The Kremlin bureaucracy’s “Potemkin” vehicles
In her book, Benderli shares a revealing anecdote that exposes the weaknesses of the Soviet automotive sector and, more broadly, of Stalinist-style bureaucratic planning. This modern-day “Potemkin Village” tale [**] closely mirrors the observations I put forward in a short article entitled The Soviet automotive industry through the eyes of a Renault executive, published on 20 July 2025. That piece was based on an entry from Anatoly Chernyaev’s 1972 diary.
But rather than prolong the introduction, I’ll let Benderli speak for herself:
It was just the beginning of the 1970s. One evening, quite out of the blue, Bianca — who by then had been living in Italy for many years — knocked on our door. On her way back from Moscow to Italy, she had been forced to spend the night in Budapest, and despite the late hour, she had left her hotel just to see us. She was visibly agitated and uneasy. That night, she revealed the reason for her journey — a reason that astonished us and had been kept as closely guarded as a state secret.
Some may recall that there was once an automobile factory in the Soviet Union named after Palmiro Togliatti, one of the most prominent figures in the history of the Italian Communist Party. Established jointly with Italy’s FIAT group under the name “Togliatti Works,” the plant was intended to produce cars based on FIAT models. We knew this – and for those of us living in Hungary, where it took years of waiting to buy a car, it was very welcome news indeed. Production was said to have begun at the plant; the very date when the first car would roll off the assembly line had even been announced. These vehicles were to be sold under the name Zhiguli in Eastern Europe and Lada in Western Europe. A full-blown propaganda campaign celebrating the success was launched across the Soviet Union to mark the occasion. At the time, such achievements were highly prized; not only were the underlying problems ignored, they weren’t even mentioned. Instead, the regime’s myth of superiority was kept alive with fabricated triumphs. Mind you, it's not as if things are seriously examined at their root today either — but that’s not our concern right now. Let’s stick to the FIAT-based Ladas. While the propaganda machine gathered unstoppable momentum, it became clear that the cars wouldn’t leave the factory on the promised date: production simply couldn’t keep up. Some officials began to panic. What to do? Rather than explain the situation or its causes, they fell back on the usual method — deception. Following an initiative by the Soviet side, meetings were held between the executives of Italy’s FIAT group and the Soviet Togliatti plant. A decision was made: a few FIAT cars would be shipped from Italy to the Soviet Union, rebadged as “Ladas,” and rolled out from the Togliatti Works on the announced date as if they had been produced there.
Togliatti, 1972 - coming off the VAZ-2101 assembly line. As it turned out, Bianca — the one who had knocked on our door that evening — was acting as the interpreter for one of the FIAT officials tasked with delivering the cars to the Soviet Union. They had been through all sorts of adventures along the way, and since their return route passed through Budapest, she simply couldn’t leave without stopping by to see us.” (Gün Benderli, Sofralar ve Anılar, Sözcükler Yayınları, Istanbul, 2012, pp. 201–202.)
What is recounted here is a modern-day Potemkin Village story — one that crystallises the bureaucratic and symbolic weight the Stalinist regime placed on “success” as it appeared on paper. It is a tale — bordering on farce — of Potemkin vehicles, in which the token existence of the automobile (that is, of “production”, of “achievement”) on paper mattered more than whether it had actually been built; where the appearance of sticking to the plan trumped actual output; where, in short, the reality of the plan mattered more than the plan's alignment with reality.
[*] Gün Benderli (b. 1930, Istanbul): In the late 1940s, Benderli supported the Communist Party of Turkey and took part in campaigns advocating for the release of Nâzım Hikmet from prison. Facing political persecution, she emigrated to Paris in 1950 and later settled in Budapest. She left her law studies at the Sorbonne to begin working as a Turkish-language broadcaster for Budapest Radio — a role she held, with some interruptions, until the station’s Turkish service was shut down following the regime change in Hungary. Benderli made significant contributions as a translator, introducing major figures of Hungarian literature to Turkish readers. She has published four memoirs: Su Başında Durmuşuz (2003), Sofralar ve Anılar (2012), Giderayak – Anılarımdaki Nâzım Hikmet (2020), and Yazı Kalır – Anılarımdaki Budapeşte Radyosu (2024). She was also part of the four-person team that compiled the Turkish-Hungarian Dictionary. Benderli continues to live and work in Hungary.
[**] Potemkin Village: The expression stems from a legend dating back to the 18th century, during Empress Catherine II’s journey to Crimea. It is said that Grigory Potemkin, then governor of the region, had fake villages erected to give the illusion of prosperity where none actually existed. Over time, “Potemkin Village” has come to symbolise elaborate façades of progress or success — constructed to conceal or distort reality.
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