Semyon Petrovitch, at whose home I spend con- siderable time, is an intelligent non-partisan of inde- pendent views. An able statistician, he has been per- mitted by the Bolsheviki to remain in the Department of Economy, where he had served under previous regimes. Semyon is convinced that the Soviet Govern- ment will find itself compelled to change its methods and practices. "The ravager cannot long remain in the country he has ravaged" — he likes to repeat the alleged saying of Denikin. But the ire of the gods, he asserts, pursues the Bolsheviki: even their best intentions serve in practice to confound them. "They have closed the stores and abolished private trade," Semyon Petro- vitch repeats, "they have nationalized, registered, and taken an invoice of everything under the sun. One would think that complete order should reign. In- deed, you cannot transfer a bed mattress from one apartment into another without special permission of the proper authorities. If you want to ride to the next station, you must get an 'order'; if you need a sheet of paper, you have to fill several sheets with applications. Every detail of our existence has become subject to Bolshevist regulation. In short, you will find 248 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH the situation in Odessa about the same as in the rest of Russia," Semyon assured me. "But life passes by the Soviet apparatus, because life is incomparably stronger than any attempts at doctrinaire regula- tion."
As in other Soviet cities, the population is supplied with a bread and products card. But except Com- munists, very few receive enough bread to exist. On the "bourgeois" categories none has been issued for months; in fact, since the Bolsheviki took Odessa in January. Occasionally a little salt, sugar, and matches are rationed out.
"Fortunately the markets are still permitted to exist," Semyon explained. "The government cannot press out enough bread of the farmers to feed the cities. The pyock is mostly a vision. That reminds me of a certain commissar in our department, a rare type of Communist, for he has a sense of humor. Once I asked him why the Bolsheviki nationalized every- thing except the izvostchiki (cabmen). His reply was characteristic. 'You see,' he said, 'we found that if you don't feed human beings, they continue to live somehow. But if you don't feed horses, the stupid beasts die. That's why we don't nationalize the cab- . i ti men.
Life is indeed stronger than decrees; it sprouts through every crevice of the socialist armor. When private trade was forbidden and only the cooperatives were permitted to continue, all business places suddenly became inspired by feelings of altruism, and every store was decorated with the sign of the Epo (co- operative). Later, when the cooperatives were also closed and only kustarnoye (small scale) production remained legal, all the little stores began manufactur- ing cigarette lighters and rubber soles from stolen r.utomobile tires. Subsequently new decrees were issued permitting trade only in articles of food. Then ODESSA: LIFE AND VISION 249 in every store window there appeared bread and tea surrogates, while other wares were sold in the rear rooms. Finally all food stores were closed; now the illicit trade is transferred to the storekeeper's home, and business is done on the back stairs.
"The Bolsheviki want to abolish private trade and destroy speculation," Semyon remarked; "they want everyone to live exclusively by his labor. Yet in no place in the world is there so much speculation as in Russia; the whole country is swept by its fever. 'Na- tionalization of trade means that the whole nation is in trade,' our wits say. The truth is, we have all become speculators," he continued sadly. "Every family now depends more on the sale of its table and bed linen than on the salaries paid by the Soviet Gov- ernment. The shopkeepers, having lost their shops, still remain traders; and they are now joined by those who formerly were workers, physical as well as intel- lectual. Necessity is stronger than laws, my dear friend. The real factory proletarians have become de- classified: they have ceased to exist, as a class, because most of the factories and mills are not working. The workers flee into the country or become meshotchttiki (bag-men, traders). The Communist dictatorship has destroyed, but it cannot build up,"...At the house of Dr. L almost nightly gather little groups of the local intelligentsia. A man of broad culture and tolerance, L 's home is neutral ground for the most diverse political tendencies. His private sanatorium, beautifully situated on an enbank- ment washed by the Black Sea, was formerly famed as one of the best in Odessa. It has been nationalized, but the physician and his staff are exempt from professional mobilization and remain in charge. Dr. L is still permitted to receive a certain number of private patients, which privilege enables him to support him- 2$o THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH self and family in comparative comfort. In return he is obliged to treat without remuneration the sick assigned to the sanatorium by the authorities.
L and his wife, herself a graduate physician, are hospitable in the best Russian spirit. Though their present mode of living is far below that of former days, every comer finds a warm welcome which in- cludes an invitation to the dining room — a custom now almost entirely fallen into disuse in Russia. With charming smile and graceful gesture Mme. L passes around tea, little lumps of yellow candy, home- made from beet sugar, and sandwiches, her manner quite innocent of any suggestion of the saving quality of her service to her famished guests.
