25

Just as Lenin’s work did not die in 1924, so Stalin’s work lived on after his death.

The State without freedom, the State built by Stalin, still lives. The apparatus of power—heavy industry, the armed forces, the security organs—is still in the grip of the Party. Non-freedom still reigns, unshakable, from the Pacific Ocean to the White and the Black seas. Theater still penetrates every aspect of life. There is still the same system of elections; the workers’ unions are as shackled as ever; the peasants are still without internal passports, without even the freedom to move; the intelligentsia of a great country—still producing talented work—is still confined to the servants’ room, from where one can hear the hum of its chatter. Government is still simply a matter of issuing commands, of pressing on buttons, and the power of the supreme controller is still unlimited.

Much, of course, has changed—inevitably and irrevocably.

The State without freedom has entered its third phase. It was founded by Lenin. It was constructed by Stalin. And now phase three has begun: the State, as an engineer might say, has been put into operation.

Much that was necessary during the period of construction has ceased to be necessary. The time to demolish the little old houses that happened to stand on the site of the new building has passed; the time to destroy or deport the inhabitants of all the old dwellings has passed.

The new skyscraper is inhabited by new tenants. There are, of course, still imperfections, but there is no need to go on employing the extermination methods of the late, great builder, the old boss.

The skyscraper’s foundation—non-freedom—is as unshakable as ever.

What will come next? Is this foundation really so unshakable?

Was Hegel right? Can everything that is real really be rational? Is the inhuman real? Is the inhuman rational?

The power of the people’s revolution that began in February 1917 was so great that not even the dictatorial State was able to stifle it. And while the State was proceeding, for its own sake, down its cruel and terrible path of growth and accumulation, it was, without knowing it, bearing freedom within its womb.

In deep darkness, in deep secrecy, freedom was coming to be. A river that swept away everything in its path, a river that had become the one reality for everyone, was thundering across the earth’s surface. The new national State that was the sovereign of every living breath and the sole owner of countless treasures—of factories, of nuclear reactors, of every last field in the country—was celebrating its victory. The Revolution seemed to have taken place solely for the sake of this State, for the sake of its thousand years of triumphant power. Nevertheless, the sovereign of half the world was not simply a gravedigger of freedom.

In spite of the genius of Lenin, the inspired creator of a new world, freedom was coming to be. In spite of the limitless, cosmic violence of Stalin, freedom was coming to be. It was coming to be because human beings were still human beings.

It was man who carried out the revolution of February 1917; it was man who constructed skyscrapers, factories, and nuclear reactors at the new State’s command—and there is no way out for man but freedom. Because even while constructing a new world, human beings remained human beings.

***

Ivan Grigoryevich felt and understood all of this—sometimes clearly, sometimes vaguely.

No matter how vast the skyscrapers and powerful the cannon, no matter how limitless the power of the State, no matter how mighty the empire, all this is only mist and fog and—as such—will be blown away. Only one true force remains; only one true force continues to evolve and live; and this force is liberty. To a man, to live means to be free. No, not everything that is real is rational. Everything inhuman is senseless and useless.

It did not surprise Ivan Grigoryevich that the word “freedom” had been on his lips when he was sent to Siberia as a young student, and that this word was still alive in him, still present in his mind, even today.