Surprise and fear for her safety struggled with my admiration of her courage. Her presence in Kiev, in the very lair of the Tcheka, means certain death were she to be recognized. Yet she has braved imminent peril and great difficulties in crossing the front. She has business in the city for the povstantsi, she said; she has also brought a message from Nestor: he is very anxious to have Emma Goldman and myself visit him. He is not far from the city, and arrangements could be made to enable us to see him.
Her manner was reserved, almost shy; but she was very positive in her views, and her expression clear and definite. She looked so frail and alone, I was overwhelmingly conscious of the great danger to which she was exposing herself. She gave me the feeling of a diminutive David rising up to smite Goliath.
"I'm not afraid," she said simply. "You know, I usually accompany Nestor, and he is always at the head She spoke with much warmth of Makhno's military ability, his great popularity among the peasantry, and the success of his campaigns against Denikin. But she s not uncritical, nor a blind hero-worshiper. On the contrary, she dwelt much more on the significance and purpose of the rebel peasant movement than on the role of its individual leaders. In the Makhnovstchina she sees the hope of Russia's liberation from the yoke of White generals, pomeshtchiki (landlords), and Bolshevik commissarship. The one is as hateful to her as the other, both equally subversive of liberty and the Revolution.
"I regard the povstantsi movement," she said, "as the only true proletarian revolution. Bolshevism is the mastery of the Communist Party, falsely called the dictatorship of the proletariat. It is very far from our conception of revolution. It is the rulership of a caste, of the socialist intelligentsia which has imposed its theories upon the toilers. Their aim is State Communism, with the workers and farmers of the whole country serving as employees of the one powerful government master. Its result is the most abject slavery, suppression, and revolt, as we see on every hand. But the people themselves — the proletarians of city and country — have an entirely different ideal, even though to a great extent only instinctive. They ignore all parties and are antagonistic to the political intellectuals; they distrust the non-working, privileged elements. Our aim is the class organization of the revolutionary toiling masses. That is the sense of the great Ukrainian movement, and its best expression is to be found in the Makhnovstchina. Without the help of government or political parties the peasants drove away the landlords; by their own efforts they secured the land. Their military units have successfully fought every counter-revolutionary force. The Bolsheviki with their Red Army usually came into the already freed district, there to impose their mastery upon city and country, and proclaim their dictatorship. Is it any wonder the people hate them and fight them as bitterly as the Whites?"
She is a typical specimen of the rebel Ukrainian, of the type molded in the crucible of hard revolutionary life. All night we talked of the burning problems of the South, of the needs of the peasantry, and the activities of the povstantsi, whose beloved and almost venerated leader is bafka * Makhno, the Stenka Razin of the Revolution.
She related stories of the great devotion of the peasantry to Nestor and told interesting anecdotes of his campaigns. Once, when Makhno with a small company found himself surrounded by a large Bolshevik force, he caused a marriage to be performed in the village occupied by the enemy. Makhno's men in borrowed holiday attire attended the celebration, their famous "sawed off" guns hidden upon their bodies. In the midst of the carousal, the Red soldiers the worse for the liquor freely supplied by the villagers, the pretended holiday makers opened fire, taking the Bolshevik garrison by surprise and putting them to flight.
The very mention of Makhno's name, Gallina said, brings terror to the enemy and frequently whole companies of the Red Army join his forces. Commissars and Communists — identical terms to the povstantsl —. find no mercy, but the common soldier is always given the choice of remaining with him or going free.
"That was the case also," she continued in her melodious voice, "with Grigoriev's army. You have •Father, leader.
