Several of the former 'Elna II' officers and crew were now convinced it was imperative to find some means that would enable them to leave the Soviet Union. Up till then they had not been treated by the Soviet authorities with undue severity, but visualizing life and working conditions for the rest of their lives in the same crazy atmosphere as they saw all around them sent cold shivers down their spines. No obvious solution to their dilemma was readily in sight. But on the off-chance that an open fight with the Soviets might solve the conflict, they intuitively began to create favourable publicity by developing friendly relations with the numerous British, American and Polish officers among the guests at the Intourist dining-room. To some of their newly-made acquaintances the action of the Estonians may have seemed intrusive when, with great emphasis, they related the story of their unfortunate country and of their abduction to the Soviet Union. Besides seeking useful suggestions, the purpose of their behaviour was to demonstrate, under observation of the ubiquitous agents of the Soviet security network, that any possible hostile action which might be taken against them would arouse natural interest in the minds of their new associates and sympathetic publicity in their favour at a time when the USSR could ill afford to evoke criticism and disaffection from her allies.

Frequent visits to the Intourist soon proved to be fairly expensive; the monthly net wages paid to the Estonians barely covered their meals and other expenditures for only 15 to 20 evenings. They did not want to abandon their strategy to befriend the foreign officers at the hotel but they were now confronted with a crucial situation — they had to raise more money for the required disbursements. Pakri intended to sell his portable typewriter to raise the badly-needed roubles. Not knowing how to go about it, he first took the typewriter into a mechanical workshop to have it valued for a possible sale. The person in charge assured him that he would let him know the appropriate price if the typewriter could be left there for a day or two. When Pakri again visited the workshop, he was told that the Customs had meanwhile confiscated the typewriter. The foreman helplessly spread his hands — he could not prevent the Customs officers from taking the instrument away.

It was typical behaviour of plain Russian workers as well as craftsmen, painfully conspicuous in most sections of the social patchwork in the Soviet Union. They seemed to possess an ingrained fear of those who were above them either socially or in Party ranks. There seemed to be an imaginary hostile and omnipotent being, which they could not define, incessantly keeping watch over them. They did not know, nor ever questioned, what sort of creature would personify this ubiquitous influence; it simply existed in their conception as an impalpable force or might and was accordingly referred to impersonally as the authority, meaning also power. There were two kinds of such authority: the local authority and the Soviet authority, each with its respective sphere of influence. No name and no person was ever implicated in this notion; even their top leaders, such as Stalin, were not associated with this enigmatic authority — Stalin was benevolent, the authority was oppressive.

In these circumstances, the ordinary worker had been mentally manipulated to suit the purpose of the communist ideology, Bolshevism, and conditioned to become a pliant object in the hands of the arrogant stooges of the Communist Party. A typical incident that occurred at the Intourist hotel vividly illustrates the behaviour of such transformed mentality. At a fairly late hour one evening, Pakri and Lukk did not feel inclined to take the long walk back to their ship through the heavy snow that had just laid a thick blanket over everything. With an overwhelming whim to test their recently acquired theories, they intended to find out whether they could get a room at the hotel for the night by being overbearing and imperious with the personnel on duty. In charge of the upstairs rooms was an elderly woman who, on their request for a room, stated she had been given no instructions by her superiors to allow any new resident into the hotel during her night-shift. Lukk indignantly insisted in his arrogant Russian that they as foreigners — both were wearing the uniform of the Estonian Merchant Marine — were entitled to rooms for a night whenever needed. The woman still hesitated and said she would have to get further information about these unexpected guests. As the final trumpery, Lukk ostentatiously pulled a notebook out of his pocket and started to scribble something in it, at the same time threatening the woman with disagreeable consequences from her refusal to admit them to the hotel when requested. He also asked the woman to state her name and address. By that time the poor creature was so frightened that she submissively gave the information and showed the tired seamen into a vacant bedroom.

She was a ripe product of the communist hegemony, one of the millions who are indiscriminately governed and pushed about by a few thousands in the illusory paradise for workers in the Soviet Union.

