Bitter indignation and excitement prevail in labor and revolutionary circles as a result of the arrest. Astrov, a well-known Socialist, is a personality respected throughout Russia. His opposition to the Bolsheviki is purely intellectual, excluding hostile activities against the Government. It is reported, however, that the authorities hold him "morally responsible" for the wave of strikes that has recently swept the city. Astrov's comrades are distracted at their failure to ascertain the fate of their leader. The Tcheka declines to accept a peredatcha (packages of food or clothing), an omen which inspires the worst fears. It indicates strictest isolation — it may even signify that the prisoner has been shot.* More hated even than in Kiev is the Tcheka in Odessa. Ghastly stories are told of its methods and the ruthlessness of the predsedatel, a former immigrant from Detroit. The personnel of the institution consists mostly of old gendarme officers and criminals whose lives had been spared "for services to be rendered in fighting counter-revolution and speculation." The latter is particularly proscribed, the "highest form of punishment" — shooting — being meted out to ♦Astrov later died in prison.
offenders. Executions take place daily. The doomed are piled into automobile trucks, face downward, and driven to the outskirts of the city. The long line of the death-vehicles is escorted by mounted men riding wildly and firing into the air — a warning to close the windows. At the appointed place the procession halts. The victims are made to undress and to take their places at the edge of the already prepared common grave. Shots resound — the bodies, some lifeless, some merely wounded, fall into the hole and are nastily covered with sod.
But though the "speculation" is forbidden and the possession or exchange of Tsarist money is frequently punished by death, the members of the Tcheka themselves receive part of their salary in tsarskiye, whose purchasing power is many times that of Soviet paper. There is considerable circulation of the forbidden currency on the markets, and it is rumored that Tcheka agents themselves are the chief dealers. I refuse to believe the charge till a member of the Expedition informs me that he succeeded in advantageously converting some of the tsarskiye, officially given us in Moscow, into Soviet money. "You are taking a great risk in exchanging," I warn him.
"No risk at all," he replied gleefully. "Do you think I am tired of life that I would sell on the open market? I traded it through an old friend, and it was the good man N himself who did the little business forme."
N is a high placed magistrate of the Tcheka.
With Emma Goldman I attend a gathering of local Anarchists come to meet the "comrades from America." The large room is filled with a mixed company — students and workers, Soviet employees, soldiers, and some sailors. Every non-governmental tendency is represented: there are followers of Kropotkin and of Stirner, adherents of positivism and immediate actionists, with a number of Sovietsky Anarchists, so called because of their friendly attitude to the Bolsheviki.
It is an informal assembly of the widest divergence of opinion. Some denounce the Communists as reactionary; others believe in their revolutionary motives, but entirely disapprove of their methods. Several consider the present stage as a transitory but inevitable phase of the Revolution. But the majority deny the historic existence of such a period. Progress, they claim, is a continuous process, every step foreshadowing and shaping the next. Long-continued despotism and terror destroy the possibilities of future liberty and brotherhood.
The most animated discussion revolves about the proletarian dictatorship. It is the basic problem, determined by one's conception of revolution and in turn determining one's attitude to the Bolsheviki. The younger element unreservedly condemn the Party dictatorship with its violence and bloodshed, its punitive measures, and general counter-revolutionary effects. The Sovietsky Anarchists, though regretting the ruthlessness of Communist practice, consider dictatorship inevitable at certain stages of the revolution. The discussion is drawn out for hours, and the vital question is obscured by theoretic assertions. I feel that the years of storm and stress have entirely uprooted the old values without having clarified new concepts of reality and vision.
"Can you suggest something definite in place of the dictatorship?" I ask at last. "The situation demands a unified purpose."
"What we have is a dictatorship over the proletariat," retorts an enthusiastic Kropotkinist.
"That is begging the question. Not the faults and shortcomings of the Bolsheviki are at issue, but the dictatorship itself. Does not the success of the Revolution presuppose the forcible abolition of the bourgeoisie and the imposing of the proletarian will upon society? In short, a dictatorship?"
"Assuredly," assents the young woman at my side, a Left Social Revolutionist; "but not the dictatorship of the proletariat only. Rather the dictatorship of the toilers, including the peasantry as well as the city workers."
"If the Communists would not persecute the Anarchists, I'd be with them," remarks an Individualist Anarchist.
