Born of very poor parents in the village of Gulyai- Pole (county of Alexandrovsk, province of Yekaterino- slav, Ukraina), Nestor spent a sunless childhood. His father died early, leaving five small boys to the care of the mother. Already at the tender age of eight young Makhno had to help eke out an existence for the family. In the winter months he attended school, while in the summer he was "hired out" to take care of the rich peasants' cattle. When not yet twelve years old, he went to work in the neighboring estates, where brutal treatment and thankless labor taught him to hate his hard taskmasters and the Tsarist officials who always sided against the poor. The Revolution of 1905 brought Makhno, then only sixteen, in touch with so- cialist ideas. The movement for human emancipation and well-being quickly appealed to the intense and im- aginative boy, and presently he joined the little group of young peasant Anarchists in his village.
In 1908, arrested for revolutionary activities, Makhno was tried and condemned to death. Because of his youth, however, and the efforts of his energetic mother, the sentence was subsequently commuted to penal servitude for life. He spent seven years in the Butirki prison in Moscow, where his rebellious spirit continually involved him in difficulties with the authori- ties. Most of the time he was kept in solitary con- finement, chained hand and foot. But he employed 190 192 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH they bestowed the honored and affectionate title of bat'ka (father).
The spirit of Makhnovst china swept the whole southern Ukraina. In the northwest there were also numerous povstantsi units, fighting against the foreign invaders and White generals, but without any clear social consciousness and ideal. Makhno, however, as- sumed the black flag of the Russian Anarchists as his emblem, and announced a definite program: autono- mous communes of free peasants; the negation of all government, and complete self-determination based on the principle of labor. Free Soviets of peasants and workers were to be formed of delegates in contra-dis- tinction to the Bolshevik Soviets of deputies; that is, to be informative and executive instead of authori- tarian.
The Communists appreciated the unique military genius of Makhno, but they also realized the danger to their Party dictatorship from the spread of An- archist ideas. They sought to exploit his forces in their own interests, while at the same time intent upon de- stroying the essential quality of the movement. Because of Makhno's remarkable success against the occupation armies and counter-revolutionary generals, the Bolsheviki proposed to him to join the Red Army, preserving for his povstantsi units their autonomy. Makhno consented, and his troops became the Third Brigade of the Red Army, later officially known as the First Revolutionary Povstantsi Ukrainian Division. But the hope of the Bolsheviki to absorb the rebel peas- ants in the Red Army failed. In the Makhno territory the influence of the Communists remained insignificant, and they found themselves even unable to support their institutions there. Under various pretexts they inter- dicted the conferences of the povstantsi and outlawed Makhno, hoping thus to alienate the peasantry from him.
NESTOR MAKHNO 193 NESTOR MAKHNO 193 But whatever the relations between the Bolsheviki and Makhno, the latter always came to the rescue of the Revolution when it was threatened by the Whites. He fought every counter-revolutionary enemy who sought to establish his rule over the Ukraina, including Herman Skoropadsky, Petlura, and Denikin. He eliminated Grigoriev, who had at one time served the Communists and then betrayed them. But the Bol- sheviki, fearing the spirit of Makhnovstchina, continu- ally tried to disorganize and disperse its forces, and even set a price on Makhno's head, as Denikin had done. Repeated Communist treachery finally brought a complete rupture, and compelled Makhno to fight the Communists as bitterly as the reactionists of the Right.