The sanatorium was requisitioned for the "benefit of the proletariat," the doctor informs me with a humor- ous twinkle in his eyes, but it is occupied exclusively by high Communist officials and several members of the Tcheka. Among the latter is also a Commissar, who has repeatedly taken treatment in the institution. He suffers from acute neurosis and is an habitual user of cocaine. In spite of the near presence of the dreadful autocrat of life and death, great freedom of speech prevails in L 's home. It is the tacit understanding among his guests that the place is a free forum, a "sanctuary for the crime of thought." Yet I notice that when a Communist happens to be present, expres- sion is less spontaneous, more controlled. I recall the arrest of the frequenters of a similar oasis in Moscow, betrayed by a member of the family, a Bolshevik. Might not such a misfortune also happen here? Yet Dr. G, the Menshevik colleague of the host, is most outspoken against the Bolsheviki whom he holds up to ridicule as counterfeit Marxists. The Zionists and literati present, among them Byalik, the greatest living Jewish poet, are more temperate in their criti- cism of the dictatorship. Their attitude is prompted ODESSA: LIFE AND VISION 251 by their love of the Jewry and its aspirations as a nation. They tell of the many vain efforts their most venerated representatives have made in the interests of justice to their coreligionists, only to be met with scorn and insult. R, the noted Hebrew author, relates the incident of his visit to the chief of the Tcheka, to seek protection for two friends unjustly accused of speculation and in danger of being shot. In the reception room, while awaiting audience with the predsedatel, he was abused by the Tchekists, among whom he recognized several members of the old police force and two well-known criminals of former days. "You are insulting the Soviet power by interceding for the arrested," the Tcheka Chief told him. The author urged the innocence of the accused. "If you plead for speculators, you are no better than they," the Chief retorted. Both men were executed without trial.
Through an open window I look out upon the broad expanse of the Black Sea below. It is a quiet moonlit night. The low murmur of the waters pleasantly strikes upon the ear, as the white-capped waves with musical regularity reach the shore, softly splash against the rocks, and silently recede. They return to caress the sentinel wall that seems to draw closer toward them as if yearning for their embrace. A gentle breeze floats into the room.
Angry voices recall me to the company. The young Bundist * D is involved in a virulent dispute with his former comrade turned Communist. D charges the Bolsheviki with having stooped to a part- nership with the notorious Odessa criminals who were organized into regiments and possessed weapons and machine guns. They had first helped Ataman Grigo- riev to take the city, and were later used by the Com- munists for the same purpose. Indebted to the thieves, the Bolsheviki did not molest them in the first days of * Der Bund — an organization of Jewish Socialists.
2 5 2 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH their Odessa regime, and the "professional union" was permitted to "work" the city. Subsequently, the Soviet Government declared war upon them, but the leading spirits saved their lives by joining the Tcheka.
The Communist vehemently denies that any agree- ment had existed between his Party and the criminals, though he admits that in some instances the thieves' union aided the work of the Bolsheviki. The argu- ment is becoming dangerously heated; Mme. L, grown apprehensive, holds up a warning hand. "Friends, tovarishtchi," she cautions them, "please not so loud.'* "Do not worry," the host laughs, "it's the usual thing when these two come together. They are old friends; relatives, at that, for the ex-Bundist married the Bundist's sister."
"It is an open question," observes Z, the literary investigator, "whether the Bolsheviki had a formal agreement with the thieves. But that they cooperated at one time is known to all of us. Well, they were also proletarians," he adds sarcastically. "Later, of course, the Communists turned against them. But a similar fate has befallen most of us. The Left S. R. S., the Maximalists, the Anarchists, did they not all fight together with the Communists against the Whites? And where are they now? Those who did not die on the fronts have been shot or imprisoned by the Red dictators, unless they have been bribed or cowed into serving the Tcheka."
"Only weaklings would save their lives thus," the hostess protests.
"Few can be brave with a loaded gun pointed at their temple," the Doctor remarks with a sigh.
It is a cold, chilly day as I turn my steps toward Sadovaya Street. There, at a secret session, is to take place a Menshevik costnaya gazetta (oral news- ODESSA: LIFE AND VISION 253 paper), and I am to meet prominent members of the party.
