------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Marie Sukloff Frontispiece
Miss Sukloff’s Birthplace 6
The Village of Borovoi-Mlin as 15
it looks now
Peter Lavrovich Lavroff 40
Lieutenant Peter Petrovich 53
Shmidt
Guarding the road to the 74
Akatúi prison
Six political prisoners and 91
their guards resting at the
étape in their march to
Akatúi
Miss Sukloff reading in her 98
cell
The entrance to the Akatúi 107
prison
Ivan Kalyáev 134
The prison wall from the 143
outside
A group of political women 154
prisoners in the yard of the
Akatúi prison
Another group of political 163
prisoners in the Akatúi
stronghold
Marie Spiridonova 186
Peter Karpovitch 203
General view of the Maltzev 222
hard-labor prison
The prison yard and gate 239
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE LIFE-STORY
OF A RUSSIAN EXILE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I
THE little village of Borovoi-Mlin, in which I was born, consisted of
about thirty huts—low wooden structures with slant thatched roofs. The
walls, both inside and out, were plastered with mud and whitewashed. All
the huts stood in a row which formed the only street in the village. A
wide dusty road passed in front—the meeting place of the cackling,
quacking, and barking members of the community. Farther down, the
communal pasture, a long and narrow strip of land, ran along the high
bank of the rivulet Okena below. In the rear were small kitchen-gardens
surrounded by low wattle fences, back of which rye fields stretched as
far as the eye could see.
Our hut stood at the very entrance to the village. It was old and
rickety. The two little windows were low, near the ground. In the severe
winter months the snow piled up high in front of them, shutting out the
feeble light that penetrated the double windows. During the greater part
of the year the broken panes were replaced with cardboard, as a
protection against the clouds of dust which drifted into the house every
time a vehicle passed. The thatch on the roof was black with age. It was
broken in several places. When the rains were heavy the water leaked
through and formed a puddle on the mud floor.
As in all peasant dwellings, a dark passage divided it into two parts.
One was the living-room, the other served as a barn where the horses,
cows, agricultural implements, and provisions were kept. The living-room
was large and square. One corner was screened off by a long, red
curtain. It was the parents’ bedroom. Two beds and a cradle stood there.
The furniture of the rest of the room consisted of a large table and
benches along the walls. Another table, much smaller in size, held a
large brass samovar and a pair of silver candlesticks, the only articles
of value in our home. An enormous brick stove occupied a conspicuous
place in the room. Besides doing its regular service, it provided a warm
bed in the cold winter nights. The children often fought for the
privilege of sleeping on it. In this room I first saw the light of day
in September, 1885. In this house I passed the first fourteen years of
my life.
[Illustration:
MISS SUKLOFF’S BIRTHPLACE
In this house Miss Sukloff passed the first fourteen
years of her life
]
Sixteen _dessiatines_ (a little over forty-three acres) of poor soil,
mostly clay, and a thatch-covered hut—this was all the property left by
my grandfather to his five sons and two daughters.[1] I do not know how
the heirs to this rich inheritance settled it among themselves; but in
the end my father and one of my uncles remained the sole proprietors of
the sixteen dessiatines, they being the eldest sons and already married.
At the later division of the property eight dessiatines and the house
went to my father.
Our estate, besides the land, consisted most of the time of a couple of
cows, one or two horses, and a dozen or more chickens. When the crops
were good, the eight dessiatines yielded grain and potatoes enough to
last the whole year round. But either because of my father’s primitive
methods of agriculture, or because of insufficient fertilizing, or
because of droughts which are not infrequent in our parts, good crops
were rather the exception than the rule. I remember a prayer which I
learned when I was four years old: “O God, give us rain for the sake of
the little children.” Every morning before eating our modest breakfast,
we folded our hands and repeated this prayer. But God seemed cruel at
times. Severe droughts burned our fields, and famine threatened the
whole district. Then father drove our favorite cow to the nearest town
and sold her. The same fate befell the second one, and then we were
without milk.
