I jumped on the platform. "Let not this great hour be debased by unworthy thoughts," I cried. "From now on we are all one — one in the sacred work of the Revolution, one in its defense, one in our com- mon aim for the freedom and welfare of the people. Socialists or Anarchists — our theoretical differences are left behind. We are all revolutionists now, and shoulder to shoulder we'll stand, together to fight and to work for the liberating Revolution. Comrades, heroes of the great revolutionary struggles of Russia, in the name of the American deportees I greet you. In their name I say to you: We've come to learn, not to teach. To learn and to help!"
The deportees applauded, other speeches followed, ON SOVIET SOIL 3i and soon the unpleasant Bianki incident was forgotten. Amid great enthusiasm the meeting closed late in the evening, the whole audience joining in the singing of the International.
On the way to the station, where a train was wait- ing to take us to Petrograd, a large box of American crackers fell off the sleigh. The accompanying soldiers hungrily pounced upon it, but when told that the provisions were for the children of Petrograd, they immediately returned the box: to us. "Quite right," they said, "the little ones need it most."
Another ovation awaited us in Petrograd, followed by a demonstration to the Tauride Palace and a large meeting. Then we marched to the Smolny, where the deportees were quartered for the night.
CHAPTER III IN PETROGRAD January 21, IQ20. — The bright winter sun shines upon the broad white bosom of the Neva. Stately buildings on either side of the river, with the Ad- miralty rearing its slender peak on high, foppishly graceful. Majestic edifices as far as the eye can reach, the Winter Palace towering in their midst in cold tranquillity. The brass rider on the trembling steed is poised on the rough Finnish rock,* about to leap over the tall spire of the Petropavlovskaya guard- ing the city of his dream.
Familiar sight of my youth passed in the Tsar's capital. But gone are the gilded glory of the past, the royal splendor, the gay banquets of nobles, and the iron columns of the slavish military marching to the thunder of drums. The hand of Revolution has turned the city of luxurious idleness into the home of labor. The spirit of revolt has changed even the names of the streets. The Nevsky, immortalized by Gogol, Pushkin, and Dostoyevsky, has become the Prospect of October 25th; the square in front of the Winter Palace is now named in honor of Uritsky; the Kame- novstrovsky is called the Red Dawn. At the Duma the heroic bust of Lassale faces the passers-by as the symbol of the New Day; on the Konoguardeisky Boule- vard stands the statue of Volodarsky, arm outstretched, addressing the people.
Almost every street reminds me of the past struggles. There, in front of the Winter Palace, stood • Statue of Peter the Great IN PETROGRAD 33 the priest Gapon in the midst of the thousands that had come to beg the "Little Father" for mercy and bread. The square ran crimson with the blood of the workers on that fateful January day in 1905. Out of their graves, a year later, rose the first Revolution, and again the cries of the oppressed were drowned by the crack of artillery. A reign of terror followed, and many perished on the scaffold and in the prisons. But again and again rose the specter of revolt, and at last Tsarism gave way, powerless to defend itself, forsaken by all, regretted by none. Then came the great October Revolution and the triumph of the people — and Petrograd ever in the first line of battle.
The city looks deserted. Its population, nearly 3,000,000 in 19 17, is now reduced to 500,000. War and pestilence have almost decimated Petrograd. In the rights against Kaledin, Denikin, Koltchak, and other White forces, the workers of the Red City lost heavily. Its best proletarian element died for the Revolution.
The streets are empty; the people are in the fac- tories, at work. On the corner the young woman militsioner, rifle in hand, walks to and fro, stamping with her booted feet on the ground to keep warm. Now and then a solitary figure passes, all wrapped up and bent, dragging a heavy load on a sleigh.
The stores are closed, their shutters on. The signs still hang in their accustomed places — painted fruit and vegetables advertising the wares no more to be found within. Doors and windows are locked and barred, and everything is silent about.
The famous Apraksin Dvor is no more. All the wealth of the country, bought or stolen, used to be paraded there to tempt the passer-by. High-born barinya and chambermaid, good-natured blond peas- ant and sullen Tartar, absent-minded student and crafty 34 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH thief, mingled here in the free democracy of the market place. All things were to be had in the Dvor; human bodies were bought and sold, and souls bartered for money.
It is all changed now. At the entrance of the Labor Temple flames the legend: "Who does not work shall not eat."