Having seen the behaviour of an average Russian when confronted with persons of unknown influence, Pakri was inspired to personally approach the Customs authorities and demand the return of his confiscated typewriter. He took with him a former shipmate, Chief Steward E. Saar, one of the Estonians fluent in Russian, as an interpreter. To the surprise of both, they found the Chief of Customs himself had a fairly good command of English. A lively argument soon ensued between him and Pakri. The official patiently explained the grounds for his action and even produced a book of relevant rulings, from which he recited the appropriate wording. This was obviously in Russian but still in plain enough phraseology for Pakri to understand its meaning. He quickly detected that by the definition in the rulings his typewriter became contraband when it was sold but in point of fact the typewriter had not been sold at the time it was confiscated; it was brought on shore only for valuation. Consequently, the Customs had exceeded their authority when they impounded the machine. This argument sounded irrefutable and was, as such, accepted by the Chief of Customs. The confiscation had, however, taken place and further litigation, he said, would be outside his jurisdiction. Any countercharge that 'citizen Pakri' might decide to initiate would have to be pursued through the Central Customs Department at Uljanovsk, a city near the Ural Mountains. (It should be noted that the Russians customarily addressed each other as 'comrade', except those whose political loyalty to communism was doubtful or even absent, who were spoken to as 'citizen'.) The Chief of Customs with a visible effort suppressed his exasperation but offered his help in forwarding a written application to Uljanovsk if it was brought to him. Without delay, Pakri composed a lengthy letter in English, requesting his typewriter be returned to him, and gave it to the Chief of Customs for delivery. He even managed to persuade the Chief to sign for receipt of the application — an act a Russian normally avoided as this carried with it a certain amount of responsibility. As a final prod, however, the official warned Pakri and all others formely from the 'Elna II' to refrain from further trading their personal effects on the black market, saying he had obtained information on such dealings from various sources.

After about three weeks A. Pakri was asked to call at the Customs House where his typewriter was returned to him — albeit without apology.

This incident with the Customs proved a potentially significant point in the relationship between the Estonian seamen and the Soviet officials. The act of impounding the typewriter may not have been reported at all to the Central Customs Department at Uljanovsk. The Chief of Customs suffered from an inferiority complex and, instead of admitting a wrongful action in professional matters, elected to crawl behind a handy pretence. He could have returned the typewriter at once when it was found it had not been sold, without feigning any involvement of the Central Customs Department. But he too was one of the general mould who would try to conceal failure at all cost, on the principle it is wiser to look a fool than be guilty. Also, the foreman at the workshop had apparently been taught — not unlikely under intimidation and threat of forfeiture of some small but vital preferences — to report every unusual occurrence to those watching over him and always to seek their instructions. The behaviour of both these men revealed signs of a deeprooted lack of initiative to make decisions and act without a leader, a result of the transformation in human reactions under an autocratic hegemony. The seamen had again learned something new in the way of life within the communist system.

Chapter 6

The winter of 1941-42 was extremely cold and the people in Archangel were suffering from a scarcity of all kinds of food. Frequently you could see beggars on the streets, mainly in places where foreigners could be met. Besides the military missions of Great Britain and the United States, there were seamen from the Allied ships that remained in Archangel when the sea froze up. Each had a full complement of sailors on board. The local militia chased the beggars away whenever they were detected. Frozen corpses were seen lying in the snowbanks and uniformed Red Army soldiers were carting them away. It was rumoured that several of the cadavers clutched a chunk of black bread in their icy fingers. The local inhabitants conjectured that the bread had been put into the hands of the corpses by the authorities. Passive opposition to the government and the Party was widespread amid the Russian population but it was effectively held down by fear of reprisals. The NKVD wielded an immensely suppressive power over the masses.

