The boundary between the Independent Republic of Estonia and the communist USSR, recognized for 22 years, ceased to exist when, in the summer of 1940, the Soviets forcibly and without provocation occupied Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Overnight, the people of these three Baltic States unwillingly became Soviet subjects.

At the time this brutal act was committed, ships belonging to nationals of these countries were on the high seas. The occupying forces sent instructions to the masters of these ships to proceed immediately to the nearest USSR port. In the prevailing uncertainty the masters, with a few exceptions, ignored the instructions and chose to wait for further developments.

Their ships were flying the legal flags of their independent states, they were outside their own territorial boundaries and, therefore, out of reach of the freshly enforced sovereignty. Moreover, the ships that were lying in British ports were refused clearance by H. M. authorities.

Besides seamen manning those ships, seamen of the same nationalities were landed in British ports. Most of them had lost their ships by enemy action or their ships had changed flag and made them temporarily unemployed. They, too, had been instructed to return to their home countries.

Confusion and suspense prevailed among all of them; few of them fully understood the implications of this political change at home. Above everything else suspicion and fear governed their state of mind. Not many had firsthand knowledge of communism and the way it was applied to everyday life in Russia.

Although the small, occupied Baltic States had been territorial neighbours to this oriental giant for 22 years, the life and behaviour of its Slavic population of 180 million had been so effectively veiled from outside view as to remain totally obscured from their eyes.

Shortly after the ultimatums were delivered to the masters to repatriate their ships, similarly urgent gestures were made to the seamen by the Soviets, soliciting them to return home without delay. The seamen considered these approaches cautiously and fearfully. Their problem was aggravated by a half-hidden intimidation that there may not be another offer. Hints were also made that their kin at home may suffer from discomfort and deprivation should any of the seamen wilfully refuse to be repatriated.

Under these coercive suggestions many of them agreed to return home. They were advised by the Soviet consul general in London that they must not seek employment while waiting for an organized passage home. A small monthly allowance was given them by the consul to defray their living expenses while waiting on shore. No information was given to the seamen on the manner in which they were to be repatriated. Months passed and several of the waiting seamen became restless. The low allowance did not cover all expenses and most of them had no savings.

The British government had already requisitioned all the Estonian ships in port and put them to service under its own flag. Existing crews were allowed to continue sailing under the new flag and some chose to do so. The rest were frightened by the threats and joined those awaiting repatriation. The Soviet consul was anxious to keep the Estonian seamen from deserting the group entrusted to his care but the number was steadily diminishing.

After Germany invaded Russia on June 22, 1941, the Soviet consulate in London cancelled plans for the waiting seamen's repatriation and advised each of them to find employment independently. At that time it was not difficult to get on a British or Allied ship. Due to the extremely dangerous Atlantic crossing, a large number of ships was being lost and human casualties were high. Newly-built tonnage replaced the sunken ships but it took years to train able-bodied seamen. And many professional seamen chose to work in a factory rather than endanger their lives at sea.

Estonian seamen were also welcomed on their original ships, now sailing under the British flag. Executive positions were even available to them, provided their English was adequate. Among various British shipping companies managing the ex-Estonian ships was the Anglo-Soviet Shipping Company Ltd. of London. They needed a full complement of seamen on the 'Elna II', an ex-Estonian vessel, and offered employment to those waiting for the promised repatriation. This offer was attractive since she was to be manned by their own countrymen, which many Estonians gladly preferred.

The 'Elna II' had been bombed and sunk in London harbour in 1940. She had been subsequently raised and repaired and was ready in the summer of 1941 to resume trading. It came as a surprise to those who had previously sailed on her that, while in dry-dock for repairs, she had been converted to carry troops. It was even more surprising that the partly erected sleeping facilities had originally been meant for the seamen on their repatriation journey. The half-finished construction was not dismantled when the ship was readied to load her first cargo under the British flag.

Chapter 2

The S. S. 'Elna II' was lying at Tyne-Dock on the northeast coast of the British Isles when the bulk of her crew arrived on July 29, 1941. Captain W. Birk, the newly appointed master of the ship, was at the Newcastle-on-Tyne railway station to meet the train from Glasgow on which the crew was travelling. It was a noticeably spiritless group of seamen, including a few of the female catering staff, that alighted from the train. Some of them had already lost a ship by a mine or torpedo and may have, therefore, forfeited the usual exuberance accompanying a seaman at the time of joining a new ship. They had not been told where they were going but no questions were put to the master on this subject. It was, after all, an accepted understanding that in wartime no information about movements of ships was allowed to be revealed — the oceans were too dangerous for such careless talk.

