We found ourselves in Constantinople, first in the consulate building, and then in a private apartment. Here are a few lines from my wife’s notes dealing with the first period:
“It is probably not worth while to dwell on the petty adventures connected with our settling down in Constantinople — the little deceptions and coercions. I will record only one episode. We were still on the train, on our way to Odessa. The representative of the GPU, Bulanov, was setting forth all sorts of absolutely valueless considerations touching our security abroad, when L.D. interrupted him with the words: ‘You had better let my co-workers Syermuks and Poznansky go with me — that wouid be the only really effective thing to do.’ Bulanov immediately transmitted these words to Moscow. At one of the next stations, he triumphantly brought us a reply received by direct wire: the GPU, that is, the Politbureau, had agreed. L.D. laughed. ‘You will deceive us anyway.’ Apparently genuinely hurt, Bulanov examined: ‘Then you can call me a blackguard.’
“‘Why should I insult you?’ L.D. answered. ‘It won’t be you but Stalin who will do the deceiving.’ On our arrival at Constantinople, L.D. inquired about Syermuks and Poznansky. A few days later, a representative of the consulate brought us a cabled reply from Moscow: they would not be released. The rest of our experiences were of much the same sort.”
An endless stream of rumors, suppositions and plain inventions about our destiny poured over us through the newspapers as soon as we arrived in Constantinople. The press tolerates no gaps in its information, and works prodigiously. To make one seed grow, nature must cast a multitude of seeds to the wind. The press acts in the same way. It picks up rumors and disseminates them, multiplying them endlessly. Hundreds and thousands of reports die before the correct version even takes root. Sometimes that doesn’t happen until several years later. Some times, too, it happens that the time for truth never comes.
The thing that amazes one on occasions when public opinion is touched to the quick is man’s capacity for lying. I speak of this with no moral indignation, but rather in the tone of a naturalist who is simply stating a fact. The urge to lie, and the habit of it, reflect the contradictions in our lives. One may say that the newspapers tell the truth only as the exception. In saying this I have no desire to offend the journalists; they are not very different from other people, being merely their mega phones.
Zola wrote of the French financial press that it could be divided into two groups: the venal, and the so-called “incorruptible” that sells itself only in exceptional cases and at a very high price. Something of the sort may be said of the mendacity of newspapers in general. The yellow press lies as a matter of course, without hesitating or looking back. Newspapers like The Times or Le Temps speak the truth on all unimportant and inconsequential occasions, so that they can deceive the public with all the requisite authority when necessary.
The Times later published reports that I had come to Constantinople by arrangement with Stalin, to prepare for a military conquest of the countries of the Near East. The six years of struggle between me and the epigones were represented as a comedy with the parts distributed in advance. “Who will believe that?” some optimist may ask. He is wrong — many will believe it. Churchill probably will not believe his newspaper, but Clynes is sure to believe it, or at least half of it. It is this that constitutes the mechanics of the capitalist democracy, or, to be more exact, one of its most essential springs. But all this is merely in passing. Clynes will be discussed further along.
Soon after my arrival in Constantinople, I read in one of the Berlin papers the speech of the president of the Reichstag delivered on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the Weimar National Assembly. It closed with these words: “Vielleicht kommen wir sogar dazu, Herrn Trolzki das freiheitliche Asyl zu geben” (Lebhafter Beifall bei der Mehrheit).” 1
L?be’s words were a great surprise to me, since everything that had gone before had given me reason to believe that the German government had decided against my admission to Germany. Such, at any rate, had been the categorical statement of the agents of the Soviet government. On February 15, I called in the representative of the GPU who had accompanied me to Constantinople and said to him: “I must draw the conclusion that the information given me was false. L?be’s speech was made on February 6. We sailed from Odessa for Turkey on the night of February 10. L?be’s speech was known to Moscow at that time. I recommend that you send at once to Moscow a telegram suggesting that on the strength of L?be’s speech they make an actual request to Berlin to grant me a visa. That will be the least discreditable way of winding up the intrigue that Stalin has apparently built up around the question of my admission to Germany.” Two days later, the representative of the GPU brought me the following reply: “In answer to my talegram to Moscow, I have received the confirmation that the German government had categorically refused to issue the visa as early as the beginning of February; a new application would be useless; L?be’s speech was irresponsible. If you wish to verify this, you can apply for the visa yourself.”
This version did not seem to me credible. I considered that the president of the Reichstag was in a better position to know the intentions of his party and his government than the agents of the GPU. The same day I wired L?be informing him that on the strength of his statement I had applied to the German consulate with a request for a visa. The democratic and Social Democratic press derived malicious satisfaction from pointing out the fact that a believer in the revolutionary dictatorship was obliged to seek asylum in a democratic country. Some even expressed the hope that this lesson would teach me better to appreciate the institutions of democracy. Nothing was left me but to wait and see how the lesson would realize itself.