Yossif's story was interrupted by the arrival of the friends whom I had met at the datcha on the previous occasion. Several hours were spent in discussing mat- ters of Anarchist organization, the difficulty of activity in the face of Bolshevik persecution, and the increas- ingly reactionary attitude of the Communist Govern- ment. But, as usual in the Ukraina, the subject gradually converged upon Makhno. Someone read excerpts from the official Soviet press bitterly attacking and vilifying Nestor. Though the Bolsheviki for- merly extolled him as a great revolutionary leader, they now painted him as a bandit and counter-revolu- tionary. But the peasants of the South — Yossif felt confident — love Makhno too well to be alienated from him. They know him as their truest friend; they look upon him as one of their own. They realize that he does not seek power over them, as do the Bolsheviki no less than Denikin. It is Makhno's custom upon taking a city or town to call the people together and announce to them that henceforth they are free to organize their lives as they think best for themselves. He always proclaims complete freedom of speech and THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH press; he does not fill the prisons or begin executions, as the Communists do. In fact, Nestor considers jails useless to a liberated people.
"It is difficult to say who is right or wrong in this conflict between the Bolsheviki and Makhno," re- marked the Red Army man. "Trotsky charges Makhno with having willfully opened the front to Denikin, while Makhno claims that his retreat was caused by Trotsky purposely failing to supply his division with ammunition at a critical period. Yet it is true that Makhno's activities against Denikin's rear, especially by cutting the White Army off from its artillery base, enabled the Bolsheviki to stem the advance on Moscow."
"But Makhno refused to join the campaign against the Poles," the Pessimist objected.
"Rightly so," Yossif replied. "Trotsky's order sending Makhno's forces to the Polish front was meant only to eliminate Nestor from his own district and then bring the latter under the control of the com- missars, in the absence of its defenders. Makhno saw through the scheme and protested against it."
"The fact is," the Pessimist persisted, "that the Communists and the Makhnovtsi are doing their best to exterminate each other. Both sides are guilty of the greatest brutalities and atrocities. It seems to me Makhno has no object save Bolshevik-killing."
"You are pitifully blind," retorted Yasha, an An- archist holding a high position in a Soviet institution, "if you can't see the great revolutionary meaning of the Makhnovstchina. It is the most significant ex- pression of the whole Revolution. The Communist Party is only a political body, attempting — success- fully indeed — to create a new master class over the producers, a Socialist rulership. But the Makhno movement is the expression of the toilers themselves. It's the first great mass movement that by its own NESTOR MAKHNO i95 efforts seeks to free itself from government and estab- lish economic self-determination. In that sense it is thoroughly Anarchistic."
"But Anarchism cannot be established by military force," I remarked.
"Of course not," Yossif admitted. "Nor does Nestor pretend to do so. Tm just clearing the field,' — that's what he always tells the comrades visiting him. Tm driving out the rulers, White and Red,' he says, 'and it's up to you to take advantage of the opportunity. Agitate, propagate your ideals. Help to release and to apply the creative forces of the Revolution.' That is Nestor's view of the situation."
"It is a great mistake that most of our people stay away from Makhno," Yasha declared. "They re- main in Moscow or Petrograd, and what are they accomplishing? They can do nothing but fill Bolshe- vik prisons. With the povstantsi we have an excep- tional chance of popularizing our views and helping the people to build a new life."
"As for myself," announced Yossif, "I am con- vinced that the Revolution is dead in Russia. The only place where it still lives is the Ukraina. Here it holds out a rich promise to us," he added confi- dently. "What we should do is to join Nestor, all of us who want to be active.
"I disagree," the Pessimist objected.
"He always disagrees when there is work to be done," Yossif retorted with the inimitable smile that took the sting out of even his sharpest words. "But you, friends" — he faced the others — "you must clearly realize this: October, like February, was but one of the phases in the process of social regeneration. In October the Communist Party exploited the situation to further its own aims. But that stage has by no means exhausted the possibilities of the Revolution. Its fountain head contains springs that continue to t 9 6 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH flow to the height of their source, seeking the realiza- tion of their great historic mission, the emancipation of the toilers. The Bolsheviki, become static, must give place to new creative forces."
Later in the evening Yossif took me aside. "Sasha," he spoke solemnly, "you see how radically we differ in our estimate of the Makhno movement It is neces- sary you should learn the situation for yourself." He looked at me significantly.
"I should like to meet Makhno," I said.
