looked deep into the soul of this member of the Party, the cell, when it found out that the members of my brigade had been arrested and exiled from Leningrad, implicated me with these class enemies and counter-revolutionary elements, and in the purge of 1933 I was expelled from the ranks of the vKP(b). (I myself cannot say what the exact reasons for the arrest of these people were.) And then the administration expelled me from the institute. And for this “reward” I went around for half a year until the regional purge com-

mission reinstated me into the ranks of the Party. Bortnikov claimed that the Arts Academy denied him admission because he had no formal training. In conclusion, he appealed to Stalin to grant him the opportunity to lend his talents to the country: Iso much want to study. And I feel able to make use of this knowledge, which I have acquired from a young age ...

I have reached twenty-nine years of age, desperately want to study, and to point out to those who don’t believe in my abilities that I am a useful person. Allow me to wish you, from all of my heart, dear lusif Vissarianovich, health, happiness, and a long life. I leave you with boundless sincere communist greetings.?°

133 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

Some students chose to work stock political critiques into their letters of grievance. In many cases, accusations resembled the “abuse of power” charges levelled by factory workers and peasants against corrupt bosses.??

The charge of abuse of power had greater resonance as the terror reached its climax in 1936-38. Leningrad, the city that had tinged itself with martyrdom (commemorated in the verse of Anna Akhmatova’s Requiem) became engulfed in a black cloud of intrigue after 1934. The exchange of Party documents in 1936 (the operation was intended to uncover individuals who did not have the appropriate documentation) and the August 1936 Central Committee circular that offered new evidence implicating the Leningrad Centre in the plot to kill Kirov com-

pelled Party members and Komsomolites in Leningrad to seek to discover yet more enemies among them.%* Taking this cue, the Lenin-

grad regional Party committee dutifully announced the discovery of “terrorist activities” in several institutions. During the exchange of Party documents and thereafter, almost 5,000 Party members had their membership cards revoked.93 Events reached a climax at the February 1937 Party plenum when Stalin launched an attack on the Party apparatus for allowing Trotskyists and other enemies to carry on with their heinous deeds unhindered. Stalin’s speech unleashed a new wave of political terror, during which most of the regional and Central Committee

leadership disappeared, victims of the NKvpD and its commissar, Nikolai Ezhov. This period came to be known as the Ezhovshchina. By

the middle of 1938 more than 6,500 Leningrad Party members and 142,000 all-Union members had been expelled. According to official statistics provided by the special section of the Communist Party, anywhere from 25 to 40 per cent of those expelled were in the hands of the NKVD or had been shot. The purges had a threefold impact on the higher-education Party apparatus. Numerous professional allegiances crumbled in the face of external pressure. The terror curtailed but did not eliminate the practice of local-interest politics. Finally, as attested to by the rapid turnover of

top-level officials, there was a temporary loss of authority over the rank and file. At a meeting in the spring of 1937, Communist Party del-

egates from several Leningrad vuzy declared dutifully that they had been insufficiently vigilant in rooting out enemies. “We have failed to heed the signals of students,” one delegate from the Mining Institute noted after learning of the apprehension of several Trotskyists in three separate institutions.95 Top officials, including Leningrad State Univer-

sity director M.S. Lazurkin, fell victim to the witch-hunt. Over the course of several hours of interrogation, Lazurkin was accused of all sorts of “wrecking” activities and had little choice but to “admit” his

134 Builders and Deserters

guilt; shortly thereafter he was arrested and shot. Both the Party secretary, Vinogradov, and the assistant director, E.Sh. Airapet’iants, were

also expelled from the Party. |

The rise and fall and rise again of Airapet’iants were symptomatic of

the opportune yet precarious situation facing young Party members. Born in Armenia in 1906, Airapet’iants moved to Leningrad after the

, Bolshevik revolution and enrolled at Leningrad State University in 1926 as a graduate student. He joined the Party that same year and only ten months later became secretary of the Biology Faculty Party organization. Airapet’iants, a middle-level executive and a graduate stu-

dent, had to juggle a busy schedule. From all accounts he was a brusque fellow, and because of this he accrued many enemies. In 1929 he encountered nasty personal attacks because of his “excessive drink-

ing.” He could only respond: “I was born in a wine-growing region [Armenia] and feel that it is natural for me to have a few drinks each day; it’s not harmful.” Airapet’iants survived the purge in part because

he had many supporters in the Party organization. He graduated in 1933 and received a junior teaching position, but one year later found himself appointed to the position of assistant academic dean; in 1936 he became vice-director. The wave of arrests and denunciations that had begun in 1935 finally touched Airapet’iants in 1937, when he was implicated along with Lazurkin and several others in various “hostile activities.” The accusations against Airapet’iants allowed dozens of students and administrators, some anonymously and others openly, to come forward with charges against him. The confidential personal files on Airapet’iants and Lazurkin reveal the extent to which they had incurred the wrath and envy of colleagues.%° In this atmosphere of paranoid vigilance, professors became easy targets. Several professors at the university were arrested on charges of having “fascist links” or for deliberately attempting to “wreck” the academic year through dubious teaching practices. But the witch-hunts had their limits when questions of academic work came into play. Such was the case for S.M. Kurbatov, head of the Mineralogy Department, who was accused of “discrediting Soviet science in the eyes of students and scientific workers” and of slandering his students as “featureless.” At his long hearing in November 1937, colleagues and students accused Kurbatov of crimes ranging from having a boring teaching style to harbouring a rude demeanour. Kurbatov, for his part, scoffed at the charges. In the end, the dean concluded that nothing much could be done because Kurbatov was invaluable to the field of mineralogy at the university.?7

By November 1937 the purges had reached a climax. Party organizations created special brigades to uncover as many enemies as possible

135 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

within their walls. They found plenty of evidence to satisfy their appetite for intrigue. The Mining Institute’s Party bureau charged that sev-

eral enemies of the people were operating untouched and that “unhealthy attitudes” among students were rampant. At meetings at the university and elsewhere, charges of drunken orgies, secret espionage networks, and the like flew around wildly.9® An April 1937 gathering at the Industrial Institute tells the story more succinctly. Several students used hearsay evidence to claim the existence of Trotskyists in their midst. An unnamed student talked about one Karasik: “He lives in room 21. He is an honours student from the Technology Faculty. He is a person with an anti-Party attitude. In his room he started an argument on the events in Spain [the Spanish Civil War]. Karasik says that they don’t say anything about what is happening there — tomorrow General Franco will take Madrid and the Republic won’t put up any kind of a fight. Zhulin also agreed with this opinion.” Brinberg, another colleague of Karasik, simply noted that the accused “behaves in a strangely uncultured manner in the dormitory, swearing and often using unpleasant words in front of women and believing that this is the way it should be.”99 At other vuzy, Party organizations responded to Stalin’s February 1937 speech with their own calls for vigilance. People were assigned to the broad category of “wrecker” for quarrelling with

their spouses, failing to ensure proper ventilation of classrooms, or stealing books from the library.1©°

While the climate of terror did not leave every student vulnerable to attack, neither were the majority somehow “empowered” by the situation.'°! The theatre of charge and counter-charge, as it is played out in

archival documents, shows that students had to employ both selfdefence and counter-attack strategies. Charges required an immediate

response, which usually came as a counter-charge in an attempt to discredit the accuser(s), as an elaborate (and frequently eloquent) selfcritical apology (admitting to the violation but seeking to explain it with mitigating circumstances), or even as an attempt to redirect guilt towards others. As in previous years, students wrote up thorough and vicious charges, building up elaborate plots that were all but impossi-

ble to refute entirely. They commonly employed the scourge of Trotskyism to settle old scores. A good example was the case of “M.L.,” a Herzen Institute student, who in October 1936 wrote the following to the editors of the periodical Kommunisticheskoe prosveshchenie (Communist Education):

For the longest time in the [Herzen] Pedagogical Institute, TrotskyistZinovievite bands have openly carried on with their counter-revolutionary work. Sworn enemies of the Party and the people entrenched themselves in the

136 Builders and Deserters , Literature and History faculties of the institute, and in full view of the communists and the Party organization slandered the Party ... Why did those communists like Golovachev, dean of the History Faculty, not listen to the voice of the students? Political short-sightedness, stupid conceit, [the belief] that “everything is all right” could have helped Golovachev to spot the enemy in time ...

No less disturbing was the situation in the Literature Faculty. For days the active Trotskyist Angelovich, who regularly used Trotskyist material with students, had been exposed. Angelovich as much as exposed himself in his slander of the Party, in which he openly used the institute’s auditorium for his aims. *°

The often sweeping character of charges made them difficult to refute, and an aggressive self-defence was less likely to succeed in 1937 than in 1929. The fruitless attempts of students to secure justice must have convinced others that the system was not to be trusted. As Nikolai Ivanov, a graduate of the Kuibyshev Institute of Construction Engineering, recalled, the muting of discussion, the widespread arrests, and the use of slave labour provided enough evidence to convince most of his peers that the Soviet system had rotted at the core.1% Early in 1938 Stalin decided to call a halt to the Ezhovshchina campaign. The editors of Pravda published a Central Committee resolution to the effect that the irresponsibility of “bureaucrats” had resulted in the unwarranted expulsion of good Party members.?™ Predictably, the signal from above resulted in a torrent of charges and counter-charges at the local level. Emboldened by the Central Committee resolution, Party members denounced the recent spate of “groundless denunciations.” The university underwent a particularly sordid period of recrimination as Party members stumbled over one another in self-righteous fits of indignation. The infamous “list of 105” affair — in which two former Party secretaries in succession were forced to step down because they had implemented expulsion quotas — dominated business in Febru-

ary 1938. Over the following two months, as many as 40 per cent of those expelled from vuz Party organizations were reinstated.'® Student newspapers published numerous stories about honourable Party mem-

bers unjustly accused of nefarious deeds by “careerists” and other types, while editorials lambasted “slanderers” and opportunists who pursued personal vendettas.'°° Airapet’iants, whose career appeared to have come to an end, managed to get himself rehabilitated in February 1938 as a “good communist.” He went on to rebuild his patronage network at the university and became involved in a struggle with Lysenko supporters in 1939-41 for control of the Biology Faculty. Although he was accused by Lysenkoites in the faculty (most notably by I.I. Prezent) of taking a Morganist viewpoint in biology, Airapet’iants weathered the

137 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

storm and went on to a successful academic and political career.1°? Of course, for other individuals, such as the former director Lazurkin, the opportunity for redemption came too late. The overall impact of the Party purges in higher education is difficult to gauge, owing to the absence of reliable or complete data detailing the number of expulsions, arrests, and executions. Nevertheless, it is possible to make some generalizations about the human and political

damage caused by the purges. One such generalization is that the purges engendered an ongoing purge mentality. Despite the Central Committee’s resolution on the need to re-evaluate the witch-hunts of the previous year, expulsions from the Party continued at a ferocious pace. According to Central Committee documents, close to 49,000 Party members were expelled in the first half of 1938; 53 per cent of them were classified as enemies of the people. The attack on the Party apparatus continued into 1939-40, as the imposition of a strict new labour code resulted in thousands of workers being expelled for “violations of labour discipline.”'°® In academic institutions, charges of wrecking and spying, buttressed by the arrest and execution in 1938 of Committee on Higher Education director Mezhlauk, gathered momentum again in the summer and fall of 1938. A wave of accusations at Leningrad State University and elsewhere involving alleged “JapanesePolish spies” and other fantastic conspiracies generated a new round of fear and paranoia. Students were not immune to these charges, but by all accounts the number of student arrests fell off after 1938. Membership in vuz Party and Komsomol organizations experienced a slight rise, as the damage done over the previous few years needed to be mended, but this did not change the fact that all students now recognized the need to put on a very careful public face and avoid saying anything that could be used against them.'°? This terrible series of events quite naturally had a stultifying impact on student activism. Witnessing the discrediting and arrest of many leading activists, students were quite content, as one alumnus noted, to “repeat the ‘mechanical proofs’ of dialectical and historical materialism” and to sign up for obligatory cultural activities when necessary.''° Executives in student organizations were elected in rehearsed rituals replete with declarations on the need to raise the level of cultural and

academic work. Laudatory approvals of Party directives and pronouncements on the need to improve the “political-moral instruction” of student youth, together with measured statements on problems related to academic training, became the standard fare in meetings. As before, Komsomol students took a leading role in this new self-criticism movement and in the popularization of “socialist democracy” through Supreme Soviet and local elections.'*' As Europe stood on the brink of

