Realistic novel of westerners collaborating with Stalin's regimeFour stars because Muggeridge, a journalist in real life, observes well, but does not make much effort to penetrate behind the scenes—foreign loans and secrecy; big well-known western companies and their deals; weapons and their military; prisons; Gu Lags. He accepted the historical mythology promoted by Jews, for example about pogroms. But admittedly it is asking a lot to include all these aspects.
Characteristic quotations:-For detailed notes—all references to Jews—from Muggeridge's book (and notes on Muggeridge's life) click here (opens in new window)
Pp. 147-152: In most Russian towns there are certain shops whose windows are well stocked with food and clothing. They are called Torgsin shops. People stand outside them in little wistful groups looking at tempting pyramids of fruit; at boots and fur coats tastefully displayed; at butter and white bread and other delicacies that are for them unobtainable. They cannot buy in the shops because only gold or foreign currency is accepted, and most Russians possess neither. Even if they do possess a little gold it is dangerous to disclose the fact. The shops are mostly patronised by foreigners and by Russian Jews who receive remittances from relatives abroad. For the general public, like the special Ogpu stores, and the special Red Army stores, and the special stores for important Communist officials, they are closed shops.
P. 234: "Why do you hate it?" Bramwell Smith asked.
"Not," Wraithby answered, "because they're starving; or because they live in filthy nearness to one another; or because their lives are dull and unhappy; or because of the din of monotonous, shoddy propaganda; or because the bosses are megalomaniac fools and the rest terrorised into imbecility; or because you like it. In its very texture something absurd and trivial and barbarous. Every stale idea vomited up again. Everything that you believe in and that I hate. All the dingy hopes that have echoed and re-echoed over Europe for a century and now are spent. The poor little frightened soul of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat is what I despise. Not its works."
"Supposing two or three million peasants do die this winter," the Jewess said mechanically, getting up. "What of it?"
She was off to a lecture on the Film and the Class Struggle. As she revolved with the revolving hotel doors, red lips flashing like a lighthouse lamp, Wraithby understood pogroms.