During this inclement winter, the Estonian seamen met several of their countrymen. They had been mobilized in Estonia shortly after war broke out between the Soviets and Germany and sent to work in factories and mines. These young men were regarded as not sufficiently trustworthy to be merged in the Soviet regular army units. All of them were working and living in atrocious conditions. In tattered clothing, they were subjected to starvation and an overworked regime in various communities in sub-arctic Russia. The group of these hapless men whom the seamen met in Archangel were working in a small snowmobile-manufacturing plant. Pakri found two of his former schoolmates among them. He managed to smuggle one of them into the Intourist dining-room where he treated his unfortunate friend to a decent meal. To accomplish this deceit, Pakri lent him a suit and accessories and pretended that the visitor was an acquaintance from a British ship laid up in Archangel. Later in the winter, by hearsay, the group was sent away to be trained at the rear as a fighting unit.

That same winter, the local Polish army unit celebrated one of their national holidays in their compounds about two kilometres outside the city core. Pakri and Lukk were also invited to the party. The event was remotely connected to some religious holidays but resembled more a carnival celebration than a pious occasion. The young Polish soldiers had also invited a number of Russian girls for the merrymaking. Conversation was mainly carried on in Russian. Food and drinks were served and the mood of the young people was cheery and gleeful. In a group of some nine or 10 people, a Polish soldier asked his girlfriend the meaning of the SSSR — the Russian equivalent of the initials USSR. Another girl in the group, a young supervisor in a nearby sawmill, frivolously burst out in laughter and loudly said it could be read as "the death of Stalin liberates Russia". Everybody laughed, some nervously, but the fun and dancing continued. Less than an hour later the slightly intoxicated sawmill supervisor was told that someone wanted to talk to her outside. Although it was a bitterly cold night, the young woman went downstairs without her coat. She never returned to the party. She had been seen talking to some men and then entering a car which immediately drove away. The thoughtless girl disappeared without trace and was not seen again. The NKVD strikes unerringly through its ubiquitous hirelings. On afterthought, it would have been reckless to assume the NKVD allowed artless Russian girls to attend a party with foreigners without planting informers among them.

The hard winter was passing its peak when the Estonian seamen decided the time was ripe for a showdown. They collectively composed an application to the British Ministry of War Transport in England, explaining their intolerable situation of being restrained without their consent in the USSR and asking for the Ministry's support and help in finding employment for them in the British ships visiting Archangel. The application was handed over to the Ministry's representative in Archangel on March 29, 1942. On this first step of their struggle to find their way out of the clutches of the Soviets, 19 of the original complement of 32 on the 'Elna II' were willing to sign their appeal.

The remaining 13 were those who were genuinely frightened by possible punitive repercussions from the notorious NKVD and a few who did not disagree with the governing political system. Among the latter were most likely some who fell into line with communist ideology to feather their own nests.

To emphasize their fairness, the recalcitrants also wrote to the Northern Shipping, giving the essential parts of their communication to the British. The reaction from the opposing side was similar to that of the proverbial ant-hill when penetrated by a stick. All available seamen from their various ships were called to Archangel and assembled in the personnel department of the Northern Shipping, where the personnel manager severely censured the 19 who had the impertinence to initiate such presumptuous action. He condemned their behaviour as ungrateful to the Northern Shipping as their employer, as slandering toward the kind-hearted and just Soviet system and, finally, for perpetrating the traitorous act of soliciting help from a foreign country. Next, the political superintendent or commissar of the Northern Shipping tried to convince them they were not, in any way, different from any other Russian around them; he argued that, since the former Republic of Estonia was already an integral part of the USSR Federation, all Estonians had the same rights and obligations as all other citizens in the Soviet Union. He concluded this statement with emphasis: "Estonia is now ours, so you too are ours."

Throughout these admonishing sermons a surly-looking official in military uniform sat beside the personnel manager. He had so far listened impatiently to the speeches and to the questions from those of the seamen who could speak the language. Now this menacing symbol of discipline let loose with scathing accusations of the seamen for their unappreciative behaviour after having been allowed to visit the dining-room at the Intourist, where others of the same social standing would not be admitted, and to reside in Archangel without proper documents. Both these privileges would be withdrawn forthwith, but the lenient Soviet authorities would refrain from any punitive action because of their status as new citizens who are not yet familiar with the laws of the country. But any notion of their being aliens in the USSR, he warned, was foolish and entirely inapplicable. All this was translated to everybody by those who understood Russian. Finally, the aggressive official ordered everyone to hand over their national passports, which was dutifully done by the now-frightened seamen. These documents, never to be seen again, disappeared into the bulky briefcase of the unfriendly official. Temporary identification cards — this time in Russian — were promised to be issued soon to all of them.