In the public stolovaya (dining room) vegetable soup and kasha (gruel) are served. The diners bring with them their own bread, issued at the distributing points. The large room is unheated, and the people sit with their hats and coats on. They look cold and pale, pitifully emaciated. "If only the blockade were taken off," my neighbor at the table says, "we might be saved."
Some parts of the city bear evidence of the recent Yudenitch campaign. Here and there are remnants of barricades, piles of sand bags, and artillery trained upon the railroad station. The story of that fight is still on everybody's lips. "It was a superhuman effort," little Vera enthusiastically related. "The enemy was five times our number and at our very gates — on Krasnaya Gorka — seven miles from the city. Men and women, even children, turned out to build barricades, carry munitions to the fighters, and prepare to defend our homes to the last hand-to-hand struggle." Vera is only eighteen, fair and delicate as a lily, but she operated a machine gun.
"So sure were the Whites of their victory," Vera continued, "they had already distributed the ministerial portfolios and appointed the military governor of Petrograd. Yudenitch officials with their staffs were secretly in the city, waiting only for the triumphant entry of their Chief. We were in desperate straits; it seemed that all was lost. Our soldiers, reduced in numbers and exhausted, were disheartened. It was IN PETROGRAD 35 just then that Bill Shatov rushed to the scene. He gathered the little army about him, and addressed them in the name of the Revolution. His powerful voice reached the furthest lines; his passionate elo- quence lit the embers of revolutionary zeal, inspiring new strength and faith," "Forward, boys! For the Revolution!" Shatov thundered, and like desperate furies the workers threw themselves upon the Yudenitch army. The flower of the Petrograd proletariat perished in that struggle, but the Red City and the Revolution were saved.
With justified pride Shatov showed me the order of the Red Banner pinned on his breast. "For Krasnaya Gorka," he said, with a happy smile.
He has remained the jovial good fellow I knew him in America, made riper and more earnest by his ex- perience in the Revolution. He has held many impor- tant positions, and has won a reputation as an efficient worker and successful organizer. He has not joined the Communist Party; on many vital points, he says, he disagrees with the Bolsheviki. He has remained an Anarchist, believing in the ultimate abolition of political government as the only sure road to indi- vidual liberty and general well-being.
"Just now we are passing through the difficult stage of violent social revolution," Shatov said. "Several fronts are to be defended, and we need a strong, well-disciplined army. There are counter-revolution- ary plots to be guarded against and the Tcheka must keep a watchful eye on the conspirators. Of course, the Bolsheviki have committed many errors; that's because they are human. We live in the period of transition, of much confusion, constant danger, and anxiety. It is the hour of travail, and men are needed to help in the work of defense and reconstruction. We Anarchists should remain true to our ideals, but we 36 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH should not criticize at this time. We must work and help to build."
The Buford deportees are quartered in the Smolny. By Zorin's invitation I am staying at the Hotel As- toria, now known as the First House of the Soviet. Zorin, who was employed in America as a millman, is now Secretary of the Petrograd Section of the Com- munist Party, and the editor of the Krasnaya Gazetta, the official daily of the Soviet. He impresses me as a most devoted Communist and indefatigable worker. His wife, Liza, also an American emigrant, is the typical I.W.W. Though very feminine in figure, she is rough and ready of speech, and an enthusiastic Bolshevik.
Together we visited the Smolny. Formerly the exclusive home of high-born young ladies, it is now the busy seat of the Petrograd Government. The quarters of the Third International are also located here, and the sanctum of Zinoviev, its secretary, a large cham- ber sumptuously furnished and decorated with potted flowers and plants. On his desk I noticed a leather portfolio of huge size, the gift of his co-workers.
In the Smolny dining room I met a number of promi- nent Communists and Soviet officials. Some were in military uniform, others in corduroys and black student shirts belted at the waist, the tails on the outside. All looked pale, with sunken eyes and high cheek bones, the result of systematic undernourishment, overwork, and worry.
The dinner was much superior to the meals served in the public stolovaya. "Only the 'responsible work- ers,' Communists holding important positions, dine here," Zorin remarked. There are several gradations of pyock (rations), he explained. Soldiers and sailors receive one and a half pounds of bread per day; also sugar, salt, tobacco, and meat when possible. The fac- IN PETROGRAD 37 tory workers get one pound, while the non-producers — most of them intelligentsia — receive half a pound and even less. There is no discrimination about this system, Zorin believes; it is just division, according to the value of one's work.
