Michael Pearson :
The Sealed Train

Chapter 4


Lenin knew He Would soon hear from Parvus.  The approach was not overt.  His friend Jacob Fürstenberg cabled him offering him transit for two across Germany.1

Lenin was fully aware of the real source of the offer for while Fürstenberg might have been able to produce such items as the forged Swedish passports he had been asked for, he was certainly in no position to supply railway facilities.  But Parvus could.

Cautiously, since at this stage Lenin was leaving any channel open, Zinoviev wired back :  “Uncle wants to know more.  Official transit for individuals unacceptable.”  But when Parvus sent an agent to Zurich to explain the offer further, Lenin rejected it outright.  Desperate though he was to find a way of crossing Germany, this was too furtive.  A train, carrying a large number of political emigres with the approval of Petersburg, was obviously the ideal plan.  And in March, even though Lenin was a bit skeptical, this seemed a possibility.

In any case, there were certain dangers to dealing with Parvus at all.  For he had changed beyond all recognition since the days when Lenin had known him in Munich.  Then he had been a brilliant young Marxist journalist, as shabbily dressed as the rest of them, the man who had printed the early issues of Iskra on a secret press in his home.  Now he had become a capitalist.  The new Parvus, now grossly fat, was a bizarre, fantastic paradox.  In the same flabby body coexisted a flamboyant tycoon, displaying the worst of bourgeois vulgarity, and a brilliant Marxist mind.

After the split of the Russian Social Democrats in 1903, Parvus had formed a kind of partnership with Trotsky.  Together, they had developed a theory of continuous revolution in Russia — which conflicted with the idea of progress by clearly definable stages believed by most Marxists.

At the time Lenin had attacked their arguments fiercely, even he had regarded Parvus as a revolutionary of stature — especially after the 1905 revolution, in which Parvus, working with Trotsky, had played a prominent role that ended with a sentence to Siberia.

Since then, however, Parvus had made a fortune in Constantinople, though no one knew quite how.  Rumors suggested massive and dubious deals in grain and arms.

By the outbreak of war, Parvus had stepped into a new role that made him suspect to everybody — a millionaire Marxist.  Though he still had socialist ambitions, he had become a caricature tycoon with an enormous car, a string of blondes, thick cigars and a passion for champagne — often a whole bottle for breakfast.

The European revolutionaries were horrified by him — especially when they learned that his big-business contacts reached into the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin.  Even Trotsky disowned this “Falstaff... whom we have now placed on the list of politically deceased.”

Lenin had last seen him two years before in 1915, when he had walked into the Student Restaurant in Berne with an ex-mistress and a young Bolshevik, Arthur Siefeldt.  It was far too modest an establishment for the new Parvus to patronize in the ordinary way, but he was looking for Lenin.

Lenin was lunching with Nadya, Inessa and another comrade.  Parvus stood, his eyes sweeping the crowded room in search of him — so enormous, according to Siefeldt, writing in a Baku journal, that he resembled “an overfilled sack of grain... his stomach vibrated.”  Then, when he had seen Lenin, he moved heavily toward his table.

Lenin had greeted him cordially enough, despite their differences.  When Parvus asked for a private meeting,... taken him back to the rooms that he and Nadya rented.

That discussion is still clouded by mystery, but almost certainly it was extremely important in the history of the world.  “Parvus,” so Lenin said to Siefeldt later, “ate without salt” — meaning he had achieved nothing.  Lenin had told him that he did not want to see him again — and, so far as is known, he never did.  Parvus, writing of the meeting, limited his record to the fact that they had an argument about the development of revolution.

Neither was telling the truth—at least nothing like the whole truth.  Without Parvus and his organization, through which he was to channel millions of gold marks to the Bolsheviks,* Lenin could never have achieved supreme power in Russia two years later in 1917.  And the strands of that association — a strangely remote association in the sense that neither had direct contact with the other and both adamantly denied its existence — had already been laid in the early months of 1915 in the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin.

The relationship between these two men — the wiry, disciplined esthete and the Rabelaisian bon vivant — was colored by irony, for they were competitors.  Previously, they had competed fiercely as Marxist intellectuals with differing views.  Now they were ranged against each other as potential leaders of the socialist revolution-antagonists, but antagonists who needed each other.  And the arena was now far larger, for Parvus had begun to gain the support of one of the world’s great powers.

He was, in fact, in Berne on that sur mer day in connection with a massive revolutionary operation that dwarfed anything that Lenin had ever been able to organize.  For Parvus‘ mysterious fortune had given him big resources and contact with powerful men — including the German ambassador in Constantinople.