The others scorn his narrow partisanship, but the Kropotkinists refuse to accept dictatorship. There may be times during a revolutionary period where violence, even organized force, becomes necessary, they admit. But these matters must rest in the hands of the workers themselves and not be institutionalized in such bodies as the Tcheka, whose work is detrimental and fosters a counter-revolutionary spirit among the violated masses.
The discussion gives no promise of reaching a basis for common work with the Bolsheviki. Most of those present have for years consecrated themselves to their ideal, have suffered persecution and imprisonment till at last the Revolution triumphed. Now they find themselves outlawed even by the Communists. They are deeply outraged by the "advance guard of the proletariat" turning executioners of the best revolutionary elements. The abyss is too wide to be bridged. With deep sorrow I think of the devotion, ability, and idealism thus lost to the Revolution, and of the fratricidal strife the situation inevitably involves.
* 5 • * • • * September 3, 1920. — Wrangel is reported to be advancing northwest after having defeated the Red Army in several engagements. Budenny's cavalry is in retreat, leaving open the road to Rostov. Alyoshki, a suburb of Kherson, is invested by the Whites, and refugees are streaming into Odessa. Official silence feeds popular nervousness, and the wildest rumors are gaining circulation.
Our work in the city is completed, but the new military situation makes it impossible to continue our journey southeast, toward the Caucasus, as originally planned. We have therefore decided that the Expedition remain in Odessa, while two of its members attempt to reach Nikolayev, there to determine the possibilities of proceeding further. The predsedatel and secretary have been chosen for the task.
My colleagues have already left the city to take up their quarters in the car. With our secretary, Alexandra Shakol, I am loading the collected material on a cart. There is a large quantity, and the underfed old mare is barely able to pull the weight. It is pouring, the pavement is broken and slippery; the poor beast seems about to collapse.
"Your horse is exhausted,'* I remark to the driver, a peasant woman.
She does not reply. The reins have fallen out of her hands, her head is bent forward, and her body is shaken as if with the ague.
"What is the matter, matushkaf" I call to her.
She looks up. Her eyes are red and tears are coursing down her cheeks, leaving streaks of yellow dirt behind. "Curses be upon you!" she mutters between sobs.
The horse has stopped. The rain is pouring with increased force, the chill pierces knife-like.
"Cursed be you all!" she cries vehemently.
We try to soothe her. The Secretary, a native Russian, herself of peasant stock, impulsively kisses the old woman on both cheeks. By snatches we learn that two days ago she had carted a load of hay to the city, part of her village's share of the razvyorstka. Returning home she was halted by a requisitioning detachment. She pleaded that her cattle had long ago been confiscated and only the one horse left her; as the widow of a Red Army man she is exempt from further requisition. But she had no documents with her, and she was taken to the police station. The Commissar berated his men for impressing an unfit animal for army duty, and the woman was overjoyed. But as she was about to leave, he detained her. "Your horse will do for light jobs," he said; "you will give us three days 1 labor duty."
She has been working two days now, receiving only half a pound of bread and no fodder for the beast except a little straw. This morning she was ordered to our quarters.
Most of the vehicles and horses have been nationalized; those still privately owned are subject to temporary requisition by the Tramot (transport bureau) for a specified number of hours weekly. In vain we hail the passing izvostchiki; all pretend to be "on Soviet duty." The woman grows hysterical. The horse is apparently unable to move further. The rain is wetting our material, the wind tearing at our newspaper files and blowing precious leaves into the street. At last with voices and shoulders we induce the horse to proceed, and after a long ride we reach the railroad station. There we hastily write a "receipt" testifying that the "requisitioned peasant and horse" have fulfilled their labor duty, give the woman a chunk of bread and a few tidbits for her children, and send her home bowing and repeating, "Bless you, good barin (master), God bless you."
CHAPTER XXXIII Railroad communication between Odessa and Nikolayev is suspended, but we have been informed that a motor truck belonging to the Maritime Ossobiy Otdel (Tcheka) is to leave for that city at midnight on September 6.
Accompanied by the Secretary, I proceeded early in the evening to the place of departure. For hours we tramped unfamiliar streets and tortuous alleys without finding the appointed place. Fearfully my companion clung to me, Odessa's reputation for lawlessness and the brutality of its bandit element filling us with alarm. In the darkness we lost our bearings and kept circling within the crooked alleys near the docks, when suddenly there came the command, "Who goes there?" and we faced guards pointing guns at us. Fortunately we had secured the military password.
