"In Soviet Estonia, the 1940s and 1950s were a time of constant enemy-hunting. The first enemy was the so-called socially alien element," says Aigi Rahi-Tamm, professor of archival studies at the University of Tartu. According to her, the new regime was disturbed by Estonia's prewar way of life, where the wealthier bourgeoisie made up 13 percent of the population, the urban and rural middle class 63 percent and workers, both urban and rural, only 24 percent. "From a Soviet perspective, that was abnormal. You were supposed to have workers and peasants," she explains.

To create a society more in line with Soviet ideals, a process of leveling began. In other words, mass campaigns were launched to identify and eliminate so-called enemies of the people, including wealthier farmers or kulaks.

In a recent conference presentation (in Estonian), Rahi-Tamm spoke in more detail about what this kind of political persecution looked like in the everyday lives of Estonians. "It was about how vulnerable we are — how it's possible to create tension in a society and how conflicts have been consciously exploited and deliberately fueled," she says.

Your word against mine

According to Aigi Rahi-Tamm, Soviet society was saturated with campaigns. One such campaign, which gained momentum starting in 1948, was the so-called "criticism and self-criticism" initiative built around interpersonal conflict. "Under this slogan, distrust was deliberately fostered within workplaces, at party meetings. People were expected to evaluate not only themselves but also their colleagues," the professor explains.

In her presentation, she gave an example from a party meeting at the Tallinn Conservatory. There, Philharmonic head Aleksei Stepanov described the atmosphere as follows: I mentioned Anna Klas's name only once, but she mentioned me nine times. According to Rahi-Tamm, this reflects the instinctive aggressiveness that defined the era. "These meetings functioned as informal courtrooms where people's relationships and self-control were assessed. The security services and the party used the information gathered to intensify accusations and pit people against each other," she says.

Silence was not an option at these meetings, as it was interpreted as being apolitical. Tensions were ratcheted up until someone finally said something, Rahi-Tamm notes. "If you couldn't bring yourself to accuse someone else, you had to resort to self-criticism and publicly condemn yourself." In that same campaign spirit, public confessions of guilt were published in the press. For example, composers Riho Päts and Tuudur Vettik publicly renounced their "mistaken beliefs" and past missteps.

A vivid example of how, in the postwar period, a single offhand remark could spiral into a drawn-out ordeal is the case of Adolf Vedro, according to Rahi-Tamm. "It was possible to build an accusation from nothing more than a rumor," she points out. Professor Adolf Vedro of the conservatory died in September 1944 from burns sustained in a sauna accident. Before that, during the German occupation, he had been arrested based on a complaint, interrogated and released a few days later. "Vedro liked to take photographs. One farmer wanted to be in a picture, but Vedro told him, 'My camera won't take your ugly mug.' The farmer filed a complaint and Vedro was arrested," Rahi-Tamm recounts.

But his release and later death didn't bring the matter to a close. In the early 1950s, when Vettik and Päts were being targeted, Vedro's case was revived. It was framed, Rahi-Tamm says, as though Vedro had been tortured during the German occupation and his colleagues were blamed for his dismissal. "They drew political lines between things that had absolutely nothing to do with each other. Years later, an inconsequential remark could still be used as the foundation for accusations," she concludes.

Exploitation by stallion

According to Rahi-Tamm, the heart of postwar conflicts lay in what happened in the Estonian countryside. Today, this can be seen through memoirs, letters and personal files of so-called enemies of the people and kulaks. "The process of leveling and the constant search for enemies had the most devastating effect on village society," the professor notes.

When it came to identifying kulaks, the main accusation was the use of outside labor. Entire rural communities were made to testify against themselves and their neighbors. Rahi-Tamm describes it as another instinct-driven process where it was one person's word against another's. The archival material includes accusations that now seem absurd. "For example, one farm had a breeding stallion and the official record claimed the owner 'exploited local people with the stallion.' Or if seasonal laborers were hired, which was legal, the authorities constructed evidence from that to label the farm as kulak-owned."

Even the list of household belongings allowed to remain in a designated kulak's home seems surreal by today's standards. "One summer or autumn coat, one winter coat or fur coat, one summer hat, two summer scarves and one warm scarf might be allowed to remain. For an entire family, only one fur coat could be kept," she explains.

An individual might be permitted one bedding set and three changes of underwear. A family could have one wardrobe, one lamp per room and one chair or stool per person. In terms of kitchen items, they were allowed to keep two buckets, one pot and two tablecloths or dish towels. Everything else had to be surrendered. "If tensions in the community ran high, authorities would come check for compliance," Rahi-Tamm says.

One especially bizarre example involved a mentally disabled woman, cared for by a family, who was listed in the official file as outside labor. "The mistress of the kulak-designated farm returned from Siberia in 1957 and applied to have the household removed from the list. Even the neighbors confirmed the woman was disabled," she explains. In response, an official was sent from Tallinn to speak with the disabled woman. The report stated: The woman gave the impression of an utterly exhausted slave, but there can be no doubt about her mental capacity. This is definitely the exploitation of outside labor. According to Rahi-Tamm, no re-evaluation was ever conducted.

Not every file, however, was filled only with accusations. There were also lengthy letters of support — some with 20 to 30 signatures — written by villagers on behalf of one another. "But it's clear that after the 1949 deportations, such support letters became less common. The deportations did immense damage to the social fabric and to people's willingness to support one another," Rahi-Tamm says.

The broader message of her presentation, she adds, is a reminder that Soviet Estonia was a tightly controlled totalitarian society. But that control took many forms. "People were entangled through their testimonies, so everyone would feel guilty — that made us vulnerable and easier to control. We weren't supposed to have initiative; we were meant to be mass individuals," she explains. Even so, Soviet rule never fully managed to standardize the Estonian people. "Some inner reserves always remained. Over time, people learned to live a double life — one outward, one inward," Rahi-Tamm reflects.

Aigi Rahi-Tamm delivered her presentation, "'Political' Conflicts in Everyday Life in the 1940s–1950s: From Petty Quarrels to Public Condemnation", at the Estonian Open Air Museum's research day, "Everyday Life in the Early Soviet Era," on November 28.

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