To the ambassador, Parvus had suggested that the Germans and the Russian Marxists had a common interest in the destruction of the Russian autocracy and explained that he had a plan to exploit this.  His suggestion was passed to the Foreign Office in Berlin at an ideal time.  For by the end of 1914 it was clear that the war was not going to be won with the speed that the Kaiser and his generals had predicted.  “Revolutionizing” had just become the new policy, outlined in a paper by Arthur Zimmermann, who was then Under secretary of State at the Foreign Office.  A revolution, so Zimmermann proposed, would force the Tsar to conclude a separate peace that would enable the Germans to concentrate their force on a single front in the West.  Parvus was invited to Berlin.

In a high-level meeting in the Wilhelmstrasse, early in 1915, Parvus declared that he could create the revolution that Zimmermann wanted.  One of the key points of his plan Centered on Lenin.  German money, he suggested, should be invested in his network of experienced professionals.  Parvus saw this as the spearhead of an operation harnessing the whole force of Social Democracy, believing that the Bolsheviks and the Mensheviks must be united.

Parvus viewed himself as a king maker, the power behind a throne that Lenin would occupy.  Whether or not his long-term aim was world socialist revolution — to which he had been committed as a young Marxist in Munich — is not clear.  Certainly, at that meeting with the officials of the German Foreign Office he was presenting himself as a man who loved Germany — loved it, in fact, to the extent that very soon afterward he took out nationalization papers.

From the German viewpoint, Parvus had one enormous asset.  He knew everyone of note in the world of militant socialism.  He had lived with them, argued with them in cafes, disputed theory with them in angry articles — and had been respected by them.

The Germans were deeply impressed.  As an initial venture they agreed to his proposal that he should stage a nationwide strike in Russia, and the Treasury released to him 1,000,000 gold marks to finance it.

This was the reason for his visit to Switzerland in May, 1915.  Typically, complete with girls and champagne, he had moved into the Baur au Lac, Zurich’s most luxurious hotel.

To find Lenin he traveled to Berne.  The Bolshevik organization with its network in the Russian factories could obviously help him organize his strike.  Also, though, he wanted to explore Lenin’s reactions to his more ambitious plan for revolution in which the Bolshevik Party was crucial.

In their meeting in his rooms in Distelweg, Lenin clearly rejected the proposal that Parvus put to him, but almost certainly, there were other areas of agreement.  After the meeting, Lenin very seriously considered moving to Scandinavia, where — since secret routes to Russia, both for communication and people, had long been established — Parvus‘ assistance could be far more effectively exploited than in Switzerland.  Eventually he decided not to go — and it was a decision he was to regret in 1917, as he cried out in one of his frustrated letters in March to Inessa, for it would have removed his dilemma of how to get home.  Far more important at the time, was his clear agreement that his close friend Jacob Fürstenberg should work for Parvus.

When Lenin refused him the cooperation of the Bolsheviks, Parvus set up his own organization under the cover of a commercial company that actually traded.  With headquarters in Copenhagen and a network of agents inside and outside Russia, the organization sold German-made products to the Russians and vice versa.  Chemicals, medicines, surgical instruments and even contraceptives were handled by what was a careful mixture of an espionage ring and a staff that, had no idea of the true nature of the organization.

The appointment of Jacob Fürstenberg as president of this odd multifaceted corporation created a situation that was bizarre indeed..2  For it meant that Lenin’s trusted friend, who carried out for him vital secret assignments, was also the key right-hand man of Parvus, the maverick tycoon, the traitor to the cause despised by all his former revolutionary comrades because of his links with imperial Germany.

This close connection, with its potential element of political danger, was no doubt one reason why Lenin launched a savage attack on Parvus when he set up a socialist newspaper Die Glocke (“The Bell”) — backed, of course, with German funds.  Parvus’ new paper, Lenin charged in Sotsial Demokrat, was an “organ of renegades and dirty lackeys” associated with “the cesspool of German chauvinism.”  Later it was an attack that he was to quote as evidence that he had nothing in common with Parvus.

Parvus delivered his strike to the Germans without Lenin’s help—but its scale was disappointing.  During January, 1916, 55,000 workers stopped work in various plants in Petersburg.  But this was hardly what the men in the Wilhelmstrasse had paid out 1,000,000 marks for.  Parvus, who was distrusted by the aristocrats in the Foreign Office anyway, was dropped for a few months — until March, 1917, when the fall of the Tsar opened up an entirely new spectrum of opportunities and his value to the Germans became apparent once more.  His new status was reflected in an early invitation to an audience with Arthur Zimmermann, the new German Foreign Secretary.