The ship had been loading coal in the lower holds and was waiting for some general cargo to arrive. The crew was now complete and every seaman easily fell into his slot in the jigsaw of diverse duties on board a well-run ship. Defensive armament had been installed but no army or navy personnel to handle it. Therefore, the officers and crew were taken to a specially created training establishment where they were given the necessary tuition in handling the weapons. The crew eagerly took to the training activity which lasted for several days. Interestingly, their jovial mood was restored, as if they anticipated an adventurous voyage. In the evenings they also enjoyed their glasses of beer in nearby pubs; shore leave was granted to them as to all seamen.

One morning they saw a tall, youngish officer in ship's captain uniform coming on board. He introduced himself to the Chief Officer as Captain Bell, the newly appointed master of the 'Elna II' and was conducted to Captain Birk's quarters. It looked as though Captain Birk had been superseded by this young Englishman, yet the captain himself had not been aware of this. That same afternoon it became evident that both masters would remain on the ship. Officials coming on board, such as from the Immigration Office, Customs or the Port Authority, invariably sought Captain Bell, who appeared to be in charge. Dealing with the crew, instructing loading of cargo or arranging the supply of stores for the voyage fell under the authority of Captain Birk. He also issued the weekly cash advances to the crew.

On August 15, 1941, with the cargo complete and all necessary stores on board, the 'Elna II' sailed from Tyne-Dock. Both masters had previously attended the convoy conference but neither had revealed to the officers the destination of the voyage or any details of the forthcoming passage. After clearing the exit of the fairway the vessel joined the usual coastal convoy: ships were sailing in two parallel lines with the normal 400 yards longitudinal distance between each vessel and about 100 yards between the lines of ships. Throughout the first day the convoy was steaming on a northerly course.

On the 18th of August the weather was misty with drizzle as the convoy was rounding the northern coast of Scotland and holding a westerly course. At four o'clock in the afternoon the Chief Officer, A. Pakri, went on the bridge to take over his watch. On the bridge was Second Officer K. Klein as well as the helmsman on the wheel and a lookout man on the starboard wing of the spacious navigating bridge. On the port wing of the bridge Captain Bell walked nervously between the machine-gun nests. Seeing the Chief Officer in the wheelhouse, he called him to the port wing of the bridge and gave him a brief, peremptory order. He instructed the Chief Officer to take down the Red Ensign from the after flagstaff and replace it with another flag which he would find on the chartroom table.

The executive officer was astounded at hearing this unusual order, maybe not as much about its substance than about the manner in which it was given. He asked for it to be repeated. Captain Bell repeated the order with obvious impatience and annoyance. Pakri went into the chartroom and found on the table a red flag rolled up into a bundle. Unfurling it, he saw a blood-red flag with a golden cross of a hammer and sickle in the top left corner — the USSR national flag. With a numbing shock he realized that, for the first time in his life, he was confronted with an evil, commanding and hostile power. Its effect on him was almost paralyzing. Distractedly he took the rolled-up flag and descended from the bridge. Before changing the flag, he intended to check the validity of Captain Bell's order with Captain Birk, with whom he could, at least, converse in his own language. He found the other master, excitably pacing back and forth, in the ship's saloon. He was flustered and agitated, like a man forced to stand face to face with a problem over which he has no control. The Chief Officer received no comment, no explanatory remarks, on the correctness of the mysterious instructions, except a shaky capitulation with a mumble: "If these are the orders of Captain Bell, your duty is to carry them out."

All the Chief Officer could do was to send a sailor on watch to lower the existing flag from the staff and replace it with the menacing symbol of oppression and thraldom.

On the next afternoon the convoy was led through the Firth of Lorne to an anchorage at Oban, on the west coast of Scotland. This was one of the several convoy assembly points on the Scottish coast, where ocean convoys were formed and rearranged. It was well protected from weather by the numerous islands of the Inner Hebrides and regarded as reasonably safe from enemy attacks. Besides the natural defensive features at the entrance, the anchorage was further protected by a heavy, tight-meshed steel netting that stretched from the surface of the water to the bottom of the loch. A torpedo, even if dropped from an aircraft, could be stopped by the netting. Merchant shipping was then so valuable that even calculated risks were seldom taken.