The "oral newspaper 1 ' is the modern Russian surro- gate for a free press. Deprived of opportunity to issue their publications, the suppressed Socialist and revolutionary elements resort to this method. In some private dwelling or "conspirative lodgings" they gather, as in the days of the Tsar, but with even greater danger and more dread of the all-pervading presence of the Tcheka. They come to the "lodgings" singly, stealthily, like criminals conscious of guilt, fearful of observation and discovery. Frequently they fall into an ambush: the house may be in the hands of a zassada, though no sign of it is perceptible on the outside. No one having entered, however innocently or accidentally, may depart, not even a neighbor's child come to borrow a dish or some water for a sick member of the family. None is permitted to leave, that he may not give warn- ing to possible victims. Such a zassada generally lasts for many hours, often even for several days and nights; when it is finally lifted, those caught in the net are turned over to the Tcheka. Lucky if the charge of counter-revolution or banditism be not made, and the prisoners released after several weeks of detention. But the "leaders," the known revolutionists, are kept for months, even for years, without a hearing or charge.
It is dusk. In the unlighted, dingy room it is difficult to recognize the half score of men occupying chairs, smoking and talking in subdued voices. The person for whom I inquire has not yet arrived, and I find myself a stranger in the place. I notice nervous glances in my direction; the men near me regard me with frank sus- picion. One by one they leave their seats; I see them gathering in a corner, casting inimical looks at me. As I approach them, they cease talking and eye me de- 254 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH fiantly. Their manner is militant, and presently I am surrounded by the hostile crowd.
"May I see Comrade P?" I inquire.
"Who may you be?" some one demands ironically.
To ally their suspicions, I ask for tovarishtch Astrov, the famous Menshevik leader, with whom I have an appointment. Explanations follow, and at last the men appear satisfied regarding my identity. "You are looking for Astrov?" they ask in surprise. "Don't you know? Haven't you heard?"
"What?"
"He's been arrested this morning."
Bitter indignation and excitement prevail in labor and revolutionary circles as a result of the arrest. Astrov, a well-known Socialist, is a personality re- spected throughout Russia. His opposition to the Bolsheviki is purely intellectual, excluding hostile activi- ties against the Government. It is reported, however, that the authorities hold him "morally responsible" for the wave of strikes that has recently swept the city. Astrov's comrades are distracted at their failure to ascertain the fate of their leader. The Tcheka de- clines to accept a peredatcha (packages of food or clothing), an omen which inspires the worst fears. It indicates strictest isolation — it may even signify that the prisoner has been shot.* More hated even than in Kiev is the Tcheka in Odessa. Ghastly stories are told of its methods and the ruthlessness of the predsedatel, a former immigrant from Detroit. The personnel of the institution con- sists mostly of old gendarme officers and criminals whose lives had been spared "for services to be ren- dered in fighting counter-revolution and speculation." The latter is particularly proscribed, the "highest form of punishment" — shooting — being meted out to ♦Astrov later died in prison.
ODESSA: LIFE AND VISION 255 offenders. Executions take place daily. The doomed are piled into automobile trucks, face downward, and driven to the outskirts of the city. The long line of the death-vehicles is escorted by mounted men riding wildly and firing into the air — a warning to close the windows. At the appointed place the procession halts. The victims are made to undress and to take their places at the edge of the already prepared common grave. Shots resound — the bodies, some lifeless, some merely wounded, fall into the hole and are nastily covered with sod.
But though the "speculation" is forbidden and the possession or exchange of Tsarist money is frequently punished by death, the members of the Tcheka them- selves receive part of their salary in tsarskiye, whose purchasing power is many times that of Soviet paper. There is considerable circulation of the forbidden cur- rency on the markets, and it is rumored that Tcheka agents themselves are the chief dealers. I refuse to believe the charge till a member of the Expedition in- forms me that he succeeded in advantageously con- verting some of the tsarskiye, officially given us in Mos- cow, into Soviet money. "You are taking a great risk in exchanging," I warn him.
"No risk at all," he replied gleefully. "Do you think I am tired of life that I would sell on the open market? I traded it through an old friend, and it was the good man N himself who did the little business forme."
N is a high placed magistrate of the Tcheka.
With Emma Goldman I attend a gathering of local Anarchists come to meet the "comrades from America." The large room is filled with a mixed company — students and workers, Soviet employees, soldiers, and some sailors. Every non-governmental tendency is represented: there are followers of 256 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH Kropotkin and of Stirner, adherents of positivism and immediate actionists, with a number of Sovietsky An- archists, so called because of their friendly attitude to the Bolsheviki.