For the next few days nothing unusual happened, except that the seamen became generally restless and worried — they could not overlook the reputed insidiousness of the NKVD. Shortly after the admonitions and threats had been hurled at them in the personnel department, seamen were called one by one to the office of the State Security Police. Although not part of the NKVD, the personnel there were assumed to be acting for, and contained members of, the feared Secret Service establishment. Those Estonians who did not speak Russian were helpfully accompanied to the Security Police office by their shipmates who could act as interpreters. There, in the House of Soviets, a large office building near the city centre, each seaman was interrogated at length on his past social activities, his present political views and sympathies and, especially, any contact he may have had with German nationals and the extent of his ability to speak their language. Questions also had to be answered on the subject matter in his biography, that had previously been compiled for the personnel department of the Northern Shipping. The examiner in all cases was Police Sergeant Varahtin, the ill-tempered official who had earlier seized their passports. He seemed to be a formidable opponent in the quest of the seamen to gain exit from the detested country.

Every examination ended with an injunction to the seamen to accept the Soviet internal passport and, thereby, Soviet citizenship; this was invariably accompanied by a threat of punishment for disobedience. It all sounded contradictory and meaningless since the Estonians had already been told they were considered Soviet citizens by virtue of their country having been 'liberated' from the yoke of capitalism. The seamen contended they were abroad when Estonia became part of the USSR and, therefore, did not consider themselves under the Soviet dominion. They would, however, accept any passport the authorities in Estonia would impose on them but would do so only on Estonian territory which at that time, spring 1942, was under German occupation. Some of the seamen, whose nerves could not withstand the threats and intimidations, accepted the forced passport which was an identification document for all Russians for the endorsement of changes in address at home and at work.

When, eventually, the campaign of pressure had passed its peak there remained 11 Estonians, among them three women from the catering staff, who had stayed firm in their conviction not to give up the struggle to get out of the Soviet Union. Although Captain Bell had been repatriated and Captain Birk had accepted the Soviet passport, the 11 intractable seamen of the former 'Elna II' were not leaderless. Pakri, ex-Chief Officer of the ship, assumed the position of informal leader of the group which then consisted of the Chief Officer, Chief Engineer, Second Engineer, Third Engineer, Chief Steward, three engine-room ratings and three women, one of whom was the wife of the Third Engineer.

The next move by Sergeant Varahtin was an attempt to break the will of resistance of the more active members of the disobedients who, he rightly suspected, were Pakri, Lukk, the Third Engineer and Chief Steward Saar. The Third Engineer and Saar were both fluent in Russian and did most of the talking with the sergeant. During several debates with Varahtin the Estonians detected many weak and careless points in the polemics and logic of the vengeful security officer. His mind did not react as sharply as might have been expected of an NKVD agent. Although he looked like an all-round executioner, he was unquestionably of a low I.Q., frequently incautious in what he said, full of asperity and extremely mean. In the almost nightly debates at the Security Police office the main topic was an annoying haggling over the passports: these were offered over and over again to the seamen and as adamantly rejected by them.