Zimmermann had an unusual background for the post to which he had been appointed four months before.  For he did not come from one of the aristocratic Junker families of which virtually every senior official in Berlin was a member.  Unlike all the ambassadors who reported to him, there was no “von” in his name.  A man of the middle classes, he had broken through this formidable class barrier through ability.  A well-built, ruddy faced man, who drank a quart of Moselle every day with his lunch, this shrewd statesman enjoyed the respect of the Kaiser.

Possibly, however, the most important factor in March, 1917, was the fact that the whole concept of “revolutionizing” had been his own — and the scope for this had suddenly been not existed before.

For two years, the Political Section of the Foreign Office had been patiently developing the revolution policy.  During this time German agents both inside and outside Russia had been cultivating socialists of all parties — but Lenin had emerged as the man with the most potential from the viewpoint of German interests.  Parvus had not been his only advocate.  An agent named Alexander Kesküla, an Estonian Bolshevik, recruited by Baron Gisbert von Romberg, German minister in Berne, had also urged that German funds should be concentrated behind the Bolsheviks and, soon after the meeting with Parvus in Berne in 1915, had even discussed with Lenin the terms “on which the Russian revolutionaries would be prepared to conclude peace with us in the event of the revolution being successful” — i.e., with German help.  These included an astonishing agreement by Lenin to put a Russian army into India.

In view of the size of the Bolshevik Party, this whole conversation in 1915 had been so academic that it was a joke, and even now in 1917 it would not be long before Lenin’s assertion that the Bolsheviks would accept power if it were offered would be greeted with mocking laughter by more than 1,000 delegates to the Congress of Soviets in Petersburg.

But it was not seen as a joke in Berlin.  Both Zimmermann and Count Diego von Bergen, the official in charge of political subversion in Russia, knew that money placed behind even a small party could, provided it was well organized, produce big results.  At that stage, of course, it was not well organized at all, fragmented as it was by the war and the Okhrana.  But its cellular structure, the philosophy of full-time disciplined dedication that Lenin fought for in 1903, and the quality of its leader had led von Bergen to order special attention to be paid to the exile living in the one room in the Spiegelgasse.

According to the files of the Wilhelmstrasse, Kesküla provided the Bolsheviks with money, though there is some reason to doubt whether Lenin knew this.  Kesküla has stated that he arranged this through Arthur Siefeldt, who fed the cash into the party in the guise of subscriptions under various names.  By this means it can have been very little, for a substantial sum would have been noticed, even though Kesküla was paid nearly 250,000 marks over a period of two years by the Germans.

He also had Bolshevik literature printed and smuggled into Finland — and helped to ease Lenin’s communication problems with Russia, taking care to read the material that passed through his hands.  Kesküla, a German official reported to Berlin from Sweden, had “maintained his extremely useful contact with Lenin and has transmitted to us the contents of the situation ports sent to Lenin by Lenin’s confidential agents in Russia....”

By March, 1917, therefore, the principle of German contact With Lenin and his party had been established, albeit on a small scale.  By then, too, Parvus‘ network — and the commercial cover that was built into it — provided a new channel through which funds of a much larger order could be passed.

It took a few days for the news of the revolution to be digested in the Wilhelmstrasse, but a clear policy soon emerged — with the help of Parvus and Count Ulrich von Brockdorff-Rantzau, the German minister in Copenhagen, who had long been a close friend of Zimmermann’s and was deeply impressed by the ideas of the strange revolutionary tycoon whose home was now in Denmark.

The policy was cynical but realistic.  The German aim, as outlined by Rantzau, should be “to create the greatest possible degree of chaos in Russia” by throwing full German support behind “the extremist revolutionary movement,” directed by Lenin.  Meanwhile, there should be no German attack on the Eastern Front, for this might fan an undesirable mood of patriotism — at least not for three months, by which time the moral disintegration should have reached a stage where they “could break the power of the Russians by military action.”

On April 5, in pursuance of this policy, the Treasury paid more than 5,000,000 gold marks to Parvus for political purposes in Russia..3  It was far more than it had ever released before, but it was only a fraction of the investment it was going to make

To the men in the Wilhelmstrasse, if not to Parvus, Lenin was a pawn — and was completely expendable once he had served his purpose.  “He’s finished,” the Kaiser was to write contemptuously on a memorandum from Moscow a year later — six months after his Intelligence Service had financed Lenin’s seizure of power and his negotiators had forced the Bolsheviks to relinquish to Germany vast areas of the Tsarist Empire.  This brief and acid comment summarized clearly the attitude of the Kaiser and his High Command.