It is an informal assembly of the widest divergence of opinion. Some denounce the Communists as re- actionary; others believe in their revolutionary mo- tives, but entirely disapprove of their methods. Sev- eral consider the present stage as a transitory but inevitable phase of the Revolution. But the majority deny the historic existence of such a period. Progress, they claim, is a continuous process, every step fore- shadowing and shaping the next. Long-continued despotism and terror destroy the possibilities of future liberty and brotherhood.
The most animated discussion revolves about the proletarian dictatorship. It is the basic problem, de- termined by one's conception of revolution and in turn determining one's attitude to the Bolsheviki. The younger element unreservedly condemn the Party dic- tatorship with its violence and bloodshed, its punitive measures, and general counter-revolutionary effects. The Sovietsky Anarchists, though regretting the ruth- lessness of Communist practice, consider dictatorship inevitable at certain stages of the revolution. The discussion is drawn out for hours, and the vital ques- tion is obscured by theoretic assertions. I feel that the years of storm and stress have entirely uprooted the old values without having clarified new concepts of reality and vision.
"Can you suggest something definite in place of the dictatorship?" I ask at last. "The situation demands a unified purpose."
"What we have is a dictatorship over the prole- tariat," retorts an enthusiastic Kropotkinist.
"That is begging the question. Not the faults and shortcomings of the Bolsheviki are at issue, but the ODESSA: LIFE AND VISION 257 dictatorship itself. Does not the success of the Revo- lution presuppose the forcible abolition of the bour- geoisie and the imposing of the proletarian will upon society? In short, a dictatorship?"
"Assuredly," assents the young woman at my side, a Left Social Revolutionist; "but not the dictatorship of the proletariat only. Rather the dictatorship of the toilers, including the peasantry as well as the city workers."
"If the Communists would not persecute the Anarch- ists, I'd be with them," remarks an Individualist An- archist.
The others scorn his narrow partisanship, but the Kropotkinists refuse to accept dictatorship. There may be times during a revolutionary period where vio- lence, even organized force, becomes necessary, they admit. But these matters must rest in the hands of the workers themselves and not be institutionalized in such bodies as the Tcheka, whose work is detrimental and fosters a counter-revolutionary spirit among the vio- lated masses.
The discussion gives no promise of reaching a basis for common work with the Bolsheviki. Most of those present have for years consecrated themselves to their ideal, have suffered persecution and imprisonment till at last the Revolution triumphed. Now they find themselves outlawed even by the Communists. They are deeply outraged by the "advance guard of the proletariat" turning executioners of the best revolu- tionary elements. The abyss is too wide to be bridged. With deep sorrow I think of the devotion, ability, and idealism thus lost to the Revolution, and of the fratricidal strife the situation inevitably involves.
* 5 • * • • * September 3, 1920. — Wrangel is reported to be ad- vancing northwest after having defeated the Red Army in several engagements. Budenny's cavalry is in re- 2 5 8 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH treat, leaving open the road to Rostov. Alyoshki, a suburb of Kherson, is invested by the Whites, and refugees are streaming into Odessa. Official silence feeds popular nervousness, and the wildest rumors are gaining circulation.
Our work in the city is completed, but the new mili- tary situation makes it impossible to continue our jour- ney southeast, toward the Caucasus, as originally planned. We have therefore decided that the Expedi- tion remain in Odessa, while two of its members at- tempt to reach Nikolayev, there to determine the possibilities of proceeding further. The predsedatel and secretary have been chosen for the task.
My colleagues have already left the city to take up their quarters in the car. With our secretary, Alex- andra Shakol, I am loading the collected material on a cart. There is a large quantity, and the underfed old mare is barely able to pull the weight. It is pouring, the pavement is broken and slippery; the poor beast seems about to collapse.
"Your horse is exhausted,'* I remark to the driver, a peasant woman.
She does not reply. The reins have fallen out of her hands, her head is bent forward, and her body is shaken as if with the ague.
"What is the matter, matushkaf" I call to her.
She looks up. Her eyes are red and tears are cours- ing down her cheeks, leaving streaks of yellow dirt behind. "Curses be upon you!" she mutters between sobs.
The horse has stopped. The rain is pouring with increased force, the chill pierces knife-like.
"Cursed be you all!" she cries vehemently.
