I
Petrograd, March 15.—I received a message from Chicherin, informing me that a thousand American deportees had arrived in Libau and were to reach Russia on March 22. A committee was to be formed, and arrangements made for their reception.
I had long ago suggested the necessity of a permanent organization for this purpose, because exiles were expected from different countries. So far nothing had been done, but now instructions from Moscow hastened matters. Mme. Ravitch, Commissar of Public Safety in the Petrograd District, called a conference at which a Deportees’ Commission was decided upon. I was appointed Chairman of the Reception Committee, and on March 19 we left Petrograd for the Lettish frontier. Sanitary Train No. 81, splendidly equipped, was placed at my disposal; two more trains were to follow in case the deportees’ group proved larger than expected.
In the dining-room, on the first day of our journey, a stranger introduced himself as “Tovarish Karus from Petrograd,” a middle-aged man with yellow face and furtive eyes. Presently another man joined us, younger and sociable.
“My name is Pashkevitch,” the young man announced. “Tovarishi from America,” he, continued in an official tone. “I greet you on this mission in the name of the Ispolkom: I am the representative of the Executive Committee of the Petrograd Soviet. May our mission be successful, and the American deportees prove of service to the Revolution.”
He looked around to observe the effect of his words. His eyes rested on me as if expecting a reply. I presented the other members of our Committee, Novikov and Miss Ethel Bernstein, the Ispolkom man acknowledging the introduction with an expansive etchen rad (very pleased), while Karus clicked his heels under the table in military fashion.
“And the other tovarish?” Novikov asked, looking at the silent Karus.
“Just an observer,” the latter replied. The train physician gave us a significant look.
“It would be interesting to hear our American comrades tell us something about the United States,” Pashkevitch remarked. “I have also been in America and in England,” he continued, “but it’s many years ago, though I still speak the language. Conditions there must have greatly changed since then. Will the American workers rise soon in revolution, I wonder? What is your opinion, Comrade Berkman?”
“Hardly a day passes,” I replied, smiling, “but I am asked that question. I don’t think that a revolution can be expected so soon in America because—”
“But in England?” he interrupted.
“Nor in England, I regret to say. Conditions and the proletarian psychology there seem to be entirely misunderstood in Russia.”
“You are pessimistic, tovarish,” Pashkevitch protested. “The war and our Revolution must have certainly had a great effect upon the proletariat abroad. We may expect revolutions there very soon, I am sure; especially in America, where capitalism has developed to the bursting point. Don’t you think so, Comrade Novikov?” he appealed to my assistant.
“I cannot agree with you, Comrade,” Novikov replied. “I am afraid your hope will not be realized so soon.”
“How you people talk!” Pashkevitch exclaimed, somewhat irritated. “Hope! It’s a certainty. We have faith in the workers. Revolutions abroad will be the salvation of Russia, and we depend on them.”
“Russia must learn to depend on herself,” I observed. “By our own efforts we must defeat our enemies and bring economic well-being to the people.”
“As for that, we are doing all that is possible,” Pashkevitch retorted hotly. “We Communists have the greatest and most difficult task that ever fell to any political party and we have accomplished wonders. But the cursed Allies will not leave us in peace; and the blockade is starving us. When I address the workers I always impress upon them the fact that their brothers abroad are about to come to the aid of Soviet Russia by making a Communist Revolution in their countries. That gives the people new courage and strengthens their faith in our success.”
“But when your promises fail to materialize, the disappointment of the masses will have a bad effect on the Revolution,” I remarked.
“They will materialize, they will,” Pashkevitch insisted.
“I see you comrades will not agree,” Karus spoke for the first time. “Perhaps the American tovarishi will tell us what they think of our Revolution.” His manner was quiet, but his look held something insistent in it. Later I learned that he was an examining magistrate of the Petrograd Cheka.
“We’ve been too short a time in Russia to form an opinion,” I replied.
“But you must have received some impressions,” Karus persisted.
“We have received many impressions. But we have not had time to organize them, so to speak, to clarify them into a definite view. Is it not also your feeling in the matter?” I asked, turning to the other members of the Committee.
They agreed with me, and Karus did not pursue the subject.