Meanwhile, in March, Arthur Zimmermann was personally supervising arrangements for the first stage of the plan :  the transportation of Lenin and the emigre revolutionaries in Switzerland.  On March 23 he received a telegram from Baron Gisbert von Romberg, his minister in Berne, who had been informed unofficially that “leading revolutionaries here wish to return to Russia via Germany....  Please send instructions in case applications to this effect should be made to me.”

Immediately Zimmermann had referred the request to General Headquarters in the massive castle of Pless near the Polish border urging that “it is in our interests that the influence of the radical wing of the Russian revolutionaries should prevail.”

Within three days, the Kaiser and his generals had approved the project and detailed plans were fixed.  “Special train will be under military escort,” Romberg was informed in Berne on March 26.  “Handover at frontier station... by responsible official of the consulate.  Send information immediately concerning date of journey and list of names.  Information must reach here four days before the frontier crossing.”

The arrangements for the trip were settled, but in Berne Romberg appeared to be in no hurry.  At the legation, he received the negotiator appointed by the all-party committee of émigrés — the leader of the Swiss Social Democrat Party named Robert Grimm-but the minister was not very forthcoming.  He urged him to obtain approval to the passage from Petersburg, which had already been requested by cable, and played with him a little.  When Grimm began to speak of the conditions that the exiles would have to insist on, Romberg checked him.  “Excuse me, Herr Grimm,” he said, “I was under the impression that it was not I who was asking permission to travel through Russia but Mr. Ulyanov [Lenin] and others who were asking me for permission to travel through Germany.  Surely, we are the ones who have the right to impose conditions.”

Of all the German officials, Romberg, who had been running a team of agents since 1914, seemed most concerned about the important aspect of political repercussions to the trip within Russia.  For the more these could be reduced, the easier it would be for the Bolsheviks to increase their influence.  For this reason, he wanted the travelers to come from all parties and to go, if possible, with the approval of the Russian government.

In Berlin Arthur Zimmermann waited impatiently for a week for Romberg to settle arrangements; then he ordered action.  Rantzau, his minister in Copenhagen, had warned him in a cable that day that there were signs “that the English are also in contact with extremist socialist circles” — though, in truth, there seems to have been no grounds for this.  More important, Probably was the fact that Germany was now facing a new and Powerful enemy.  Within hours, in the Capitol in Washington, President Woodrow Wilson would ask Congress “formally to accept the status of a belligerent.”

Before they knew that the Tsar would fall in March, Zimmermann and the German High Command had ventured on an enormous speculation in which timing was critical.  On the theory that the Allies would collapse very fast if they could create a complete blockade of supplies across the Atlantic, they had ordered their U-boats to sink all shipping bound for enemy Ports-including vessels sailing under neutral flags.  On March 18, only three days after the news of the Russian Revolution had astonished the world, the U.S. people learned that three American ships had been torpedoed without warning.

The danger that America would declare war had been finely calculated in Berlin.  To counter it, Zimmermann planned to bring Mexico and Japan into the war.  But the crucial immediate issue on which the whole gamble depended was to weaken the Allied strength in France before U.S. troops could be deployed in Europe.

Against this background, it was even more vital that the Russian Army should collapse, that Lenin and the extremist socialists should reach Russia without delay and start creating the chaos that was central to Zimmermann’s plan.  On April 2 an urgent telegram was dispatched to Romberg in Berne: “According to information received here, it is desirable that transit of Russian revolutionaries through Germany take place as soon as possible, as the Entente have already begun to work against this move in Switzerland.  I therefore recommend all possible speed in your discussions....”

As soon as he received the wire, Romberg abandoned his mood of relaxation and began combing Berne by telephone for Paul Levi, a German journalist who he knew was close to Lenin at this time.  He traced him eventually in the Volkshaus Hotel.  “I‘ve been looking for you all over town,” he said, according to Levi.  “How can I get in touch with Lenin ?  I expect final instructions any moment regarding his transportation.”

Three days before, Lenin, too, had made the traumatic decision to wait no longer.  No response had been received from Petersburg to the request for government approval — and Lenin knew why.  Paul Milyukov, the new Foreign Minister, was a bourgeois liberal patriot.  Without question, he would not want Lenin or any of the other antiwar socialists in Russia making trouble.