But the cost of necessities was so high that money thus realized was not
enough. Then father went to look for work, and stayed away from home the
whole week. Friday evening the family eagerly awaited his return. The
room assumed its holiday appearance; the table was covered with a
snow-white cloth, the candles lit, and the samovar, freshly polished,
shone in the corner. But father took his place without saying a word;
his face did not wear his usual cheerful smile and we understood that he
had not earned anything and was therefore sad. Silently we took our
seats around the table, while mother served the supper. But unlike any
other Saturday there was no meat....
Indeed it was absolutely necessary to earn some extra money to meet the
modest expenses of our household. The few acres of land owned by a
Russian peasant do not yield enough to feed a large family and pay the
taxes. Our village was situated about a mile from the little town of
Smorgon, where there were leather factories, tailor shops, and other
enterprises. Among us a child of eight years was considered of working
age and sent to work in town. He was apprenticed to a tailor or a
shoemaker, and sometimes even sent to the factory. Few could afford to
send their children to school. The parochial school, which was to spread
knowledge among the inhabitants of four villages, could boast of but ten
pupils. These were taught by the village priest, who was but little
versed in educational matters. Besides, he was busy with other, more
important duties, and could not devote much of his time to instructing
the young. At the end of a four years’ course, therefore, they could
neither read nor write. But that was amply compensated by their ability
to chant psalms, which they knew by heart. Our village boys went to a
Hebrew school, beginning at the age of four or five. My brother Wolf
“finished” his education when he was eight years old. Girls were not
taught at all. I was illiterate until the age of thirteen. But more of
this later.
The peasants in the neighboring country lived in still greater poverty
than ours. Their grown sons and daughters did not go to live in town,
but remained with the family; nor did they send their children to the
shop; and their small parcels of land, which were taxed very heavily,
could not feed so many “souls.” Close to their land was a large private
estate. It covered many hundreds of dessiatines, most of which was
uncultivated. The peasants were thus deprived of a chance to earn even a
little money as farm hands.
One circumstance, I remember, greatly puzzled me, notwithstanding that I
was very young at the time. The grazing land of our village was small,
and the herd often returned home hungry. Bordering on ours was an
immense pasture belonging to a priest who had long left the church and
did not even live on his estate. The meadow was always guarded by a man
who lived literally at our expense. He collected from us a _ruble_ for
every horse or cow which strayed over on his land. If the money was not
paid, he locked the beast in his barn and left it without food. Once it
happened that he starved to death one of our herd. When winter came the
fine grass in the priest’s meadow was covered with snow, while our barns
were empty.
A dense forest surrounded the villages, but we did not have enough
firewood to heat our huts. The forest belonged to the Government. The
peasants had to choose between freezing and stealing wood from the
forest. As a result, the jail in the near-by town was always full. Some
stayed there as long as two years—all for attempting to steal a log with
which to warm their cold huts.
* * * * *
When I was six years old a terrible misfortune befell our family. My
mother fell down from the garret and fractured her skull. She was ill
for almost a year. For four months she lay in a semi-conscious
condition. She did not recognize anybody, and drove us away when we came
to her bed. I don’t know what would have become of us if it had not been
for our sister Revecca. She looked after us like a mother, and saw that
we were fed and clothed. She was eleven then.
Mother’s illness ruined us completely. She was the only one in the
family who knew how to manage things, to make ends meet, as they say.
Father lacked that ability. Besides, her illness added a large item to
our expense. To meet the doctor’s and druggist’s bills, the cows and
horses had to be sold. Even the land was mortgaged.
It was summer, and father worked in the field. Revecca and I kept house
and looked after the one-year-old baby. We got up at daybreak and worked
hard the whole day. Revecca milked the cows (they were sold only towards
winter), and I drove them to the pasture. I remember with what a serious
face I answered my companions when they asked me to play with them:
“I have no time to play. My mamma is sick.”