The stoppage at Oban was obviously planned for collecting more ships with common destinations into an ocean convoy. While lying at Oban, a small quantity of general cargo arrived for the 'Elna II'. From the various markings and inscriptions on the cases the crew could see that the cargo was destined for the USSR, artlessly addressed to the Red Cross. The simple-minded donors had apparently not heard that this charitable organization did not exist in the Soviet Union. It now looked almost certain that the 'Elna II' was bound for a Soviet port but neither of the masters would admit it. The crew members who wanted to mail letters were told to hand these over to the masters. No shore leave was granted except to senior officers for a very short duration. One fireman was suffering from appendicitis and was taken on shore. He was operated on at the local hospital and immediately returned to the vessel, as the convoy was almost ready to depart. Suspicion, perplexity and mistrust were rapidly gaining ground on board.

Then one morning all outward bound ships began to leave their anchorage. At first in a single line, later in formation, the large ships steamed toward open waters, until the whole fleet was spread out. It was not as large as some ocean convoys had been but several destroyers were in attendance as escort vessels. For a week the courses were westerly; each alteration of course was done only by signals from the commodore ship. After one sharp alteration of course the convoy was heading directly toward Iceland and that course was held until the convoy arrived at Reykjavik Roads.

The roomy anchorage was full of merchant ships; the escort vessels did not enter the harbour. The beautiful city of Reykjavik was surrounded by hilly country where the high mountain peaks were already covered with snow. During the several days the 'Elna II' stayed at this Icelandic port hardly any sun was seen. Chilly weather prevailed although it was only early September. Some of the officers on shore leave met and talked to the local people who, interestingly, seemed to be aware that a large convoy was being formed for sailing to a Russian port. They were unusually friendly to the visiting seamen from the 'Elna II', whom they thought to be Russians. Who else could be serving on the only ship in port that was flying the Soviet flag? They praised the valiant Red Army in its fight against the Germans and indignantly criticized the Western powers for not assisting the Soviets more effectively. It was obvious that the political trend at that time in Iceland was extremely leftist.

There were not only Icelandic people who believed the crew to be Russians. Some others too were led astray by a ship showing a flag with the hammer and sickle on a blood-red background. An officer from an American Liberty ship came one day to visit the 'Elna II'. He was interested in the armament on a Soviet ship and was mildly disappointed seeing that the four-inch gun and all the machine-guns were of British make. During conversation with the 'Elna II' officers he regretfully mentioned: "It sure is a pity that I don't speak Russian." "Neither do we," drily replied the Chief Officer. The American was sincerely astonished at this reply which sounded utterly incomprehensible to him. A Russian ship with no Russians on board — a paradox. He tried to believe the story that the Estonians were explaining to him but did not fully succeed in grasping the fact that, overnight, the friendly seamen had become Russians without ever having set foot on USSR soil.

After about two weeks' stay at Reykjavik, the 'Elna II' and several other ships were ordered to proceed to the Hvalfjördur anchorage, about one hour's steaming from the city. There was already a large number of ships at anchor, mainly American Liberty ships. They were apparently from another ocean convoy. It was obvious there could be the anticipated large convoy for the Russian port, predicted earlier by the Icelanders. Besides the merchant ships, the spacious fjord was filled with naval ships of varied kinds up to and including a cruiser, seldom accompanying a convoy.

The same evening, all the masters and radio officers were gathered for a conference on board the heavy cruiser H. M. S. 'Sussex'. Orders for sailing early the next morning were passed to the heads of departments late in the night. That was the first time the two masters of the ship revealed that the destination of the 'Elna II' was Murmansk, on the arctic coast of the USSR.

After leaving the anchorage, the large assembly of ships, consisting of about 70 merchant ships and two dozen escort vessels, was sailing mainly on northerly courses for a week. The weather was mostly clear all the time, but cold; visibility was good. A submarine could have sighted the convoy at great distances. By daily watching the stars, the officers of the 'Elna II' could see that the convoy kept well out of the usual route toward the Barents Sea. Gradually courses were shaped to an easterly direction, but at all times the convoy kept far out of reach of the German aircraft known to be based on Norwegian airfields. However, the H. M. S. 'Sussex', probably as the most valuable ship in the assembly, was always in the middle of the convoy; the other escort vessels as a rule constantly encircled the convoy.