"Tula-Tar " "Tarantass," the soldier completed, permitting us to pass and directing us on our way.
It was after 2 A. M. when we reached the Maritime Otdel. But no machine was in sight, and we were overwhelmed with disappointment at the thought that we had missed the rare opportunity of reaching Nikolayev. Inquiries at the Tcheka elicited the unwilling information that the motor had not yet arrived, and no one knew when it was due.
We spent the night in the street, the Tchekists refusing us permission to remain indoors. At five in the morning the car arrived, piled high with clothing and ammunition for the Nikolayev garrison. Quickly we climbed to the top, soon to be joined by a number of soldiers accompanied by women. Everything seemed ready for the start, when the chauffeur announced that the gasoline issued him was not sufficient to carry us to our destination, 200 miles northeast. A short, heavyset sailor, addressed as commandant and apparently in charge of the journey, gruffly ordered everyone off the truck. His command ignored, he drew a revolver, and we all made haste to obey.
"Now you'll have enough juice," he declared.
The soldiers protested: they were the convoy sent to accompany the consignment to Nikolayev. Swearing and cursing, the drunken sailor consented to their riding, and they climbed back pulling several girls up after them.
u No heifers!" the sailor shouted, but the women, stretching themselves on top of the load, paid no attention. The commandant got into a violent altercation with the chauffeur, accusing him of delaying the departure and threatening to arrest him. The driver pleaded that the truck had not been loaded on time; its belated arrival was not his fault. The Tchekist cursed and swore in a manner that surpassed anything I had ever before heard in Russia, the variegated complexity of his oaths defying even approximate rendering into English. Meanwhile the number of passengers had increased. The sailor grew furious, and again displaying his Colt, he forced everyone to climb down. Three times the process was repeated, no one daring to resist the drunken commandant. We stood in the driving rain, the uncovered clothing on the truck getting soaked, while the chauffeur was pretending to be busy with the machine, yet stealthily watching the Tchekist. Presently the latter walked out of the yard, whereupon the driver also disappeared. After an hour he returned carrying a large can and followed by half a score of men and women. He announced that all was in readiness, and there began a scramble of the new arrivals for a place. At last the huge machine got into motion, the living mass on top desperately clinging for support as we gradually gained speed. "You'll never make half the way with that load," the commandant shouted, rushing out into the street and threateningly waving his gun.
Over hills, down valleys, and across fields the auto sped, the chauffeur driving recklessly and every moment endangering our lives as the machine tore its way over large holes in the ground or wildly rushed down steep inclines. Our route lay along the sea and over waste land still bearing evidence of past military activities. The large estate of Sukhomlinov, the great Russian magnate, stretched for miles before us entirely deserted, the celebrated cattle appropriated by the villagers, the place now uncultivated. "No seed," laconically commented one of the peasants. "What would be the use?" another replied.
Long lines of wagons drawn by oxen and loaded with flour and potatoes crawled in the distance — the proceeds of the razvyorstka being delivered to Odessa.
The sailors, talkative and jolly, passed their time railing at the three peasants, typical Ukrainians. The latter took their banter in good humor, somewhat awed and not always comprehending the full drift of the slangy Russian. They were much friendlier with the soldiers, themselves Ukrainians, and presently they began exchanging experiences. They hailed from Krasnoye Selo; the razvyorstka tax upon their village was very heavy, and the local Soviet had sent them to Odessa to secure a reduction of the assessment. But they received no satisfaction in the big city; they spent days in line at the various bureaus without accomplishing anything. Most of the officials just laughed at them; others ignored them. One Commissar even threatened to arrest them. Life has become harder than ever before, they complained. Under the Tsar they Had been serfs; the White generals robbed them of their sons and cattle. They had set great hopes upon the Bolsheviki. "But it is the same whoever comes," the peasants sighed; "for us poor people it's always the same."
Two of the soldiers had participated in the campaign against Makhno, and they were exchanging experiences. They spoke freely of his exploits, of the original methods that enabled him to defeat greatly superior forces, and of the numerous times he had been surrounded by White or Red armies, yet always escaping, often in a most miraculous manner. They admired the clever ruse by which Makhno took Yekaterinoslav, then in the hands of Petlura. A handful of his men, dressed as peasants, crossed the bridge leading to the lower part of the city, with their arms hidden in carts. On reaching the other side, they unexpectedly opened fire on the Petlura men guarding the approaches. The sudden attack struck panic to the garrison, and Makhno's army easily took the city.