The Estonians soon became suspicious of the influence of the power of Soviet authorities. If it was as absolute as often rumoured, it could be wielded over them with more firmness which, however, did not seem to be the case. Apart from their aggressive verbal persuasion, the manner in which they dealt with the recalcitrant ethnic group was somewhat haphazard and fumbling. This did not agree with the gruesome stories the Estonians had heard about the brutal handling of their own subjects by the NKVD who, even for the slightest misconduct or disobedience, subjected them to extremely ruthless treatment. A similar procedure could have been applied in their case since they had no internationally recognized power to stand behind them. The independent Republic of Estonia had been occupied by the USSR in 1940 and had been subsequently given de facto recognition by most other countries. As Great Britain and the United States had not recognized the capture of Estonia into the Soviets' sphere of influence, you could reasonably conjecture the only possible reason that made the Soviets draw in their claws in dealing with the Estonians could have been the fear of unfavourable publicity and the risk of antagonizing their influential allies. They depended on the latter for the massive military aid without which they could hardly keep the Germans from conquering their homeland. Hitler's forces were then already near the core of industrial Russia. If their conjecture was true, the Estonians calculated, their ultimate victory would depend on the range of social relationships they had already been zealously advancing within the community of foreigners in Archangel. Supported by this assumption they increased the frequency and openness of public association with the regular dining-room visitors at the In-tourist, despite the fact that at times their conduct was verging on importunity.

Part of this tactic was an audacious bluff which the seamen defiantly decided to try. They composed letters to Stalin, to Molotov, the USSR foreign secretary at that time, and to Beria, the chief of the NKVD. They complained about the improper manner and compulsion in trying to force them to accept the Soviet passports and about the forced detention in Archangel. The letters were written in Russian, for which Saar and the Third Engineer excelled in their best literary talents, and were signed by Pakri and Lukk. They were aware these letters would never go anywhere — the NKVD was watchful enough to seize them as soon as they reached the post office.

Soon after the letters were mailed, repercussions came in the form of a 100-roubles fine for living without documents; it was imposed on each of the 11 who refused to accept passports. The fine was issued by the office of the local Chief of Militia but handed over to the culprits at the office of the notorious Sergeant Varahtin, who had victoriously called the seamen to face him. The fines were not paid; instead, a written protest with 11 signatures was sent to the Chief of Militia. The fines were never exacted. Soon, however, each seaman was issued a temporary identification certificate, referring to them now as evacuees.

Meanwhile, a new representative of the Ministry of War Transport, L. Ives, had arrived from London. This respectable shipping executive from the reputable Ellerman Lines was a reserved gentleman with rather reclusive habits. It took a few weeks until Pakri and Lukk were able to get an interview with him. They asked him to act as an intermediary for them in their prospective correspondence with the ministry in London and, possibly, with H. M. ambassador in Moscow. Mr. Ives was sympathetic to the problems of the little group of Estonians but inflexible in his refusal to initiate any action on their behalf. He was apparently bound by protocol. But he advised them to first establish contact with London or Moscow, after which he would be glad to help the seamen. On his advice, they promptly sent a letter to the British ambassador in Kuybushev to which all foreign diplomats had been evacuated from Moscow. Their letter to the British legation was dated May 25, 1942.

Again, they were sure their letter was captured by the NKVD. It looked ominous that for two weeks following the sending of the letter they had been left undisturbed. Nervousness and despondency were again finding their way into the sanguine mood they had meanwhile acquired. The leaders felt their responsibility increasing when a baby was born to the wife of the Third Engineer. As if issuing a challenge the infant boy was named Victor. It was a trying time for mother and child as almost all necessary items were unobtainable in stores. In addition, the militia seemed to take pleasure in disturbing the family at night. Under pretext of checking their documents or making sure the windows were properly blinded these clumsy slobs would bang on the door at any time, demanding entry which could not be refused them. These hostile visits were undoubtedly the base and vengeful acts of Sergeant Varahtin who in this way tried to satisfy his raging animosity toward the insubordinate Estonians for failing to constrain and oppress them and probably to frighten them into accepting the debatable passport.