The democratic right of asylum obviously does not consist in a government’s showing hospitality to people who hold views similar to its own — even Abdul Hamid did that. Nor does it consist in a democracy’s admitting exiles only with the permission of the government that exiled them. The right of asylum consists (on paper) in a government’s giving refuge even to its opponents, provided they undertake to observe the country’s laws. I of course could enter Germany only as an irreconcilable opponent of the Social Democratic government. In giving an interview to the Constantinople representatives of the German Social Democratic press who called on me for that purpose, I supplied the necessary explanations, which I will quote here just as I wrote them down immediately after the conversation:
“As I am now applying for admission to Germany, where the majority of the government consists of Social Democrats, I am chiefly interested in clarifying my attitude toward the Social Democracy. In this respect there has been no change. My attitude toward the Social Democracy is just what it was. More over, my struggle against the centrist faction of Stalin is only a reflection of my general struggle against the Social Democracy. Neither you nor I stand in any need of vagueness or ambiguity.
“Some Social Democratic publications are trying to see a contradiction between my stand on the question of democracy and my request for admission to Germany. There is no contradiction. We do not at all ‘deny’ democracy as the anarchists ‘deny’ it, verbally. The bourgeois democracy has advantages in comparison with the state forms that preceded it. But it is not eternal. It must yield to Socialist society. The dictatorship of the pr?letariat is the bridge to Socialist society.
“In all the capitalist countries Communists take part in the parliamentary struggle. There is no difference in principle in the usage of the right of asylum, and the usage of suffrage, of the freedom of the press and assembly, and so forth.”
So far as I am aware, this interview was never published. There is nothing surprising in that. In the meantime, voices were raised in the Social Democratic press insisting on the necessity of granting me the right of asylum. One of the Social-Democratic lawyers, Dr. K. Rosenfeld, acting on his own initiative, took it upon himself to intercede on my behalf with a view to securing my admission to Germany. But at the outset he encountered difficulties, for a few days later I received a telegram from him asking to what restrictions I would be willing to submit during my stay in Germany. I replied: “I intend to live in complete isolation, outside of Berlin; not to speak at public meetings, under any circumstances; and to confine myself to literary work within the bounds of the German laws.”
So the matter under discussion was no longer the democratic right of asylum, but the right of residence in Germany on an exceptional basis. The lesson in democracy that my opponents were going to accord me was given a restrictive interpretation at the very outset. But this was not the end of it. A few days later I received a new telegraphic inquiry: would I agree to come to Germany only for purposes of medical treatment? I wired in reply: “I request that I be given at least the possibility of staying in Germany for a course of treatment absolutely necessary for my health.”
Thus, the right of asylum at this stage shrank to the right of treatment. I named several well-known German physicians who had treated me during the past ten years, whose aid I needed now more than ever before.
Toward Easter, the German press sounded a new note: in government circles, it was stated, the opinion was held that Trotsky was not really so ill as to be absolutely in need of the help of German doctors and of German health resorts. On March 31 I telegraphed Dr. Rosenfeld:
“According to the newspaper reports my illness is not sufficiently hopeless to obtain my admission to Germany. I ask, did L?be offer me the right of asylum or the right of interment? I am willing to submit to any examination by any medical commission. I undertake to leave Germany at the close of the health-resort season.”
In this way, in the course of a few weeks, the democratic principle was three times truncated. The right of asylum was at first reduced to the right of residence on a specially restricted basis, then to the right of treatment, and finally, to the right of interment. But this meant that I could appreciate the full advantages of democracy only as a corpse.
There was no reply to my telegram. After waiting a few days, I telegraphed Berlin again: “Regard the absence of reply as a disloyal form of refusal.” Only after this, on April 12, that is, after two months, did I receive a communication that the German government had refused my application for admission. There was nothing left but to telegraph the president of the Reichstag, L?be: “Regret have not received the possibility for practical education in the advantages of the democratic right of asylum. Trotsky.” Such is the brief and instructive history of my first attempt to find a “democratic” visa in Europe.
Of course, it is understood that if the right of asylum had been accorded me, that in itself would not in the least mean a refutation of the Marxist theory of a class state. The régime of democracy, which derives not from self-sufficient principles, but from the real requirements of the dominant class, by the force of its inner logic also includes within itself the right of asylum. The granting of refuge to a pr?letarian revolutionary in no way contradicts the bourgeois character of democracy. But there is no need of such arguments now, for in Germany, as directed by the Social Democrats, no right of asylum has been found to exist.
Through the GPU, Stalin proposed on December 16 that I renounce my political activity. During the discussion of the question of the right of asylum in the press, the same condition was advanced by the Germans as something taken for granted. This means that the government of Müller and Stresemann like wise regards those ideas that are being fought by Stalin and his Th?lmanns as dangerous and harmful. Stalin, by diplomatic means, and the Th?lmanns, by means of agitation, demanded that the Social Democratic government refuse me admission to Germany — presumably in the name of the interests of the pr?letarian revolution. On the other flank, Chamberlain, Count Westarp and their like demanded that I be refused the visa — in the interests of the capitalist order. Hermann Müller was able in this way to satisfy both his partners on the right and his allies on the left. The Social Democratic government became the connecting link in the united international front against the revolutionary Marxism. For an image for this united front, one need only turn to the first lines of the Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels: “For a holy war against this ghost [communism], all the forces of old Europe joined hands — the Pope and the Czar, Metternich and Guizot, the French radicals and the German policemen.” The names are different, but the substance is the same. The fact that today the r?le of the German policemen is played by the Social Democrats alters the situation but little. Essentially they are protecting the same thing as the Hohenzollern policemen.