We try to soothe her. The Secretary, a native Rus- sian, herself of peasant stock, impulsively kisses the old woman on both cheeks. By snatches we learn that two days ago she had carted a load of hay to the city, ODESSA: LIFE AND VISION part of her village's share of the razvyorstka. Re- turning home she was halted by a requisitioning de- tachment. She pleaded that her cattle had long ago been confiscated and only the one horse left her; as the widow of a Red Army man she is exempt from further requisition. But she had no documents with her, and she was taken to the police station. The Commissar berated his men for impressing an unfit animal for army duty, and the woman was overjoyed. But as she was about to leave, he detained her. "Your horse will do for light jobs," he said; "you will give us three days 1 labor duty."
She has been working two days now, receiving only half a pound of bread and no fodder for the beast except a little straw. This morning she was ordered to our quarters.
Most of the vehicles and horses have been national- ized; those still privately owned are subject to tem- porary requisition by the Tramot (transport bureau) for a specified number of hours weekly. In vain we hail the passing izvostchiki; all pretend to be "on Soviet duty." The woman grows hysterical. The horse is apparently unable to move further. The rain is wetting our material, the wind tearing at our news- paper files and blowing precious leaves into the street. At last with voices and shoulders we induce the horse to proceed, and after a long ride we reach the railroad station. There we hastily write a "receipt" testifying that the "requisitioned peasant and horse" have ful- filled their labor duty, give the woman a chunk of bread and a few tidbits for her children, and send her home bowing and repeating, "Bless you, good barin (master), God bless you."
CHAPTER XXXIII DARK PEOPLE Railroad communication between Odessa and Niko- layev is suspended, but we have been informed that a motor truck belonging to the Maritime Ossobiy Otdel (Tcheka) is to leave for that city at midnight on September 6.
Accompanied by the Secretary, I proceeded early in the evening to the place of departure. For hours we tramped unfamiliar streets and tortuous alleys with- out finding the appointed place. Fearfully my com- panion clung to me, Odessa's reputation for lawlessness and the brutality of its bandit element filling us with alarm. In the darkness we lost our bearings and kept circling within the crooked alleys near the docks, when suddenly there came the command, "Who goes there?" and we faced guards pointing guns at us. Fortunately we had secured the military password.
"Tula-Tar " "Tarantass," the soldier completed, permitting us to pass and directing us on our way.
It was after 2 A. M. when we reached the Maritime Otdel. But no machine was in sight, and we were over- whelmed with disappointment at the thought that we had missed the rare opportunity of reaching Nikolayev. Inquiries at the Tcheka elicited the unwilling informa- tion that the motor had not yet arrived, and no one knew when it was due.
We spent the night in the street, the Tchekists re- fusing us permission to remain indoors. At five in the morning the car arrived, piled high with clothing and ammunition for the Nikolayev garrison. Quickly we 260 DARK PEOPLE climbed to the top, soon to be joined by a number of soldiers accompanied by women. Everything seemed ready for the start, when the chauffeur announced that the gasoline issued him was not sufficient to carry us to our destination, 200 miles northeast. A short, heavy- set sailor, addressed as commandant and apparently in charge of the journey, gruffly ordered everyone off the truck. His command ignored, he drew a revolver, and we all made haste to obey.
"Now you'll have enough juice," he declared.
The soldiers protested: they were the convoy sent to accompany the consignment to Nikolayev. Swear- ing and cursing, the drunken sailor consented to their riding, and they climbed back pulling several girls up after them.
u No heifers!" the sailor shouted, but the women, stretching themselves on top of the load, paid no attention. The commandant got into a violent alter- cation with the chauffeur, accusing him of delaying the departure and threatening to arrest him. The driver pleaded that the truck had not been loaded on time; its belated arrival was not his fault. The Tchekist cursed and swore in a manner that surpassed anything I had ever before heard in Russia, the variegated complexity of his oaths defying even approximate rendering into English. Meanwhile the number of passengers had increased. The sailor grew furious, and again dis- playing his Colt, he forced everyone to climb down. Three times the process was repeated, no one daring to resist the drunken commandant. We stood in the driving rain, the uncovered clothing on the truck get- ting soaked, while the chauffeur was pretending to be busy with the machine, yet stealthily watching the Tchekist. Presently the latter walked out of the yard, whereupon the driver also disappeared. After an hour he returned carrying a large can and followed by half a score of men and women. He announced 262 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH that all was in readiness, and there began a scramble of the new arrivals for a place. At last the huge ma- chine got into motion, the living mass on top des- perately clinging for support as we gradually gained speed. "You'll never make half the way with that load," the commandant shouted, rushing out into the street and threateningly waving his gun.