I remember Vera's remark. "Russia is very poor," she said; "but whatever there is, all should share alike. That would be justice, and no one could complain."
In the evening I attended the anniversary celebra- tion of Alexander Herzen. For the first time I found myself within the walls of the Tsar's Palace, whose very mention had filled me with awe in my childhood. Never had I dreamed then that the forbidden name of Herzen, the feared Nihilist and enemy of the Romanovs, would some day be glorified there.
Red flags and bunting decorated the plaform. With interest I read the inscriptions: "Socialism is the religion of Man; A religion not of heaven but of the earth."
"The reign of the workers and peasants forever."
A large crimson banner represented a bell (Kolo- kol), the name of the famous paper published by Herzen in exile. On its side was stamped: "1870- 1920," and beneath, the words: "Not in vain have you died; What you have sown will grow."
After the meeting the audience marched to the home of Herzen, still preserved on the Nevsky. The dem- onstration through the dark streets, lit only by the torches of the participants, the strains of revolution- ary music and song, the enthusiasm of the men and women indifferent to the bitter cold — all impressed 38 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH me deeply. The moving silhouettes seemed the shades of the past come to life, the martyrs of Tsardom risen to avenge the injustice of the ages. How true is the Herzen motto: "Not in vain have you died; What you have sown will grow."
• • * » • * ■ The assembly hall of the Tauride Palace was filled with Soviet deputies and invited guests. A special session had been called to consider the difficult situa- tion created by the severe winter, and the growing scarcity of food and fuel.
Row above row stretched before me, occupied by men and women in grimy working clothes, their faces pale, their bodies emaciated. Here and there were men in peasant garb. They sat quietly, conversing little, as if exhausted by the day's toil.
The military band struck up the International, and the audience rose to their feet. Then Zinoviev as- cended the platform. The winter had caused much suffering, he said; heavy snowfall impedes railroad traffic, and Petrograd is almost isolated. A further reduction of the pyock (ration) has unfortunately become necessary. He expressed confidence that the workers of Petrograd — the most revolutionary, the advance-guard of Communism — would understand that the Government is compelled to take this step, and would approve its action.
The measure is temporary, Zinoviev continued. The Revolution is achieving success on all fronts — the glorious Red Army is winning great victories, the White forces will soon be entirely defeated, the country will get on its feet economically, and the workers will reap the fruit of their long martyrdom. The imperialists and capitalists of the whole world are against Russia, but the proletariat everywhere is with IN PETROGRAD 39 IN PETROGRAD 39 the Revolution. Soon the Social Revolution will break out in Europe and America — it cannot be far off now, for capitalism is crumbling to earth everywhere. Then there will be an end to war and fratricidal bloodshed, and Russia will receive help from the workers of other countries.
Radek, recently returned from Germany where he was a prisoner, followed Zinoviev. He gave an in- teresting account of his experience, lashing the Ger- man "social patriots" with biting sarcasm. A psuedo Socialist Party, he said, now in power, but too cowardly to introduce Socialism; traitors to the Revolution they are, those Scheidemanns, Bernsteins, et al., bour- geois reformists, agents of Allied militarism and in- ternational capital. The only hope is in the Com- munist Party of Germany which is growing by leaps and bounds, and is supported by the proletariat of Germany. Soon that country will be swept by revolu- tion — not a make-believe Social Democratic one, but a Communist revolution, such as that of Russia, and then the workers of Germany will come to the aid of their brothers in Russia, and the world will learn what the revolutionary proletariat can accomplish.
ance, well dressed, his beard neatly trimmed, he seemed strangely out of place in the assembly of ill-clad workers. As Chairman of the Peace Committee he reported on the conditions of the treaty just concluded with Latvia, receiving the applause of the assembly. The people are evidently eager for peace, whatever the conditions.
I had hoped to hear the deputies speak, and to learn the views and sentiments of the masses they rep- resent. But the members of the Soviet took no active part in the proceedings. They listened quietly to the speakers, and voted mechanically on the resolutions Of aristocratic appear- 4 o THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH presented by the Presidium. There was no discus- sion; the proceedings lacked vitality.