138 Builders and Deserters

war, students’ political activities carried into the sphere of national defence, with “military evenings” featuring discussions of the activities of the Ready for Work and Defence Organization (GTO) and the International Aid Organization for Revolutionary Fighters (MOPR).*** The Political Education of Stalin’s Cadres

For many students, Party cell meetings and review hearings in front of

purge committees constituted a real-life political education. They learned about ideological orthodoxy and understood that caution instead of a free exchange of views was the safest route to success. Instead

of campaigning for more open discussions with respect to decisionmaking and policy, as they had done during the NEP, students in the 1930s devoted themselves to a mastery of the rigidities of MarxismLeninism-Stalinism. The study of “political minimums” —- dialectical materialism, the works of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin, and rudimentary courses in Soviet law and Party history — dominated the curriculum.*"3 Because of the shortage of qualified staff capable of teaching the funda-

mentals of Marxism-Leninism, the Communist Party created special courses that would train “propagandists” as instructors. By the mid19308 the first group of propagandists had been appointed to positions as discussion leaders. In 1937 the Mining Institute had nine such instructors overseeing forty-four students enrolled in the one-year program. Generally speaking, students expressed dissatisfaction with their teachers. As part of the Zhdanov Commission on Higher Education’s investigations, higher schools conducted detailed reviews of their political discussion groups. In their comments on teachers and subject matter, students singled out bombastic or overly zealous teachers. Some of

the more cautious students, in an evident attempt to display selfcriticism, would blame themselves for not using the material correctly or for acting like mol’chanki (silent ones). For their part, teachers complained that all too frequently they had insufficient time in class. Furthermore, they noted that in most discussions students spoke only from notes (perhaps a reflection of caution) and that there was very little spontaneity or open debate. Given the political climate of the time, the reluctance of students to offer honest opinions was quite understandable. As former pedagogy student Ivan Rossianin recalled, everyone understood that it was wise to offer platitudes about Stalin and Marxism, if only as a measure of self-protection.*'4 It was simply a case of saying what had to be said, when necessary. In keeping with the carefully structured Party reports of the time, discussion leaders engaged in measured praise and criticism when they evaluated the performance of students, noting careless factual errors or

139 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

problems with writing.7'5 Negative evaluations of students’ work were norms rather than exceptions in this age of self-criticism. Disinterest and difficulty absorbing the often convoluted logic of Stalinism played

no small part. Abundant records of pupils caught making caustic remarks about the canons of Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism tell of more than just passing dissent against a Soviet-style political education.'?® To

counter these problems, authorities showcased in their reports the achievements of outstanding political students and occasionally provided examples of exemplary note-taking. The notes taken by top per-

formers in discussion circles were detailed and well organized, revealing how students adopted the required structured and simplistic approach towards complex issues. Note-taking reflected the norms of the time, serving as a formulaic and convenient means of categorizing the errors of Stalin’s opponents and, with semantic rigidity, of reinforcing the faulty edifice of historical-political truth on which the Stalinist

Party line stood.” The dynamics of political discussion circles illustrate why students had such difficulty maintaining a composed and organized outlook on their work. At times these ritualized discussions resembled a theatrical skit more than anything else, casting a dubious light on the gatherings as productive learning experiences. Two stenographic accounts of political discussion groups — one from the Leningrad Medical Institute in March 1935, entitled “The Party in the Period of Development”; the other from the Technological Institute in April 1935, entitled “The Period of Transition to the NEP and the Struggle with the Trotsky Opposition” — provide revealing insights into the careful supervision and limitations placed on discussions. In both sessions, discussion leaders repeatedly tested their students’ abilities. Serin, the leader of the Medical Institute discussion group, assessed his students’ knowledge of the

role of the Bolsheviks in Russia between 1905 and 1914 by asking questions related to Tsar Nicholas’s minister of the interior, Petr Stolypin, the role of Pravda as revolutionary agitator, and Lenin’s position towards the Second International. Throughout the ninety-minute discussion (there was a break halfway through) Serin took the offensive, questioning his students aggressively. When one of them faltered, another immediately jumped into the fray to finish the answer. Because

they were required to give split-second responses, students became quite competitive with one another. By completing a response that others could not, a student was assured of gaining the confidence of the

teacher, even though this may not have been the best way to make friends in the group. On the other hand, twice in this particular session, students helped piece together an appropriate reply for a faltering comrade, who then proceeded to complete the response. Similar dynamics

140 Builders and Deserters

existed in the Technological Institute group, where the dynamic between the need to assert oneself and the desire to protect comrades against a common adversary — the teacher — had a great deal to do with

the nature of the discussions.**% :

Students were under considerable pressure to respond correctly and in a semantically acceptable manner to questions specifically designed to probe their political knowledge. The interrogation, carried out in a rapid-fire and at times seemingly disjointed way, constituted a severe test of the students’ psychological fortitude and intellectual acuity. In learning to construct acceptable formulaic answers, students acquired the political vocabulary necessary for successful integration into the classroom environment, the Party group, or the numerous subsections of student organizations. This ritualization of verbal exchanges rein-

forced the perception that political discussion groups operated in a public theatre where one could not expect to acquire in-depth knowledge. The form and content of these groups’ discussions stand in sharp

contrast to the “ground level” attitudes and utterances that we have , seen with reference to purge hearings. In the realm of political education, the act of presenting a knowledgeable and confident demeanour had superceded the actual process of learning in importance. Student politics evolved from the activities of independent-minded activists during the civil war to the guarded behaviour of an incorporated ap-

pendage of the Party-state. The most successful element of the state’s higher-education strategy after 1917 was in the area of controlling student organizations. The pre-revolutionary student movement devoted itself to the cause of guaranteeing social and political rights and improving the general welfare. The Bolsheviks attempted to convert these grandiose causes into a raison d’étre for socialist state-building. The maturation of student politics under Soviet power into a tightly controlled, bureaucratized organ of the state was a logical outcome of the Party dictatorship. Led by communists with impeccable credentials, students no longer had the isolated status that they had both enjoyed and lamented before the revolution. But they paid a political cost. The massive political education apparatus that developed from the early 1920s reinforced the attachment of the studenchestvo to mechanisms of power and authority in the Soviet system. The student’s evolution from the semi-independent activist to the vigilant, obedient, and politically disciplined public activist was part of the process of creating “human machinery” for the Party-state appara-

tus. As the events of 1929-32 illustrated, the imperatives of order and control ultimately defeated revolutionary zeal. We must also understand how these events contributed to the trans-

formation of the studenchestvo as a social and political category. The

141 Politics, Ideology, and the Studenchestvo

assignation of particular social and political roles to the studenchestvo served to polarize Soviet youth into socially advantaged and disadvantaged, politically active and inert categories. Communist students were forced to reconcile their identity as social critics and students with new obligations as representatives of official authority. Students with no Party card and those from non-labouring backgrounds concentrated on their academic and social duties while staying out of the spotlight. The builders helped construct an imagined community of communist activists, isolating and excising the deserters who threatened the fabric of this community. Politics, ideology, and measured public conduct were part of everyday life as the imagined socialist community evolved.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the Classroom

The success of any education system can be measured by the quality and variety of the graduates it produces and by its ability to conform to social and economic demands. At the turn of the century in Western Europe, expanded enrolment and increased emphasis on technical training challenged established institutional structures and academic disciplines. In Russia the autocracy was somewhat reluctant to abandon classical disciplines in favour of a modernized curriculum. Follow-

ing the Bolshevik revolution, Narkompros struggled to transform higher learning by creating an “unbroken educational ladder” from the

primary to post-secondary levels. Lunacharsky promoted a system based on universal access for children from all social backgrounds, thereby converting schools from “diploma factories” into centres for academic training responsive to the needs of the state." Contrasting verdicts have been offered on the nature and effectiveness of the Soviet higher-education system. According to former stu-

dent George Friese, “The contemptuous attitude toward culture and education which had characterised the 1920s was replaced during the 1930s by another extreme — a virtual worship of education and science.

By the end of the 1930s there had been a complete reversion to older educational and cultural ideals, particularly with regard to the form and methods of education.”* In their judgments Soviet historians explained that although “distortions” occurred, the UssR did create a new generation of highly skilled specialists.3 Western historians relate Soviet higher-education policies to the political issues of the period. They see the NEP years as a relatively progressive period cut short by the first five-year plan. “Hare-brained scheming” and arbitrary intervention dominated Stalin’s Great Break, resulting in deleterious conse-

quences for education. In the 1930s standards improved and traditional pedagogical methods made a comeback, but intellectual

143 Inthe Classroom

freedom had all but disappeared.4 Larry Holmes, in his work on secondary schools in Soviet Russia, has suggested that most students and teachers preferred a disciplined classroom order and a return to rote learning. Amidst bureaucratic infighting and severe political pressures, policy implementation involved an uneasy balance between Stalinist doctrine and pedagogical practice. Students and teachers tried to reconcile their hopes and dreams for a better future with the pressures and fears of their daily reality.5 While it might be tempting to view Soviet higher education in the 1930s as a complete reversion to the old system, in fact much had changed. The power relationships between students, teachers, and the state had shifted significantly. Furthermore, the

implications of academic performance were vastly different under Stalinism than they had been in the tsarist period. In this chapter, I will

use as reference points institutional politics, the interaction between students, teachers, and the state, and the voices of students themselves to examine how the Soviet higher-education system struggled to maintain a delicate balance between the imperatives of politics, ideology, and professional training.°

1921-28 |

THE SEARCH FOR A SYSTEM, Materials and Methods

The civil war ended with numerous problems in the higher-education system related to finances, the quality of students, and the adminis-

tration of academic programs. The poor financial situation for Narkompros exacerbated its unenviable problem: how to institute a new professional training system that satisfied political as well as academic demands. Of course, politics had to be considered first when it came to shaping the new agenda for higher education. In the spring of 1921, Narkompros introduced compulsory social science subjects as part of its strategy to promote the study of Marxism and dialectical materialism. The “minimums” included instruction in “The Development of Social Formations,” “Historical Materialism,” and related topics. Students took courses in cycles, completing a general grouping of each discipline before moving on to the next level. The new social sciences field offered a blend of traditional and Marxist-oriented sub-

, jects, such as political economy and Soviet law.’ In these early years Marxist disciplines, impressive on paper, made a very modest impact because academic institutions lacked qualified teachers and few students showed interest. Most professors were not interested in teaching courses with Marxist themes.

144 Builders and Deserters

In 1925/26 the State Academic Council phased out the Faculty of Social Sciences and transferred its disciplines to other faculties. The latter move contributed to the sharper differentiation of the five main branches of higher education — the social-economic, industrial-technical, agricultural, medical, and pedagogical branches — allowing Narkompros to control more closely the growth and diversification of each field.’ The disbanding of Social Sciences suggested that senior professors had won a concession, but in reality it marked the beginning of a second stage in the Sovietization of academic disciplines. A financial austerity program in the mid-1920s, combined with sustained pressure to phase out established disciplines, slowly eroded professorial authority. This was part of the “quiet revolution” that produced the Communist Academy, the Institute of Red Professors, and other institutions that promoted a communist intellectual élite and challenged the authority of their “bourgeois” counterparts.’