Over hills, down valleys, and across fields the auto sped, the chauffeur driving recklessly and every mo- ment endangering our lives as the machine tore its way over large holes in the ground or wildly rushed down steep inclines. Our route lay along the sea and over waste land still bearing evidence of past military activities. The large estate of Sukhomlinov, the great Russian magnate, stretched for miles before us en- tirely deserted, the celebrated cattle appropriated by the villagers, the place now uncultivated. "No seed," laconically commented one of the peasants. "What would be the use?" another replied.
Long lines of wagons drawn by oxen and loaded with flour and potatoes crawled in the distance — the pro- ceeds of the razvyorstka being delivered to Odessa.
The sailors, talkative and jolly, passed their time railing at the three peasants, typical Ukrainians. The latter took their banter in good humor, somewhat awed and not always comprehending the full drift of the slangy Russian. They were much friendlier with the soldiers, themselves Ukrainians, and presently they began exchanging experiences. They hailed from Krasnoye Selo; the razvyorstka tax upon their village was very heavy, and the local Soviet had sent them to Odessa to secure a reduction of the assessment. But they received no satisfaction in the big city; they spent days in line at the various bureaus without accomplish- ing anything. Most of the officials just laughed at them; others ignored them. One Commissar even threatened to arrest them. Life has become harder than ever before, they complained. Under the Tsar DARK PEOPLE 263 they Had been serfs; the White generals robbed them of their sons and cattle. They had set great hopes upon the Bolsheviki. "But it is the same whoever comes," the peasants sighed; "for us poor people it's always the same."
Two of the soldiers had participated in the campaign against Makhno, and they were exchanging experiences. They spoke freely of his exploits, of the original methods that enabled him to defeat greatly superior forces, and of the numerous times he had been sur- rounded by White or Red armies, yet always escaping, often in a most miraculous manner. They admired the clever ruse by which Makhno took Yekaterinoslav, then in the hands of Petlura. A handful of his men, dressed as peasants, crossed the bridge leading to the lower part of the city, with their arms hidden in carts. On reaching the other side, they unexpectedly opened fire on the Petlura men guarding the approaches. The sudden attack struck panic to the garrison, and Makhno's army easily took the city.
"We've got to catch him," one of the soldiers con- cluded, as if in self-justification, "but you can't deny it, he's a molodets (daring fellow)."
Both of them had once been taken prisoners by Makhno. Their last hour had come, they thought, as together with other captives they were led before the feared bat'ka. A slender young man with sharp, pierc- ing eyes faced them sternly and began haranguing them. Bolshevik Commissars were no better than White generals, he said; both oppressed the people and robbed the peasants. He, Makhno, would defend the Revolution against all enemies. He promised that the prisoners would be given the choice of joining the povstantsi or going home, but the Red soldiers feared Makhno was deriding them. Yet he kept his word.
"Bat'ka kills only Jews and Commissars," one of the peasants drawled.
In the evening we stopped at Krasnoye Selo, in the 264 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH district of the German colonies. The little frame houses, white-washed and clean, were a pleasant con- trast to the straw-thatched, dirty izba of the Russian peasant. Few men were to be seen, most of them drafted in the White or Red armies. Only women, children, and very old peasants were about. With my companion I followed a party of sailors and soldiers in search of lodgings for the night. At our approach the villagers ran terrified indoors. The sailors ordered them to bring food, but the women, weeping and im- ploring for mercy, called God to witness that the recent razvyorstka had taken their last provisions. They could offer only bread and country cheese. The Tchekists swore at them, fingered their guns, and de- manded to be taken to the cellar. There they appro- priated whatever eatables they could find.
Distressed I left with my companion to seek hospi- tality for ourselves. Word had passed of the arrival of "the Commissars," and the houses were barricaded. After many vain attempts we gained admission to a khata at the furthest end of the village. It was occu- pied by a woman and her three children, the oldest a girl of fourteen, whom her mother had hidden at our approach. She accepted our offer to pay, and set black bread and sour milk before us. Soon the neighbors began to drop in. They stood timidly on the threshold, observing us with unfriendly eyes and exchanging whis- pered remarks. Gradually they gained confidence, ad- vanced toward the table, and began conversing. They were totally ignorant of the events in the world at large; what was happening in Russia, even, was en- tirely incomprehensible to them. They knew that the Tsar was no more and that freedom had been given the peasant. But they felt some huge deceit had been played on the "dark people" by those in high places. They were constantly harassed by the military, they complained; soldiers of every kind and armed men DARK PEOPLE