DARK PEOPLE without uniforms kept swooping down upon the vil- lage, taxing, confiscating, and pillaging. One by one their male folks had been drafted, often not even knowing into what army, and then the boys began to be taken, as young as sixteen. Generals and com- missars kept coming and carrying the last away, and now all the cattle are gone, and the fields cannot be worked except by hand in little patches, and even the smallest children must help. Frequently the older girls are dragged away by officers and soldiers, return- ing later hurt and sick. In a neighboring village the fmnitive expedition whipped old peasants on the pub- ic square. In a place thirty versts from Krasnoye eighteen peasants hanged themselves after the com- missars had left.
"Is it as bad in other parts?" my hostess asked. "How is it in Germany — my people come from there."
"Germany has also had a revolution," I informed her. "The Kaiser is gone."
"Rev-o-lution?" she repeated in utter incomprehen- sion. "Did Germany have war?"
I spent the night on a straw heap in the outhouse, joining our party early in the morning. The scenes of the previous day repeated themselves all along our route.
A very old city and once an important shipbuilding center, Nikolayev has played a prominent part in the labor and socialist history of Russia. It was the scene of the first great strike in the country, in the early days of the nineteenth century. In the "Nihilist" and "People's Will" period, it was the field of much under- ground revolutionary activity. In later years Nikola- yev was the home of the "South Russian Union," one of the first Social-Democratic groups in lower Ukraina, with Trotsky as its intellectual leader. Among the old archives we came upon documents relating to the ca>c 266 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH of Netchayev, which in some strange manner found their way there, though that famous terrorist had never been arrested in this city. We also discovered police "search orders" issued against Lopatin, Bakunin, and other celebrated revolutionists of that period.
Nikolayev still retains some of its former beauty, though its boulevards have been entirely denuded of trees, cut down within the two days' interregnum be- tween the leaving of the Whites and the coming of the Bolsheviki. The streets are oppressively quiet: the city is in direct line of Wrangel's advance. The Com- munists are feverishly active to rouse the population to united defense, appealing particularly to the prole- tarians and reminding them of the slaughter of the workers by Slastchev, Wrangel's chief general, no- torious as a labor executioner.* The attitude of the surrounding districts is causing the Bolsheviki much anxiety. The peasantry has been in continual rebellion against the Soviet regime, and the arbitrary methods of labor mobilization have alienated the workers. The documents I have ex- amined at the unions and the statistics concerning the distribution of labor power (rabsil) and desertion, show that almost every village in the provinces of Kherson and Nikolayev has offered armed resistance. Yet the peasants have no sympathy with the monarch- ism of Wrangel; his victory may deprive them of the land they have taken from the large estates. Several provincial Soviets have sent delegates to Nikolayev to assure the authorities of their determination to fight the Whites. Encouraged, the Communists are con- ducting an intensive agitation among the peasantry along the route of Wrangel.
Fear of the Whites has revived stories of their * General Slastchev-Krinski was later received with special honors into the Red Army and sent by Trotsky to subdue the Karelian peas- ants (1922)- DARK PEOPLE atrocities. The Jewish population lives in mortal dread, previous occupations having been accompanied by fearful pogroms. At the "underground" restau- rant near the Soviet House the guests relate incidents of almost incredible barbarities. They speak indis- criminately of Whites, Greens, Mariusa, Makhno, and others who have at various times invested the city. It is asserted that Mariusa, an amazon of mysterious identity, refrains from pillage: she "kills only Com- munists and Commissars." Some insist that she is a sister of Makhno (though the latter has none), while others say she is a peasant girl who had sworn ven- geance against the Bolshevikt because her lover was killed by a punitive expedition.
"The black years may know who they all be," the hostess comments. "When Makhno was here last time people said they saw Mariusa with him. They beat and robbed Jews at the docks."
"You are wrong," the young Soviet employee who has been assigned to aid my work protests. "I helped to examine the men caught at that time. They were Greens and Grigoriev bandits. Mariusa wasn't then in the city at all."
