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An Uproar in the Putilov; Historical
Topic Started: May 5 2015, 01:53 PM (249 Views)
Nentsia
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Ya Basta!
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The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths - Alexander Pushkin


The Workers' Fist

- The Putilov Factory -
Petrograd, Russia,
February 1917


On a cold february morning in Petrograd, Sasha Nikolaievich Chernyshev, dragged his feet through the snow past the grim gates of the enormous factory - the largest in all Petrograd and perhaps of the entire realm. Perhaps of the entire world! Tens of thousands of workers under one roof - first building trains, nowadays building artillery. Our hero was a nobody. He was not very tall, and not small either. His hair was not blond, but it wasn't exactly brown either, and it also couldn't really be called red. Sasha was not very intelligent, but he was not dumb either. He was not very literate, but he wasn't illiterate. His eyes weren't blue, but they weren't green or brown either. They were grey, but not entirely, for there was a hit of colour in them - that could be called brown, green or blue depending on the judgment of the person you're asking.

Sasha was a worker. One of the thousands. One of the millions. Who cares about his fate? No one does. Not even me, for he is a nobody. Sasha was not walking alone that morning. He was walking with two of his colleagues who came from the same village. Their names were Pyotr Lavrovich and Vladimir Antonovich. Their surnames don't matter, for that is really too much information about two other nobodies. Pyotr Lavrovich was tall, with broad shoulders, a big nose, and he had a brushy pair of eyebrows that permanently stood in the ''concern'' mode. Vladimir Antonovich was a rather skinny chap with a big moustache and the eyes of an innocent puppy. Pyotr Lavrovich, the tall concerned one, was smart. Vladimir Antonovich, the skinny puppy-eyed one, was dumb. Pyotr the tall concerned smart one was always silent and listening to others. Vladimir the skinny moustache-wearing dumb puppy-eyed one was always asking questions about things. Sasha, our physically indescribable hero, fell somewhere in between those other two personalities.

''I wonder if we will get the old bread of last week again during lunch break...'', wondered Vladimir the dumb one. ''Of course we will!'' sneered Sasha, and he looked up to the sky - searching for the eyes of Pyotr the smart tall one for confirmation. Pyotr listened to their meaningless conversation, but said nothing. He only frowned. After a while, out of the blue, Pyotr said ''No.''

''What do you mean?'' asked Vladimir. Dumb as he was, he had already forgotten what he said three minutes ago. ''If we will get the same old bread today for lunch'', replied Sasha to clarify Vladimir's troubled mind - before it would hurt itself and make him even dumber. ''Why do you think we won't today?'' asked Sasha and Vladimir in a duet. It remained silent again for a while. ''I've heard rumors'', Pyotr the smart listener then replied. ''What rumors?'' asked Vladimir. ''Wait and see'', replied Pyotr in a somewhat evasive manner.

The three workers silently entered the enormous factory hall where they put on their overalls and were assigned by their chiefs to their spots. That morning, before sunrise, the workers of the Putilov factory began with their work. But it was not an ordinary day. Men who otherwise talked a lot during work were silent. Silent men where now whispering in dark corners and constantly need to be yelled at by the managers to return to their spot. People were sneaking around. Something was at hand, sensed Sasha. The factory chiefs probably sensed it as well, for they wielded their clubs with greater ferocity than they had done before. Several men were picked out of the production line by the guards. ''You don't work here! Rat! Take that!'' and they beat up a kid in front of everyone. The guards were paranoid that a strike was at hand, organized by Bolshevik rats seeking to spread their anti-war virus among the workers. The poor guards had no idea that there may have been as many as 500 Bolshevik infiltrants in the factory - or so was Sasha's guess.

A couple of workers tried to protect the boy who was mercilessly beaten by a guard. ''That's my son! My son!'' yelled a man with a brushy moustache. A couple of broad-shouldered bearded chaps accompanied him as they rushed to the scene. They pushed over the guard and pulled the unconscious boy away. ''He's just a kid!'' yelled another worker. ''What monster are you?'' screamed another one. ''Have you thugs no dignity?'' Before long, a crowd of angry men was gathering around the guards who had been beating the boy. They raised their clubs as a threat. ''Keep order! Keep Order I said!'' one of the guards said with a loud voice. Sweat dripped from his nose. Did it come from the melting ovens or from pure fear? It was probably fear, for some Bolshevik predators apparently smelled it and attacked. The guards kicked them back and the workers backed away. Everyone went back to work. Other workers in the factory, working at the floors above this one, had watched it all from above. Their faces were grim. As if they were saying to their colleagues ''we ain't done with 'em yet''. The poor boy was taken to the manager's office, and sent back into the cold streets. Child labor was banned. How merciful!

