Delusion on Sunday

RUSSIA Delusion on Sunday Comrades, these are not merely elections--this is also a holiday.

--J. Stalin

In a holiday spirit, Russia was preparing for its quadrennial national elections next Sunday. Factory workers were spurred on to back-breaking Stakhanovite feats, the customary holiday offering. Thousands of agitators swarmed out from thousands of agit points to address rallies as if there were actually issues that could be decided by the voters.

A Russian election is ostensibly run by a 27-man central electoral committee connected with a network of regional and local committees that spreads into each of the country's 1,302 electoral districts. Actually, the show is run--under the sharp eyes of the Communist Party's Central Committee and its Politburo--by Georgy Malenkov, the party's chief organizer. In the past two years, Malenkov has quietly risen to a place in the Soviet hierarchy second only to Joseph Stalin and Vyacheslav Molotov.

Wild Cheers. Stated purpose of the election is to choose 1,302 deputies for the two houses of the Supreme Soviet, theoretically the "highest body of state power." Actually it is a huge rubber stamp assembly which meets twice a year fof about ten days and shouts assent to measures put through by Russia's bosses; there is no record of any dissenting vote ever having been cast in the Supreme Soviet.

Nominations are a free for all. Any group (e.g., factories, collectives, schools) can nominate anybody to represent its electoral district. At the endless nominating rallies, a carefully picked worker, peasant or small party dignitary gets up and, in words almost identical in all Russia, nominates Joseph Stalin, father and friend of all voters. Stalin's nomination, which is wildly cheered, is invariably followed by nominations of Molotov, Malenkov & Co. Since each deputy in the Soviet can only represent one district, these nominations of bigwigs are mere puffs. Each of Russia's masters has his own home district which, as everyone knows in advance, he will represent, e.g., Stalin runs in the Stalin district in Moscow.

After the bigwigs, the nominating rallies pick some real candidates--usually local workers, peasants or minor officials. About three weeks before election day, the party passes the word on the nominees it considers most worthy; the others promptly withdraw. The candidates thus chosen (about 80% of them members of the Communist Party) form a single ticket of what is known as the "bloc of Communist and nonparty candidates." The system does not provide for any opposition candidates.

"And It Was Obvious, . . ." On election day, polls open at 6 a.m. Polling places provide day nurseries where mothers can leave their babies while they vote. Some polling places feature string orchestras for the voters' entertainment. The ballot bears a single name, that of the official "bloc" candidate. To vote for him, the voter marks the ballot with an X. To vote against him, he scratches out the name. A voter may withdraw into a gaily festooned polling booth, but most put their X down out in the open. Obviously, privacy would serve only those who would want to vote against the candidate, and the names of people- who use the polling booths are usually taken down by poll watchers and passed on to the secret police. The day after election day, Radio Moscow announces triumphantly that well over 99% of the votes have been cast for the bloc of Communist and nonparty candidates.

The show is not as pointless as it looks. It gives the Russian people the illusion that they are actually participating in their government. A recent issue of the Soviet magazine Krokodil printed a song that expressed the mood which the "elections" are supposed to create:

It was a Sunday and a winter eve To a meeting we went. With a candidate-deputy We had a lengthy talk . . . He told us about his work, About his wounds sustained in war. And in his story each of us Recognized his own life . . . We were arguing, discussing, Talking more and more, And it was obvious that pretty soon The candidate will become a deputy.

Krokodil, a humor magazine, did not seem to think it was being funny. Neither did the Russian people who, never having known anything better, believe that the show that they will enact next Sunday is really an election as well as a holiday.

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