"I heard Makhno himself speak," remarked Vera, the daughter of the hostess, a young college girl. "It was on the square, and some one held a big black flag near him. He told the people they had nothing to fear, and that he would not permit any excesses. He said he would mercilessly punish anyone attempting a pogrom. I got a very favorable impression of htm."
"Whoever it is that makes pogroms," her mother retorted, "we Jews are always the first victims."
"Jews and Commissars," the youth corrects.
"You are both — you'd better look out," a guest teased him.
"Better take off that kurtka (leather jacket)," an- other warns.
CHAPTER XXXIV A BOLSHEVIK TRIAL Having learned that old police records are in pos- session of the Extraordinary Commission, I visited Burov, the predsedatel of the Tcheka. Very tall and broad, of coarse features and curt demeanor, he gave me the impression of a gendarme of the Romanov regime. He spoke in an abrupt, commanding tone, avoided my look, and seemed more interested in the large Siberian dog at his side than in my mission. He declined to permit me to examine the archives of the Third Department, but promised to select some mate- rial the Museum might be interested in, and asked me to call the next day.
His manner was not convincing, and I felt little faith in his assurances to aid my efforts. The follow- ing morning his secretary informed me that Burov had been too busy to attend to my request, but he could be seen at the Revolutionary Tribunal, where a trial was in progress.
On the dais of the Tribunal three men sat at a desk covered with a red cloth, the wall back of them decorated with lithographs of Lenin and Trotsky. At a small table below the dais was the defendant, a slender young man with a diminutive mustache, and near him an older man, his attorney. Burov, with the huge dog at his feet, was acting as the government prosecutor. The benches were occupied by witnesses, and soldiers were stationed in the aisles to preserve order.
The prisoner was charged with "counter-revolution- ary activities," the accusation brought by a young woman on the ground that he had "denounced her as a 268 A BOLSHEVIK TRIAL 269 Communist to the Whites." The witnesses were ques- tioned first by the defense, then by the prosecutor and the judges. It appeared from their testimony that the prisoner and his accuser had for years lived in the same house and were known to be intimate. The proceedings dragged in a sleepy, uninteresting way until the attor- ney for the defense attempted to establish the fact that the woman, now a member of the Tcheka, had formerly led a disreputable life. Burov slowly rose in his seat and pointing his finger at the lawyer, demanded: "Do you dare to attack the reputation of the Extraordinary Commission?" The attorney timidly appealed to the court for protection. The presiding judge, in high boots and corduroy jacket, looking very tired and sipping cold coffee, expressed his revolutionary sym- pathy with the social victims of the abolished capitalist order and berated the attorney for persisting in bour- geois prejudices.
Burov examined the defense witnesses regarding their past mode of life and present political adherence. He referred to the prisoner as "that scoundrelly counter- revolutionist" and succeeded in eliciting affirmative re- plies to questions previously negated by the same wit- nesses. One of the latter, a young woman, testified to the good reputation of the defendant and his political non-partisanship. She looked frightened as Burov towered above her. He plied her with questions, and she became confused. Under the spell of the Tchekist's commanding voice she finally admitted that the ac- cused was her brother.
A burst of indignation broke from the audience. On the bench in front of me an old man excitedly shouted: "You've terrorized her I She is no kin of his — she's my daughter!" The presiding judge shouted, "Si- lence!" and ordered the arrest of the interrupter for "behavior insulting to the high tribunal."
During the noon recess I found an opportunity to 270 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH speak to Burov. I called his attention to the character of the testimony. It was valueless, I pointed out; the witnesses were intimidated. Burov was much pleased. "There is no fooling with us, and they know it," he said, indicating that all non-Communists are to be re- garded as the natural enemies of the Bolshevik regime.
"The evidence is questionable," I pursued; "will the prisoner be convicted?"
"I'll demand the 'highest measure of punishment,' " he replied, employing the official term for the death sentence.
"But the man may be innocent," I protested.
"How can you speak so, tovarishtchf" he upbraided me. "You talk of evidence! Why, the uncle of this fellow was a rank bourzhooi, a big banker. He escaped with the Whites, and his whole family are counter- revolutionists. The best thing to do with such fellows is to razmenyat them" (to "change" — the expression used in the South for summary execution).