As the voyage progressed, the officers and crew on the 'Elna II' had lost their usual liveliness and exuberance. A despondent outlook into the future weighed heavily on all of them and it was no wonder each of them became secretive and suspicious, even of their erstwhile friends. Before, impulsive spurts of song and laughter had been heard from deckhands while working; now, these were replaced by reticence and self-restraint. They still carried out their duties as assiduously as always, but they appeared to be weighed down with disappointment in the behaviour of their masters and the slowly strengthening foreboding that they were trapped without hope of escape. Besides emotional suffering, some felt physical hardship in the cold arctic weather. They had joined the vessel in the middle of summer with prospects of returning to the United Kingdom after the reasonable length of an Atlantic voyage and had sensibly left their heavy clothing with friends on shore or in seamen's hostels. This precaution was, as a habit, recommended by the Ministry of War Transport officials to prevent seamen losing their possessions by a possible sinking of their ship.

The convoy had been following courses well north of Bear Island and now all ships were signalled to head south. On approaching the continental shoreline the convoy slipped into the White Sea instead of proceeding to Murmansk. In the early hours of the morning of October 12, the ships were directed to anchor in the estuary of the river Northern Dvina in the eastern branch of the White Sea.

Every one of the fairly large number of ships in the convoy was anxiously waiting to be taken to the unloading berth. A river pilot came on board as soon as the sun had lit up the bleak surroundings and slowly the final part of the voyage began. The weather was clear but bitterly cold. Reaching the inner port area, stretched along both banks of the river, the 'Elna II' was moored to a rickety wooden jetty on the north bank. The first persons to board the vessel were a squad of uniformed officials and armed soldiers. The officials were led inside the accommodations while the soldiers were quickly stationed at salient points on deck and on the bridge. The whole ship's complement was ordered off the deck and lined up in the ship's saloon. The captains produced the passports and seaman's discharge books of all personnel and placed them in front of the officials. Each individual's name was called out, his passport and seaman's book carefully scrutinized and his photograph compared with the living probationer standing before the investigators. Meanwhile, their accommodations were thoroughly searched, particular attention being given to personal correspondence, books, periodicals and photographs. From time to time some of the crew were called out to unlock a drawer or a suitcase. Anyone venturing out on deck unaccompanied by some of the uniformed Russians was quickly spotted by the soldiers and immediately ordered with menacing gestures back to the saloon. All cameras were collected and placed in the radio room, the doors of which were then sealed. When all these formalities were completed, the stevedores were allowed to come on board and start unloading the cargo.

Chapter 3

Shore leave passes had been issued to every seaman and most of them took the opportunity to get to know the new and interesting surroundings. Security was rigorous — the shorepass was to be presented to the armed soldier at the foot of the companionway ladder on leaving the vessel and returning. Everything in the port area and also in the centre of the city of Archangel seemed bleak in the wintry weather and the seamen already looked forward to the next voyage, although about half of the present cargo had not been discharged.

Then one morning another group of officials came on board. The whole complement of the ship was ordered to appear in the saloon for an important announcement. An official in dark naval uniform with several gold braids on the sleeves began talking at length of the hardships and discomforts the crew had unquestionably been subjected to during the voyage. Captain Birk carefully translated all that was said into Estonian. Then the offical delivered a suspicious annonucement. The personnel department of the Soviet Union's Northern Shipping Administration had decided to send every seaman from the 'Elna II' on shore for a well-deserved rest. This arrangement was to take effect immediately — the relief crew was already standing by the vessel to step on board as soon as the Estonians had removed their personal belongings. Transportation had been arranged and was waiting on the wharf.

No time was given the officers to properly hand over their departments in a traditional manner or to acquaint the newcomers with peculiarities which are invariably found in every ship. The Chief Engineer was worried about various parts of machinery which had been dismantled for repairs and were lying about the engine-room, but nobody paid attention to him in the veritable panic in which the crew was conveyed from the vessel. Soon he too adopted a mindless attitude to his duties seeing that those who represented the administration acted inconsiderately.