Chapter 7

Then, for once, Mother Fortune favoured the dissidents. The Polish Army unit, which had been formed in Archangel, and the officers of which had become friendly to Pakri and Lukk, was instructed by their High Command to transfer to Sverdlovsk in eastern Russia. Captain Stanislav and Lieutenant Louis promptly suggested they would willingly take a letter from the Estonians to hand over to the British legation at Kuibushev, since their journey would take them through that city. They too had suffered under the invasion of their country by the Soviets in 1939 and had subsequently been imprisoned and tortured by the Reds in their prison camps. There had always been a deep, mutual sympathy between the Poles and the Estonians. The Soviets knew well that the Poles also hated them but their enormous losses on the front made the Soviets reinstate Polish military personnel interned in various camps over wide areas of the USSR to exploit them in the war against Germany. So Captain Stanislav and Lieutenant Louis began their journey carrying the letter which the Estonians had quickly prepared and signed. On parting, promises were made to meet in London after the war. Unfortunately, the friends never met again; Pakri made several attempts to locate these generous officers in England but all enquiries at the Polish communities proved fruitless.

The tension had not decreased but the dissidents looked into the immediate future with more confidence, knowing that at least the recently written letter would reach its destination. One day, Pakri was again called to present himself at the police station. Being already familiar with the purpose of such visits, he asked Saar to accompany him as interpreter. Arriving at the militia, Saar was told his presence was not needed. The pattern of interrogation that followed was unique and unprecedented until, three decades later, Pakri read of similar treatment described in The Cancer Ward', a novel written by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, when he too was persecuted, after the war, for his liberal views.

At first, Pakri was left sitting in the waiting-room for more than two hours. Then Sergeant Varahtin appeared and told him to go through a door leading from the waiting-room. With the sergeant bodily forcing Pakri to precede him, they entered a fairly large office. Working around desks were uniformed clerks, each blankly staring at Pakri and Varahtin. Hesitatingly, with Varahtin still prodding him in the back, Pakri proceeded to the middle of the room where he was pushed toward a large filing cabinet which looked like a wooden wardrobe. Sergeant Varahtin, still behind him, urged him to enter the cabinet. Pakri irresolutely opened the wooden door and saw, instead of shelves with stacks of paper and volumes of files, a heavy set of black curtains close behind the door. Varahtin pushed him against this dark, woven fabric which opened when his hand touched the folds and pleats and let him, shudderingly, pass through into a doomful darkness behind it. In this darkness he no longer felt the sergeant's hands behind his back. Involuntarily stretching out his arms to guard his face from coming into contact with some unseen obstacle, he slowly moved forward. He had just taken a step when his groping fingers touched a material of similar heavy texture. Its folds opened also and he saw light. Before his eyes was a fairly large, dimly lit room with two high windows. Both were partly covered with thick curtains which allowed a narrow beam of light to enter and illuminate only a small patch in the middle of the room. On that patch stood a single straight-backed wooden chair. He could also detect two office desks near the windows; behind each desk sat a man. Their faces were indistinguishable in the semi-darkness but you could see both were wearing military uniforms. One of them ordered Pakri to sit on the wooden chair and face the windows. He heard a door being opened behind his back and footsteps of men entering the room. Then he heard again the nauseating harping: "Tell him that this time he must accept the passport or he will be tried by the court of tribunal." The ominous feeling of terror in him was suddenly replaced by relief, and then by anger, as he realized the reason for this vulgar dramatization, stupidly contrived to weaken his mental stability and to expedite his ultimate submission. The words had been translated for him by a Russian who spoke Estonian; that was the reason why Saar had not been allowed to translate for him.

After the first salvo of warnings and accusations the procedure was disgustingly similar to those he and his shipmates had gone through on numerous occasions. His answer to all of these threats was an unshakable denial. In spite of that, the interrogation went on for more than an hour. At the end of it he was given a time limit of three days in which to accept the passport and avoid the notorious tribunal. His attitude had not wavered by this commonplace show of intimidation and, as expected, no tribunal was staged at the expiry of the time limit.