Leaving the courtroom, I inadvertently stepped into a small chamber where two women sat on a bench. "Tovarishtch from the center," one of them greeted me; "I saw you at Burov's yesterday."
She evidently took me for an official of the Moscow Tcheka, and she at once became confidential. It was she who brought the charge against the prisoner, she said. They had been arrested together by the Whites, and when they were brought to the police station the defendant whispered something to the officer. She could not hear what he said, but she was sure that he had nodded in her direction. Both were locked up, but after a while the man was released while she was to be shot. She was positive the man had denounced her as a Bolshevik — though she was not one at the time. She has become a Communist since, and now she is helping to fight counter-revolutionists, "same as you, tova- rishtch," she added significantly.
A BOLSHEVIK TRIAL 271 Her face, offensively painted even to her lips, was coarse and sensuous. Her eyes glowed with a venge- ful light and the consciousness of power. Her com- panion, younger and more comely, resembled her in a marked degree.
"Are you sisters?" I asked.
"Cousins," the younger one replied. "Katya is lying," she broke out vehemently, "she's jealous — the man left her — he didn't care for her — she wants re- venge."
"A lot he cares for you!" the other mocked. "You are younger — that's all. And he's a dirty counter- revolutionist."
The door opened and a woman entered. She looked very old, but her carriage was stately and her sad face beautiful in its frame of snowy white. "Are you a witness?" the Tchekist girl demanded. "Have you been called?"
"No, my dear," the old lady replied quietly; "I came of my own accord." She smiled benignantly and con- tinued in a soft, melodious voice: "Listen, dear, I am an old woman and I will soon be dying. I came to tell the truth. Why should you cause the death of that boy?" She looked kindly at the Tchekist. "Bethink yourself, dear one. He has done you no harm."
"Hasn't he, though!" the other retorted angrily.
"My dear one," the old lady pleaded, putting her hand affectionately on the girl's arm, "let by-gones be by-gones. He cared for you and he ceased to care — does he deserve death, dearest? Ah, I am old and I have seen much evil in my lifetime. Must we always go on hating and killing " "To court!" a soldier shouted into the room. Both girls hurriedly rose, smoothed their hair, and walked out.
"Must we always be hating and killing?" the old woman repeated as she slowly followed them.
CHAPTER XXXV RETURNING TO PETROGRAD After a stay of several days we left Nikolayev, re- turning to Odessa by the same maritime auto truck. We followed the former route and witnessed the pre- vious scenes again. Our reception was even more unfriendly than before.
Occasionally some good-natured soldier offered to pay with Sovietsky money, but the villagers pleaded that they could do nothing with the "colored papers," and begged for articles of "manufacture." The chauf- feur produced a can of watered gasoline, which he had persuaded an old peasant to exchange for a smoked ham by assuring him that it was the "best kerosene in Russia." The neighbors protested, but the old man, too frightened to refuse, gave up the treasured meat, muttering: "May the Lord have mercy on us and see you depart soon."
In Odessa we learn that the Red Army is in full retreat from Warsaw, and Wrangel steadily advancing from the southeast. The alarming situation makes the further progress of the Expedition impossible. Our anxiety is increased by the circumstance that the man- date for the use of our car expires on October 31, after which date the Railroad Commission has the right of immediate confiscation, involving the probable loss of our material. Our repeated letters and wires have remained without reply by the Narkomput (People's Commissariat of Ways and Communication) in Mos- cow. No choice is left us but to hasten back to Petro- grad to deliver to the Museum our collection which has grown so large it requires an entire tepulshka (freight car).
27a RETURNING TO PETROGRAD 273 September 20-jO. — At last we have left Odessa and are now journeying by slow stages northward. The lines are clogged with military trains, "dead" engines, and wrecked cars. At Znamenka we come upon the rear of the Twelfth Army retreating in disorder. The Bolsheviki are evacuating points along the route of the expected Polish advance. Large areas have been left without any government at all, the Communists having departed, the Poles not pursuing. The Red Army is rolling back toward Kiev and Kharkov. Our train is constantly delayed or switched to a side track, to clear the way for the military. Should the enemy advance, our Expedition may be entirely cut off from the north, finding itself between Wrangel's forces in the south and southeast, and the Poles in the north and north- west.