His face lit up with joy. "Just as I have hoped," he replied. "Listen, dear friend, I have talked the matter over with Nestor — and, by the way, he is not far from here just now. He wants to see you; you and Emma, he said. Of course, you can't go to him," Yossif smiled at the question he read in my eyes, "but Nestor will arrange to take any place where your Museum car may happen to be on a date agreed upon. To secure you against Bolshevik persecution, he will capture the whole Expedition — you understand, don't you?"
Affectionately placing his arm about me, he drew me aside to explain the details of the plan.
* CHAPTER XXVI PRISON AND CONCENTRATION CAMP A nauseating stench assails us as we enter the com- pulsory labor camp at Kharkov. The courtyard is filled with men and boys, incredibly emaciated, mere shadows of humans. Their faces yellow and eyes dis- tended, bodies ragged, and barefoot, they forcibly re- mind me of starving pariahs in famine-stricken India.
"The sewer is being repaired," the official accom- panying us explains. Only a few prisoners are at work; the others stand about apathetically, or sprawl on the ground as if too weak for exertion.
"Our worst scourge is disease," the guide remarks. "The men are undernourished and lack resistance. We have no medicine and we are short of physicians."
Some of the prisoners surround our party, apparently taking us for officials. "Tovarishtchi " a young man appeals to us, "when will the Commission decide upon my case?"
"Visitors," the guide informs him laconically.
"We can't live on the pyock. The bread ration has been cut again. No medicine is given out," several complain.
The guards motion them aside.
The large male dormitory is appallingly crowded. The whole floor space is taken up by cots and benches, set so closely together it is difficult for us to pass. The prisoners cluster in the corners; some, naked to the hips, are engaged in picking lice off their garments; others sit listlessly, gazing vacantly about them. The air is foul, suffocating.
From the adjoining female ward come quarreling 197 198 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH voices. As we enter a girl cries hysterically: "Don't dare call me a speculator! It's my last things I was selling." She is young and still beautiful, her torn blouse exposing delicate, well-formed shoulders. Her eyes burn feverishly, and she breaks into a hacking cough.
"God may know who you be," a peasant woman re- torts. "But just think of me, with three little ones at home." Catching sight of our group, she rises heavily from the bench, stretching her hand out plead- ingly: "Dear ones, let me go home. My poor children will die without me."
The women beset us. The rations are bad and in- sufficient, they declare. Only a quarter of a pound of bread is given them and a plate of thin soup once a day. The doctor does not attend the sick; their com- plaints are ignored, and the prison commission does not pay any attention to their protests.
A keeper appears in the door. "To your places 1" he shouts angrily. "Don't you know the regulations? Send your petitions in writing to the Commission."
"We've done it, but we get no reply," several women cry.
"Silence 1" the overseer commands...At the gate of the Cold Hill Prison (Kholodnaya Gorka) we meet an excited crowd, mostly women and girls, each with a little bundle in hand. They are wildly gesticulating and arguing with the guards. They have brought provisions and clothing for their ar- rested relatives — the custom, known as peredatcha, prevailing throughout the country owing to the in- ability of the government to supply its prisoners with sufficient food. But the guard declines to accept the offerings. "New orders," he explains: "no more peredatcha."
"For how long?"
PRISON AND CONCENTRATION CAMP 199 "For several weeks."
Consternation and resentment break from the peo- ple. The prisoners cannot exist without peredatcha. Why should it be refused? Many of the women have come long distances, even from neighboring towns, to bring some bread and potatoes to husband or brother. Others have deprived themselves of necessaries to procure a little delicacy for a sick friend. And now this terrible order!
The crowd besieges us with pleas. We are accom- panied by the woman secretary of a high commissar, herself an official of the Rabkrin, the powerful De- partment of Inspection, organized to investigate and correct abuses in the other Soviet institutions. She is past middle age, lean and severe looking, with the reputation of being efficient, strict, and heartless. I have heard that she was formerly in the Tcheka, one of its Commandants, as the executioners are called.
