Stalin’s Great Canal
Michael Kessler was 19 years old this
morning, but he was thinking of his 9th birthday. He remembered
being in his family’s home back in the Ukraine, where his family had lived
since his great grandparents had moved there from Germany. He had jumped out
of bed and ran into the next room were his father was, already dressed for
the day’s work in the fields. His father had asked him what he had wanted
for his birthday, and he had answered that he wanted nothing more than to
see the ice lakes of the north. Michael had heard about the great mountains,
icy lakes, and infinite forests from his father’s workers. They were
Russian, many being from the vast northern territories. They always said
that where they were from was much more beautiful than the black sea area,
where the Kessler’s had their farm.
Now he was there in the northern territories, walking
along the bank of the frozen lake Onega. With the snow falling lightly on
the great pine trees just visible through the morning mist, and the ice a
yellow-orange glow with the rising sun peeking over the far mountains to the
east, he could have almost called it the most beautiful site he had ever
seen. Almost.
The site reminded him of the first time he had seen the
harsh north. After the Russians came to take the Kessler’s farm away, then
splitting up his family. Michael had gone northeast to work on the canal,
and the rest of his family had been dispersed throughout Siberia to the west
to work in the labor camps. That had been almost two years ago, when he was
shoved into a box car, packed to the point of bursting with other prisoners.
Even without that thought, Michael still believed that his family’s farm,
nestled in the rolling hills and just a short walk from the Black Sea, was
more beautiful. But he knew he would never see the farm again.
He turned, and now instead of the lake he saw the back of
the other prisoners in procession from the tent camps sprawling into the
distance behind them. He saw them in their tattered coats and pants and once
again became painfully aware of the holes in his jacket and razor thin socks
and ragged shoes. They were going back to work, the building of a great
canal in Joseph Stalin’s honor. There were some soldiers along the ridge
with their rifles propped up on their shoulders looking bored. It would have
been certain death for a prisoner to try to escape in the dead of winter.
Here in the far north of Russia winter was cold, colder than anything
Michael had ever known, and when the wind blew, it got colder.
The procession made its way over the hill and the canal
came into view. The 12 foot hole of frozen mud and splintering wood snaking
into the distance did not look like a great honor to Michael. He walked past
the crane that lowered the wooden logs into the canal to be used in
construction. The foreman was yelling orders, but Michael could not hear him
over the diesel engine. They ran the crane all night because that was the
only way to keep it from freezing solid.
The foreman then got into the crane and Michael heard the
straining whine of metal as the crane started to turn, bringing a load of
wooded logs into the canal. He started to climb down into the trench when
something caught his foot and he fell, landing on his back on the bottom of
the canal. The ground was so cold it felt like rock. He looked up to see
what he had tripped on, and saw the body of a man. He climbed back up the
trench to where this man was lying and saw that he must have died the day
before; succumbing to the cold or starvation. Michael tried to roll him but
he would not budge. He was frozen solid and stuck to the ground. Michael
heard a man yelling in Russian and looked up to see a soldier glaring down
at him. “Get back to work,” he said, and kicked him back into the canal.
Michael landed on his back again, but this time he hit
his head too. Dazed he looked up expecting to see white sky, however, the
crane’s arm was over him now and the platform of logs blocked his view. The
arm seemed to lurch to a sudden stop, struggling in the frost of the
morning. The platform waved back and forth in the air. Michael did not hear
the snap of the rope holding the logs, but he did see the platform as it
rushed down to meet him.
The White Sea Canal
The White Sea Canal opened on August 2, 1933 joining
the White Sea and the Baltic Sea together (1). It spans a total length of
141 miles partially running along numerous rivers and lakes, including Lake
Onega (2). Stalin presented the canal as a great success and as an example
of the might and efficiency of the Soviet Union, taking only 20 months to
complete. The Soviets were so proud of the canal it was commemorated by
monuments, plays, comedies, and songs of praise. There was even a brand of
Soviet cigars named after the canal (1).
Over 100,000 prisoners died during the White Sea
Canal’s construction. These people included political prisoners, Germans,
and other out of favor ethnic groups. The canal was constructed only 12 feet
deep, making it virtually useless to most vessels. Even today very few, if
any, ships travel through this passage. Other countries claimed that the
canal was a complete failure, but Stalin rejected this, saying that he was
very proud of this accomplishment (1)
Sources:
1. "White Sea-Baltic Canal." Wikipedia. 15 Feb. 2006. 26
Feb. 2006
<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Sea-Baltic_Canal>.
2.
Gorky, M. L. Map of the White Sea-Baltic
Canal. 26 Feb. 2006
<http://www.iisg.nl/collections/belomorkanal/map.html>.