Progressing only a few miles a day, we pass Birsula, Vanyarki, Zhmerinka, and Kasatin. The Communists no longer deny the great disaster. The Polish cam- paign has ended in a complete rout, and Wrangel is driving the Red Army before him. It is claimed that Makhno has joined forces with the counter-revolu- tionary general. The Soviet papers we occasionally find in the "educational bureau" at the stations brand the povstantsi leader as Wrangel's aid. Familiar with the methods of the Communist press, we do not give credence to the "news," but our anxiety to learn the facts of the situation is increased by the persistent re- port that England demands the entire withdrawal of the Bolsheviki from the Ukraina.
The approaches to Kiev are blocked, and we are detained twelve versts from the city. Two days of maneuvering bring us at last in visible distance of the passenger station, where we remain for the night. Kiev is being evacuated. A visit to the union head- quarters fails to discover any prominent officials: they are preparing to leave in case of "revolutionary ne- 274 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH cessity." There is much speculation whether the Bol- sheviki will release the political prisoners before sur- rendering the town, as the enemy will undoubtedly execute all revolutionists who fall into its hands. On the streets joy at the departure of the Communists struggles with dread of the hated Poles.
Rising next morning at nine (by the new time; seven by the sun) I am surprised not to find my clothes in their accustomed place. Believing my friends to have played a hoax, I proceed to wake them. All my apparel and personal effects are gone: we have been robbed! The thief evidently entered through the open corridor window; the imprint of his bare feet is still on the rain-softened ground. We are certain the theft was committed by the militsioneri guarding the wood- pile about thirty feet from our car. It was a moonlit night. No one could have climbed through the win- dow without being seen by the sentry. In any case, a desperate undertaking, for such acts are now punish- able with death. Our interviews with the soldiers, inquiry and investigation fail to throw light on the robbery, and at heart we are glad. The loss, however great, is not worth a human life.
October 2. — Journeying toward Kursk. We still hope to be able to return south by way of Yekaterino- slav, but rumors are persistent of the taking of that city by Wrangel.
Splendid autumn day, clear and sunny. The coun- try is luscious — fields of black soil, primitive forests of oak and fir. But the weather is growing cold, and our car is unheated for lack of dry wood. Our supplies are almost exhausted; even the resourceful culinary art of Emma Goldman is unable to produce meals from an empty larder.
In the evening a rare sunset over the Western slope, the horizon aglow with luminous red. Broad lines of RETURNING TO PETROGRAD 275 purple afloat on an azure background, its base a light yellow of frayed edges. Now the dense woods hide the sky. I catch glimpses of the paling fire shimmering through the trees. Windmills of ancient Russian type and peasant khati, their roofs straw-covered, sides white-washed, slowly pass by, looking melancholy. Women at work in the fields; children driving a flock of black sheep. A solitary peasant trudges behind a pair of oxen hitched to a plow of primitive design. The country is even, flat, monotonous. It is growing dusk; our candles are exhausted.
In the gathering darkness, our little commune around the table, we exchange reminiscences. Today is the first anniversary of my release from the Federal prison.* A year rich with experience: intense days of anti-conscription agitation and opposition to world slaughter, arrest and detention at Ellis Island, stealthy deportation, and then — Russia and the life of the revo- lutionary period.
With the touching curiosity of the Russian in all things American our colleagues are absorbed in the story. The skyscraper, that bold striving toward the heights, is the symbol of the far-off world to them. Though theoretically familiar with American indus- trialism, their faith in that country as "free" is tradi- tional, persistent, and they experience a rude awakening at the recital of the actual facts of our economic and political life. Habituated to thinking the "American" a gentleman of large and noble nature, with a touch of manly irresponsibility almost akin to "interesting mad- ness," they are deeply shocked by the picture of prison existence with its tortures of solitary, underground dungeon, and "bull ring." Under the most cruel Tsar- ist regime, they assure me, the politicals were accorded •In Atlanta, Georgia, where the author served two years for anti-militarist propaganda.