Some friction has developed among the Buford deportees. The Anarchists complain of discrimination in favor of the Communist members of the group, and I have been repeatedly called to the Smolny to smooth out difficulties.
The boys chafe at the delay in assigning them to work. I have prepared the anquettes of the group, classifying the deportees according to trade and ability, to aid in placing them to best advantage. But two weeks have passed, and the men are still haunting the Soviet departments, standing in line by the hour, seeking to be supplied with the necessary propuski and documents admitting them to work.
I have pointed out to Zorin what a valuable asset these deportees are to Russia: there are mechanics, miners, printers among them, needed in the present scarcity of skilled labor. Why waste their time and energy? I cited the matter of exchanging American currency. Most of the deportees brought some money with them. Their pyock is insufficient, but certain necessaries can be bought: bread, butter, and tobacco, even meat, are offered on the markets. At least a hundred of our boys have exchanged their American cash for Soviet money. Considering that each one had to find out for himself where the exchange could be made, often being directed wrongly, and the time each had to spend in the Soviet financial departments, it can be safely assumed that on the average each man required three hours for the transaction. If the deportees had a responsible committee, the whole mat- ter could have been managed in less than a day. "Such a committee could attend to all their affairs, and save time," I urged.
IN PETROGRAD 4i Zorin agreed with me. "It ought to be tried," he said.
I proposed to go over to the Smolny, call the men together, explain my proposition to them, and have the committee elected. "It would be well to assign a little room as the Committee's office, with a tele- phone to transact business," I suggested.
"You are very American," Zorin smiled. "You want it done on the spot. But that isn't the way," he added dryly. "I'll submit your plan to the proper authorities, and then we'll see."
"At any rate," I said, "I hope it can be done soon. And you may always call on me, for I am anxious to help."
"By the way," Zorin remarked, looking at me quiz- zically, "trading is forbidden. Buying and selling is speculation. Your people should not do such things." He spoke severely.
"You cannot call buying a pound of bread specula- tion," I replied. "Besides, the difference in the pyock encourages trade. The Government still issues money — it is legally in circulation."
"Y-e-s," Zorin said, displeased. "But better tell your friends not to speculate any more. Only shkur- niki, self-seeking skinners, do that."
"You are unjust, Zorin. The Buford men have and medicines they brought, to the children of Petro- grad. They have even deprived themselves of neces- sities, and the little cash they have kept the Govern- ment itself has turned into Soviet money for them." "Better warn the men, ' Zorin repeated.
CHAPTER IV MOSCOW February 10, IQ20. — The opportunity to visit the capital came unexpectedly: Lansbury and Barry, of the London Daily Herald, were in Petrograd, and I was asked to accompany them to Moscow as inter- preter. Though not entirely recovered from my recent illness, I accepted the rare chance, travel be- tween Petrograd and Moscow being limited to ab- solute necessity.
The railroad conditions between the two capitals (both cities are so considered) are deplorable. The engines are old and weak, the road in need of repair. Several times we ran short of fuel, and our engineer left the train to go off into the woods for a fresh supply of wood. Some of the passengers accompanied the crew to help with the loading.
The cars were crowded with soldiers and Soviet officials. During the night many travelers boarded our train. There was much shouting and cursing, and the plaintive cries of children. Then sudden silence, and an imperious command, "Get off, you devils. You don't belong here."
"The railroad Tcheka," the provodnik (car porter) came into the coupe to warn us. "Get your papers ready, tovarishtchi."
A dark, stocky man entered. My eye caught the gleam of a big Colt in his belt, without holster. Be- hind him stood two soldiers, with bayoneted rifles. "Your papers!" he demanded.
"English travelers," I explained, showing our docu- ments.
"Oh, pardon, tovarishtch't," — his manner changed 4* MOSCOW 43 instantly, as he caught sight of Lansbury, wrapped in his great fur coat, tall and side-whiskered, the typical British bourzhooi.
"Pardon," the Tchekist repeated, and without look- ing at our documents he stepped into the next coupe.
We were in the special coach reserved for high Bolshevik officials and foreign guests. It was lit by candles, had upholstered couches, and was compara- tively clean. The rest of the train consisted of third- class cars, containing double tiers of wooden benches, and of some teplushki (freight cars) used for pas- senger traffic, without light or heat, incredibly crowded and filthy.