One incident during my mother’s illness left an impression on my memory
that remains to this day. It was the haying season. Father was in the
field, mother was lying in bed, and Revecca and I were sitting on the
doorstep, resting after our hard morning. A large wagon drawn by two
horses suddenly came into view. We recognized it immediately, and knew
that the tax collector was coming. He had a wooden leg and a long black
beard, and was the terror of all the children. The periodical appearance
at our village of this tax collector who was nicknamed “the one-legged
devil,” was always a source of much unhappiness. He stopped in front of
our house. We were terribly afraid of him, and at any other time would
have run away and hid in the barn, but that happy period of our life was
past. We felt a great responsibility resting upon us, so we remained. We
stood up, and met the intruder bravely. “There is nobody home,” said
Revecca, when the collector approached. But he paid no attention to her,
and went straight into the house, making an awful noise with his wooden
leg all the while. We followed him. Having examined the contents of the
room, he stopped before the table on which the samovar and the
candlesticks stood. We watched his movements with breathless intensity.
Suddenly he knocked on the window with his cane. A young man came in,
carrying a large bag. Before we could grasp the meaning of it all, our
samovar, the pride and ornament of our house, had disappeared into his
dirty bag. Next went the candlesticks. We were dumfounded. We stood
gazing at the bag, and could not utter a word. Unable to move, we saw
them turn to the door and walk out of the room. When we recovered from
the shock, the rattle of the passing wagon was heard near the house.
Revecca sat down near the empty table and began to cry. After a few
minutes I joined her. Without a samovar and the candlesticks the room
looked gloomier than ever.
In the fall father called a doctor from Vilna, a large city sixty miles
away from the village. His visit cost us fifty rubles. This doctor,
however, really helped our mother, who began to recover slowly.
* * * * *
When my mother recovered from her illness, Revecca was sent to work in a
tailor’s shop in town, and I became the chief help in the house. In the
long winter nights I plucked feathers for pillows which were to form a
part of Revecca’s dowry; she was then in her thirteenth year.
[Illustration:
THE VILLAGE OF BOROVOI-MLIN AS IT LOOKS NOW
Miss Sukloff was born here
]
Thus two years passed. Our poverty at that time was indescribable. All
the earnings went to pay debts and the interest on the mortgage. To earn
a little money, mother decided to sell vegetables at the town market.
Every morning she went to town and returned home in the evening. I took
charge of the house and looked after the eleven-months-old baby-boy.
One event which set me thinking about conditions in general was the
death of my aunt, a young married woman of thirty-four. It was harvest
time, and my aunt went to a near-by village to hire some farm hands. She
started out before sunset. Hours passed, it grew late, and she did not
return. About midnight the horse came back with an empty wagon. We
raised an alarm, went to the village, but the peasants there who all
knew my aunt well, maintained that she had not been to their village
that day. At last, after a whole night’s search, she was found buried,
yet still alive, in a pit near the road. Her face was unrecognizable.
Her whole body was bruised and bore traces of violence. The police
arrived and began an investigation. Our yard was crowded with peasants,
young and old, from the neighboring villages. Each one of them was led
to the bed on which my aunt lay with an unspeakable expression on her
mutilated face. She could not speak, but her eyes were full of suffering
and mute reproach. Each time a peasant approached the bed she shook her
head gravely. The ordeal lasted two days. All that time my aunt tried to
say something, but all of our efforts to understand her were futile. The
police lost all idea of discovering the author of the horrible crime. My
aunt was sinking fast, and the doctor could not hold out any hope.
Suddenly she clearly uttered the word _bartchuk_[2] and died. Bartchuk!
The peasants passed the word along, and made the sign of the cross. They
knew who committed the crime.
A short distance from the village where my aunt had gone was a
landowner’s estate. The proprietor had a son who spent his summers in
the country. He was the curse of the neighborhood. The peasants hid
their daughters whenever he appeared in the village, but he managed to
insult them with impunity. He it was whom my aunt named as her
assailant. He was arrested. All the peasants testified against him. And
yet after three months he was freed. The landowner had bribed the
investigating magistrate, and the affair was hushed up.
As I have said before, I was not sent to school. When I reached my
eleventh year, my mother found a place for me in a grocery store in
town. The store was so small that if two customers happened in at the
same time one had to wait outside, where the greatest part of the goods
was laid out. I performed a great many duties. I carried the goods in
and out, swept the store, delivered purchases, and ran similar errands.
My salary was fifteen rubles for the winter. There I made my first
acquaintance with figures and learned addition and subtraction. My
position as a clerk required some little knowledge of arithmetic. At
first my mistress taught me. After this my brother Wolf instructed me in
this science, which was one of his strong points.
