silenced. Someone asking for directions was suddenly viewed as a suspect and anyone acting ‘oddly’ was liable to be reported.
On 18 July, food rationing was introduced. People were given ration cards which expired after one month. Even the issuing of ration cards was designed to keep the population in check and on message. There were four categories, with the highest category allocated the largest ration, so it was in the interest of these people to remain in a position so as not to be relegated to a lower category. Working hard in a manner that was recognized and informing on unreliable elements were two ways of maintaining one’s top category. To begin with, food, if not plentiful, was still available but prices shot up making it unavailable for all unless you were deemed worthy enough of being in the top category. Those working in factories were also allocated an extra ration, which provided a strong incentive for workers to remain at their posts, however weak and malnourished they became.
Half a million great works of art belonging to the Hermitage Museum, including collections of diamonds and precious stones, were too vulnerable to remain in the city. Packed into special protective crates, most were shipped out of the city towards the Urals in an armoured 31-car train, far away from the German bombs. The museum’s chief curator wept as the train departed. Meanwhile, the Hermitage was used as a bomb shelter.
Factory work during the siege
RIA Novosti archive, image #348 / Vsevolod Tarasevich / CC-BY-SA 3.0
Factories were urged to increase output, targeting each individual employee to work harder. Notices were posted by each machine, extolling greater effort, ‘Worker, what have you done for the defence of Leningrad?’ Graphs were displayed each day showing the output of every worker. Those who worked hardest were awarded with a little red flag next to their machine, while those who worked less efficiently were shamed into greater effort and, for the repeat offenders, occasionally subjected to a mock trial. In July 1941, the city began to evacuate its industrial output. Factories were dismantled and re-erected as far to the east as Siberia and along with the machinery, much of the skilled workforce went with it.
Within a week of the invasion, the city authorities decided to evacuate 392,000 children out of the city. The first evacuations took place on 29 June, taking away the first 15,000 children. The process was chaotic, and dogged with bureaucracy resulting in heartbreaking scenes and sometimes tragedy. Mothers not engaged in essential work were allowed to accompany their children. But often families were split up, with the mothers transported while their children were left behind. The first trains packed with children promptly went in the wrong direction, to the west, heading straight towards the Germans. When they returned to the city, their mothers had already left – in the opposite direction.
After the initial evacuations, the authorities then felt that too many women were leaving and that the city still had need of their labour – their children would have to depart alone. Women became desperate with anxiety. Mothers begged to be allowed to join their children or to keep their children with them. But evacuation was declared compulsory for all children under the age of fourteen. Many of the children would arrive at the station or marshalling yard and, due to the disorganization, be made to wait up to four days. Their food, so carefully packed by their anxious mothers, would be consumed within the first few hours. Rumours that German planes were strafing the evacuation trains caused even greater consternation. The authorities tried to dismiss the rumours as ‘hostile and provocative’ but then rumour became known fact.
The greatest tragedy occurred on 18 August, outside the small town of Lychkovo. One mother remembered her daughter saying, ‘Look, Mummy – a plane! It’s dropping something. Maybe it’s toys.’ The mother flung herself over her child. The planes were German. They flew in low and strafed the train with machine-gun fire then circled round to return, dropping bombs. A scene of utter panic ensued. Amidst the smoke and screams, one witness reported seeing dismembered limbs and children dying. As the planes circled for a third attack, the mothers and children tried to flee across a field only to be shot down by more machine-gun fire.
People were caught in a terrible dilemma. Some thought that perhaps it was safer to evacuate but were reluctant to leave behind their homes and possessions which, in Soviet society, could take years to accrue. Some, requesting to be evacuated, were arrested for being ‘defeatist’; whilst others feigned illness in order not to go. Many felt a sense of shame in leaving, as if they were deserting their beloved city, whilst others wanted to stay in order to welcome in the Germans as liberators. Throughout the war, there was an underlying sense that life under the Germans could be no worse than under the current regime. The Germans were, after all, a ‘cultured people’ that would bring order to the chaos of Soviet life. ‘What about Hitler?’ asked one diarist. ‘He can’t be worse than what we have now and at least they will permit us our churches and praying to God.’
German soldiers taking prisoners
Bundesarchiv, Bild 101III-Niquille-085-10 / Niquille / CC-BY-SA
Many blamed Stalin for the country’s current predicament and lack of readiness, and were disappointed that Stalin hadn’t offered to resign. Such opinions were uttered only in private to loved ones, or occasionally committed to a well-hidden diary. Anyone overheard making such remarks could find themselves reported and arrested. The authorities had no hesitation on clamping down on defeatist talk, ‘loose talk is a crime against the Fatherland’, and asked the population to be its eyes and ears: ‘Let us be vigilant and ruthless in dealing with cowards, panic-mongers, and deserters. Let us establish the strictest revolutionary order’. Hence, outwardly at least, the population displayed great patriotism and loyalty to the city and its regime.
By the end of August over 630,000 civilians had been evacuated. But the city population remained constant as increasing number of refugees, fleeing from the German advance to the west, entered the city. More evacuations were planned, up to 30,000 a day, but when, on 30 August, the town of Mga, 30 miles from Leningrad, was taken by the Germans, the encirclement of the city was virtually complete. There would be no more evacuations. Estimates vary, due to the uncertain number of refugees present in the city, but up to three and a half million Leningraders remained trapped inside. Yet there was only enough food for another three weeks.
By 12 July 1941, the German advance had reached the River Luga, the furthest line of fortifications hastily thrown together by Leningrad’s army of defence volunteers. The Soviet soldiers guarding the defences ran off. ‘The gates to Leningrad are open!’ crowed the German commander. Within just three weeks, the Germans had covered almost 500 miles and were now within 60 miles of Leningrad. Thousands of captured Soviet soldiers were forced to march hundreds of miles west to German prisoner-of-war camps, from which many were never to return. The option to transport them by train was dismissed, lest the Russians should ‘contaminate and soil the wagons.’
When the Germans captured the town of Mga, Leningrad lost its last railway station and its link to the rest of the country was severed. A week later, on 8 September, the Germans captured Shlisselburg on the westerly point of Lake Ladoga. This vast lake, 20 miles to the east of Leningrad, would play a significant role during the siege. Meanwhile, the Finns had advanced from the north, reaching the northern shore of the lake, regaining much of the territory they had lost to the Soviet Union during the ‘Winter War’ of November 1939 to March 1940. Leningrad was now virtually an island, cut off