At every station we were besieged by crowds clam- oring for admission. "N'yet mesta, n'yet mesta!" (No room!) the militiamen accompanying the train kept shouting, repeatedly drawing their guns. I called the attention of the officers to the vacant places in our compartment, but they waved me aside. " 'Tis not for them," they said.
Arriving at the Moscow depot we found platform and waiting room a dense mass, almost everyone with a heavy load on his back, pushing and shouting, those in front trying to get past the armed guards at the gates. The people looked worn and begrimed, most of them having spent several days at the station, sleep- ing at night on the floor, and waiting their turn to be let through.
With difficulty we made our way to the street. There scores of women and children fell upon our things, each trying to drag them to his little sleigh and assuring us he'll carry our effects anywhere for a small price. "A bit of bread, little father," the children begged; "just a little, for Christ's sake."
It was bitterly cold, deep snow on the ground. The children stood shivering, knocking one foot against the other for warmth. Their emaciated little face9 44 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH were blue and pinched, some of the boys barefoot on the frozen steps.
"How starved they look, and how poorly clad," I remarked.
"No worse than you see at the London stations," Lansbury replied curtly. "You're hypercritical, Berkman."
In an automobile of the Foreign Office we were driven to a large house, with high iron fence and guard at the gate, the former residence of Y, the Sugar King of Russia, now occupied by Karakhan.
A palatial home, with costly carpets, rare tapestries, and paintings. The young man who met us and who int. oduced himself as Tchicherin's secretary, assigned Lansbury and Barry to the guest wing. "I regret we have no spare room for you," he said to me; "we didn't expect you. But I shall send you to the Khari- tonensky" The latter proved to be a Soviet guest house, on the street of the same name. Formerly owned by a German merchant, it is now nationalized and serves to house delegates and visitors from other parts of the country.
In the Kharitonensky I was informed that the com- mandant of the house was absent, and that nothing could be done without his orders. I waited two hours, and when the commandant finally appeared he said that he had not been notified of my coming, had re- ceived no instructions to prepare a room for me, and that, moreover, no rooms were vacant.
Here was a dilemma. A stranger in a city without hotels or boarding houses, and no lodgings to be had except by order of one or the other of the Soviet institutions. As I had not been invited or sent to Moscow by any of its government branches, I could not count upon them to secure a room for me. Mos- cow is fearfully overcrowded, and the multiplying MOSCOW 45 MOSCOW 45 Government departments constantly need new quar- ters. Visitors who cannot find a place often pass the night at the railroad station, the commandant sug- gested. I was about to take the hint, when we were approached by a man wearing a white fur cap with ear pieces reaching to his knees. A Siberian, I thought, from his dress.
"If the commandant does not object, perhaps you will share my room till another is vacant?" he said pleasantly, speaking good English.
The commandant, having examined my papers, con- sented, and presently I was installed in my friend's large and pleasantly warm room.
He looked at me carefully, then asked: "Are you from San Francisco?"
"Yes, I used to live there. Why do you ask?"
"Is your name Berkman?"
"Yes."
"Alexander Berkman?" he persisted. "Yes."
He embraced me, kissing me thrice in Russian fashion. "Why," he said, "I know you. I used to live in Frisco myself. Saw you many a time — at meetings and lectures. Don't you remember me? I'm Sergei. I lived on the Russian Hill. No, of course, you wouldn't remember me," he ran on. "Well, I returned to Russia at the outbreak of the February Revolution, by way of Japan. Been to Siberia, in Sakhalin and the East, and now I have brought our report to the Party."
"Are you a Communist?" I inquired.
"A Bolshevik," he smiled, "though not a Party mem- ber. I used to be a Left Social Revolutionist, but I'm close to the Communists now, and have been working with them since the Revolution."
Again he embraced me.
CHAPTER V THE GUEST HOUSE February 25. — Life in the Kharitonensky is inter- esting. It is an ossobniak (private house), large and roomy, and contains a number of delegates and guests. At meal time we gather in the common dining room, furnished in the bourgeois taste of the typical German merchant. The house has weathered the Revolution without any change. Nothing has been touched in it; even the oil painting of the former owner, life-size, flanked by those of his wife and children, still hangs in its accustomed place. One feels the atmosphere of respectability and correctness.