Some of the women recognize our guide. From all sides come appeals to intercede, in tones of fear mixed with hope.
"I don't know why peredatcha is refused," she in- forms them, "but I shall inquire at once."
We enter the prison, and our guide sends for the commissar in charge. A youngish man, gaunt and consumptive-looking, appears. "We have suspended the peredatcha," he explains, "because we are short of help. We have more work just now than we can handle."
"It is a great hardship for the prisoners. Perhaps the matter can be managed," the Secretary suggests.
"Unfortunately it can't," the man retorts coldly. "We work beyond our strength. As for the rations," he continues, "the honest workers outside are no better off."
Noticing our look of disapproval, he adds: "As soon 2oo THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH as we have caught up on our work, we'll permit the peredatcha again."
"How soon might that be?" one of our party in- quires.
"In two or three weeks, perhaps."
"A long time to starve."
The Commissar does not reply.
"We all work hard without complaining, tova- rishtch," the guide reproves him severely. "I regret I shall have to report the matter."
The prison has remained as it was in the days of the Romanovs; even most of the old keepers still hold their positions. But it is much more crowded now; sanitary arrangements are neglected and medical treatment is almost entirely absent. Yet a certain in- definable new spirit is felt in the atmosphere. The commissar and keepers are informally addressed as tovarishtch, and the prisoners, even the non-politicals, have acquired a freer, more independent manner. But the discipline is severe: the old custom of collective protest is sternly suppressed, and repeatedly the po- liticals have been driven to the extreme method of self- defense — a hunger strike.
In the corridors the inmates walk about without guards, but our guide frowns down their attempts to approach us by a curt, "Not officials, tovarishtchi." She seems not quite at ease, and discourages conversa- tion. Some prisoners trail behind us; occasionally a more daring one appeals to have his case looked into. "Send in your petition in writing," the woman ad- monishes him, whereupon there comes the retort, "I did, long ago, but nothing has been done."
The large cells are crowded, but the doors are open, and the men pass freely in and out. A dark-haired youth, with sharp black eyes, unobservedly joins our party. "I'm in for five years," he whispers to me. "I'm a Communist, and it was revenge on the part of PRISON AND CONCENTRATION CAMP 201 a crooked commissar whom I threatened to expose."
Walking through the corridors I recognize Tcher- nenko, whose description was given me by Kharkov friends. He was arrested by the Tcheka to prevent being seated in the Soviet, to which he was elected by his fellow workers in the factory. By the help of a friendly soldier he succeeded in escaping from the concentration camp, but was rearrested and sent to the Cold Hill Prison. I slow down my pace, and Tchernenko falls into the rear of our party. "More politicals than common criminals here," he says, pre- ^ tending to speak to the prisoner at his side. "An- archists, Left Social Revolutionists, and Mensheviki. Treated worse than the others. Only a few Whites and one American from the Koltchak front. Specu- lators and counter-revolutionists can buy their way out. Proletarians and revolutionists remain."
"The revision commission?" I whisper in an aside.
"A fake. They pay no attention to our petitions."
"What charge against you?"
"None. Neither charge nor trial. The usual sen- tence — till the end of civil war."
The guide turns into a long, dark passage, and the prisoners fall back. We enter the women's department.
Two rows of cells, one above the other, cleaner and lighter than the male part. The doors stand ajar, the inmates free to walk about. One of our party — Emma Goldman — asks permission to see a political whose name she had secured from friends in the city. The guide hesitates, then consents, and presently a young girl appears. She is neat and comely, with an earnest, sad face.
"Our treatment?" she repeats the question addressed to her. "Why, at first they kept us in solitary. They would not let us communicate with our male com- rades, and all our protests were ignored. We had to resort to the methods we used under the old regime."
202 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH "Be careful what you say," the guide admonishes her.