Curricular changes represented only one part of the strategy to reform higher education in the 1920s. The progressive movement in Soviet pedagogy, led by Nadezhda Krupskaia, A.P. Pinkevich, and others, continued to press for a unity between learning and physical activ-

ity. They demanded that education bring instruction “closer to life” and assist pupils’ cognitive development through complex tasks (a mixture of independent and collective projects in conjunction with group discussions and lectures). The “complex method,” which became the basis for primary- and secondary-level instruction, incorporated basic themes of nature, politics, science, and human behaviour into a combined task-oriented and classroom approach. It drew from the work of American educator William Kilpatrick, who in 1918 published an essay on the need to bring “purposeful acts,” rather than vague theorizing, into the classroom. The Pedagogical Section of Narkompros followed Kilpatrick’s basic premise by emphasizing activity methods, excursions, community projects, and basic applied

skills in agriculture and industry.*°

In the higher-education system, students used a variant of the complex method that combined classroom lectures and seminars with individual and collective laboratory or practicum projects. The idea was to give pupils the time and opportunity to master applied skills before immersing them in a collective labour environment. The so-called group-laboratory method was part of the strategy to promote independent study and practical training.t? The complex method also had its political dimensions. Subjected to dry or boring lectures, students often made the connection between old teaching methods and outdated political views. As one Leningrad State University law student put it in 1925, the convoluted lectures of Professor Liublinskii, a vocal

145 Inthe Classroom

opponent of the recent curricular reforms, proved that bourgeois faculty members remained out of touch with contemporary needs: “[The

information] goes in one ear and out the other; in the middle, the brain manages to retain a little bit. The students who are sitting around ... want to say something — their mouths are half open — but they are not allowed.” ' A couple of years after the complex method and other curricular changes were introduced in primary and secondary schools, Narkompros found that most teachers continued as before because they believed it was the only way students could learn anything substantive." There was similar resistance in higher education, particularly with regard to the Dalton Plan. This plan, used sporadically in the mid-1920s, divided students’ time between lectures, laboratory work, and independent study sessions. Although the Dalton Plan had its supporters, it had an equal number of detractors. Younger teachers and department heads

found that the students’ initial enthusiasm for independent study projects and laboratory work quickly gave way to apathy. They felt that, without proper supervision and adequate preparatory time, the Dalton Plan could not produce good results. As S.E. Frish recounted, students and teachers both had a difficult time adjusting to the increased amount of independent study time. Most senior professors paid verbal homage to the pedagogical reforms but continued on with standard lectures.*4 The realignment of faculties and disciplines after 1925 further complicated matters for students. The faculties of Soviet Law, Ethnology

(combining history with literature, ethnography, and archaeology), and Linguistics and Material Culture (Iamfak — “material culture” — was a term assigned by N.la. Marr for history, archaeology, and anthropology) replaced Social Sciences in 1925. The structural changes included a reduction in the number of specialist disciplines and a

lengthening of programs to an average of four and a half years. Industrial-technical institutions reduced the number of hours spent in class and increased the time devoted to honours projects in the senior

years. The post-1925 programs, at least on paper, were quite demanding.'5 Medical institutions, such as the Leningrad Medical Insti-

tute, placed more emphasis on training students in the areas of preventive medicine (sanitary hygiene) and rehabilitation; they also assigned them more time in rural clinics. In agricultural vuzy, students enrolled in agronomy or agrarian/forestry technology to train for scientific research or managerial/administrative careers. At the Leningrad Agricultural Institute, students began with a general program in agricultural studies and finished with advanced courses and a forty-five-day practicum at the institute’s research station, Detskoe

146 Builders and Deserters

Selo. Pedagogical institutions conformed to a similar structure of general followed by specialist instruction. After its merger in 1925 with three other pedagogical institutes in Leningrad, the Herzen Institute

became the only higher school for the training of teachers in the RSFSR. The institute’s four-year program included basic pedagogical instruction, Marxist theory of pedagogy, and practical teaching experience in primary schools.*¢ Academic Performance

Several years of experimentation gave rise to dissatisfaction in many quarters. Critics in Narkompros, the Supreme Economic Council, and the Komsomol charged that the complex method had failed to impart to students substantive practical knowledge. At the same time, senior professors who resisted the reforms were subjected to increasingly vitriolic attacks. By all accounts, incoming and graduating students exhib-

ited very low levels of knowledge and skills, and this became a significant issue of concern with employers. Particular attention was paid to graduates from secondary schools who had been trained under

the complex method. In 1926 Sovnarkom introduced standard entrance requirements (candidates wrote tests and essays on subjects such

as “What is Soviet power?” and “Why do I want to enrol in a vuz?”).17 Most people agreed, however, that the quality of students remained rather poor. Poor performance can be examined from different perspectives. As

noted earlier, students tended to blame bad results on the confusing curriculum, shortages of basic reading material, and the politicalacademic workload rather than on their own preparatory work. Admissions reports reflect another perspective, noting consistently that Russian-language proficiency remained the most serious problem.*® Tougher entrance standards after 1925, part of the new strategy to raise academic qualifications, helped weed out some of the weaker candidates, but as State Academic Council official A. Abinder wrote in the summer of 1926, despite the selective approach adopted by institutions (less than 40 per cent of the applicants were admitted), a range of only 21 to 33 per cent of the students in Moscow had passed all of their entrance examination subjects. He surmised that many of the failing can-

didates had applied to several vuzy and thereby managed to get into one of them.*? By 1928 the tightening of admissions requirements and the concomi-

tant higher standards for junior students produced a lower rate of graduation. Pass rates fluctuated for junior students (exhibiting a mod-

est downward trend), while seniors experienced a more noticeable

a 147 Inthe Classroom

oy Zw 2 b=]

"ey aeStJSR : Be op wks

Hs OpiTa AKanemMum XyHozrects.

Ze | ate 7 | YI ail 2 | [lonHad Harpy3ka. Yacei gocyra.

Illus. 7 The overworked student. The main Leningrad student periodical, in its section “Our Satire,” profiles life at the Academy of Arts. On the left: “A full workload.” A student gets crushed beneath weighty tomes. On the right: “Leisure hours.” (Krasnyi student, no. 3 [1925])

drop. On the whole, communist students did better than their counterparts. Of course, this trend must be qualified by the fact that most seniors were politically unaffiliated and had enrolled in more demanding programs than the more politically inclined first- or second-year students.7° Although Narkompros claimed an improvement in student performance, it faced a drop-out rate of 7.9 per cent and a retention rate (a measure of the number of students who had to repeat their year) of 16.3 per cent (industrial-technical schools had the highest retention rate). Senior students suffered as much as juniors. Numerous extracurricular obligations resulted in many seniors taking two to four years to finish a diploma project.?"

Viewed from the perspective of students, the education system failed to cater to their needs. Answering a series of questions about their academic work, respondents to the Technological Institute 1926 survey seized the opportunity to air grievances. Their responses reflected the general state of dissatisfaction with teachers and materials at the time. Asked why they enrolled at the institute, 75 per cent said

that they were interested in technology and 5 per cent simply that they “want[ed] a higher education.” The remainder displayed less idealism: 11 per cent thought that a degree from the institute would

148 Builders and Deserters

guarantee them a better future, and for 9 per cent the institute had been a second or worse choice. Regardless of motivation, a majority expressed some unhappiness with their academic experience — the dis-

satisfaction rates ranging from 60.6 per cent among first-year students to an astounding 88.9 per cent among fifth-year students. Insufficient practical work, specific problems with their area of specialization (many said they had wanted to specialize earlier), and bor-

ing or inattentive teachers constituted the main grievances. As one student put it, “Several lectures are just a waste of time — I can work

on the material [myself] with the textbooks.” Indeed, only 31 per. cent said that they regularly attended lectures. With almost yearly changes to programs, it was no wonder that seniors either lost interest in their studies or forgot what exactly it was they were supposed to be specializing in. They found it particularly difficult to fathom the Dalton Plan and group work. “J lost 50 per cent of my study time be-

cause of an inability to work according to the [group] plan,” one of the respondents lamented. With the numerous demands on their time and with poor health always a concern, students found that their academic work had become a physical and mental challenge. “I fell ill, I worked, I fell ill, I fell behind the group” — this summed up the situation for many students in the 1920s.” Little had changed in the hierarchical relationship between students and professors. Professors who resisted Narkompros policies raised the ire of communist students, who saw the former as saboteurs. Nikolai Borodin, a student at Novocherkassk University in the 1920s and later a teacher, experienced both sides of the fence. In his memoirs he re-

counted how certain professors had a nasty reputation as “killers.” They were particularly rigorous with workers’ faculty graduates and did not hesitate to employ unsanctioned evaluation systems to make the point that they were still in charge of the classroom.”3 By employing a rote-learning style of instruction and rigorous evaluations of rab-

fak and secondary school students trained under the new system, professors found ways to maintain control in the classroom. Students, for their part, recognized the duality of classroom politics. They absorbed the myriad changes in instructional materials and methods, in the process learning how to perform in the group environment. As one graduate admitted, students accepted that learning had become a combination of memorization and rehearsed theatre. Why not engage in half-hearted denunciations of Dostoevsky (apparently, the writer was “petty-bourgeois”) or other cultural and political figures if that’s what it took to receive a satisfactory evaluation? Substantive questions, exploring different ideas and philosophical or ideological approaches,

could wait for another day.*4 ,

149 Inthe Classroom The Graduating Classes Narkompros’s inability to train enough specialists weakened its position after 1928. Nevertheless, some significant achievements had been registered during the NEP period. Universities accounted for the largest proportion of the 15,486 graduates from RSFSR vuzy in 1925, followed by

industrial-technical and agricultural higher schools. The number of graduates in Leningrad had more than doubled, higher technical schools showing the highest growth rate.*5 The integration of schools with state organs and economic agencies began during the civil war and evolved further in the 1920s: Sovnarkom in 1923 ordered all enterprises to hire

graduates, and graduates who had received state stipends were obligated to work at the assigned enterprise as a way of paying back their tuition. The Commissariat of Labour and the Committee on Professional Education nominated students for positions according to their speciality (state-stipend recipients and those with practical experience received priority). The State Qualifications Commission, created in 1925, reviewed the credentials of graduates before they were placed.*® Not surprisingly, bureaucratic problems ensued. Most local commissions found that far too many unqualified students had been approved for graduation. Rectors tended to blame Narkompros for this situation,

claiming that continued shortages of materials and the accelerated na- | ture of academic programs diluted the quality of students. Bureaucratic confusion and the unwillingness of many students to work anywhere other than in Leningrad or Moscow left the placement system in a mess. Ongoing battles between academic institutions, the state, and industry consumed much time and energy.”” In an attempt to streamline the process, vuzy established their own placement committees. The committees assigned graduates to what they believed to be positions that matched

their specialties. Graduates in the humanities, the majority of whom were from white-collar backgrounds, tended to lose out in the process. Without factory work experience and lacking the appropriate social and political credentials, they were often forced to take low-level clerical jobs unrelated to their chosen speciality.*°

In most cases the placement system gave graduates no choice of work location. Because of the shortage of trained teachers, medical staff, engineers and other specialists in the countryside, many graduates had to journey to far-off regions in which they had little desire to settle.

When engineering and technical students were asked where they wanted to work upon graduation, the overwhelming majority said that they wanted to stay in Leningrad or move to another large city. The majority of medical and pedagogical graduates found themselves working in provincial locales with poorly equipped facilities.*9

150 Builders and Deserters

Overall there was considerable progress in education in the 1920s. Enrolment expanded, programs diversified, and the quality of training and the proficiency of students exhibited signs of improvement. In addition, after 1925 the placement system improved conditions in the countryside. But this progress was too gradual in the face of mounting pressures to increase the number of Red specialists and to rid vuzy of professors who resisted the state reforms. Lacking a broad alliance of political and pro-

fessional interest groups to defend its interests, Narkompros found its educational strategies subjected to increased criticism in the spring and summer of 1928.

“HARE-BRAINED SCHEMING” Political events and the demand for Red specialists fuelled a forward thrust in 1928 in the area of industrial-technical training. By the fall of that year Narkompros found its policies under attack from all sides. The first five-year plan experiment promoted group instruction, challenged the authority of teachers in the classroom, and created new subsets of disciplines. But the faster-flowing stream of students through the system produced more quantitative than qualitative results. The 1930 decree that transferred higher technical schools to the jurisdiction of people’s commissariats was the most important structural reform of this period. The decree also contained provisions for universal methods of instruction. In accordance with expectations of the time, incoming students now faced stiffer tests on Marxism-Leninism and the Soviet state. The logic behind raising the profile of industrial-technical institutions and decapitating some of the universities and other general instruction vuzy, as Glavprofobr chairman Vyshinsky explained in May 1929, was to promote shorter degree programs with closer links with © industry and to eliminate parallelism in subject matter.>° Institutions took up the cause with abandon, ordering students to complete their programs in no more than five years. The Leningrad Mining Institute launched a “struggle against subject parallelism and universalism,” with the goal of eradicating overlap and forging closer links with industry. Other institutions displayed the requisite enthusiasm for fulfill-

started.3? ,

ing the plan, even though this misguided effort tended to produce

widespread confusion and delays in getting the 1929/30 academic year The state’s desire to expand its role in the countryside precipitated reforms in agricultural, pedagogical, and medical education. Leningrad’s academic institutions took a leading role in these areas. The Leningrad Forestry Academy concentrated on graduating engineers and forestry

technicians. After its reorganization in 1931 as the Leningrad Dairy

15t Inthe Classroom Farming Institute (it was relocated to Kolpino, just outside of Leningrad, and named a “state-farm vuz”), the former agricultural institute focused almost exclusively on training cadres for state and collective farms. “In-

structional farms” trained students in farming technology and animal husbandry, with special emphasis on the countryside in political education courses. (One course, creatively titled “The Struggle against Ene-

mies,” dealt with “the enemies of collectivization and the Party.”)3? Communist universities and pedagogical vuzy also turned their attention to training cadres for the countryside. In 1930-31, most communist universities switched to a three-faculty system that concentrated on Party

work in industry, collective farms, and rural soviets; in the latter, students undertook obligatory work in grain collection and “collectivization practicums.”33 Pedagogical institutions, which produced teachers for rural schools and literacy work, had similar programs that included instruction in Marxism-Leninism, practical pedagogical training, and participation in grain-collection and sowing campaigns.34 Changes to

medical education could best be characterized by the official slogan of | the period: “From the universalist physician to the specialist physician.” Enrolment expanded and students entered fast-track programs devoted mostly to rural health care. For students at the Leningrad Medical Insti-

tute, this meant cramming a five-year program into four years of exhausting classroom and clinical work.?5 Young people considered it a great honour to enrol in an institute of

higher education and become a Red specialist. Prospective students went to any lengths, pouring their heart out to officials in an effort to realize the dream of a higher education. In Lunacharsky’s personal file there are hundreds of letters from hopeful candidates. N.V. Belechin, a student from Saratov, was one of them. He sent the following letter to the education commissar in January 1929:

Dearest A.V., ,

I’m sure that you are aware of the situation that exists in vuzy and vtuzy regarding the status of children of merchants: that they admit children of merchants to vuzy and vtuzy as a last priority, according to the Rules of Admission bulletin. This is the point that I would like to bring up with you.