276 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH better treatment even in the worst casemates of Petro- pavlovsk and Schliisselburg.
"Is it possible," our Secretary asks for the third time, "that in free, cultured America a prisoner may for years be kept in solitary, deprived of exercise and visitors?" * Only one year ago, yet how far it all seems, how re- moved from the present! Long trains of artillery rush through the darkness: the revolutionary army is routed on all fronts. The soldiers' plaintive song, now Rus- sian, now Ukrainian, grips the heart with heavy sad- ness, as our train slowly creeps along the flatlands of Northern Ukraina.
October 2t. A clear, cold day. The first snow of the season on the ground, Moscow presents a familiar sight, and I feel at home after our long absence.
Eagerly I absorb the news at the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs. The Twelfth Army has precipitately retreated from Warsaw, but the Poles are not pursuing. It is officially realized now what a serious and costly mistake the campaign was, and how baseless the ex- pectations of a revolution in Poland. It is hoped that a uick peace may be patched up without too great sacri- ces on the part of Russia. Happier is the news from other fronts. Eastern Siberia has been cleared of the last remnants of Kol- chak's army under Ataman Semyonov. In the Crimea Wrangel is almost entirely crushed, not the least share of credit admittedly belonging to Makhno. Far from aiding the counter-revolutionary forces, as had been reported, the povstantsi joined the fight against the White general. This development was the result of a Solitico-military agreement between the Bolsheviki and tfakhno, the main condition of the latter being the * See "Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist," by Alexander Berkman, Mother Earth Publishing Association, New York, 191a.
RETURNING TO PETROGRAD 277 immediate liberation of the imprisoned Anarchists and Makhnovtsi, and a guarantee of free speech and press for them in the Ukraina. The telegram sent at the time by Makhno requesting the presence of Emma Goldman and myself at the conferences did not reach us. It was not forwarded by the Foreign Office.
Our anxiety about Henry Alsberg is relieved: he is now safely in Riga, having been permitted to leave Russia after his forced return from the south. Albert Boni and Pat Quinlan are in the Tcheka, no definite reason for their detention being assigned. Mrs. Harri- son, my erstwhile neighbor in the Kharitonensky, is held as a British spy. Nuorteva, Soviet representative in New York, was deported from the States and is now at the head of the British-American bureau in the Foreign Office. Rosenberg, the bad-tempered and ill- mannered confidential secretary of Tchicherin, all- powerful and cordially disliked, is about to leave for the Far East, u on an important mission," as he informs me. Incidentally, as if by afterthought, he refers to the "funeral tomorrow," and with a shock I learn of the death of John Reed. The Expedition is to leave this evening for Petrograd, but we decide to postpone our departure in order to pay the last tribute to our dead friend.
A fresh grave along the Kremlin wall, opposite the Red Square, the honored resting place of the revolu- tionary martyrs. I stand at the brink, supporting Louise Bryant who has entirely abandoned herself to her grief. She had hastened from America to meet Jack after a long separation. Missing him in Petro- grad, she proceeded to Moscow only to learn that Reed had been ordered to Baku to the Congress of Eastern Peoples. He had not quite recovered from the effects of his imprisonment in Finland and he was unwilling to undertake the arduous journey. But Zinoviev in- sisted; it was imperative, he said, to have America rep- 278 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH resented, and like a good Party soldier Jack obeyed. But his weakened constitution could not withstand the hardships of Russian travel and its fatal infections. Reed was brought back to Moscow critically ill. In spite of the efforts of the best physicians he died on October 16.
The sky is wrapped in gray. Rain and sleet are in the air. Between the speakers' words the rain strikes Jack's coffin, punctuating the sentences as if driving nails into the casket. Clear and rounded like the water drops are the official eulogies falling upon the hearing with dull meaninglessness. Louise cowers on the wet ground. With difficulty I persuade her to rise, almost forcing her to her feet. She seems in a daze, oblivious to the tribute of the Party mourners. Buk- harin, Reinstein, and representatives of Communist sec- tions of Europe and America praise the advance guard of world revolution, while Louise is desperately clutch- ing at the wooden coffin. Only young Feodosov, who had known and loved Jack and shared quarters with him, sheds a ray of warmth through the icy sleet. Kollontay speaks of the fine manhood and generous soul that was Jack. With painful sincerity she ques- tions herself-— did not John Reed succumb to the neglect of true comradeship...