"I'm speaking the truth," the prisoner retorts un- abashed. "We employed obstruction tactics: we smashed everything in our cells and we defied the keepers. They threatened us with violence, and we all declared a hunger strike. On the seventh day they •consented to leave our doors open. Now we can breathe the corridor air at least."
"That is enough," the guide interrupts.
a hunger strike again," the girl declares as she is led away.
In the death house the cell doors are closed and locked. The occupants are invisible, and an oppressive silence is felt in the living tomb. From somewhere a short, hacking cough strikes upon the ear like ominous croaking. Slow, measured steps resound painfully through the narrow corridor. A foreboding of evri hangs in the air. My mind reverts to a similar ex- perience long buried in the recesses of my memory — the "condemned" gallery of the Pittsburg jail rises before me...The guard accompanying us lifts the lid of the ob- servation "eye" out into the door, and I look into the death-cell. A tall man stands motionless in the corner. His face, framed in a thick black beard, is ashen gray. His eyes are fastened on the circular opening, the ex- pression of terror in them so overwhelming that I involuntarily step back. "Have mercy, tovarishtch," his voice comes as from a grave, "oh, let me live 1" "He appropriated Soviet funds," the woman guide comments unemotionally.
"It was only a small sum," the man pleads. "I'll make it good, I swear it. I am young, let me live 1" The guide shuts the opening.
For days his face haunts me. Never had I seen such start PRISON AND CONCENTRATION CAMP, 203 a look in a human before. Primitive fear stamped upon it in such relief, it communicated itself lingeringly to me. Terror so absolute, it turned the big, powerful man into a single, all-absorbing emotion — the mortal dread of the sudden call to face his executioner.
As I note down these experiences in my Diary, there come to me the words of Zorin. "The death penalty is abolished, our prisons empty," he had said to me soon after my arrival in Russia. It seemed natural, self-evident. Have not revolutionists always opposed such barbarous methods? Was not much of Bolshevik popularity due to their condemnation of Kerensky for restoring capital punishment at the front, in 19 17? My first impressions in Petrograd seemed to bear out Zorin's statement. Once, strolling along the river Moika, there came to my view the big prison demolished at the outbreak of the Revolution, Hardly a stone was left in place — cells, floors, ceilings, all were a mass of debris, the iron doors and steel win- dow bars a heap of twisted junk. There lay what had once been a dreaded dungeon, now eloquent of the people's wrath, blindly destructive, yet wise in its instinctive discrimination. Only part of the outer walls of the building remained; inside everything had been utterly wrecked by the fury of age-long suffering and the leveling hand of dynamite. The sight of the destroyed prison seemed an inspiration, a symbol of the coming day of liberty, prisonless, crimeless. And now, in the Cold Hill death house...CHAPTER XXVII FURTHER SOUTH August y, 1920. — Slowly our train creeps through the country, evidence of devastation on every hand reminding us of the long years of war, revolution, and civil strife. The towns and cities on our route look poverty-stricken, the stores are closed, the streets deserted. By degrees Soviet conditions are being estab- lished, the process progressing more* rapidly in some places than in others.
In Poltava we find neither Soviet nor Ispolkom, the usual form of Bolshevik government. Instead, the city is ruled by the more primitive Revkom, the self- appointed revolutionary committee, active underground during White regimes, and taking charge whenever the Red Army occupies a district.
Krementchug and Znamenka present the familiar picture of the small southern town, with the little market place, still suffered by the Bolsheviki, the center of its commercial and social life. In uneven rows the peasant women sprawl on sacks of potatoes, or squat on their haunches, exchanging flour, rice, and beans for tobacco, soap, and salt. Soviet money is scorned, hardly any one accepting it, though tsarskiye are in demand and occasionally kerenki are favored.
The entire older population of the city seems to be in the market, everyone bargaining, selling, or buying. Soviet militsioneri, gun slung across the shoulder, cir- culate among the people, and here and there a man in leather coat and cap is conspicuous in the crowd — a Communist or a Tchekist. The people seem to shun them, and conversation is subdued in their presence.