I am the son of a merchant, and I know that according to the [entrance] competition they will admit workers as a first priority, followed by peasants and finally white-collar [candidates], making it clear that, given the limited number of academic institutions in the ussr and such a large contingent of youth, it is impossible to get what I want. This worries me very much ... I want to study. I want and I am striving to understand all that science has given

us ... But right now I know that it is impossible for me to get into a higher

152 Builders and Deserters academic institution located in the ussR and I do not object to this because it

is impossible to refuse my comrades their opportunities ... But what I would like to ask you is this: if I cannot enrol in a higher academic institution in the ussR, then why is it forbidden to go abroad, so that I can receive an education and then return to the motherland ...

me. Please do not refuse. , With comradely greetings,

But I don’t know if it is possible; therefore I am asking you to clarify this for

, N.V. Belechin?°®

Most of the students who managed to get into an academic institution found themselves in a confusing and hectic atmosphere. By the fall of 1930 only a few academic institutions had successfully put the new curriculum in place; some were halfway there, but the vast majority remained in a mire of bureaucratic delays, organizational foul-ups, and institutional turf wars. An insistence on rigidly structured workdays modelled after five-year plan themes made things worse. Shock-working and the “unbroken work-week” (introduced in the fall of 1929, it consisted of a six-day week) became part of the standard vocabulary for ev-

ery student and administrator. Each institution established shock-work | competitions, challenging students to sprint through their. programs without failing any courses. Individuals who succeeded escaped with a diploma and a promise of employment. Communist student organizations hailed the new era of shock-work, but the cost of accelerated pro-

grams quickly became apparent. Leningrad officials noted that the accelerated tempo contributed to serious health problems, declining attendance, and a deterioration of academic standards.37

Classroom (Dis)order and

the Brigade Mentality | The new classroom order turned everything upside-down, as communist students challenged professorial authority and denounced anything that smacked of the “NEP system.” Collective learning enjoyed a brief hegemony, while individual responsibility faded into the brigade mentality: intellectual and political initiative gave way to agitation-oriented group-think. Even at the height of the cultural revolution, however, this system faced fierce resistance from professors and garnered only half-

hearted support among communist students.

The ill-fated brigade-laboratory method was intended to promote, according to its advocates, collective-oriented tasks that would expose students to Marxism-Leninism and to the problems related to industrialization. Students worked within a group to complete a task, dividing

153 Inthe Classroom

their time between brigade and practical work. Teachers took a diminished role, acting more as consultants and supervisors than as lecturers. Students were encouraged to challenge their teachers’ remarks (particu-

larly if they were senior professors) and to assess the relevance of their | teachers’ conclusions to the development of socialism. The whole system depended on close cooperation. The “brigadier,” normally a senior nominated by the student organization, organized brigades of four or five students for each class and a general brigade of twenty to thirty for mandatory course disciplines. The brigadier checked attendance and dealt with any problems that arose. Brigades employed a “dialectic” process in their projects. Students worked together, presenting and critiquing each other’s ideas and trying to work out the “contradictions” (problems) of their project. The brigade members presented the finished project to the teacher and, in many cases, to other brigades. Peers

assessed the conclusions, pointing out their flaws and strengths. Stu- , dents did not write formal tests but received periodic evaluations for their group work and a final mark on the basis of the brigade project. Most importantly, each member received the same evaluation. It was obvious to everyone that the brigade-laboratory method was far too cumbersome. The rush to introduce the brigade system meant that it could not be implemented coherently. Students and teachers frequently complained that there was never enough time to formulate or discuss projects. Consultation with teachers was sporadic (a common complaint voiced by student councils). Competing brigades, consumed in panicked attempts to finish their own projects, greeted the finished

products of others with indifference. Without proper textbooks and adequate time, the students could not be expected to produce a polished product.3® According to Tatiana Tchernavina, a former student and librarian at Leningrad State University, just about everyone regarded the brigade system as tiresome and unworkable. The pairing of good students with mediocre ones brought down the general level of achievement in every brigade. Furthermore, many professors under-

mined the system by doing their best to avoid pedantic “argument” sessions staged by impetuous proletarian troublemakers and, whenever possible, injecting standard lectures into the preparation period. In 1932 Gordon Gorbachenko, a student at the Chemical-Technological Institute, offered his blunt commentary on the brigade system: “TI felt as though I had wasted two years in the midst of comrades who had little incentive or desire to work on so-called projects. It did nothing for me.”3? The brigade-laboratory milieu put a strain on personal and political

relations. Disputes between students and brigadiers were commonplace. Brigadiers put before disciplinary hearings were often charged

154 Builders and Deserters

with abusing their authority or behaving in an “un-communist” manner. The case of Kunitsik, who was accused in 1932 of appearing drunk all the time and neglecting his duties, illustrates how easily personal and political issues could become intertwined. When he did convene ~ meetings, Kunitsik insulted everyone and even brought some of the girls to tears. As the accusations against him flew, some of his supporters rushed to his defence and made the point that he was not really all that bad a fellow. Affairs such as this (and there were many) did little to create a “comradely atmosphere” in brigades.4° Collectivism not only fostered a culture of laziness, but complicated matters when sour personal relations came into play.

ORDER AND DISCIPLINE,

1932-41

The cultural revolution experiment began to grind to a halt in June 1931, when Stalin denounced both “specialist-baiting” and “narrow” specialization. Shortly thereafter the brigade-laboratory method was ~ abandoned (although officially not until September 1932) and a new line took its place: order, discipline, and qualitative learning. The new order in higher education consisted of general instruction combined with ad-

vanced training and a vulgarization of history, politics, and culture through the ideological hybrid of Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism. Classroom learning evolved within a “post-revolutionary” environment that promoted discipline and individual performance. Academic performance became a dominant metaphor for socialist construction, setting individual and institutional achievement within the framework of socialism in one country. Students began to receive more competent and consistent instruction, but they acquired it through exposure to stale intellectual and political attacks on discredited ideas. While the imposition of stricter order and discipline in higher education may have been a logical denoue-

ment to a revolution in which a new élite emerged into positions of power,*? other factors were also at work. Order and stability appealed to

a new generation concerned about personal opportunities. Students, teachers, and administrative officials aceepted rules and regulations if they promoted a better learning environment, but each group continued to pursue separate and competing goals, albeit in a more restrictive atmosphere. Formerly discredited professors, emerging with a new profile, found it necessary to adjust their practices and expectations within this new reality. Administrators were forced to play politics while absorbing criticism and suggestions from their professorial and student constituencies. Students did their best to fulfil academic obligations but in the process attempted to use the system to their own advantage.

155 Inthe Classroom The Stalinist Basics

Systematization within a controlled arena for scholarly-political discourse became the defining theme for academic programs after 1932. Along with specialist disciplines, students were required to master the basics in pure and applied sciences, mathematics, literature, politics, Marxism-Leninism, and grammar. Casting off the depersonalizing aspects of the brigade-laboratory method, the state promoted greater personal responsibility for work. In September 1932 lectures (supplemented with personal consultation periods) were restored, and a standardized system for examinations and academic calendar regulations were put into place. Stricter requirements introduced in 1933 — a good command of the Russian language; knowledge of Russian literature, folklore, and the sciences; competence in at least one foreign language — defined the renewed emphasis on an all-round education.4* The reforms gave new life to universities. In the somewhat ironic words of Agitprop deputy M.A. Aleksinsku, the revival of universities signalled nothing less than a “new era” in higher learning and an end to the “intellectual plundering” of previous years. Universities resumed their role as centres for high academic and cultural achievement.43 Universities in Moscow and

Leningrad, along with the Herzen Pedagogical Institute, changed their curricula according to the new model. All programs had to be “based on the principles of Marxism-Leninism and dialectical materialism”; they employed a combination of lectures, seminars, and professorial consultations along with independent study. In place of personal viewpoints and “eclectic [non-Marxist] concepts,” professors had to deliver sound and “factual” arguments based on Marxist-Leninist material.44 Some familiar problems arose once the new system came into play. Government officials criticized administrators for not putting enough emphasis on general preparation, while the latter responded that this was the fault of state planners, as they had failed to provide the necessary resources. In early 1933, amidst all these problems, another socialist competition — designed to encourage universities to carry through with the 1932 reforms — awarded first and second prize to the Moscow and Leningrad universities respectively. The awarding of prizes in this competition was ironic, given that officials had more complaints than compliments to offer.45 Additional pressure fell on the backs of institutional officials after the All-Union Committee on Higher Education (VKvsh) introduced standard testing procedures and more rigid theoretical and general instruction requirements for pupils in all disciplines. Nevertheless, the quality of instruction remained a contentious issue — the by-product of a period in which instructors found their authority challenged from all sides.4°

156 Builders and Deserters The experience of the history program at Leningrad State University provides an example of the ambiguous impact of the recent reforms. Revived in 1934, history became a cornerstone of the curriculum in the humanities. The university’s history program was one of the largest in the ussr, but it had suffered through difficult times. Stalin used history to great effect against his opponents; any teachers or writers who failed to conform to his standards were attacked as Trotskyists, opportunists,

or “distorters of the past.” The Marxist schema of M.N. Pokrovsky and his school was repudiated in 1934, at which point the Party demanded a chronological and fact-oriented approach that avoided the “abstract sociological schemes” offered by the discredited Soviet historian.47 The Leningrad Institute of Philology, Linguistics, and History became the university’s centre for graduate work in history. The revival of the History Faculty in September 1934 brought a flurry of activity and publicity. Administrators glorified the grand historical tradition of Russia while praising the efforts of senior faculty members (none of whom were Party members).4° The teaching staff was a mixture of junior and senior historians, but in the wake of the Kirov affair several

were arrested and disappeared for good. The arrest of the dean in 1935, and two years later of Director M.S. Lazurkin, led to a spate of denunciations and a general housecleaning of the faculty’s Party cells. The political terror also resulted in the disappearance of several professors, junior faculty members, and students in the Biology and Physics

faculties.