But at meals a different spirit prevails. The head of the table is occupied by V, a Red Army officer in military uniform of English cut. He is the chief of the Ukrainian delegation come for an important conference to u the center." A tall, strapping fellow, not over thirty, of military bearing and commanding manner. He has been in many fights against Kaledin and Denikin, and was repeatedly wounded. When still an officer in the Tsar's army he became a revolutionist. Later his party, the Left Social Revolutionists of the South, joined the Communists of the Ukraina.
Next to him sits K., black-haired and black-bearded, member of the Central Rada when it was broken up by Skoropadsky with the aid of German bayonets. To his right is another delegate from the Ukraina, a student with soft black beard, the only one who un- derstands English. The editor of the Communist paper of Kiev and two young women are also in this party.
One of the foreign visitors is "Herman," a middle- aged German grown gray and old in the revolution- ary struggle. He was sent by the minority of the 46 THE GUEST HOUSE Spartacus Party to enlist the moral and financial sup- port of the Bolsheviki; but Radek, he complains, refuses to recognize the rebellious minority. Near Herman sits young L., an American I.W.W., who hoboed his way to Russia without pass or money. There are also several correspondents from Sweden, Holland, and Italy, two Japanese, and a Corean Com- munist who was brought a prisoner from Siberia because of some peculiar misunderstanding.
The steaming samovar is on the table, and a buxom young woman is serving us. She is red-cheeked and country-like, but her demeanor is free and unforced, and she uses tovarishtch with an ease indicating a full- grown sense of equality. From snatches of her con- versation with the diners I gather that she had been working in a shoe factory till she entered the service of the former owner of the house, before the Revolu- tion, and has remained in the ossobniak after it was nationalized. She calls herself a Bolshevik, and speaks familiarly about the proceedings at the meetings of the women Communist circle, at which she often presides. . She seems to personify the great revolutionary up- heaval: the master driven from the house, the servant become the equal of the guests, all tovarishtchi in a common cause.
Surrogat tea or coffee is served in the morning — one cannot tell the difference. Breakfast consists of several small slices of black bread, a bit of butter and occasionally an attenuated layer of cheese. At dinner we receive a thin soup of fish or vegetables; sometimes there is also a piece of meat, cooked or fried. Supper is usually the same as breakfast. I always feel hun- gry after meals, but fortunately I still have some American crackers. Everyone watches anxiously if there is an unoccupied seat at the table. In their eyes I read the frank hope that the missing one may not come: there will be a little more soup left for the others.
48 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH The Ukrainians bring "private packages" to the table — chunks of solo (fat) or pork sausage, wrapped in pieces of paper written on both sides. Yesterday I casually glanced at one of these wrappers. It was a circular letter of the Tsarist police, descriptive of a man charged with the murder of his brother. It was evidently torn out of an office file. Paper is scarce, and even old newspapers are too valuable to be used as wrappers.
The Ukrainians never offer their delicacies to their neighbors at table. Today at dinner I placed my can of condensed milk before the man at my side, but he needed urging before he dared use some in his coffee. I asked him to pass it around. In con- sternation he protested, "Tovarishtch, keep it for your- self, you'll need it." All the others declined at first, but their eyes burned with desire for the "American product." The can was emptied quickly amid the general smacking of lips and words of admiration in Slavic superlatives. "Miraculous, worshipful," they cried.
I spend considerable time with the Ukrainians, learning much about their country, its history, lan- guage, and its long revolutionary struggle. Most of the delegates, though young in years, are old in the revolutionary movement. They worked "under- ground" under the Tsar, took part in numerous strikes and uprisings, and fought against the Pro- visional Government. Later, about the end of 19 17, when the Rada turned reactionary and made common cause with Kaledin and Krasnov, the notorious White generals, these delegates helped the Bolsheviki to fight them. Then came the German invasion and Hetman Skoropadsky. Again these men fought the Direk- torium and Petlura, its dictator, after the latter had upset the Hetman. Finally they joined the Com- munist Party in waging war against Denikin and his counter-revolutionary forces.
THE GUEST HOUSE 49 A long and desperate struggle, full of suffering and misery. Most of them have lost near and dear ones at the hands of the Whites. The three brothers of the Rada member perished in the various fights. The young wife of the student was outraged and killed by a Denikin officer, while her husband was awaiting execution. Later he succeeded in escaping from prison. He showed me her picture, standing on the desk in his room. A beautiful, radiant creature. His eyes grew moist as he narrated the sad story.