When Sasha's section was given lunchbreak, he joined his brothers Pyotr the tall smart one and Vladimir the small dumb one. Brothers, for all the factory workers were brothers. They were the community, the real people, the Narod, bound together by their shared history, their shared customs, their shared fate and their shared suffering. Together they laughed, together they cried, together they worked, together they fought and together they would die.

All the workers lined up in a cue to get their lunch: soup and bread. The soup was heated water with salt and onions, and probably some other strange substance. Probably hair and dead rats. The bread might easily be mistaken for an ancient stone fossil by archeologists working in the Caucasus. ''Didn't you say there would be no old bread?'' asked Vladimir to Pyotr. Pyotr didn't answer. But his concerned look became more concerned than it usually was. In Pyotr's case, that could either mean he was concerned, or he needed to poop real bad. The sight of the bread and soup alone could turn a man's bowels into sheer panic.

''Ah well, Pyotr had only heard rumors...'' Sasha said to Vladimir. Vladimir, not understanding the concept of a rumor, shrugged and held up his cup for a bit of that warmed-up onion-water with rat meat. The meat could also be mice. The smell wasn't actually that bad if one pretended it was just some variant of chicken soup. Sasha had in fact a brilliant idea: he would break the bread, put it into the hot soup, and then it would soak it up and become eatable soft bread again! Sasha, Pyotr and Vladimir sat down at a long table - together with a hundred other workers. Sasha immediately wanted to try out his great plan - but he had overlooked two things. One: the soup wasn't hot. Two: the bread was solid as a rock and could not be broken or cut. This fact was noticed by Vladimir and Pyotr as well. Pyotr tried to soften the bread first by warming it up with his breath and saliva. Vladimir was stupid enough to place his rock-bread on the floor and try to smash it to peaces by jumping on it. His bread turned out deformed and black from the dirt. The other workers too had trouble devising a way to get the bread inside their stomach.

One of them threw the bread against the wall. It turned out to be a mightily accurate projectile. ''No food throwing!'' yelled one of the factory guards. Some other worker then threw a rock, I mean a bread, towards the guard. ''You call that food?'' Someone else threw his bread as well. ''Are you trying to kill us?'' More people began to throw with their bread. ''Do we have to die here or what?'' ''I heard this is the last bread in the city!'' Sasha also threw his bread. ''Bread and wages!'', Sasha yelled. He hadn't seen a proper bread in over a month. His wage didn't earn him enough anymore to buy bread for his wife and children. So he gave what little bread he could buy to them, and he lived on the factory meals. Rocks with water. Inflation was making life impossible in Petrograd, but the worker wages remained the same and were non-negotiable. People were starving in the gutter.

Extra guards came to the aid of their comrade who was being stoned by bread. But this time, no one backed down. Hundreds of men, angry men, charged at them. The guards had to retreat to their own quarters. Sasha, Pyotr and Vladimir cheered together with the workers for their small victory. They had won the brawl in the Putilov! Other workers cheered for them as well. ''What are we cheering for?'' asked Vladimir the Dumb. Pyotr frowned. ''For our shared strength!'' replied Sasha.

Before long, extra guards and police officers flooded into the main factory hall - armed with sticks, clubs and drawn pistols. They fired into the air. ''Order!'' yelled one policeman with a silly officer's moustache. But soon they were surrounded by 300 muscular men with mean beards and fanatic looks in their eyes. ''Seize them!'' and everyone jumped on top of them. Shots were fired, people were beaten and bitten, but nothing could stop the wave of workers. Once the guards had been disarmed they were dragged through the factory hall - under loud cheering of the thousands of other workers who had laid down their work. ''Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread!'' they chanted. The poor guards were dragged to the third floor. Ropes were tied around their necks, after which they were thrown off the railing. The rope broke their necks under loud applause. ''Putilov is ours now!'' yelled the men.