History students endured perhaps the most frequent changes with respect to textbooks and curricular content. In 1934 the Central Commit-

tee launched a competition with the intention of finding the best textbook on Party history. After the works of Pokrovsky and E.M. Iaroslavsky had fallen out of favour, the task of writing a new textbook was perceived to be a dangerous undertaking. Following the submission of numerous drafts by anxious historians, the History of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) — Short Course was published in 1938 as

Stalin’s crowning achievement in the area of rewriting history. The . Short Course, with its simplistic explanations and vituperative attacks against Trotsky and other demonized individuals, became part of the standard curriculum. Although it was subjected to alterations over the next fifty years, the Short Course served as staple of “knowledge” for generations of students. Political, biographical, and economic history, along with excursions, workshops in archives, and a stricter enforcement of language requirements, constituted the history program.*? In response to changes in the international situation, more politically acceptable topics came under discussion in 1939-41, such as “The Fascist Falsification of Historical Science in Germany” and “Western Ukraine

157 Inthe Classroom and Western Belorussia under the Yoke of Pan-Polonism.” Both professors and students, however, remained reluctant to tackle issues related

to Party history; they left that task to officially appointed historians. Cautious and predictable discussions characterized seminars, with the emphasis on research techniques, knowledge of Marxism-Leninism, and “facts and dates.” Senior students, allowed once again to work under formerly discredited giants such as E.V. Tarle, had little opportunity to pursue research interests of their own. Instead, they acted more as members of an official research team appointed by the state and supervised by senior academics.*° Problems of a different nature afflicted higher technical schools. The

Industrial-Technical Training Bureau of the All-Union Communist Party (VKP[b]) promoted a strategy that emphasized qualitative work and sought to redefine industrial-technical institutions as “universities of culture,” reversing the previous trend towards compartmentalization. The goal was to strike a balance between generalist, political, and specialist subjects in the new curriculum, as well as between the time spent on theory and the time devoted to practical training. Higher admissions standards came in the wake of concerns about the quality of incoming and continuing students, particularly at newly established institutions such as the Leningrad Industrial Academy.5? In 1936 the Committee on Higher Education introduced a program that required all students to complete general instruction, language, and political requirements before they advanced to the next level. Despite optimistic pronouncements from officials in the Commissariat of Heavy Industry (they were responsible for coordinating relations between institutions and enterprises), the sought-after balance between general and practi-

cal instruction did not materialize. Not a few institutions failed to adopt the reforms, while others undertook unauthorized alterations to the standard model.5*

Agricultural and medical training reaped the benefits of prioritized budgetary outlays during the first five-year plan. Agricultural schools and communist agricultural universities continued to produce cadres for the

forestry industry, collective and state farms, and Machine Tractor Stations (central tractor depots). The former Leningrad Communist University (now called the All-Union Communist Agricultural Academy) restructured its program in 1933 to include more courses in rural administration, farm management, and machine repair.53 Medical schools expe-

rienced a huge influx of students during the first five-year plan, which created a glut in the field. In 1934 Narkompros reduced the number of medical vuzy and made the admissions process more rigorous. With the introduction of Hygiene faculties in 1928-31 and tighter links forged between medical institutions and rural clinics (see chapter 6), medical insti-

158 Builders and Deserters

tutions did their part to modernize the countryside. Programs were extended to five years, and in 1934 medical vuzy paired with hospitals and rural clinics to give students more practical experience.5+ _ , Socialism Achieved? The Politics of Academic Performance

The new face of higher education fit the mould of an orchestrated attempt to present the Soviet Union as a progressive and well-ordered state that was speeding towards socialism. But many of the policies introduced during the 1930s failed to materialize in their intended form.

| They were interpreted, avoided, or — to varying degrees — embraced by the major actors involved in the arena of learning: students, professors, institutional officials, and the Communist Party. As expectations rose, the politics of performance and the presentation of its social meaning became immensely more complex. A barrage of publications and de-

crees on proper study methods and testing procedures, along with a less tolerant attitude towards poor performance, dominated the landscape of higher learning. Because academic institutions assumed the role of testing ground for the successes and failures of socialism, poor academic performance implied unpleasant consequences for the pupil and for the administrators and professors responsible for their training. Aside from an honest desire to see pupils excel, there was no better motivation to produce good results than fear of outside intervention. The paternalistic Soviet state, with Father Stalin at the helm, provided ample guidance for students. Academic mentors continued to take a dual approach, praising students for their achievements but criticizing their weaknesses. The raising of admissions standards in 1932 coincided with the increasingly frequent appearance of how-to sessions for candidates preparing for tests (see below). Students who exhibited a poor mastery of the Russian language received their fair share of stern instructional advice. Test scores indicated an improvement over past years, but the levels of achievement in higher technical schools showed sharp performance disparities by subject area. Russian-language scores dropped because of the large number of rabfak and technical school students from national minority groups who had entered the system. In 1935 admissions officials at the Communist Agricultural Academy noted many examples of woeful writing skills and poor knowledge of geography. Non-Russian students were often unable to point out their point of origin on a map. Only a few correctly identified the major countries in Europe, and several of them confused people of note with places. The latter problem especially perturbed Party officials, given the recent emphasis on heroic individuals and important facts and places in history.55

159 Inthe Classroom

A new policy came into effect in 1936 stipulating that anyone who failed more than one subject area in the entrance examinations was to be excluded from the competition. This seemed to have a beneficial effect on grammar and mathematics scores, although rabfak graduates continued to display their ignorance of current events and just about everyone had a tough time with the “Stalin Constitution” and Party history. In many cases it seemed that preparatory schools had exaggerated their graduates’ level of academic training.5° In sum, while intensive competition for spots in vuzy, the diminished importance of social origins as a decisive factor, and tougher entrance requirements tended to thin out the numbers of weaker candidates, data on test scores suggest that improvements reported in the 1930s were modest rather than significant.

High academic performance became one of the benchmarks defining

the cultured and disciplined student community in the 1930s. The Soviet student, as V.N. Sukhachev’s remarks in the Introduction suggested, symbolized the finished product of the socialist order. Indeed, proper study habits defined students as responsible Soviet citizens. The exaltation of “model” students and the application of punitive measures — a carrot-and-stick approach — characterized the academic dimension of the cultured community. Not all students and teachers accepted this new model. Some of them found it unrealistic and unmanageable. Resurrected as role models, senior professors wrote high-profile articles explaining the need for students to develop disciplined study habits and improve their level of cultural and scientific knowledge. This was the message relayed in a Leningrad Party daily in 1937 by D. Deineka, a senior geology professor at Leningrad State University not known for his sympathetic attitude towards communism. Deineka criticized the deterioration of academic standards and called for a return to discipline and rote learning.5”? His commentary is one example of the hundreds of pieces of advice published in major periodicals. Innumerable articles and pamphlets laid out proper study strategies and advice on how to achieve one’s full potential. According to chemistry professor Rebel’skii, there were five cardinal rules for good study habits: attend all lectures and listen carefully; develop the skill of good note-taking while listening; study the teacher’s lecture method so that you will know when the most important points are being raised; take only relevant, organized notes; review your notes that evening and reorganize them. Time-budgeting, a popular theme of the 1920s, experienced a revival as a twin brother of discipline. Students were told that they could not expect much benefit from consultation sessions with advisors if

160 Builders and Deserters

they failed to prepare adequately. Indeed, professors showed little patience with pupils who neglected their preparatory work.°? In advising students to work harder, professors found an unlikely partner — the

Communist Party. ,

Hoping to raise the academic standards of the studenchestvo, professors and state officials encouraged high achievers to advise their peers on how to study successfully. The outstanding student (otlichnik) was a quintessential symbol of the Stalinist meritocracy. The academic equivalent of Stakhanovites, otlichniki received not only better stipends but

also a higher public profile. The otlichnik, as a student who “knows comprehensively and in its entirety the required academic program in all its details [and] has a deep understanding and simple recitation of it,”5? was an important role model. Speaking with a group of otlichniki in January 1937, Narkompros commissar A.S. Bubnov noted that they

had a tremendous social responsibility:

All of you here are oflichniki and are leading students, and all the other students in the academic institutions in which you study should look upon you as that. You will surely do well if you realize these goals, and I myself have said that if you occupy these positions, then hold on to them; do not back away from successes and do not think that if you have achieved the status of oflichnik that, in terms of socialist competition or everyday comradely relations,

you should not strive to bring all students up to your level.®° , Student newspapers described the study habits of otlichniki and contrasted the benefits reaped by hard work with the consequences of slovenly habits. The following story attempted to convey the Soviet ethos of classroom discipline. It described a day in the life of Sokolov, an ofli-

chnik at the Herzen Pedagogical Institute who pursued an admirable regimen: in class until 4:00 p.M.; a Greek language study group from 4:00 to 5:30; half an hour of newspaper reading following the dinner and physical culture break; independent review of notes from 7:30 to 9:00; two hours of “meetings with comrades” for conversation, chess,

and so on; reading from 11:00 to 1:00 for tomorrow’s sessions on Shakespeare and Belinskii. On the other hand, there was Gorianov, who skipped a few classes, chatted constantly with friends, and ended

up with poor marks. The intended lesson of the story was that although Gorianov may have had more fun, it came at a price and he should have been ashamed of himself.**

Personal profiles of high achievers normally accompanied the officially sanctioned “advice sessions” in which oflichniki offered tips for achieving better grades. One of the more common pieces of advice was

161 Inthe Classroom that students should develop a keen enthusiasm for work and a love for acquiring knowledge, but by far the most pervasive feature in this sanctimonious public dialogue was the “How I Prepare for Examinations” column. After a round of exams, the students with the highest marks,

pictured looking happy and smartly dressed, were featured in frontpage articles. Preferring to use the carrot over the stick in this case, authorities hoped that prospective graduates would recognize the rewards offered by exemplary performance.** What impact did this public instructional campaign have on the perfor-

mance level of students? This question must be addressed with two overarching factors and their accompanying permutations in mind. The first factor was that incoming and continuing students faced new requirements and changing political demands according to the whims of

the Communist Party; the second, that the student-teacher relations and institutional political pressures with regard to academic performance both influenced the evaluation process significantly. The former put students at a disadvantage compared with their predecessors in the 19208, as exacting standards demanded that they allot their time in a more organized manner to a wider variety of disciplines. Institutional

politics and the dynamics of student-teacher relations had an even more profound impact on performance levels. Before looking at levels of knowledge and performance, we must first consider the politics of student evaluations and personal dynamics in the classroom. Professors and institutional officials, it was believed, tended to ele-

vate and even inflate marks in order to safeguard the reputation of their school, although the campaign against “liberalism” may have exaggerated the phenomenon of mark inflation because such a charge provided a convenient pretext to attack teachers who failed to conform to standards. Did students receive inflated marks? Commentators in the 1930s, for various reasons, seemed to think so. “End Liberalism in Marking!” junior faculty member Fredericks wrote in the Mining Institute’s newspaper in 1935. Fredericks was not the only one to suggest that far too frequently students received “satisfactory” and “excellent” marks without justification.®3 In fact, a massive campaign against mark inflation began almost immediately after Stalin, in 1931, attacked the editors of the periodical Proletarskaia revoliutsiia for allowing manifestations of “rotten liberalism” to appear on its pages. According to the stock conspiracy theory as it pertained to higher education, Trotskyites deliberately inflated the marks of known enemies of the people in order to support these students’ heinous deeds.°+ More plausible explanations for liberal grading practices were offered by admissions commit-

162 Builders and Deserters

tees and professors. Reviews of Leningrad vuzy found that evaluation standards varied widely among teachers. In many cases, teachers had little time (or were unwilling) to evaluate students’ work carefully, so | they often ended up assigning high grades to avoid trouble. Despite a general grandstanding against mark inflation, it proved very difficult to impose upon teachers a uniform grading system.°5 Even with the above in mind, one might still claim that performance improved, but several further mitigating factors must be considered

when employing the test data. Academic institutions employed the frustrating practice (for the historian) of presenting test scores in an inconsistent or incomplete manner, often publishing them in response to criticism or as a form of self-promotion. Pressure to improve the performance of Communist Party and Komsomol students had a significant impact on performance scores. Comparing the examination results for various universities in the fall 1932 semester, M. Orlov noted that despite improvements over the previous few years there were wide dis-

crepancies in the students’ scores for different subjects. He recommended that young communists raise to an equal level their results in all subjects and that they work hard to achieve otlichnik status.°° Orlov’s article coincided with the Communist Party’s major initiative in 1932, when it put extreme pressure on institutions to produce better all-round students. Table 5.2, which provides a rough comparison of the performance scores of several Leningrad vuzy over three- to sixyear periods in the 1930s, reflects the all-Union trend of an increase in high marks (“5’s”) and fewer failures (“2’s”). Improvements were most visible between 1933 and 1935, when the number of otlichniki in most institutions swelled suspiciously.°7 The practice of assigning marks according to political affiliation most likely had an impact on overall results. Although communist students may have been “catching up and overtaking” their peers in recent years, they did not experience many of

the difficulties associated with being a senior student from a nonlabouring background. There was a return to the pre-1928 pattern of generally lower scores for communist students after the playing field started to level in the mid-1930s. Fewer extracurricular activities for communist students (but not in all cases) may have helped improve their performance towards the end of the decade.°* The many socialist competitions, challenging individual students

and their immediate organizations to outperform others but not to sacrifice quality in the process, also influenced examination results. The “Not One Khvost [Failure]!” and the “Struggle against Academic Zadolzhennost’ [Rewrite]!” campaigns were prominent in this regard.