But months passed, and I did not show any promise of becoming an
efficient grocery clerk. My mistress was very much dissatisfied with me.
She often reproached me for my inability to meet customers in the
approved fashion, and called me a “rustic.” I did not know what was
wanted of me, and that worried me terribly. But I took great pride in
the fact that I was a clerk and earning money.
Every evening I went home to sleep. There was a tavern in town where the
workmen from our village gathered, usually at about nine o’clock. I
always found there company to go home with. One evening my mistress kept
me very late. When I came to the tavern, all my village folk had gone. I
thought for a while, and decided to go home alone. It was in December.
The night was still and cold, and the fields were covered with
dazzling-white snow. The road to our village shone like silver. I
stepped into the road, and ran. I did not stop until I came to our
house, although I was not a bit afraid. After that I always walked home
alone, without even so much as looking into the tavern.
Before the Easter holiday my mistress discharged me. She had found
another girl, who could approach customers in the right way. It was a
terrible disappointment to me, but my mother tried to console me. “Don’t
worry. I shall apprentice you to a tailor next fall, like Revecca.
That’s settled,” she concluded.
The summer passed. When it began to grow cold my mother took me to town,
and I entered upon my new career as a tailor’s apprentice. The shop had
no particular attraction for me. I was used to the free, pure air of the
fields. The severest frosts and storms could not keep us children in the
house. We never took cold, although not dressed according to the season.
And here I had to sit the whole day in a close, ill-smelling room. At
times my duties kept me there till midnight. My master did not even
think of teaching me to sew. Most of the time I was busy with his two
little children, whom the mistress always left in my care.
I was apprenticed for two years. It was agreed that I was to be allowed
to go home for the field-work season. The understanding was that I
should work one year without pay, and get twenty-five rubles for the
second year. But fate played me one of her tricks. Toward the end of the
second year, when I constantly thought of and counted the money I was to
get, unexpected events occurred, and I never saw my hard-earned
twenty-five rubles.
* * * * *
In the spring of 1898 the workmen of Vilna were striking for a ten-hour
work-day. The “Bund,” a secret organization of working-men which was
formed shortly before, conducted the strike. It published an “illegal”
pamphlet, entitled “Eight-hour Day” and distributed it in all the cities
and towns round about. One of these pamphlets found its way into our
shop.
The workmen at our shop discussed it in undertones. A secret meeting of
several shops took place, where it was decided to declare a strike
before Easter, demanding a ten-hour day. I was not taken into the
secret, either because I was too young, or because they did not consider
me a real shop worker, as I passed the summers in the village. But I
succeeded, without much difficulty, in finding out all their schemes.
With extreme impatience I waited for the strike. Returning home after
work, I related to my girl-friends all the great things that were
expected in town. At last the appointed day arrived, and the working-men
of Smorgon struck. I, too, refused to work, much to the surprise of our
shop people.
The strike lasted only several hours. The employers wisely decided to
yield, as it was a week before Easter, the busiest season of the year.
They conceded all the workers’ demands. But after Easter they were all
discharged, and had to return to work on the old terms. I, however, was
not taken back. This circumstance created quite an impression among the
working-men, who regarded me as a sufferer. When I think of it now and
to what it subsequently led, I am deeply grateful to fate, although it
is true that, from that time, I became a source of worry and torture to
our family. My brothers and sisters were married, had children, and were
happy in their own way, while I spent my young years in Russian and
Siberian prisons. But to return to Smorgon.
The working-men, disappointed at the unsuccessful strike, began to look
for new means of reducing the hours of labor. They organized secret
educational circles, where they read about the lives of working-men in
foreign countries and their struggles for rights and liberty. I was
admitted to one of these circles.
One day the daughter of the rabbi from Smorgon called at our house. The
rabbi, it must be explained, was considered a rich man and of
aristocratic lineage. His children received their education in Vilna,
and were known in the village as “free-thinkers.” Naturally, the
daughter’s visit to our humble dwelling aroused the curiosity of our
village inhabitants; the windows of our house were immediately
beleaguered by a crowd of inquisitive folk; the neighbors suddenly
missed various kitchen utensils and came to us to borrow, stopping for a
while to have a good look at the rabbi’s daughter whose hair was short
and who wore _pince-nez_. Her name was Hannah. When the neighbors were
busy discussing her appearance, she whispered to me:
“Come to our house next Saturday after dinner. Don’t tell anybody about
it.”