Many visitors call on the Ukrainians. There is no propusk system in the Kharitonensky, and people come and go freely. I have made interesting acquaint- ances, and spent many hours listening to the Ukrainian delegates exchanging experiences with their Russian friends. Some days are like a kaleidoscope of the Revolution, every turn tossing up new facets of varie- gated hue and brilliancy: stirring incidents of struggle and strife, stories of martyrdom and heroic exploit. They visualize the darkness of the Tsarist dungeons suddenly lit up by the flames of the February Revolu- tion, and the glorious enthusiasm of the liberation. Surpassing joy of freedom, and then the sadness of great hopes unfulfilled, and liberty remaining an empty sound. Again the rising waves of protest; the soldiers fraternizing with the enemy; and then the great October days that sweep capitalism and the bourgeoisie out of Russia, and usher in the new world and the new Humanity.
These men fill me with wonder and admiration. Common workers and soldiers, but yesterday mute slaves, they are today the masters of their fate, the rulers of Russia. There is dignity in their bearing, self-reliance and determination — the spirit of assurance that comes with struggle and the exercise of initiative. The fires of Revolution have forged new men, new personalities.
CHAPTER VI TCHICHERIN AND KARAKHAN February 24. — It was 3 A. M. In the Foreign Office correspondents were about and visitors come by appointment with Tchicherin. The People's Commis- sar for Foreign Affairs has turned night into day.
I found Tchicherin at a desk in a large, cold office, an old shawl wrapped around his neck. Almost his first question was "how soon the revolution could be expected in the States." When I replied that the American workers were still too much under the influ- ence of the reactionary leaders, he called me pessi- mistic. In a revolutionary time like the present, he thought, even the Federation of Labor must quickly change to a more radical attitude. He was very hope- ful of revolutionary developments in England and America in the near future.
We discussed the Industrial Workers of the World, Tchicherin saying that he believed I exaggerated their importance as the only revolutionary proletarian move- ment in America. He considered the Communist Party in that country of far greater influence and significance. He had recently seen several American Communists, he explained, and they informed him on the labor and revolutionary situation in the States.
A clerk entered with a typed sheet. Tchicherin scanned it carefully, and began making corrections. His neck shawl kept sliding down on the paper, and impatiently he would throw it back over his shoulder. He read the document again, made more corrections, and looked displeased. "Terribly confused," he mut- tered irritably.
"I'll have it retyped at once," the clerk said, pick- ing up the paper.
TCHICHERIN AND KARAKHAN $i Tchicherin impatiently snatched it out of his hand, and without another word his lean, bent figure dis- appeared through the door. I heard his short, nervous step in the corridor.
"We are used to his ways," the clerk remarked apologetically.
"I met him on the stairs without hat or coat when I came up," I said.
"He is all the time between the second and the fourth floor," the clerk laughed. "He insists on taking every paper to the radio room himself."
Tchicherin returned all out of breath, and took up the conversation again. Messengers and telephone kept interrupting us, Tchicherin personally answering every call. He looked worried and preoccupied, with difficulty picking up the thread of our talk.
"We must bend every effort toward recognition," he said presently, "and especially to lift the blockade." He hoped much in that direction from the friendly attitude of the workers abroad, and he was pleased to hear of the growing sentiment in the United States for the recall of American troops from Siberia.
"No one wants peace so much as Russia," he said emphatically. "If the Allies would come to their senses, we would soon enter into commerce with them. We know that business in England and America is eager for such an opportunity."
"The trouble with the Allies," he continued, "is that they don't, want to realize that we have the country back of us. They still cling to the hope of some White general rallying the people to his banner. A vain and stupid hope, for Russia is solidly for the Soviet Gov- ernment."
I related to Tchicherin the experience of the Buford deportees on the Finnish border, and repeated to him the request of a certain American correspondent I had met there to be admitted to Russia.
52 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH "He is from a bourgeois newspaper," Tchicherin re- marked, recalling that the man had been refused a Soviet visa. u On what ground does he apply again?"
"He asked me to tell you that his newspaper was the first in America to take a friendly attitude to the Bolsheviki."
Tchicherin became interested, and promised to con- sider the application.