The pressure put on academic stragglers reinforced the image of a

163 In the Classroom Table 5.1 Subject Scores for Entrants, Leningrad Viuzy, 1935

Subject * 5 4 3 2 Russian Oral 7.9 29.3 49.0 13.8

Percentage Receiving the Following Evaluations

Russian Written 4.4 24.8 46.3 24.5

Mathematics 11.9 27.6 44.9 15.6 Physics 10.3 27.9 44.2 17.6 Chemistry 14.0 33.3 41.9 Social Sciences 8.0 31.2 48.710.8 12.1

Drawing — 7.6 71.4 21.0 Drafting 15.3 40.2 44.1 0.4

Average for All 16.3 37.2 45.6 0.9**

Rabfak 4.9 25.7 47.5 21.9

Russian Language Scores

Technical School 2.4 19.8 39.8 38.0 Secondary School 5.7 30.9 47.0 16.4

Political Prep. School 4.6 26.5 46.1 22.8

RabfakSchool 8.8 32.7 50.3 Technical 7.9 29.8 45.9 8.0 16.4

Social Sciences Scores

Secondary School 10.9 35.8 42.8 10.5

Political Prep. School 9.9 30.0 48.9 11.2 Source: TsGA IPD, f.25, op.1o, d.10, ll.1-9. * Scores for higher technical schools only; they refer only to those of the successful candidates. ** This figure must be inaccurate, given the failure rates in the above subjects.

bipolar world of builders and deserters within the student community. The otlichnik was a builder - a student who worked hard, displayed exemplary personal characteristics, and was the kind of person who contributed to the economic growth of the ussr. The khvost was a deserter who failed to meet the state’s expectations. The overtly political connotations of khvostizmi (literally “tailism” — in

this case signifying poor academic performance and/or a “failing attitude” in all aspects of life) came to the fore during the first five-year plan.

Students were bombarded with declarations about the relationship between good academic performance and steadfast political character. They were urged to charge into classrooms in a display of brigade unity, a policy that resulted in ridiculous “storming” campaigns followed by declarations that all academic problems had been resolved. These high-minded

164 Builders and Deserters Table 5.2

Reported Examination Scores by Institution }

: Date 5 4 3 < (per cent)

Leningrad! State University Feb./1934 34.1 33.2 26.8 5.9

Jan./1940 50.0 26.9 12.0 2.6*

Chemical-Tech. Institute Feb./1934 27.1 33.4 30.3 9.2

May/1938 25.4 38.5 33.5 2.6

Agricultural Institute? May/1935 25.0 47.2 27.1 0.7 Oct./1939 38.6 34.6 25.8 ~—6©1.0

Forestry Institute* Jan./1934 14.2 38.9 37.2 9.7

Feb./1939 28.2 32.7 37.0 2.2 Mining Institute° Jan./1935 17.5 45.9 34.9 1.7

Feb./1938 © 39.2 «+ $1.6 > 2.7

Sources: (1) LU, 13 February 1934; 15 January 1940. (2) Za khimizatsiiu, 2 February 1934; 5 September 1938. (3) zSz, 1 September 1935; 11 September 1939. (4) Lesnaia pravda, 13 January 1934; 13 February 1939. (5) Gorniatskaia pravda, 24 January 1934; TsGA IPD, f.80, op.2, d.23, 1.84. *325 students (8.5 percent) did not write the examinations at the specified time.

declarations represented political grandstanding rather than a realistic program designed to help students pull themselves up to an acceptable level of performance. “Tailism” had other connotations: failures were truants, cheaters, generally unreliable, and politically suspect. Student newspapers devoted a fair amount of space to articles informing their readers of the many political lessons to be learned from tailism. As a group of “opportunists” in the Geomorphology Faculty Party cell at Leningrad State University found out in 1931, high truancy and high failure rates invited suspicions that anti-Soviet forces were at work.°?

The campaign against khvostizm changed tone somewhat in 1932, linking itself with themes of culture and socialist competitions. The Komsomol Central Committee promoted “Not One Khvost” competitions as a way of encouraging better performance among Komsomol students. Zero-tolerance campaigns produced higher attendance rates and weeded out students unable to improve their marks. The negative social typing of failures put additional pressure on student organizations to raise academic standards. Front-page profiles of “inveterate failures” and “galleries of failures” sent the not too subtle message that underachievers harboured certain character traits. These pieces provided unpleasant surprises for targeted individuals.7°

165 Inthe Classroom A parallel movement to eliminate academic zadolzhennost’ (retaking an exam for a subject not yet passed successfully) and reduce the dropout rate arose from concerns expressed by professors and administrators. Unacceptably high retake rates - as much as 50 per cent in some departments — made faculty members and departmental administrators very nervous, so they had plenty of incentive to push students through the system. The campaign against retakes became part of the socialist

competition movement, as Party organizations told cell leaders and senior students to devote extra time to the assistance of straggling students. Of course, such exhortations had broader social and political connotations: by helping fellow comrades, students were contributing to a higher quality of academic work while at the same time developing a sense of community-mindedness. Nevertheless, retakes and drop-outs continued to be major problems. Despite all the rhetoric about the improved level of discipline and preparation, the pressures of academic and political life continued to take their toll.7? Quick-fix solutions like special week-long “blitz” campaigns — undertaken to push students to complete their examinations successfully — were

more indicative of the extreme political pressure in the higher school environment than of the genuine desire to help students elevate the qual-

ity of their academic work. Although many “liquidation of zadolzhennost’” schemes might have helped students complete examinations successfully, one wonders at what cost this was achieved.7* Professors taught under the unspoken assumption that a workable compromise between academic needs and political expediency had to be found. In the campaigns against tailism and retakes, it seemed more important that institutes of higher learning project the image that they tackled their problems aggressively than that they actually achieve qualitative results. Performance figures may indicate a steady improvement in student performance during the late 1930s, but they are also a consequence of the environmental variables in which socialist competitions and other movements flourished. The significant rise in the number of oftlichniki and the tremendous drop in the overall failure rate during the second half of the decade (when campaigns to raise the number of oflichniki

and lower the percentage of failures were at their height) suggest a direct correlation between targeted programs and rising performance indicators. As shown in Table 5.2, the otlichnik rate ranged from onequarter to as much as one-half of the student body at various institutions. By granting this title to so many students, it was hard to single out the few individuals who were truly outstanding.73 While the figures

themselves suggest that performance improved and standards were higher, the value of “outstanding” marks had been cheapened. Clearly,

166 Builders and Deserters

a struggle persisted between academic and political demands and the individual standards of professors and students. The Janus-faced strategies and managerial techniques of vuz officials must be understood within this context. Classroom Dynamics

The classroom experiences of students say a great deal about the contradictions of higher education under Stalinism. In the realm of politics, students recognized the need to “play the game” and to present careful discursive strategies in discussion groups. They applied similar skills in a classroom environment that had changed considerably since the NEP era. The classroom theatre functioned according to the uneasy balance of power between students and teachers, although periodic interventions by the Communist Party and ongoing political struggles punctu-

ated this delicate equilibrium. By offering critical evaluations of teachers or pedagogical materials and conforming to formulaic discursive strategies, students did their best to make it through the program unscathed. The Zhdanov Commission on Higher Education produced in 193 536 a number of detailed assessments of Leningrad vuzy, complete with candid remarks by students. A closer look at these evaluations provides

an opportunity to analyse the mood in higher education. The wide spectrum of attitudes and opinions offered by the students can be considered with reference not only to the field of study, the social background, and even the political affiliation of students, but also to the issue of individual achievement scores — something students were more concerned about than ever. In 1935 several institutions submitted detailed accounts of the teaching situation, complete with students’ evaluations and suggestions for improvement. Most reports described the situation as fairly positive, pointing to improvements in the quality of teachers, the organized nature of academic programs, and better study habits on the part of the students. Nevertheless, students continued to

complain about inadequate resources and the rushed nature of programs. Round-table discussions with Leningrad State University students in June 1935 clearly illustrated these and other problems. A mathematics student by the name of Grigor’ev, who began his degree program in the late 1920s and would complete it in 1935, registered - his concerns about teachers: [Our] fundamental concern is that teachers are not interested in each individual student. If the teachers were interested in the students, then under all of these methods — the old, the laboratory, and the current — they would have given

167 Inthe Classroom , more concise evaluations of students, but there were no such conditions and the teachers gave no such evaluations. What does this speak of? It suggests that the given teacher is not interested in the student. When the teacher is reading a lecture, naturally, he cannot create the kind of situation that would allow all 100 people to understand the lecture. There are other professors who listen to students’ questions, who are interested in them, and who are acquainted with the [students]. Those professors design their program and give lectures so that they are comprehensible. This type of professor is interested in what the students get out of the lecture.

Exasperated with all the changes in recent years, Grigor’ev believed that the state and the professoriate had a long way to go before they could claim grand successes in higher education.”4

Not surprisingly, there were numerous complaints about arbitrariness in marking schemes. Quite commonly, students failed by their pro-

fessors were subsequently reassigned a “4” or even a “5” after an appeal. These cases most likely involved professors with particular standards coming up against students who held different perspectives. In any event, authorities found it tempting to offer politicized verdicts when students and teachers clashed over marks.’75 Most senior professors preferred traditional examination methods (individual interviews, detailed questions on the subject matter, and little tolerance for a pupil’s failure to grasp the core elements of the discipline), whereas the younger cohort of Soviet teachers adopted newer methods; trained in the 1920s, the younger teachers had been influenced by experimental pedagogical techniques and the state’s propensity to question the authority of their senior colleagues. During the first five-year plan, com-

munist students attacked “bourgeois” professors who continued in their old ways. Furthermore, they criticized testing procedures and claimed that professors discriminated against them. Similar criticisms resurfaced after 1932, but they tended to be driven more by generational than political antagonisms. Students singled out professors for such abuses as scheduling examinations at inconvenient hours or intimidating them during tests requiring one-on-one interviews. Naturally the professors had another perspective. As S.V. Frish suggested, most of the complainers were either careerists or individuals who had not done their work.7° A student’s sense of despair after receiving a poor mark magnified

his or her perception that professors were unfair, but professors pointed out that rigorous studies were essential for mastery of material. Addressing complaints in a round-table discussion in 1938 about his ruthless marking procedures and the fact that he rarely gave out a “5,”

Rabinovich, a lecturer at the Medical Institute, countered with the

168 Builders and Deserters

charge that some professors deliberately lowered their standards to buttress students’ evaluations. He also had harsh words for undergraduates who expected an easy ride at the institute: I think that in order for a student to get an “excellent” evaluation, he needs to know the subject well and would be able to describe the history of an illness in written form, summarized in a grammatically correct manner, exhibiting sufficient familiarity with the contiguous disciplines. Perhaps I have incorrectly

judged the students from this point of view. It could be that I acted like a bloodthirsty vampire, sucking the students’ blood. In any event, I think we need to agree on a singular approach towards [evaluating] students.77

Rabinovich could back up his claims with hard data showing that most students had poor study habits. P.A. Rymkevich, in his 1935 survey of first-year Leningrad higher technical school students, found a discrepancy between the students’ public pronouncements and their private feelings regarding academic performance. In confidence, the vast ma-

jority said that their entrance examination marks represented a fair measure of their abilities. Most noted that their confidence level had declined in the face of the strenuous workload at the higher school. If

own fault.7® | we assume that the respondents accepted the survey’s guarantee of ano-

nymity, most were willing to admit that their poor marks were their

Whether or not that was actually the case, students found ways to

get around the system. Two time-honoured practices were the “lottery” strategy — in which they deliberately selected professors noted for the light workload they assigned and/or for liberal marking practices — and cheating or fibbing through tests. The lottery principle, although by all accounts quite commonly employed, received less publicity than the latter. Nikolai Borodin, a student in the mid-1920s (mentioned earlier),

recalled how he and several of his peers made a conscious effort to avoid taking courses given by professors with reputations for toughness. Although officially frowned upon, the lottery strategy became

popular among undergraduates.7? ,

Given the daily pressures and the numerous demands upon students, it is not surprising that some of them opted for unscrupulous strategies to raise their marks. Students who employed dishonest methods were known simply as cheaters (arapniki). The example that was made of cheaters illustrated one way in which the Stalinist order checked misconduct. Cheating (arapnichestvo), as an illicit practice, was associated with the discredited traditions of the pre-revolutionary studenchestvo. A widely acknowledged problem in the 1920s, cheating was perceived as a “system” to fool authorities.8° Cheaters most commonly employed

169 Inthe Classroom

crib sheets (shpargalki) — hardly a revolutionary weapon in the class struggle. But cheating was also seen as more than a dishonest practice:

commentators described it as part of an attitude that betrayed some of , the moral and social problems afflicting the studenchestvo. One teacher wrote that being intellectually lazy was no better than cheating in examinations. He suggested that there were two kinds of cheaters: “outright” frauds and those who were “light-hearted” about it.®* It is hard to miss the clear connection made here between “intellectual cheating” and other criticisms of communist youth in the late 1920s. From this perspective, the cheating phenomenon reinforced the perception that some youth did not deserve the privilege of enrolling in an institution of higher learning. The practice of cheating had more serious political connotations after 1928. Cheaters were panickers, shirkers, and deserters from frontline duties. As a violation of community standards and a manifestation

of anti-Soviet attitudes, cheating remained an issue of great concern into the 1930s. One student in 1934 hinted that many of his peers got away with trickery. In the time-honoured tradition, classmates often worked together to fool their teacher. This kto-kogo (who beats whom) approach was described by agronomy student Sarafanov: They have crib sheets in their pockets, which they then use in front of them. Sometimes, if the professor is watching over them closely, one of the students will go over to him as if to ask a question, in order to distract his attention. And during this time [the others] open their books, take crib sheets out of their pockets, and after five minutes they have filled in everything that they couldn’t complete earlier. So you see, those who were “4” students now are all

getting “5.”5 ,

Although Sarafanov did not imply that most students cheated, he suggested that the concepts of honesty and hard work had become oldfashioned. K. Smirnov, a student at the Leningrad Chemical-Technological Institute, offered similar observations. In a long article in 1933 entitled “Do You Know Any Cheaters?,” Smirnov listed his rogue’s gallery of cheaters at the institute, surmising that the practice had become common and well refined: Comrade ... (I do not remember his name) from a first-year group, writing a

test on organics, was following his “crib sheet.” Comrade Abramskaia “fished” for answers in qualitative analysis, comrade Pisarev made use of someone else’s notes, and, finally, comrade Luk’ianov was impudent enough to manufacture his own examination stamp [thus attesting to his successful completion of the test].