The Museum is highly pleased with the success of our Expedition. In token of appreciation the Board of Directors requested us to continue our work in the Crimea, now entirely freed from White forces. The mandate for the car has been prolonged till the close of the year.
But the independent, non-partisan character of the Museum activities is apparently displeasing to Com- munist circles in Moscow. They contend that the capi- tal, rather than Petrograd, should be the home of such an institution. The idea is sponsored, it is said, in oppo- RETURNING TO PETROGRAD 279 sition to the growing power of Zinoviev. Certain influ- ences are at work to curtail the Museum's sphere of action. With surprise we learn that a special body has been created in the center with exclusive authority to collect material concerning the history of the Russian Communist Party. The new organization, known as the Ispart, by virtue oFits Communist character, claims control over the Museum and has announced its in- tention of directing future expeditions.
The situation threatens the efficiency of our work. By request of the Museum, I have repeatedly visited Moscow in an endeavor to reach an amicable under- standing. Lunatcharsky, with whom I have discussed the matter, admits the justice of our position. But the Ispart continues to assert its supremacy, claims the right to our car, and insists on controlling the expedi- tions by placing a political commissar in charge.
The attitude of the Ispart is inimical to free initia- tive and best effort. It is also indicative of a lack of confidence. If persisted in, it would exclude my fur- ther cooperation. Under no conditions could I consent to the supervision of a commissar, whose duties are virtually identical with spying and denunciation. Sev- eral of my colleagues in the Expedition, including Emma Goldman, share this viewpoint.
During the negotiations it has been suggested that we visit the Far North to gather the historic data of the period of Allied occupation and the Provisional Gov- ernment of Tchaikovsky. The Ispart professes no in- terest in the undertaking and foregoes control over it. We welcome the opportunity and decide to make a short journey to Archangel via Moscow, where formalities are to be completed.
In the capital we find our friends in great consterna- tion. The Bolsheviki, it is charged, have treacherously had the povstantsi helped to defeat Wrangel than broken No sooner 28o THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH Trotsky ordered their disarmament. They were sur- rounded and attacked by Red forces, but succeeded in extricating themselves, and now open warfare has again been declared. Meanwhile the Anarchists, un- aware of these developments, had gathered from all parts of the country in Kharkov, where a conference was to be held December ist, in accordance with Makhno's agreement with the Bolsheviki. All of them, together with many local Anarchists, were ar- rested, among them my friends Volin and Baron, widely known as men of high idealism and revolution- ary devotion. The greatest fear is felt for their safety.
CHAPTER XXXVI . IN THE FAR NORTH December, 1920. — Yaroslavl, an ancient city, is picturesque on the banks of the Volga. Very impres- sive are its cathedrals and monasteries, fine specimens of the architectural art of northeastern Russia of feudal times. But desolate is the sight of the many demolished buildings and churches. On the opposite side of the river the whole district is wrecked by artil- lery and fire. Dismal reminders of the harrowing days of June, 19 18, when the counter-revolutionary insurrection led by Savinkov, once famous terrorist, was crushed. More than a third of the city was de- stroyed, its population reduced by half.
The shadow of that tragedy broods darkly over Yaroslavl. The hand laid upon the rebels was so heavy, its imprint is still felt. The people are cowed, terrified at the very mention of the ghastly days of June.
Through Vologda we reach Archangel, at the mouth of the Northern Dvina, almost within the Arctic Circle. The city is situated on the right bank, separated from the railroad station by the river which we cross on foot. The ice is dotted with peasant sleighs, some drawn by reindeer with huge, crooked antlers. The drivers are entirely wrapped in furs, only their narrow dark eyes and flat Lapland noses visible.
The streets are clean, the small frame houses well kept, "We have learned from the Occupation," Kulakov, Chairman of the Ispelkom, comments. He is