heard of him, haven't you, comrade? He was an officer of the Tsar, but at the outbreak of the Revolution he became a free lance. At one time he was with Petlura, then he'fought him, and later he joined the Red Army. He was just a military adventurer, though not without some ability. He was very vain, loving to style himself the Ataman of Khersonstchina, because his greatest successes were in that province. Later he turned against the Bolsheviki and invited Makhno to make common cause with him. But Nestor found out that Grigoriev was planning to join Denikin; besides, he was guilty of many pogroms. The slaughter of Jews he organized in Yekaterinoslav in May of last year (1919) was especially atrocious. Makhno decided to eliminate him. He called a meeting, to which the Ataman and his men were invited. It was a large gathering at which 20,000 peasants and povstantsi were present.* Nestor publicly accused Grigoriev of counter-revolutionary designs, charged him with pogroms and denounced him as an enemy of the people. The Ataman and his staff were executed on the spot. Almost his whole force joined our povstantsi" Gallina spoke of executions in an even, ordinary tone, as of matters of common occurrence. Life in the Ukraina, among the rebel peasantry, had made constant struggle and violence the habitual tenor of her existence. Occasionally she would slightly raise her voice in indignation when reports of Jew baiting by povstantsi were mentioned. She felt deeply outraged by such base misrepresentation. These stories were deliberately spread by the Bolsheviki, she averred. No one could be more severe in punishing such excesses than Nestor. Some of his best comrades are Jews; there are a number of them in the Revolutionary Soviet and in other branches of the army. Few men •Took place in the village of Sentovo, Kherson province, July 27, 1 91 9.
are so loved and respected by the povstantsi as Yossif, the Emigrant, who is a Jew, and Makhno's best friend.
"We are not such barbarians as we are painted," she said with a charming smile. "But you will learn more about us when you visit us, which will not be far off, I hope."
She listened wistfully to the news from the Western world, and plied me with questions about life in America and the attitude of its workers to Russia. The role of women on the "other side" was of intense interest to her, and she was eager to procure books dealing at length with the subject. She looked dejected on learning that almost nothing was known in the States about the Ukrainian peasant movement, but she recovered quickly, remarking: "Naturally, for we are so isolated. But some day they will know."
The night had turned to dawn, and all too quickly the morning was breaking. It was high time for Gallina to be on her way. Regretfully she left us, expressing her confidence in our speedy meeting in the camp of Makhno. In complete self-possession she stepped out of the house, while with bated breath we accompanied her at a distance, fearful lest a chance identification result fatally for the daring girl.
CHAPTER XXXI THE TCHEKA A pall hangs over the home of my friend Kolya, the tailor. His wife is ill, the children neglected, dirty, and hungry. The plumbing is out of order, and water must be carried from the next street, four flights up. Kolya always performed the heavy work; his absence falls heavily upon the little family.
From time to time the neighbors look in on the sick woman. "Your husband will soon return," they assure her cheerfully, but I know that all their efforts to find him have proved fruitless. Kolya is in the Tcheka.
The workers of the clothing factory where my friend is employed have of late been very discontented. Their main complaint concerns the arbitrary methods of the yatcheika, the little group of Communists within every Soviet institution. Friction between them and the shop committee resulted in the arrest of the latter. In protest the workers declared a strike. Three delegates were sent to the Tcheka with the request to release the prisoners, but the men disappeared, and Kolya was among them.
"They call the strikers counter-revolutionists," Kolya's sister said. "They have made a list of the 'opposition' in the shop, and every day someone is missing."
"It's the old Pirro methods," remarked a neighbor, a young woman in charge of a children's dining room.
"Pirro methods?" I asked in surprise.
"Don't you know the Pirro affair? It was of a piece with the usual methods of Latsis, then head of the All-Ukrainian Extraordinary Commission. It was THE TCHEKA 241 in the summer of 19 19, and the Kiev Teheka was working—" "Working — that's right, just the proper word," interrupted her brother.
"Yes, 'working' under high pressure," she continued, "under instructions of Peters, who came from Moscow now and then. His presence in the city was always the signal for renewed arrests and shooting. Well, one day the Soviet papers announced the arrival of Count Pirro, Brazilian Ambassador. I was at the time employed in the Chinese Consulate, which gave a gala dinner in honor of the Count, on which occasion I made his acquaintance. I was surprised to find the Brazilian speaking excellent Russian, but he explained that he had spent many years in our country before the Revolution. He sighed over the old days, and did not in the least disguise his unfriendliness to Bolshevism and its methods.
"Within a few days he began to organize his staff on a large scale. He asked me and my friends to recommend people for work in his consulate. 'Except Bolsheviki,' he said. 'I want only bourgeois and intellectuals who have no sympathy with the Communists. They'll be safe with me,' he told us in confidence, hinting at the wholesale destruction of the intelligentsia by the Tcheka. Many hastened to offer their services to the Count, eager for the protection offered. Pirro accepted them all, placing some in his offices, while others were put on the waiting list, and their names and addresses recorded. To be brief, within a short time they were all arrested and most of them shot, among them Mme. Popladskaya, Pirro's personal secretary, whom he was pretending to help join her husband in Paris. Pirro disappeared, but he was seen to leave town in Peters' automobile. It soon became known that the alleged Brazilian Count was an agent of the Tcheka, a provocateur. Many people in Kiev are positive that it was Peters himself."