Early in the summer of 1942 the ice in the river was gradually breaking up and navigation was resumed. The dissenters were still in Archangel although most of the others from the former 'Elna II' had left the river with their various ships. Those who had been accommodated on the small passenger steamer, the 'Michail Gromov', were now sent to a hostel which was maintained for personnel of the Northern Shipping. The few others had already found rooms in private houses. The NKVD had not entirely given up its schemes to pierce the solidarity among, and break up the unanimity in, the little group of rebels. The next attempt was to separate the leaders. Pakri was instructed to join a Soviet coastal steamer that was trading outside the White Sea. He felt his presence in Archangel was essential to the Estonians' common struggle and at first refused to join the vessel. Only after he had been warned the NKVD could frame him in the treasonous act of sabotaging the war effort did he obey the instructions and board the ship.

On June 29, all Estonians in the vicinity of Archangel were called to the House of Soviets and informed that any one of them who wished to leave the Soviet Union could do so, provided each obtained an entry visa into his or her selected country of immigration. This was a major turning point of their contest. Something must have happened on the higher level of the Soviet administration. The solution became evident when the Estonians were advised the British Embassy in Kuibushev had contacted Mr. Ives in Archangel, requesting more details about the protesting Estonian seamen. Pakri had also been released from his duties on the Soviet ship without himself requesting to be relieved.

And yet, another obstructive move was launched by the NKVD: they now demanded the dissidents ask for Soviet citizenship within three days. If not, all of them woud be hauled before the tribunal. This action was, however, already too late. The Estonians could no longer be intimidated. Nor was it any use to the Russians when they arrested Pakri and Lukk and escorted them between armed soldiers to the police station as potential German spies; they were released before the next morning without having been formally impeached. And it was no use to them when a summons to appear before a court as a defendant was issued to Pakri — he simply threw the piece of paper away. This was done against the recommendation of a young Russian friend of his who could not understand why anyone would wish to emigrate to a capitalist country where there exist slavery and oppression of a working man.

In the middle of September, individual guarantee letters arrived from the British ambassador for each of the protesting 11 plus the few-months-old little boy, Victor. These documents undertook to convey the dissidents to the United Kingdom, grant them a work permit and naturalized citizenship after the war, if they so wished. When they were shown to Sergeant Varahtin he promptly rejected them, as it had meanwhile been decided the condition of exit would now require each applicant to produce a guarantee of immediate citizenship of the country of his destination.

Again, despondency was spreading among the members of the group, superseding the recently developed brighter outlook. The winter was approaching with an unavoidable semi-starvation and prolonged suffering in the hands of the NKVD. The former officers of the 'Elna II' were still allowed to have their meals in the Intourist dining-room but the crew members — about half of the group — were deprived of these facilities. They all had been issued Soviet ration-cards but nothing could be obtained for them as shelves in the grocery stores remained empty. The officers and engineers used to order their meals in the dining-room and, additionally, several ready-made sandwiches. These they wrapped in paper and hid in their pockets to be taken out to their unfortunate companions.

Then, on October 29, the dissidents were informed that Sergeant Varahtin wished to see them to announce the final clearance for their departure had arrived. Their documents were legalized at his office and, as a final gesture, he tried to congratulate the Estonians. This was disdainfully spurned by the Estonians who had learned to know and hate him. The Ministry of War Transport officers were already arranging accommodation for them in cargo ships under the British flag.

Amazingly, there were no questions asked when the Estonians requested rooms in the Intourist hotel to stay while waiting for their departure. It was surprising how efficiently information was disseminated, and priorities established, when the NKVD was in charge. Centralization and control in almost all activities seemed undoubtedly to be in impeccable, though ruthless, hands.

It was with restraint that the Estonians retained equanimity and politeness toward those who had treated them with abuse and contempt during the 13 months they had been detained in Archangel. Pakri hardly remembered he was supposed to appear in court on November 13; the authorities had caught up with his changed address and sent him another summons.

Early on the morning of November 14, the Estonians were taken by British military transport to the port of Archangel, where they boarded the British ship 'Empire Snow' which had adequate accommodation for passengers. Each one of them now thanked his favourite saint for the escape which was firmly within reach.

Through snowstorms and gales the convoy fought its way from the country of misery, deceit, injustice and persecution and safely arrived at Loch Ewe, Scotland on November 30, 1942.

Their journey from 'Paradise' was finally over.

Stephanie Bergman

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