The variety of reasons that induce democracies to refuse a visa is great. The Norwegian government, if you please, proceeds solely from consideration for my safety. I had never imagined that I had so many considerate friends in high places in Oslo. The Norwegian government is of course unreservedly in favor of the right of asylum, just as are the German, French, English, and all the other governments. The right of asylum, as every one knows, is a sacred and impregnable principle. But an exile must first of all submit to Oslo a certificate guaranteeing that he is not going to be killed by anyone. Then they will extend hospitality to him — provided, of course, that no other obstacles arise.
The two debates in the Storthing about my visa constitute an inimitable political document. Reading it has given me at least a partial compensation for the refusal of the visa which my friends in Norway were trying to get for me. First, the Norwegian premier had of course a conversation in regard to my visa with the chief of the secret police, whose competence in democratic principles — I hasten to admit — is unquestioned. The chief of the secret police, according to Mr. Mohwinkel, put for ward the consideration that the wisest thing to do was to let Trotsky’s enemies finish him off outside of Norwegian territory. It was expressed not quite so precisely, but that was what was meant. The minister of justice on his part explained to the Norwegian parliament that the cost of protecting Trotsky would be too great for the Norwegian budget. The principle of state econ omy — also one of the indisputable democratic principles — proved this time to be in irreconcilable opposition to the right of asylum. At all events, the conclusion was that the person who most needs an asylum has the least chance of obtaining it.
Much wittier was the French government, which simply pointed to the fact that the order for my expulsion from France, as issued by Malvy, had never been rescinded. An utterly insurmountable obstacle in the way of democracy! I have related earlier in this book how after that expulsion, and in spite of the unrescinded order by Malvy, the French government was ready to place its officers at my disposal; how I was visited by French deputies, ambassadors, and one of the premiers. But these phenomena apparently were proceeding along two different planes that did not meet. And at present, the position is this: asylum in France would doubtless be accorded me if the archives of the French police did not contain an order for my expulsion from France issued at the demand of Czarist diplomacy. It is known that a police order is something like the Pole-Star; it is as impossible to annul it as it is to remove it.
Be that as it may, the right of asylum has been banished from France as well. Where then is the country in which this right has found its — asylum? Perhaps England?
On June 5, 1929, the Independent Labor Party, of which Ramsay MacDonald is a member, sent me an official invitation, on its own initiative, to come to England and deliver a lecture at the party school. The invitation, signed by the general secretary of the party, read: “With the formation of the Labor government here, we cannot believe that any difficulties are likely to arise in connection with your visit to England for this purpose.” Nevertheless difficulties did arise. I was neither allowed to deliver a lecture before the supporters of MacDonald, nor was I allowed to avail myself of the aid of English physicians. My application for a visa was flatly refused. Clynes, the Labor Home Secretary, defended this refusal in the House of Commons. He explained the philosophical meaning of democracy with a directness that would have done credit to any minister of Charles II. According to Clynes, the right of asylum does not mean the right of an exile to demand asylum, but the right of the state to refuse it. Clynes’s definition is remarkable in one respect: by a single blow it destroys the very foundations of so-called democracy. The right of asylum, in the style of Clynes, always existed in Czarist Russia. When the Shah of Persia failed to hang all the revolutionaries and was obliged to leave his beloved country, Nicholas II not only extended to him the right of asylum, but supplied him with sufficient comforts to live in Odessa. But it never occurred to any of the Irish revolutionaries to seek asylum in Czarist Russia, where the constitution consisted entirely of the one principle expounded by Clynes, namely, that the citizens must be content with what the state authorities give them or take from them. Mussolini accorded the right of asylum to the King of Afghanistan in exact agreement with this very principle.
The pious Mr. Clynes ought at least to have known that democracy, in a sense, inherited the right of asylum from the Christian church, which, in turn, inherited it, with much besides, from paganism. It was enough for a pursued criminal to make his way into a temple, sometimes enough even to touch only the ring of the door, to be safe from persecution. Thus the church understood the right of asylum as the right of the persecuted to an asylum, and not as an arbitrary exercise of will on the part of pagan or Christian priests. Until now, I had thought the pious Laborites, though little informed in matters of Socialism, certainly well versed in the tradition of the church. Now I find that they are not even that.
But why does Clynes stop at the first lines of his theory of the state law? It is a pity. The right of asylum is only one component part of the system of democracy. Neither in its historical origin, nor in its legal nature, does it differ from the right of freedom of speech, of assembly, etc. Mr. Clynes, it is to be hoped, will soon arrive at the conclusion that the right of freedom of speech stands not for the right of citizens to express their thoughts, whatever they may be, but for the right of the state to forbid its subjects to entertain such thoughts. As to the freedom of............