I related to my friend an incident which occurred soon after our Expedition arrived in the city. Early one morning a visitor called at our car, requesting to see the predsedateL Of commanding stature, well proportioned, and straight as a young pine, he was a fine specimen of physical manhood. He had just returned from the front, he said, as if in explanation of his ridiculously belligerent appearance: two heavy guns hung from his belt, a Tcherkassian dagger between them; at his side he carried a long sword, and a huge alarm whistle, set in silver, was suspended from his neck. His features were clean cut, nose aquiline, the sensuous lips somewhat shaded by a full beard. But the most striking feature were his eyes, the color of steel, cold, sharp, and piercing.
He introduced himself as an army man who had fought on every battlefield in the Ukraina. But he was tired of war and bloodshed, he said; he wanted a rest or at least a more peaceful occupation. The work of our Expedition appealed to him. Could he not be of service to us? Surely a large city like Kiev could not be thoroughly canvassed during our short stay. He would therefore suggest that we appoint a local man as our representative to continue the work after our Expedition should leave. He would consider himself honored to aid our important mission.
There was nothing unusual in his proposal, since it is our practice to leave an authorized person in the larger cities to supply the Museum with documents of current history. We promised to consider his application, and within a few days he called again. I thought he looked strangely animated, perhaps even under the influence of drink. He immediately launched into exaggerated assurances of his fitness as our collaborator. He knew every important Communist in THE TCHEKA the city, he asserted; he was even on terms of intimacy with most of them. The previous night, he declared, he had spent in the company of high-placed commissars, among whom was also the chief of the Tcheka. With that he began a recital of its activities, relating revolting details of torture and execution. He spoke with increasing fervor, and growing excitement. At last he announced himself a commandant. He had shot many counter-revolutionists, he boasted, and he had never felt any qualms about his work. His eyes gleamed with a fierce, savage fire, and suddenly he drew the dagger from his belt. Leaning over close to me and wildly waving the weapon, he cried, "Look at it — it's bloody to the hilt." Then he fell back into a chair, exhausted, and with a touch of sentimentality he muttered: "I've had enough — I'm tired — I want a rest." _ "To judge from your description," remarked the young woman, "it must have been X, one of the most notorious executioners of the provincial Tcheka. He is given to such escapades, especially when under the influence of drugs, for he is addicted to cocaine. One of his hobbies is to get himself photographed — like this."
She rose, searched a moment among her effects, and handed me a small picture. It represented a man entirely nude, gun in hand, in the posture of taking deliberate aim. I recognized our visitor.
• •••••• August 2j, 1920. — Rumors of Bolshevik reverses are delaying our departure. There are persistent reports of Red Army defeats: Odessa is said to be evacuating, an enemy fleet in the Black Sea attacking the city, and Wrangel marching against it from the Crimea.
Nothing definite is to be ascertained in the general confusion, but from authoritative circles we have learned that Red forces are being concentrated in the vicinity. The new developments, Yossif has informed me, compelled Makhno to retire from the province. To my great regret our plan of meeting the povstantsi leader becomes impracticable for the present. With much anxiety I think of Gallina and her safety in the new turn of affairs.
Our Expedition faces the alternative of returning to Moscow or proceeding further South. In spite of insistent advice to the contrary, we decide to continue according to our schedule, which includes Odessa and the Caucasus.
CHAPTER XXXII September 2, IQ20. — Late yesterday afternoon we reached Odessa, our little commune greatly disturbed over the fate of Alsberg. Our traveling companion, whose cheerful spirit and ready helpfulness contributed so much toward making our journey more pleasant, was arrested on August 30, while we were stopping in Zhmerinka. The local Tcheka agents had received orders from Moscow to "return the American correspondent, 11 because he had gone to the Ukraina "without the knowledge 11 of the authorities. In vain we argued and produced Zinoviev's letter giving Alsberg permission to join the Expedition. He was removed from the train, to be taken under convoy to Moscow. The wires we sent to Lenin, Zinoviev, and Balabanova, protesting against the arrest and urging the release of our friend, have so far remained unanswered.