Several pick-up trucks were loaded with the seamen, each with several suitcases, and took them to the Intourist hotel. This was probably the only hotel in Archangel, a town of some 25,000 people which was at that time the most important lumber-handling centre in northern Russia. There were about two dozen sawmills located on both sides of the River Dvina to a distance of 20 miles. Wide expanses of pine and spruce spread out in the hinterland and the river afforded admirably adapted transportation for the logs from logging camp to sawmill. The abundance of wood products justified their use in construction to the extent that all houses, except a few larger ones, were erected of logs. Most of the sidewalks throughout the town, and even pavements in some residential districts, were constructed of heavy wooden planks. Apparently wood resisted natural decay well in the cold climate; you could see that almost all the houses were of fairly old age.

The fact that the Intourist was the only hotel in this community sounded improbable at first. However, as the whole picture of the Soviet pattern of life emerged, the lack of temporary lodgings seemed understandable. All industries and their various departments, even individual sawmills, had collective hostels for their employees. A workman could be ordered from time to time by his employer, the state, to places away from his usual home, in which case he would be put up in the appropriate hostel. The average Russian very seldom travels for his own purpose; if he does, he will seek lodging with the people he is visiting or help fill the crowded railway stations while on his journey. The Intourist hotel itself is a glorified hostel, where the employer is a federally centralized department which runs the whole tourism industry from border to boarder. And as this department is dealing mainly with foreign tourists — invariably regarded as the enemies of the country — it is strictly under the control of the State Security administration, now known as the KGB. When the events described here took place, this formidable administration was known as the NKVD. There was at least one Intourist hotel in almost every city and town in the USSR. Accommodation in them was limited to foreigners and highly placed political personnel of their own nationality as well as occasionally to prominent artists if their achievements, always measured in propaganda value, warranted such privileges.

The unusual move of accommodating the Estonian seamen in this selective hotel was apparently a strategic step to try to camouflage the extremely low standard of living in the country, which the Estonians would have detected before they had been irrevocably amalgamated into the Soviet way of life. The In-tourist treated them to rooms for two to four persons, containing clean but cheap furniture of poor workmanship and uniformly green iron beds. Only a few of the rooms had a separate bathroom. The main dining-room was being renovated and the seamen were instructed to take their meals in a restaurant on the waterfront, a short distance from the hotel. The restaurant too was segregated for the privileged, mainly foreigners — at that time mostly Allied military personnel on liaison duties — and also for some of their own meritorious individuals visiting such places on espionage assignments.

Chapter 4

Involuntarily planted into these strange surroundings, the Estonian seamen, along with four female members of the catering staff, tried with keen interest to absorb the life and developments around them and also learn a few expressions in the unfamiliar language. Only a few of them had the advantage of being able to converse with the local people. What they discovered from their observation was both very disappointing and frightening. The prospect of being condemned to become part of the hapless individuals around them loomed hideously in their minds. It was distasteful to see these poor creatures being pushed around in virtual thraldom, without choice of job or comfortable accommodation, incessantly enduring scarcities of essentials in food and clothing. With bitter resentment the Estonians had to admit that, of what they had seen in the time they had been in Archangel, nothing even approached the colourful picture the Soviet consular representative in England had painted of a serene life for everybody in the prosperous USSR. They had been persuaded to return to their newly transmuted homeland, where a workers' paradise would be waiting for them, protected from exploitation by capitalists and leading a happy life in the brotherhood of communist society. They now realized this persuasion had been wrought with deception and filled with falsehood, the results of which were that seeds of protest were being planted in their minds. They did not know how they would express their sentiments but indeterminate ideas of finding means to leave this disagreeable, even loathsome, country started to ferment in the heads of some of the officers. These sentiments, fleeting at first, became more compulsive after Captain Bell was repatriated to the United Kingdom. The convoy in which he departed was the last of this navigation season, as ice was already forming in the river and there were no other travelling facilities from the USSR.