Impatiently I waited for Saturday to come. “What will I see there?” I
kept asking myself, and my imagination drew fantastic pictures, one more
beautiful than the other. At last the much-desired day arrived. With my
shoes thrown over my shoulder, I set out at a rapid pace. When I neared
the town, I put on my shoes, without stockings, and continued at a
slower gait. To my great shame I must confess that when I approached the
rabbi’s massive dwelling, my heart began to beat violently and my
courage left me. And the pictures in which I saw myself as the heroine
of the day vanished. My friend Hannah, who must have been waiting for
me, saw me through the window. She came out and conducted me into a
poorly-lighted room, where several girls were already assembled. The
window blinds were lowered and the door locked. The room became still
darker.
“Sisters,” began Hannah, “the first thing you must know is that you must
not tell anybody what is going on here.”
All were silent. Hannah took out a thin pamphlet and began to read:
“Once upon a time there lived four brothers....” This pamphlet, entitled
“Four Brothers,” is a forbidden publication. It tells the story of four
brothers who were born and lived in a forest. They decide to travel, and
start out in different directions. When they return, they recount the
many acts of cruelty they have seen and met with in the world, and
discuss measures to bring about justice and equality.
After the reading we went away, having arranged to meet the following
Saturday. These Saturday readings opened up new worlds to me. I had
never thought of large cities and how people lived in them, and my
desire to learn grew with every week.
Besides reading forbidden literature, Hannah taught us history and
geography; that is, she read while we sat and listened, frequently
interrupting her with questions. It all was so sudden and wonderful that
I made up my mind to study at any cost, that I might be able to read
those wonderful books myself. I told Hannah and she undertook to teach
me. Every Friday evening I walked into town, and Hannah taught me to
read and write. I kept my studies secret even from my father, because
among us it was considered a mortal sin to write on Friday evening. I
was progressing in my studies when new developments made it necessary
for me to give them up for some time.
A strike of the stocking-weavers in Vilna had been declared. Their
conditions of labor and pay were such that they could not continue on
the old terms. They did not earn enough for the bare necessities of
life. But the employers flatly refused to grant any increase in pay.
They had stocking-machines in every little town in the province, and
were getting the goods made at even lower price than they had to pay to
city employees. The “Bund,” the secret organization mentioned before,
decided to organize a strike of all the stocking-weavers in the
district. With this purpose in view a young woman agitator came to
Smorgon.
One evening, when all the family were gathered round the supper table,
Hannah and the new-comer called on us. My father was greatly flattered
by their visit, and received them very cordially. The samovar was put
up—a thing we seldom did for ourselves. Mother even procured some jelly
and cake. They sat and chatted for a while. No one knew the object of
their visit. When they were leaving and I showed them to the door,
Hannah said to me:
“What do you think? Will it be possible to hold a secret meeting in your
house? How would your parents look upon it?”
After considering for a moment I suggested that it would be better to
meet in the forest. I knew all the secret paths there. They agreed.
There and then, standing in the dark passage, we worked out a plan for
the morrow’s meeting. We decided to meet in the morning, when the
inhabitants of the village were away in the field.
On the following morning the large oak trees hid from view a few young
girls who were cautiously making their way through the forest. The
oldest of them, Hannah, was seventeen years of age.
The place chosen for the meeting was familiar to me. Yet a short time
before I had played hide-and-seek there with my village companions. But
how different it had all become!
The organizer made a speech. She spoke of the life of the
stocking-weavers in Vilna. Some were starving, others had been
imprisoned. Their only demand was an increase of one kopeck on a pair of
stockings. But she not only pictured to us the miseries of their
existence, she also spoke about the coming victory.
“There will come a day,” she said, “when there will be neither rich nor
poor: all will be equal. We will make it come. Only we must unite for
the struggle.”