"We've got to catch him," one of the soldiers concluded, as if in self-justification, "but you can't deny it, he's a molodets (daring fellow)."
Both of them had once been taken prisoners by Makhno. Their last hour had come, they thought, as together with other captives they were led before the feared bat'ka. A slender young man with sharp, piercing eyes faced them sternly and began haranguing them. Bolshevik Commissars were no better than White generals, he said; both oppressed the people and robbed the peasants. He, Makhno, would defend the Revolution against all enemies. He promised that the prisoners would be given the choice of joining the povstantsi or going home, but the Red soldiers feared Makhno was deriding them. Yet he kept his word.
"Bat'ka kills only Jews and Commissars," one of the peasants drawled.
In the evening we stopped at Krasnoye Selo, in the district of the German colonies. The little frame houses, white-washed and clean, were a pleasant contrast to the straw-thatched, dirty izba of the Russian peasant. Few men were to be seen, most of them drafted in the White or Red armies. Only women, children, and very old peasants were about. With my companion I followed a party of sailors and soldiers in search of lodgings for the night. At our approach the villagers ran terrified indoors. The sailors ordered them to bring food, but the women, weeping and imploring for mercy, called God to witness that the recent razvyorstka had taken their last provisions. They could offer only bread and country cheese. The Tchekists swore at them, fingered their guns, and demanded to be taken to the cellar. There they appropriated whatever eatables they could find.
Distressed I left with my companion to seek hospitality for ourselves. Word had passed of the arrival of "the Commissars," and the houses were barricaded. After many vain attempts we gained admission to a khata at the furthest end of the village. It was occupied by a woman and her three children, the oldest a girl of fourteen, whom her mother had hidden at our approach. She accepted our offer to pay, and set black bread and sour milk before us. Soon the neighbors began to drop in. They stood timidly on the threshold, observing us with unfriendly eyes and exchanging whispered remarks. Gradually they gained confidence, advanced toward the table, and began conversing. They were totally ignorant of the events in the world at large; what was happening in Russia, even, was entirely incomprehensible to them. They knew that the Tsar was no more and that freedom had been given the peasant. But they felt some huge deceit had been played on the "dark people" by those in high places. They were constantly harassed by the military, they complained; soldiers of every kind and armed men without uniforms kept swooping down upon the village, 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 commissars 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, returning later hurt and sick. In a neighboring village the fmnitive expedition whipped old peasants on the pubic square. In a place thirty versts from Krasnoye eighteen peasants hanged themselves after the commissars 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 incomprehension. "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 underground revolutionary activity. In later years Nikolayev 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 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 between 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 Communists are feverishly active to rouse the population to united defense, appealing particularly to the proletarians and reminding them of the slaughter of the workers by Slastchev, Wrangel's chief general, notorious 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 examined 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 monarchism 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 conducting 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 peasants (1922)- atrocities. The Jewish population lives in mortal dread, previous occupations having been accompanied by fearful pogroms. At the "underground" restaurant near the Soviet House the guests relate incidents of almost incredible barbarities. They speak indiscriminately 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 Communists 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 vengeance 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)," another warns.
CHAPTER XXXIV A BOLSHEVIK TRIAL Having learned that old police records are in possession 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 material 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 following 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-revolutionary activities," the accusation brought by a young woman on the ground that he had "denounced her as a A BOLSHEVIK TRIAL Communist to the Whites." The witnesses were questioned 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 attorney 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 sympathy with the social victims of the abolished capitalist order and berated the attorney for persisting in bourgeois prejudices.
Burov examined the defense witnesses regarding their past mode of life and present political adherence. He referred to the prisoner as "that scoundrelly counterrevolutionist" and succeeded in eliciting affirmative replies to questions previously negated by the same witnesses. 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 accused 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, "Silence!" and ordered the arrest of the interrupter for "behavior insulting to the high tribunal."
During the noon recess I found an opportunity to 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 regarded 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 counterrevolutionists. 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, tovarishtch," she added significantly.
A BOLSHEVIK TRIAL 271 Her face, offensively painted even to her lips, was coarse and sensuous. Her eyes glowed with a vengeful light and the consciousness of power. Her companion, 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 revenge."
"A lot he cares for you!" the other mocked. "You are younger — that's all. And he's a dirty counterrevolutionist."
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 continued 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