Also, the news from Russia was disturbing.  The government had developed an artful patriotic line, exhorting the people “to defend the republic” that their revolution had just created.  This was “swindling the workers,” he wrote to Jacob Fürstenberg.  Alexander Kerensky was giving his “direct help” in the deception.  The Soviet had allowed itself to be fooled by a trick.  For this policy was merely a cover for the old imperialist war policy of the Tsars — that would benefit the bourgeoisie but not the workers.

“The workers must be told the truth,” Lenin insisted to Fürstenberg.  “For God’s sake try to deliver all this to Petersburg and Pravda.... Do everything in your power.”

But he knew it was not enough, knew that unless he personally were there to drum the facts into the workers and soldiers “in a very popular way... without learned words,” the fraud would continue.  Also, he was worried to hear that Kamenev and Stalin had returned to Petersburg, after release from Siberia.  Kamenev would be the main party leader until Lenin’s return, and by instinct and personality, he was on the right of the party spectrum.  Under his control, the danger that the Bolsheviks would collaborate with other parties, especially the Mensheviks, was far greater than it had been before.

On Saturday, March 31, after a tense discussion with Nadya and Zinoviev in his room in the Spiegelgasse, Lenin made the decision to cross Germany without approval from Petersburg.  He wired Robert Grimm that the party had decided to accept the offer of a German train — which in fact had still not been made in any definite way.  “We earnestly request you to make arrangements immediately....”

Lenin was taking by far the biggest risk of his life, a risk so colossal that even now with all the benefit of hindsight it is astonishing.  It was the move of a gambler making one play with enormous stakes.  For by committing treason, by accepting help from an enemy who could only benefit from his declared policy of immediate peace, he was laying himself utterly vulnerable to his many enemies, both on the right and the left, in Russia.  He would be a collaborator of the Kaiser.

Fully conscious of the immense danger, Lenin did his utmost to reduce the risk.  He was a lawyer as well as a politician, and the terms he insisted should be met before he could accept German help were designed around the concept of a “sealed train” — a train that would have the extraterritorial status of a foreign embassy, on which the returning exiles could travel through enemy Germany without contact with enemy Germans.  From the moment they boarded the rail coach they would not leave it until the end of the journey.  The doors would be sealed.

Fritz Platten, the Swiss Social Democrat, had agreed to travel in the train in charge of the party and would be the go-between.  Since he was not Russian, he faced no problems of compromise.  If any talking to Germans were necessary on the journey, Platten would do it.

It was an attempt to make acceptable a journey that was in essence unacceptable-for sealed or not, it would still be provided by the Kaiser, the enemy of the Russian nation.  As an idea, it was fairly ingenious, but inevitably it would fail.  In a sense it would make Lenin’s situation even worse, for the “sealed train” — with its sinister undertones — was to become a legend, a symbol of treachery, a jeer to yell at public meetings.

From the moment Lenin sent the wire to Robert Grimm he embarked on a hectic flurry of last-minute preparations.  On Sunday he cabled Fürstenberg in Stockholm to “earmark... three thousand Kronen for our journey [onward from Sweden].  Intend leave Wednesday minimum ten persons.”

The next day he wired his sisters in Petersburg :  “Arriving Monday 11 P M, inform Pravda.”  He wrote to the “Zurich group of Bolsheviks,” presumably care of Kharitonov, giving instructions that the list of those who wanted to travel with him and how much money they had was to be sent at once to Zinoviev in Berne.  The Lausanne group of Bolsheviks, headed by M. Goberman, was to be alerted in the same way.  “We already have a fund of over 1,000 francs for the journey,” he said.

On Wednesday morning, as soon as he heard that Romberg had been seeking to contact him, he told Nadya to pack.  They were taking the first train to Berne.  She was accustomed to fast moves, but this scheduling was tight.  “Go on your own,” she suggested.  “I‘ll leave tomorrow.”

“No,” Lenin insisted, “we‘ll go together.”

They caught the 3 P.M. train — together with Zinoviev and Fritz Platten, whom Lenin, who had never trusted Grimm since he was friendly with Martov, had now asked to take over the negotiations with Romberg.  When they said good-bye to their sympathetic landlords in the Spiegelgasse, Lenin remarked, “So, Herr Kammerer, now there’s going to be peace.”