204 FURTHER SOUTH 205 Political questions are avoided, but lamentation over the "terrible situation" is universal, everyone complain- ing about the insufficiency of the pyock, the irregularity of its issue, and the general condition of starvation and More frequently we meet men and women of Jewish type, the look of the hunted in their eyes, and more dreadful become the stories of pogroms that had taken place in the neighborhood. Few young persons are visible — these are in the Soviet institutions, working as the employees of the government. The young women we meet occasionally have a startled, frightened look, and many men bear ugly scars on their faces, as if from a saber or sword cut.
In Znamenka, Henry Alsberg, the American corre- spondent accompanying our Expedition, discovers the loss of his purse, containing a considerable amount of foreign money. Inquiries of the peasant women in with the resentful exclamation, "How'd I knowl" Visiting the local police station in the faint hope of advice or aid, we learn that the whole force has just been rushed off to the environs reported to be attacked by a company of Makhnovtsu Despairing of recovering our loss, we return to the railroad station. To our astonishment the Museum car is nowhere to be seen. In consternation we learn that it was coupled to a train that started for Kiev, via Fastov, an hour ago.
We realize the seriousness of our predicament in being stranded in a city without hotels or restaurants, and with no food to be purchased for Soviet money, the only kind in our possession. While discussing the situation we observe a military supply train in slow motion on a distant siding. We dash forward and succeed in boarding it at the cost of a few scratches. The commissar in charge at first strenuously objects misery.
naive smile, 206 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH to our presence, at no pains to hide the suspicions aroused by our sudden appearance. It requires con- siderable argument and much demonstration of official documents before the bureaucrat is mollified. Over a cup of tea he begins to thaw out, the primitive hospitions. Before long we are deep in the discussion of the Revolution and current problems. Our host is a Com- munist "from the masses," as he terms it. He is a great admirer of Trotsky and his "iron broom" methods. Revolution can conquer only by the generous use of the sword, he believes; morality and sentiment are bourgeois superstitions. His conception of Social- ism is puerile, his information about the world at large of the scantiest. His arguments echo the familiar editorials of the official press; he is confident the whole of Western Europe is soon to be aflame with revolu- tion. The Red Army is even now before the gates of Warsaw, he asserts, about to enter and to assure the triumph of the Polish proletariat risen against its masters.
Late in the afternoon we reach Fastov, and are warmly welcomed by our colleagues of the Expedition, who had spent anxious hours over our disappearance.
tality of the Russian helpi establish friendly rela- CHAPTER XXVIII FASTOV THE POGROMED August 12, IQ20. — Our little company slowly trudges along the unpaved, dusty road that runs almost in a straight line to the market place in the center of the city. The place seems deserted. The houses stand vacant, most of them windowless, their doors broken in and ajar — an oppressive sight of de- struction and desolation. All is silent about us; we feel as in a graveyard. Approaching the market place our group separates, each of us going his own way to learn for himself.
A woman passes by, hesitates, and stops. She pushes the kerchief back from her forehead, and looks at me with wonderment in her sad old eyes.
"Good morning," I address her in Jewish.
"You are a stranger here," she says kindly. "You don't look like our folks."
"Yes," I reply, "I am not long from America."
"Ah, from Amerikeh," she sighs wistfully. "I have a son there. And do you know what is happening to us?"
"Not very much, but I'd like to find out."
"Oh, only the good God knows what we have gone through." Her voice breaks. "Excuse me, I can't help it" — she wipes the tears off her wrinkled face. "They killed my husband before my eyes...I had to look on, helpless...I can't talk about it..." She stands dejectedly before me, bent more by grief than age, like a symbol of abject tragedy.
Recovering a little, she says: "Come with me, if you want to learn. Come to Reb Moishe, he can tell you everything."