170 Builders and Deserters | This varied picture is really one and the same thing, which can be called cheating. Observations are drawn (or will be drawn) from these persons, but the conclusion of the general student community from the facts surrounding these personalities has not yet been drawn! You think that they are alone. And the question has never come across your mind — “Are you a cheater, cit-

izen?” — to a roommate writing his examinations ... ,

I answer for you: “You have risked your friendship on it!” oe , However, you and many others among us have avoided this indiscreet problem:

“This test offends a friend, a buddy, a roommate ...” So [instead], you extend your hand with a wide smile: “You got away with it?” ... “Congratulations! ”®3

The moralistic tone of this sermon is hard to ignore. Smirnov’s point that cheating remained a vestige of the pre-revolutionary student cul-

ture referred once again to the high cultural and political standards that each of the Soviet Union’s “best” was expected to maintain. At no time did institutional officials or Party organizations publish figures on cheating (cheaters who were expelled fit into the “academic reasons” category), perhaps for the reason that they did not want to incur outside criticism. Instead, the authorities preferred to incorporate their approach to cheating into a discursive strategy that employed antithetical categories. Students had a duty to perform well in the classroom. When they did not, and especially in cases of cheating, they violated community standards, “betrayed the trust” of their peers, and deserted their task of state-building. Soviet students, whom authorities regarded as _ culturally more developed and intellectually more focused than their predecessors, were expected not to tolerate such actions.*4 Cadres of the Stalinist Revolution

Soviet publications frequently cited as one of the country’s great successes the tremendous growth after 1928 of graduating classes, par-

ticularly in industrial-technical and pedagogical institutions. The graduating classes in these fields grew 350 per cent and 1,100 per cent respectively between 1928 and 1940. State universities also reported a significant increase over the past decade. Overall, the total number of graduating students in the USSR grew from 28,600 in 1928 to 236,800 in 1940. The total number of graduates for this period was 868,000,

and from 1938 to 1940 an average of 109,300 graduated each year. Similar patterns occurred in Leningrad, where graduating classes had expanded significantly by 1934/35, when the first wave of students who had enrolled in 1929/30 completed their programs. The relative

171 Inthe Classroom | Table 5.3

The Graduating Classes (per cent)

Total Worker Peasant Other Party Komsomol Non-Party Technological (Chemical-Techn.) Institute

1925/26! 93 24.7 14.0 61.3 6.4 _ 93.6 1928/292 281 n/a n/a n/a 1.0 5.0 94.0 1933/343 145 475 11 414 118 43.4 44.8 1934/353 414 46.9 13.8 39.3 21.5 37.9 40.6

Leningrad State University 1925/264 1,052 4.5 96 85.9 118 7.5 80.7

1929/30° 2,123 n/a n/a n/a 8.6 7.2 84.2

1933/346 334 §29.6 17.7 52.7 6.6 33.5 59.9 Sources: (1) TsGA SPb, f.3025, op.4, d.4618, 1.147. (2) TsGA SPb, f.2279, op.4, d.2451, 1.8. (3) TsGA SPb, f.3025, op.4, d.282, ll.14—-16. (4) TsGA SPb, f.2556, op.1, d.143, 1.179. (5) TsGA IPD, f.984, op.1, d.414, 1.147. (6) TsGaA IPD, f.984, op.4, d.4, 1.198.

scarcity and inconsistency of figures for the social and political composition of graduating classes after 1932 reflected a change in official policy. If favourable, these figures were often publicized to show off the institution’s accomplishments.°5 As the figures in Table 5.3 indicate, discriminatory admissions and promotion policies instituted in 1927/ 28 had a decisive impact by the end of the first five-year plan. For obvious reasons, the graduate placement system became more

rigid after 1928. The state’s main priority was to get Red specialists into professional positions. In 1928/29 Narkompros passed decrees obligating higher schools to push students through their honours projects and examination sessions in order to graduate them after four, instead of the normal five, years. Even so, the placement system still could not cope with the high demand for specialists in specific fields. The familiar circular pattern of blame and delay continued, with Party officials criticizing professors and administrators for lagging behind and the latter blaming it all on Narkompros. The placement system improved somewhat after 1932, although organizational problems lingered. In line with a new emphasis on quality, the Central Committee instructed Narkompros to eliminate the accelerated programs and to ensure that students took on jobs that corre-

sponded exactly to their field. New rules for graduates of higher technical schools stipulated that a minimum of five years of work experience in the field were necessary before they could join the workforce. By 1936 a standardized system was put in place compelling

172 Builders and Deserters | students to work at least four years (extended to five years in 1938) in their assigned job, allowing the state to draw up long-term placement plans. Institutions compiled detailed reports on the social background, academic performance, and “political maturity” of their graduates to show that they had the appropriate credentials. Of course, this system could not prevent old ways — namely, an ad hoc placement process — from persisting. In some cases department heads and faculty deans,

probably for reasons of expediency, gave “blanket assignments” of students from a given faculty to specific enterprises or institutions. This practice was sufficiently widespread to have an impact on the make-up of the workforce. Its exact nature and extent demands further study. ®°

Officials continued to have a tough time convincing graduates to take jobs in undesirable locales. In order to encourage students to journey to remote and inhospitable regions of the ussrR, a publicity campaign replete with sermons on the joys of working in developing areas intensified in student newspapers and other publications. Writers presented the placement system as the end-product of years of excellent training —

the gateway to an exciting future with limitless opportunities. One

“portrait” of six graduate engineers published in the ChemicalTechnological Institute’s student newspaper in 1938 provides a good example of this strategy. The article began with a discussion of the USSR’s achievements in the area of industrial planning and economic development, contrasting the socialist land of opportunity with high unemployment rates in Europe. It went on to describe how six graduates had journeyed to the Smolnyi government building where they had met with a placement committee to talk about career possibilities. “In a friendly conversation, time flew by without anyone noticing. Members of the committee talked for thirty-five to forty minutes with each young engineer. They were interested in everything: biography, studies at the institute, family situation, plans for future work.” After this pleasant little chat, the engineers had travelled to Moscow where they had met with officials from the Commissariat of Heavy Industry, who had pro- _ ceeded to delegate assignments. Not surprisingly, all the graduates pro-

filed had enrolled as Party or Komsomol members and had been actively involved in public work along with their studies.” Anyone who read this story could not miss the message that students who had impeccable academic and political credentials and had worked hard were

now reaping the rewards offered by Soviet professional training. | Letters sent by recent graduates from their new jobs were published —

in student newspapers with the intent of convincing undergraduates that they had much to look forward to. Individuals who expressed doubts about their assignments were publicly reassured in a soothing

173 Inthe Classroom

manner. Vera Boianova, a recent graduate of the Medical Institute, found herself at the centre of one such motivational campaign in 1940. After being notified that she was to be sent off to the North Baikal district in the Buriat Mongol autonomous republic to work as a physician and administrative assistant, Vera complained to her father that this was too far away. Her father admonished her: “Go when you have the chance. In our time it would have been impossible to go to such a city, it would have been forbidden to study there; nowadays, all the roads are open to Soviet youth.” Eight months later, Boianova sent readers a long letter telling them that things had worked out wonderfully: she was working as the head of the district health department in the city of Ulan Ude, near Lake Baikal. Inexperienced and confronted with numerous problems, she had worked hard to overcome them and could now write home “with great pride” about her duties as a Soviet physi-

cian. In response to that, the editorial board wished Vera great success.°®

Despite their best efforts, authorities could not prevent students from doing their best to resist assignments in remote or rural areas. Graduates who had friends, family, or spouses in Leningrad found highly unpalatable the idea of marching off to areas like Bashkir, Kolyma, or the vast tundra regions of northern Siberia. This problem was particularly acute among graduates of agricultural programs after collectivization had run its initial course. A representative of the Communist Agricultural Academy in 1933 reported that over 20 per cent of the graduates had complained openly about having to leave Leningrad for jobs in villages in northern Ukraine, the Caucasus, or Kazakhstan. Students who

were sent to sparsely populated areas and were frequently shifted around resented the fact that they were being used as “general specialists.” Such practices did little to promote enthusiasm among graduates. Several, vociferously opposed to leaving Leningrad and prepared to put their careers in jeopardy, refused to go anywhere else.*? Members of the graduating classes of the 1930s went on to take important roles in the socialist command economy. Fifteen graduates of Stalin University, profiled in a 1932 article, were among this new generation of specialists. As nine Party members, two Komsomolites, and four ‘thousanders who had left for construction projects in Krivoi Rog and

the Urals, they carried with them the expectation that they would be builders of a better future.2° Those who would become prominent politicians, engineers, scientists, and specialists in other professions were also among the graduating classes of the 1930s. Stalin University sent many of its graduates into middle- and high-ranking positions in the Party apparatus, while the Chemical-Technological Institute dispatched hundreds of engineers to projects in southern Russia and Siberia. Leningrad State

174 Builders and Deserters

University produced a number of important academic figures. Zoologist A.V. Ivanov, physicist L.D. Landau, and geophysicist G.K. Fedorov were but three graduates of the university who had very successful scientific careers. The poet Ol’ga Berggol’ts and writer Nikolai Zubov, both prod-

ucts of the class of 1930, had much-honoured careers. After the war a team of Leningrad physicists was appointed by Lavrentia Beria to develop an atomic bomb; their first successful test explosion was carried

out in August 1949. | Through all of their professional lives, however, Soviet scientists and engineers faced numerous obstacles. As they had experienced during their student years, Soviet specialists confronted a centralized bureaucratic order that acted as its own worst enemy. In the factories the draconian labour code introduced in the late 1930s left everyone vulnerable to charges of mismanagement or neglect. The transition to professional life was particularly difficult in the countryside; ill-prepared graduates would find themselves posted to devastated farms that had dilapidated machinery and depleted livestock herds. As one recent graduate of the Communist Agricultural Academy noted bluntly in 1937, the abysmal state of the equipment at his state farm (located in the Bashkir autono-

mous republic), combined with the fact that he and others had never been properly trained in matters of machinery operation and repair, resulted in persistent delays in sowing and harvesting.®' Having graduated from prestigious academic institutions, these new specialists now had to deal with the realities of Soviet-style mismanagement.

The path taken by higher education was strewn with ambiguous achievements. At the end of the civil war, higher schools found themselves in a weak position. Subsequent discriminatory admissions policies and an unending procession of curricular reforms established a framework for Soviet higher education, but these policies and reforms were not implemented in a rational manner. Another flurry of experimentation in 1928-31 once again left academic institutions in disarray. By 1932 some of the concepts inherent in classical training had made a comeback. Once again a structured supervisory teacher-student relationship, rote learning, and general instruction found favour. But all of this came within an entirely different political environment, one that required students to master Marxism-Leninism-Stalinism and be on

guard against enemies of the people. Overall, the Soviet higher| education system by the 1930s was producing a disciplined, wellrounded student, versed in the classics as well as in Marxist-oriented subjects. The cost was the imposition of strict ideological orthodoxies and routinized learning procedures that, for the most part, stifled creative thought.