That afternoon Fritz Platten visited Romberg at the German Legation and put to him Lenin’s conditions.  Now that he had been ordered to expedite the journey, the baron raised no objections.  In addition to the “sealed” aspects of the train, Lenin insisted that no names should be given — just a list of numbers of passenger — and that they should pay their own fares.

One important point that Platten demanded from Romberg was that the “safe transit” of the exiles should be guaranteed for the political repercussions in Russia were not the only danger Lenin foresaw.  To him the class war was far more important than the military war, and by traveling on a German train, he was placing himself completely in the hands of his stated enemy, Kaiser Wilhelm II, at a time when revolution had just toppled his cousin, the Tsar.  All of Lenin’s life had been devoted to overthrowing the system of which Wilhelm was monarch.  His articles, like the writings of Marx and Engels, had specified Germany as especially open to revolt, and the danger of infection across the Russian border must now be greater than ever.  The value of Lenin and his comrades as campaigning pacifists in Russia was obvious — “live bombs” as Karl Radek called them sarcastically — but was not the other danger greater? Lenin did not discount the possibility of a trap.  Owing to “the suspicious nature of the Russians,” Romberg warned Berlin, they would not at first believe in “the possibility of safe transit” through Germany.

Lenin’s suspicions had some justification.  There was considerable fear of the spread of revolution from Russia within Germany.  Within hours of the news of the Tsar’s fall reaching Berlin, Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg had announced plans to extend the franchise.  Less than a year previously three German officers and thirty-two privates had been executed for distributing among front-line troops the internationalist antiwar Kienthal Manifesto, for which Lenin had been partly responsible.

Within a few days, Emperor Karl of Austria was to write to the Kaiser warning that “we are fighting against a new enemy which is more dangerous than the entente — the international revolution....  I implore you not to disregard this fateful side of the question....”

For Lenin, the danger from the Germans that was implicit in the trap was a risk he was prepared to accept, though it did add another dimension of menace.

Baron von Romberg assured Platten that there would be no problem in guaranteeing the travelers “safe transit,” and in view of Zimmermann’s demands for action, he anticipated little trouble over the other conditions.  That day he wired Lenin’s terms to Berlin for approval.

1 Main sources :  For full list of sources of the journey to Russia, see Section 1 of the bibliography. Accounts of the journey were written by ten of the travelers, either in book form or in articles—namely, Fritz Platten, Nadya (Krupskaya), Radek, Safarov, Zinoviev, Lilina (Zina Zinovieva), Olga Ravich, Sokolnikov, Tskhakaya and Souliashvili. Lenin himself published a brief undetailed account for the Soviet.
    The other main sources are the German Foreign Office papers that, of course, include correspondence to and from the legation in Berne ;  two reports by Swiss Customs ;  and, for British response to the journey, the Foreign Office files in London and Theatre of Life by Lord Esme Howard, British ambassador in Stockholm.
    Two writers have combed the German sources—W. Hahlweg (in German) and Dr. Z.A.B. Zeman (in English)—and produced most useful books (see bibliography for full description).  Nikolai Fritz Platten, the archivist son of Fritz Platten, has also written a lengthy paper—which he kindly made available to the author—some of which has been published without references in the journal Grani.  The biography of Fritz Platten, written by the Soviet historian A. Ivanov, has also been used.  Two other Soviet writers, Moskovsky and Semenov in Lenin in Sweden, are also an interesting source of detail.
    Description of the sealed carriage itself and of the route taken is based on the travelers' own accounts, supported by most useful details of contemporary rolling stock, German rail systems and wartime conditions supplied by the Bundesbahn Verkehrsmuseum in Nuremberg.
    Other sources for the journey and for the events that took place before the journey in this chapter were :  Z.A.B. Zeman and W.B. Scharlau, Merchant of Revolution ; Arthur Siefeldt, Bakinsky Rabochii 1924, No. 24 (on Lenin's meeting with Parvus) (R);  General Erich Ludendorff, My War Memories and The General Staff and Its Problems ;  S.T. Possony, Lenin, the Compulsive Revolutionary ;  Barbara Tuchman, The Zimmermann Telegram ;  Paul Levi, Poslyedriiya, quoted in David Shub's Lenin ;  Gerard Walter, Lenine (F);  Henri Guilbeaux, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.

* For evidence of German financing, see page 290 (Afterword).

2 The company that Fürstenberg directed was, in fact, owned 50 percent by Parvus and 50 percent by George Sklarz, an associate of Parvus who was also a German agent.

3 The proof that this went to Parvus is not conclusive, but according to Zeman and Scharlau, no one else received sums of this size for political purposes in Russia.