207 ao8 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH We are in the market. A double row of open stalls, no more than a dozen in all, dilapidated and forlorn- looking, almost barren of wares. A handful of large- grained, coarse salt, some loaves of black bread thickly dotted with yellow • specks of straw, a little loose tobacco — that is all the stock on hand. Almost no money is passing in payment. The few customers are trading by exchange: about ten pounds of bread for a pound of salt, a few pipefuls of tobacco for an onion. At the counters stand oldish men and women, a few girls among them. I see no young men. These, like most of the able-bodied men and women, I am in- formed, had stealthily left the town long ago, for fear of more pogroms. They went on foot, some to Kiev, others to Kharkov, in the hope of finding safety and a livelihood in the larger city. Most of them never reached their destination. Food was scarce — they had gone without provisions, and most of them died on the way from exposure and starvation.
The old traders surround me. "Khaye," they whis- per to the old woman, "who is this?"
"From Amerikeh," she replies, a ray of hopefulness in her voice; "to learn about the pogroms. We are going to Reb Moishe."
"From Amerikeh? Amerikeh?" Amazement, be- wilderment is in their tones. "Did he come so far to find us? Will they help us? Oh, good God in Heaven, may it be true I" Several voices speak at once, all astir with the suppressed excitement of sudden hope, of renewed faith. More people crowd about us; busi- ness has stopped. I notice similar groups surrounding my friends nearby.
"Shah, shah, good people," my guide admonishes them; "not everybody at once. We are going to see Reb Moishe; he'll tell him everything."
"Oh, one minute, just one minute, respected man," a pale young woman desperately clutches me by the arm.
FASTOV THE POGROMED 209 "My husband is there, in Amerikeh. Do you know him? Rabinovitch — Yankel Rabinovitch. He is well known there; surely you must have heard of him. How is he, tell me, please." "In what city is he?"
"In Nai-York, but I haven't had any letter from him since the war."
"My son-in-law Khayim is in Amerikeh," a woman, her hair all white, interrupts; "maybe you saw him, what?" She is very old and bent, and evidently hard of hearing. She places her hand back of her ear to catch my reply, while her wizened, lemon-like face is turned up to me in anxious expectation.
"Where is your son-in-law?"
"What does he say? I don't understand," she wails.
The bystanders shout in her ear: "He asks where Khayim, your son-in-law, is?"
"In Amerikeh, in Amerikeh," she replies.
"In Amerikeh," a man near me repeats.
"America is a big country. In what city is Khayim?" I inquire.
She looks bewildered, then stammers: "I don't know — I don't recollect just now — I " "Bobeh (grandmother), you have his letter at home," a small boy shouts in her ear. "He wrote you before the fighting started, don't you remember?"
"Yes, yes! Will you wait, gutinkcr (good one)?" the old woman begs. "I'm going right away to fetch the letter. Maybe you know my Khayim."
She moves heavily away. The others ply me with questions about their relatives, friends, brothers, hus- bands. Almost everyone of them has someone in that far-off America, which is like a fabled land to these simple folk — the land of promise, peace, and wealth, the happy place from which but few return.
"Maybe you will take a letter to my husband?" a pale young woman asks. All at once a dozen persons 2IO THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH Begin to clamor for permission to write and send their letters through me to their beloved ones, "there in Amerikeh." I promise to take their mail, and the crowd slowly melts away, with a pleading admonition to wait for them. "Only a few words — we'll be right "Let us go to Reb Moishe," my guide reminds me. "They know," she adds, with a wave at the others, "they'll bring their letters there."
As we start on our way a tall man with jet-black beard and burning eyes detains me. "Be so good, one minute." He speaks quietly, but with a strong effort to restrain his emotion. "I have no one in America," he says; "I have no one anywhere. You see this house?" There is a nervous tremor in his voice, but he steadies himself. "There, across the way, with the broken windows, paper-covered, pasted over. My old