The country we traveled through was flat and swampy, with scattered villages in the distance, but no sign of life about. Flocks of crows hovered over our train, their shrill cawing echoing through the woods. We proceeded at a snail’s pace; the road was badly out of repair, our engine old and weak. Every few miles we stopped for wood and water, the logs being passed by the living chain stretching from woodpile to caboose. At the stations we were met by women and children selling milk, cheese, and butter at prices one-third lower than those in Moscow and Petrograd. But they refused to accept Soviet roubles or Kerenki (Kerensky money). “Whole izba plastered with them,” an old woman said scornfully; “just colored paper—what good is it? Give us salt, little uncle; we can’t live without salt.”
We offered soap—a rare luxury in the cities—to a girl selling rye bread, but she disdainfully declined it. “Can I eat it, what?” she demanded.
“You can wash yourself with it.”
“There’s plenty of snow for that.”
“But in the summer?”
“I’ll scrub the dirt off with sand. Ain’t got no use for soap at any time.”
Communication between Petrograd and the Western border is reduced to a minimum. We met no train in our three days’ journey till we reached Novo-Sokolniki, formerly an important railroad center. There we were joined by two representatives of the Central Plenbezh (Department of War Prisoners). With them was a youngish man dressed from head to foot in shining black leather, with a huge nagan (Russian army gun) attached to his belt by a stout crimson cord. He introduced himself as “Tovarish Drozdov of the Veh-Cheka,” informing us that he was to examine and photograph the deportees and to detain such of them as may appear suspicious. The train crew regarded the Chekist with unfriendly eyes. “From the center,” I heard them whisper, distrust and antagonism in their manner.
“You will pardon a small but necessary preliminary,” I said to Drozdov; “as the predsedatel of the Commission I am compelled to fulfill a certain formality and must trouble you for your identification papers.”
I showed him my credentials, issued by the Executive Department of the Petro-Soviet, whereupon he handed me his documents. They were stamped and signed by the All-Russian Commission Waging War against Counterrevolution and Speculation (the Veh-Cheka) and vested its bearer with exceptional powers.
During the journey I became better acquainted with the young Chekist. He proved of pleasant disposition, very sociable and an inveterate talker. But coolness developed between him and Karus. The latter also evinced much antagonism toward the Jewish boys of the Plenbezh, never missing an opportunity to sneer at their organization and even threatening to arrest them for sabotage.
But whenever Karus was not about, the dining-room of our car was filled with the strong young voice of Drozdov. His stories dealt mostly with the activities of the Cheka, sudden raids, arrests and executions. He impressed me as a convinced and sincere Communist, ready to lay down his life for the Revolution. But he thought of the latter as a simple matter of extermination, with the Cheka as the ruthless sword. He had no conception of revolutionary ethics or spiritual values. Force and violence were to him the acme of revolutionary activity, the alpha and omega of the proletarian dictatorship. “Revolution is a prize fight,” he would say, “either we win or lose. We must destroy every enemy, root every counterrevolutionist out of his lair. Sentimentalism, bosh! Every means and method is good to accomplish our purpose. What’s the use of having a Revolution unless you use your best effort to make a success of it? The Revolution would be dead long ago if not for us. The Cheka is the very soul of the Revolution.”
He loved to talk of the methods the Cheka employs to unearth counterrevolutionary plots, and he would grow eloquent about the cleverness of some “agents” in trapping speculators and forcing them to reveal the hiding places of their diamonds and gold; promising them immunity for “confessing” and then leading them to execution in the company of a betrayed wife or brother. With admiration he spoke of the ingenuity of the Cheka in collaring the bourzhooi, tricking them into voicing anti-Bolshevik sentiments, and then sending them to their death. His favorite expression was razstreliat—to shoot summarily; it repeated itself in every story and was the refrain of every experience. The non-Communist intelligentsia was especially hateful to him. “Sabotazhniki and counterrevolutionists, all of them,” he insisted; “they are a menace, and it is a waste of food to feed them. They should be shot.”
“You don’t realize what you are saying,” I would protest. “The stories you tell are enormous, impossible. You’re just romancing.”
“My dear tovarish,” he would reply condescendingly, “you may be old in the movement, but you are young in Russia. You speak of atrocity, of brutality! Why, man, you don’t know what a vile enemy we have to deal with. Those counterrevolutionists would cut our throats; they’d flood the streets of Moscow with our blood, if they once got the upper hand. And as for romancing, why, I haven’t told you half the story yet.”
“There may be some individuals in the Cheka guilty of the acts you relate. But I hope such methods are not part of the system.”
“There is a Left element among us that favors even more drastic methods,” Drozdov laughed.
“What methods?”
“Torture to extort confessions.”
“You must be crazy, Drozdov.”
He laughed boyishly. “It’s true, though,” he kept repeating.