The seamen of the 'Elna II' had been staying in the Intourist hotel for about two weeks. The restoration of the dining-room had been completed and they could have their meals in the hotel. The food there was well prepared and the service reasonable. At first, all meals were to be ordered and paid for before entering the dining-room and taking a seat. This procedure caused complaints from the British and American officers and was soon abandoned. The diners were mainly officers from Allied military missions that organized the huge Lease-Lend program of aid to the Soviets. They had their own mess-room facilities within their quarters but came to enjoy the conviviality of hotel dining-room atmosphere in the evenings, with food and drinks served by shapely waitresses. The dining-room was generally crowded then and frequently you could see an assumedly high-ranking Soviet officer, and sometimes self-important individuals in civilian clothing, having a meal or drinking vodka (at that time liberally available) and listening to a quartet on a dais providing light music. The non-Russian guests in the room watched amusedly when some local celebrity was busily ruminating his food while challengingly holding knife and fork raised upright in his hands or enjoying his soup with offending sounds.

In the first few days after the dining-room was reopened, the large windows facing the street were uncovered and provided the undernourished passers-by with envy-inspiring sight of the profusion of gastronomic varieties served to the privileged. Several of those passing even stopped on the street and stared at the diners. Later the windows were always covered with heavy drapes. There was no doorman guarding the dining area and at times a lower-ranking army officer, spoon sticking out from the leg of his boot, would timidly walk into the dining-room and look around in consternation. He would always be quickly spotted by the headwaiter and led out of the hotel. These young disappointed defenders of the country — the much-lauded heroes on the battlefield — may at one time simplemindedly have had faith in the colourful slogans which claimed the proletarian society in the USSR was classless; now they had to be content with trepidation and obedience.

What the transplanted seamen had learned in a short time about the living conditions in the so-called workers' paradise was unbelievable and abominable. They were comparing the availability of eatables and other essentials in the United Kingdom, a country that had been under wartime restrictions for two years, with that in the Soviet Union, which had been at war for only six months and already had to reach to the bottom of the barrel for almost everything. Food rationing for the civilian population in Archangel had been set at a drastic subsistence level. The ration-cards were divided into six standards, depending on the individual's kind of work. Yet, in spite of the elaborate system, unreliable distribution invariably deprived the people of the allocated quantities. Several of the rationed items were seldom available. Any unexpected distribution at food stores was sold out in record time. Crowds gathered almost uncannily on the spot on such occasions, as if drawn by irresistible forces. The local people, in fact, anticipated such windfalls: nobody ever ventured out-of-doors without an open-net carrier bag. They learned to detect the indisputable signs of a suddenly-forming lineup in front of a retail outlet — sure indication that something worthwhile had been delivered to the shop. The merchandise could have been bottles of vodka, jars of preserves, a few pairs of galoshes or rolls of sewing thread. None of these items was regularly available in any of the shops, except in those stores which served exclusively the upper echelon of officers in military, political and security administrations. To this favoured class belonged also top-notch actors, ballet dancers, artists and writers, if their respective contributions were seen to be of adequately high value as propaganda instruments. The Estonians also discovered an open market in downtown Archangel where you could buy or sell almost all articles unobtainable in shops. But most bargains there were peddled in the form of barter. Bread, tobacco and vodka were the most frequently used items of exchange. The militia seldom showed any interest in the activities on this market, unless they were tracing someone with a criminal record or were rounding up work-dodgers. Black-market dealings were traditionally established in the everyday lifestyle of the people; it was a necessity, not greed, that had always given rise to thriving corruption in the USSR.

Chapter 5

The first attempt to escape the thinly veiled detention in this detestable country was made by the Third Engineer of the 'Elna II' and his wife, who was on the ship's complement as an assistant stewardess. They approached the local representative of H. M. Ministry of War Transport in Archangel and requested his assistance in their bid to return to the United Kingdom. This gentleman, a civil servant, was not in a position to act positively on their request or to give them any direct support. The undaunted young couple had taken this step without, at that time, the knowledge of their shipmates. Suspicion had penetrated their minds and fear of revengeful actions by the authorities had forced their thoughts and intentions to be buried in secrecy. They were the first of the group who had come to the conclusion that life in the Soviet Union was intolerable. Besides, the young woman was expecting a child. Her husband detected the disagreeable aspects of life and ugly prospects of the future in the USSR somewhat sooner than the others, as he was fluent in Russian and could therefore have better access to the local people.