175 Inthe Classroom

The classroom environment exposed many of the ambiguities inherent in the process of higher-education reform. Political struggles and experimentation characterized the classroom of the 1920s. The denigration of professors and a nihilistic denunciation of lectures in favour of the brigade-laboratory method emerged at the beginning and disappeared at the end of the cultural revolution. Sharper differentiation be-

tween failures and otlichniki became a metaphor for the Stalinist meritocracy in the 1930s. The Stalinist higher-education system generated greater demands on students, but it also furnished them with elevated professional expectations. This social contract between the state and the studenchestvo became a permanent part of the Soviet system. It encouraged students to adopt a more disciplined and focused attitude, but in raising achievement standards, it distorted the evaluations system owing to the higher stakes involved. Given all this, it is hard to arrive at anything other than an ambiguous judgment on the achievements of Soviet classroom training. The push for quality produced tangible results but at the cost of intellectual freedom, academic initiative,

and enormous pressures placed on teachers and students. ,

CHAPTER SIX Training for a New World

The Soviet higher-education system placed great emphasis on practical

training. Through apprenticeship programs students became acquainted with production, the dynamics of the workplace, and the me-

chanics of the planned economy." Practical training was also an integral part of ideological instruction, as it instilled in students the virtues of physical labour and a Marxist understanding of social relations. The students’ task was to fulfil Lenin’s demand for a union (smychka) between the peasantry and the working class. This chapter examines the political, academic, and social dimensions of practical training by looking at the activities of students in factories, villages, and remote regions of the Soviet Union.

Vocational training assumed an important role in technical education programs in the industrialized world during the latter part of the nineteenth century. In Great Britain, Germany, and the United States, apprentices received instruction through on-the-job training. Economic demands and the influence of progressive pedagogical methods after the First World War gave vocational training an additional boost.? Or-

ganized vocational training in Russia originated in 1884 under the Ministry of Education’s “General Scheme.”3 Following the Bolshevik revolution, the state promoted further integration of enterprises, government departments, and academic institutions. By the mid-1930s, when the Party called for a retreat from experimental methods in education, vocational training at the primary and secondary levels had become less of a priority.4 Some of the ambitious schemes succeeded, while others experienced poor apprentice-worker relations and bureaucratic confusion. For students who believed they were forging a new society, practical training became a lesson in adjusting classroom theory to Soviet realities. Their lofty goals changed after they were deposited in a village undergoing dekulakization or a factory struggling to

177 Training for a New World

keep up with astronomical production quotas. This leap from the classroom into the world of apprenticeship training was part of the formative experience for young specialists entering the professional world.

INDUSTRIAL AND TECHNICAL TRAINING In the 1920s the cult of the machine emerged, based on the idea of maximizing labour efficiency through a scientifically rationalized production process. This fascination with machinery and mass production,

inspired by industrialist Henry Ford and labour theorist Frederick Taylor, led to the formation in Soviet Russia in 1921 of the Scientific Organization of Labour (NOT). The Nor attempted to maximize labour resources, eliminating, in Ford’s words, the “criminal waste of time” during production. Alexei Gastev, a pedagogue and poet, promoted this ideal through the Central Institute of Labour, created in 1920. Both the Central Institute of Labour and Kerzhentsev’s League of Time espoused an ordered, rationalized, and efficient daily routine for all workers.5 The NEP Era

The rationalization movement permeated into higher education, and students engaged in long discussions on how to eliminate queues and bring greater order to daily life. Academic training did not escape the drive for rationalization and practicality. The popularity of Taylorism and Fordism, along with current economic demands, contributed to an increasing emphasis on “complex tasks” and extensive factory training. “Unity of theory and practice” — from classroom to shop floor — became a standard slogan for all industrial-technical education pro-

grams. Practicums addressed the complexities of the labour-production | process, the dynamics of shop-floor relations, and the social character-

istics of the working class. Narkompros expected that students, through exposure to active propaganda and applied social work, would gain a better understanding of the labour environment during their professional training.© As E.A. Preobrazhensky wrote in 1921, it was clear from the fact that only 4,000 engineering specialists were go-

ing to graduate that year, and even fewer in the area of agricultural studies, that more apprenticeship training was needed in industrialtechnical fields.”

Improving economic conditions allowed for an expansion of indus-

trial training by 1923. In May, Sovnarkom clarified procedures for practical training in enterprises. “Continuous practical training”

178 Builders and Deserters

(nepreryunaia proizvodstvennaia praktika, or NPP), as part of the unbroken education ladder, became the new slogan for apprenticeship programs. The Commissariat of Labour and its affiliates assigned students to summer work or two- to four-month contracts in factories or government departments in their areas of specialization.® The Committee on Professional Education made it clear to apprentices that their task was to study and work as “official” representatives of the state and that they were not to interfere with management; “pestering students” who got in the way of everything and everyone were to be removed. This order seemed to contradict the other goal of practical training, which stipulated that students should engage in political and social work that “closely linked” them with workers. The smychka theme entailed a detailed understanding of the production process and an awareness of working-class culture. Students had to think in a scientific manner about labour and production, immersing themselves in the

world of the factory worker.? | Practical training included middle-level general instruction sessions

and honours projects. Students provided written summaries after each summer session, with a detailed report at the end of the program. For the most part, institutions allowed their students to engage in hands-on work only after their first or second year. Students at the Polytechnical Institute got acquainted with the factory environment during summer excursions and later on worked in factory stations, finishing their degree with an honours project.*° The practicums for mechanics students at the institute in 1925 can serve as representative examples of the training of-

fered. Four different programs acquainted students with all aspects (“stages”) of the production process. Tasks of first- and second-year students at the electrical station included surveying machinery, determining production rates, assessing the administrative and technical personnel at

the station, and providing a detailed explanation of operations in the generating and boiler rooms. Students had to “stay at one of the station’s departments and thoroughly study the work in this department.” They were encouraged to suggest ways to eliminate work disruptions and make production more efficient, using schematics and diagrams." In order for students to complete their assigned tasks successfully, there had to be close cooperation between factories, academic institu-

tions, and government departments throughout the entire process. State agencies instructed institutions on how to organize and place © their students, and advised factories on how to receive and train them. Overworked vuz officials dispatched students in haste, only to find that the factories were unwilling or unable to take them on because of financial or logistical problems; and students returned frustrated or disillusioned with the whole process.’* A review of hundreds of reports on

179 Training for a New World

apprenticeship experiences suggests that the majority of students were

less than happy with their practical training. A litany of complaints from student councils poured into newspaper editorial boards and the offices of local authorities after it was discovered that there was a shortage of places available for candidates who had been guaranteed apprenticeship positions. The apprenticeship reports represent the voices of a discontented and disillusioned group who had departed for

their tasks with high expectations but had met numerous obstacles upon arrival. A group of thirty arrived at the Red Dawn factory in the summer of 1926 only to find the foremen reluctant to give them any worthwhile tasks; not surprisingly, they had nothing positive to say about their experiences. “We complained to the management about this,” a spokesman for the students wrote, “but nothing much came of it.” Some of the engineering personnel did find the time to give the group a brief tour of the factory. “Maybe we'll even get a chance to be

put to work,” the spokesman wrote sarcastically.t3 Many students complained that foremen deliberately put them into work stations that had nothing to do with their speciality and that administrators often refused to reimburse them for lodging and travelling expenses. The few women who had been given a chance to work in factories found that the foremen were reluctant to assign them physical tasks." From another perspective, however, students could be seen as outsiders interfering in the production routine. The old theme of suspicion and hostility exhibited by the “outside world” towards students materialized here. Workers and management may have looked down upon

communist students as ignorant neophytes, but practical concerns superceded political or ideological considerations. In its reports, man-

agement singled out apprentices who arrived late (or not at all) and then sauntered around aimlessly. Students who demanded better work stations failed to realize that their lack of experience with complex machinery excluded them from the more prestigious work stations. As one foreman noted sarcastically, “Students need to be given all kinds of work, including mopping the floor. So what — do you want to be sent to us later as an engineer in kid gloves?”*5 In cases involving troublemakers, management let loose with furious criticism. A student by the name of Ermolenko, sent to the Zheliabov factory in 1925, did his part to sour management-apprentice relations. The director of the factory wrote a long note to the Technological Institute, complaining about the conduct of Ermolenko: We have on apprenticeship at this time one of your students, Ermolenko, who violates internal rules of order by going to the factory administration during work hours and demanding payment for his work in the rudest possible form,

180 Builders and Deserters when at the same time the management is not even obliged to pay its apprentices. From the day of his arrival Ermolenko demanded payment, and later on

informed us that he did not need this paltry dole. We feel that the conduct of , Ermolenko is absolutely unacceptable ... and we find it impossible to allow

Ermolenko to work in our factory. ,

The director went on to state that there had been other incidents and that the Committee on Professional Education needed to do a better — job of weeding out delinquents.7®

Despite the aforementioned difficulties, ambitious and energetic students found ways to gain valuable experience. Apprentices stationed at the Krasnyi Vyborets and other factories reported highly satisfactory work conditions and cooperative management. Some of the final reports from students at the university and at the Polytechnical and Tech-

nological institutes were impressive in scope and thoroughness. Zubarev, a third-year student at the Technological Institute, submitted

a thirty-seven-page report. He had worked in the Bolshevik metalworking factory in 1925/26, studying the production line. His detailed reports included several colourful diagrams, and he proudly declared that he had been nominated (presumably for doing good work) as a candidate for “chief metal-press operator.” His supervisor awarded his

conscientious effort with a very high evaluation.*’ | In summary, the factory-training programs for students during the NEP

years experienced their share of problems. Enthusiastic students encountered bureaucratic inertia and hostility in the factory. The inability of enterprises to accommodate students and the unwillingness of management to delegate time and resources to apprenticeship training suggested that the smychka between workers and the academic world had

not yet materialized. Without the necessary political momentum to push these programs forward, student councils could only lament the lack of attention paid to their needs. The situation changed after 1928,

as a new group of builders rushed headlong into the factories. The First Five-Year Plan

During the first five-year plan, practical training assumed a more prominent role, as the “factory—higher technical school” adopted a curricu-

lar program oriented towards accelerated production quotas. Vyshinsky, referring in November 1928 to recent political events, main-

tained that practical training was an “urgent and necessary task” demanding the state’s full attention. Supported by the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students, he called for young communist specialists to flood

18x Training for a New World

into factories and assist workers in carrying out the tasks of the fiveyear plan.'® The industrial training program in Leningrad grew significantly, reaching a peak of 21,000 students in the fall of 1930. Factory training became a celebrated cause in the Komsomol and industrial press, and student organizations enthusiastically publicized its benefits. Lamenting the quality of apprentices and graduates, technical specialists and managers called on the Committee on Professional Education to prepare students more effectively before sending them into the workplace. A chorus of orchestrated voices demanding that students be rushed into factories drowned out their concerns. *? In the fall of 1928 the Commissariat of Labour increased the number of contractual arrangements between vuzy and enterprises. As one would expect, it proved very difficult to coordinate this grand project amidst the chaos of five-year planning. Senior professors argued that the state was putting too much emphasis on practical training and too little on adequate classroom instruction. When departments failed to mobilize student brigades before the assigned deadlines (which allowed enterprises to shift the blame for their own failure to meet quotas), they were accused of mismanagement or wrecking. For many students, practical training fell short of its targeted goals.

There were hundreds of articles, letters, grievances, and reports about factory training during this period. Politically tinged as they were, they reveal how the complex interplay of authority and competing political agendas affected the work and attitudes of apprentices. This public venting of frustration laid bare and magnified the students’ dual role of apprentice and political activist.*° Student organizations complained again and again that enterprises left apprentices either with nothing to do or with inane and impractical

tasks. It was the rule rather than the exception for the student to be treated as an unwanted guest: How do apprentices view themselves in the factory? In most cases as a guest and, very rarely, as a welcomed guest. More commonly, they are looked upon as “Tatars”; factory organizations brush them aside and give them a dressingdown with all their might. To whom do we owe the fact that many of the apprentices ... end up aimlessly wandering around the factory because they have nothing to do? A majority of the senior specialists, who are usually given the task of supervising apprentices, are intentionally vague about outlining [students’ tasks] in the Soviet factory. This is known as the old “initiation” method of instruction.??

Student brigades, supported by the Central Bureau of Proletarian Students, accused assigned supervisors of shirking their duties. They

182 Builders and Deserters

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