Vladimir got a bit carried away by all this stuff and helped other workers to storm the guards' quarters. Because he was very dumb, he made sure he was one of the first to break through the door so that he took the first hit. Because he was so small, he got knocked from his feet. But Vladimir wouldn't be Vladimir if he didn't just got back on his feet and carry on like nothing happened. This was probably because the blow had been hard enough to make his dumb brain reset itself and simply forget what had happened ten seconds ago.

Other sections of the factory also overthrew their factory chiefs - beating them up and chasing them away. Tens of thousands of workers were cheering. ''Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread!...''

Sasha, Vladimir and others from their section encouraged Pyotr to take part in the council that was being formed to discuss the demands of the working brothers that they would present to the managers. Pyotr was a smart man. He was the kind of man to sit in such a council. But during the council, Pyotr was mostly listening to the other brothers and their proposals. Sasha and Vladimir stood close behind Pyotr, who was sitting in a square in the main hall with some 150 other delegates. A couple of Bolsheviks did most of the talking and ranting, with their sharp tongues. The brothers didn't trust them very much. Who the hell did they think they were?

While the council lasted the rest of the day, hundreds of other workers had been barricading the factory entrances to prevent the police units from storming the building. ''Them are trying to stop us'', said the comrades. ''Them'' was always the police. The Tsarist officers. The men with bow ties. The managers. The ones with sticks and weapons. Their only goal was to destroy the family of the Narod, the ''us'', the nizy, the community. Us are the backbone of Russia, Them is the organs that are being kept in their place by the bones, the Us. Them are waging a war against a foe that has never done anything against the Narod. Germans are waging war on behalf of Germany against Germans who are waging war on behalf of Russia. Them thinks all of Russia belongs to Them, because they collect the taxes, have uniforms and speak a language that the Us does not understand. But Them forgets that they owe it all to the Us, and that Us should be treated justly and with dignity. Us is the Narod. Us is Russia. Them has neglected Russia, sacrificed Russia, for a few medals and to draw some lines on a map. But Russia, the Us, the Narod, is dying.

In order to kill time, Sasha and Vladimir participated in making music and dancing with their colleagues. Finally, the workers received a message from the factory managers that they were willing to negotiate a settlement the next morning. So in good spirits, the workers left the factory and headed home that evening. But not much later, news spread that there would be no negotiations. The factory was being closed. Everyone was fired. The news quickly spread through Petrograd and the Vyborg district. The council, including Pyotr the smart tall one - who didn't say a word during the entire meeting and frowned constantly to varying degrees, decided to march to the Putilov factory and demonstrate against its closure. Sasha didn't expect much of it, Pyotr assured him the demonstration would be big, and Vladimir didn't understand what demonstrating was. ''Demonstrate? So we are going to stand there? And then what?'' he kept asking. Pyotr frowned everytime as he asked it, this time out of irritation. Or because he had to poop real bad again.

When Sasha, dressed in a long coat that was grey nor brown or green, arrived with Pyotr and Vladimir before the Putilov gates, he saw that Pyotr had been right: thousands were demonstrating. Tens of thousands. ''The other factories have declared their solidarity with us. Us is strong and unified. Us is family.'' remarked Pyotr. The entire Vyborg district was on strike. A quarter of a million people all over Petrograd had laid down their work in solidarity with their Putilov comrades. In demand for eatable bread. In demand for justice and rights for the Narod, that is for us, Russia. So many comrades were striking that the police forces simply couldn't do anything. And the next day was a national holiday - they didn't want to spoil that with a bloodbath. And on that day, two days after the uproar in the Putilov, a much more powerful and determined force was joining the demands for bread, justice and a Free Russia: the Women.
a.k.a Don Durito
Politically incorrect history student


JOURNALIST: ''May the best team win...''
NEREO ROCCO: ''I hope not.''

Kick everything that moves, if it is the ball, even better. - Nereo Rocco, the God of Catenaccio

In Italy, we have never heard of fair play. - Gianni Brera

He who plays for himself plays for the opposition.
He who plays for the team, plays for himself. - Helenio 'Il Mago' Herrera

It would be incredibly boring if the best team always won. - Gianni Brera

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