“Till My Tale is Told” – Part VI – “Stalin’s Broken Omelette”

The following will be the last of my series from the book “Till My Tale is Told.”  Here are three quotes that were the “unwritten laws” and the mentality of Marxists, Leninists and Stalin himself was attributed for saying the following:

“You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

Obviously people of Stalin’s ilk knew nothing about cooking and nurturing of the family with providing food. However, he DID know a lot about destruction and keeping people off balance with his different diabolical tactics.  All the early Bolsheviks could think about was destroying the aristocracy and catching up with the western nations by industrializing. (Where were the environmentalists who claim to care about the environment then?  Look no further than the Aral Sea for your answer to Stalin’s broken omelette) The Soviet mentality was to crush as many people who stood in the way of that goal to be omnipotent.

Another quote common in that era of frenzied fervor was “If you chop down trees, the chips are bound to fly.” Also, these Soviet agitators against families who worked the ground for sustenance probably couldn’t pick up an axe and chop trees if their life depended on it.  All Marx knew how to do was write volumes on the very paper that came from these felled trees. Marx had a secure life, he was underwritten by a man who believed in what he wrote.  Oh, to have such a patron, but what devastating consequences because of Stalin’s zeal for revolution using Marx words to buttress his strategies.

Lastly another quote appropriate to the Russian Revolution of 1917 was, “You can’t make a revolution wearing white gloves.” How many people were wearing white gloves in those days?  The aristocracy perhaps but also if you did manual labor, gloves were a way of hiding the callouses on the hands. Much blood will be on the hands of Stalin and all who followed his orders, millions of people perished during his autocratic rule of 30 years.  His was a broken omelette and with this final series, I will use one more poem from Anna Barkova which she wrote in the Karaganda prison camp in 1935, close to Astana, Kazakhstan:

In the Prison-Camp Barracks

I can’t sleep, and blizzards are howling

In a time that has left no trace,

And Tamburlaine’s gaudy pavilions

Strew the steppes… Bonfires blaze, bonfires blaze.

Let me go, like a Mongol tsaritsa,

To the depths of the years that have fled;

I’d lash to the tail of my steppe mare

My enemies, lovers, and friends.

And you, the world that I’d conquered,

My savage revenge would lay waste;

While in my pavilion the fallen

Ate the barbarous meats of my feast.

And then, at one of the battles –

Unimaginable orgy of blood –

And defeat’s ineluctable moment

I’d throw myself on my own sword.

So I am a woman, a poet:

Now, tell me: what purpose has that?

Angry and sad as a she-wolf

I gaze at the years that are past.

And burn with a strange savage hunger,

And burn with a strange savage rage.

I am far from Tamburlaine’s bonfires,

His tents are far away, far away.

Karaganda 1935

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