In the middle of November, about three weeks after they had been removed from their ship, the seamen were requested by the personnel department of the Northern Shipping to give information including a detailed biography of themselves on a lengthy questionnaire. This was soon followed by appointments for all of them to work on various Soviet ships in their corresponding positions on the 'Elna II'. Most of the ships were lying scattered along the river at or near Archangel; others were in outlying locations in the White Sea. All were coastal ships which would not be visiting ports abroad. The majority of them were frozen in ice and made no attempt to sail but personnel were maintained on board, with wages paid and fuel and provisions supplied. The master of the 'Elna II', Captain Birk, was sent out to one of these ships in the capacity of master; he was one of the few Estonians who spoke Russian. Chief Officer Pakri was appointed to be Second Officer on the S. S. 'Osmussaar' — this demotion was accepted by him since he did not speak Russian. His friend and shipmate A. Lukk, formerly the Chief Engineer on the 'Elna II', was also sent to the 'Osmussaar' as Chief Engineer since he too could make himself understood in a usable Slavic tongue. The female Second Cook, Amalie Saks, was sent to the same ship although she did not speak a word of Russian. Apparently her lack of command in their language was not regarded as essential.

The 'Osmussaar' was stuck in solid ice, a few hundred yards from the bank and about two miles downstream from the city of Archangel. The coal-burning boilers kept the accommodations very warm and an army of cockroaches gathered indoors. The food was poor in quantity as well as quality. Every day the master sent a sailor out with a small sledge to visit the various food warehouses in Archangel. Most days the tired deckhand returned pulling an empty sledge, despite the important-looking seals on the document the master had given him in the morning. Infrequently, if luck was with him, he managed to obtain a small quantity of salted fish in jute bags or a wooden keg of pickled cucumbers. The female cook was very unhappy about not having the necessary food supply on hand as in all other ships where she had served previously. Nevertheless, she created wonders with whatever was available to her and was deservedly praised by everybody on board. Pakri and Lukk could at least visit the Intourist dining-room in the evenings and get satisfactory meals there, although it took them nearly an hour to walk from the ship to downtown. There was a regular streetcar service connecting Archangel with the sawmills downstream along the river banks, each with a surrounding village. But the service could not be relied on due to frequent break-down of equipment or even more repetitious power cuts. Moreover, the only street where the streetcar track was laid was always full of pedestrians trudging in the deep snow. When a streetcar was running it was always filled to bursting with passengers, several adventurous ones hanging on to safety bars outside the doors. Inside the bulging vehicles it was usually a field day for the pickpockets: several unsuspecting seamen found their pockets emptied while they were squeezed within the mass of malodorous humanity. In spite of these inconveniences, necessity demanded they take every opportunity to secure at least one decent meal a day. But not every day was free for them to visit Archangel: two nights a week were scheduled for political and agitation meetings on board. These sessions were innocently called political education courses but were in essence exhortations to workers to ferret out and expose the bloodthirsty capitalists among the foreigners — incessantly ready to devour all loyal communists — and were wound up with endless praise and adulation of the great leader, Joseph Stalin, the benevolent father of every soul in the mighty Soviet Union.

While most of the seamen from the 'Elna II' were being sent to serve on various ships in the vicinity, there remained three Estonians who determinedly refused to join any Soviet ship. These were Second Officer Klein and two female cooks, Marta Miller and Rosalie Väli. All three valiantly let it be known by the personnel department of the Northern Shipping that they did not speak the language and therefore refused to be sent to any Soviet ship. They further emphatically declared they had joined a British ship in the United Kingdom and had been landed in the Soviet Union against their wish or consent. They would agree to sail in any British vessel, wherever they might be appointed, but not in a Soviet ship. The Northern Shipping reacted to their declaration of revolt by ordering them to leave the Intourist hotel. They gave them, however, accommodation in a coastal passenger ship which was laid up for the winter alongside a jetty near the Bolshoi Theatre. This small ship, the 'Michail Gromov', had vacant passenger accommodation and the Estonians were allowed to stay there; they could also have their meals there on seafarers' rations. Bread allowance, as a rule, was given directly to each ration-card holder. With the ship lying fairly close to the Intourist hotel, they could effortlessly improve their fare by visiting the dining-room to which they were still admitted without restrictions. They sold part of their individual bread rations on the black market to obtain funds for the Intourist meals.

Stephanie Bergman

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