The great city, formerly the most important shipping center of the country, was shrouded in darkness, its electric supply station having been almost completely destroyed by fire several days previously. With considerable difficulty we found our way to one of the principal thoroughfares. On the corner we were detained by a milltsioner who informed us that it is forbidden to be about after sunset, except by special permission. It required considerable persuasion before the officer was convinced of our "reliability 11 and permitted us to return to the car. Our first impressions seemed to justify the disconcerting reports we had heard en route.
No more cheerful is the once beautiful city in the S 4 6 THE BOLSHEVIK MYTH glow of the bright morning sun. Few persons are on the streets; the houses and parks are neglected; the pavements broken and filthy. Everywhere is evidence of the poverty and suffering in the wake of foreign occupation and civil war. Food is very scarce; prices exorbitantly high on the markets which are still permitted to operate. The peasants of the district, systematically expropriated by their changing masters, now refuse to plant more than is necessary for their own needs, leaving the cities to their fate.
Externally Odessa is quiet, and there is no sign of enemy warships in the harbor. But an atmosphere of anxious suspense is felt everywhere: bands of Green and Makhno forces are said to be in the neighborhood, and Wrangel is reported to have taken some villages northeast, in the vicinity of Rostov. A spirit of qui vive pervades the Soviet bureaus, everyone wearing a preoccupied air as if listening for the first note of alarm and ready to take flight.
Much disorganization prevails in the unions. The new Communist management has not yet gained full control over the "liquidated" Menshevik and Anarchist leadership. Many of the latter are still at the head of labor affairs, persistently elected by the workers in open defiance of Communist orders. Among the opposition Shakhvorostov, an Anarchist of militant type, has such a strong following that the Bolsheviki have not dared to remove him. Due to his friendly efforts, the Soviet of Unions has decided to call a meeting of secretaries, whom I am to address in the interest of the Museum.
The non-partisan proletarians, who constitute the great body of labor, look with scorn at the readiness of the Communists to flee should an enemy appear. Particularly the sailors of the destroyed Black Sea fleet, many of whom are in the city, resent the situation. The masses cannot evacuate, they say; the workers are doomed to remain, whoever comes, and to fight it out as best they can. Have not the unions, aided by the peasantry, waged successful guerrilla warfare against the Greek and Italian forces and the White generals? Then there was no distinction of political party — all revolutionists fought side by side. But every time the enemy is driven out, the Communists institute their dictatorship, seek to dominate the revolutionary committee in charge of the safety of the city, and eliminate the old and tried fighters. The masses know how to protect themselves against invaders, but they resent the domination of a political party that seeks to monopolize the Revolution.
Semyon Petrovitch, at whose home I spend considerable time, is an intelligent non-partisan of independent views. An able statistician, he has been permitted by the Bolsheviki to remain in the Department of Economy, where he had served under previous regimes. Semyon is convinced that the Soviet Government 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 Petrovitch repeats, "they have nationalized, registered, and taken an invoice of everything under the sun. One would think that complete order should reign. Indeed, 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 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 regulation."
As in other Soviet cities, the population is supplied with a bread and products card. But except Communists, 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 everything 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 (cooperative). Later, when the cooperatives were also closed and only kustarnoye (small scale) production remained legal, all the little stores began manufacturing cigarette lighters and rubber soles from stolen r.utomobile tires. Subsequently new decrees were issued permitting trade only in articles of food. Then 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. 'Nationalization 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 Government. The shopkeepers, having lost their shops, still remain traders; and they are now joined by those who formerly were workers, physical as well as intellectual. Necessity is stronger than laws, my dear friend. The real factory proletarians have become declassified: 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 enbankment 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 includes 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, homemade 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 humorous 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, expression 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 criticism of the dictatorship. Their attitude is prompted 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 partnership with the notorious Odessa criminals who were organized into regiments and possessed weapons and machine guns. They had first helped Ataman Grigoriev to take the city, and were later used by the Communists 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.
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 agreement 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 argument 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 newspaper), and I am to meet prominent members of the party.
The "oral newspaper 1 ' is the modern Russian surrogate 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 warning 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 suspicion. 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 defiantly. 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."