She uttered these words with almost religious fervor. Their impression
upon me was tremendous. My faith in all she said was so great that I
already pictured to myself our humble village changed beyond
recognition. The huts disappeared. In their places stood magnificent
dwellings in which happy people lived a happy life. To make that change
seemed to me a very simple thing to do.
“We must unite and take the land away from the rich proprietors,” I
thought. “They hold it and do not use it, so it will be all the same to
them. But we need it very badly.”
I was so absorbed in the plan of converting our village into a veritable
paradise on earth that I did not hear how the girls had decided to send
agitators to the cities of Slonim and Oshmiany to call a strike of the
local stocking-weavers. My thoughts were interrupted by Hannah, who
asked me if I wanted to go with her and help her organize a strike
there. “Yes, of course,” I hastened to reply. Towards noon we dispersed,
and I promised Hannah to come to her on the next day.
Hannah, evidently, did not understand what it meant to me to stop work
in the middle of the week, leave my home, and go to the city. I did not
even know where that city was. I had never been farther than Smorgon.
But the impression made upon me by the girl’s speech was such that I did
not stop to think how I would go away and what I would say to my
parents.
“What does it matter!” I thought afterward. “Anyway there will soon be
an end to our poverty!”
When, on my return home, mother reprimanded me for being away from the
field, I answered her:
“Oh, Mamma dear, if you knew what a grand time we will soon have. There
will be neither rich nor poor!”
“What nonsense are you talking?” cried my mother. “Where did you get all
these stupid notions? I suppose that philosopher is teaching you all
this trash.”
Mother meant Hannah. It was very painful to me that mother was so
ignorant and could not understand such a simple thing, but I consoled
myself with the thought that she would understand when the time came. I
did not venture, however, to mention anything about going to the city.
Morning came. My parents went away. I hastily dressed myself in my best,
and said to my sisters: “Tell Mamma that I went to Hannah.” And I ran
out of the house, fearing that somebody might come and detain me. A
conveyance was waiting in the rabbi’s yard. The old nag, urged on by a
long whip in the hands of our driver, pulled at the wagon lazily, and we
started.
Our wagon lurched and jolted on the rough road. Clouds of dust rose from
under the horse’s hoofs. The sun was burning fiercely. I looked at the
unmown fields, and a feeling of sadness filled my heart.
“How uneasy Father will feel when I shall not come to sleep,” I thought,
but I did not share my thought with Hannah. I did not want to lower
myself in her estimation. She evidently considered me more independent,
and I derived great satisfaction from her opinion of me.
Four days we traveled thus, stopping overnight in peasant huts. About
noon of the fifth day we arrived in Slonim where we stopped at an inn.
Having instructed our driver to wait for us there, we went to look over
the city. Our plan of action was a very simple one. We decided to look
into every house through the windows, and go in wherever we saw a
stocking-machine. Hannah walked on one side of the street, and I on the
other. After a long search I saw a girl sitting at a machine. I went in.
Women and children crowded around me and began to question me who I was
and what I wanted.
“I have been sent by the secret organization, the ‘Bund,’ to organize a
strike of the stocking-weavers,” I said. And I immediately began to
describe that wonderful rich time which was to come soon. “There will be
neither rich nor poor!” I concluded solemnly. I sincerely believed in
what I was saying, and my hearers were carried away by my enthusiasm.
They asked me to take off my things, and gave me to eat. Hannah also
came in, having grown tired of waiting.
We sent a girl to call the other stocking-weavers. In about an hour the
house was filled. I mounted a chair and, unexpectedly to myself,
exhorted them to strike for the abolition of the unjust system. “Let
there be neither rich nor poor! Let there be equality!” I shouted. The
girls were much impressed by my speech. It was arranged to call a
meeting of all the stocking-weavers in the city.
In the evening Hannah and I were conducted to the meeting-place, a
large, old structure. It turned out to be a Jewish synagogue. It was in
semi-darkness, and crowded with girls of all ages. Hannah explained to
them the demands which they were to submit to their contractors the next
morning, and I was getting ready to make a speech, when some one cried,
“_Gorodovoi!_”[3] Terror seized everybody. Some one wisely put out the
candles. Great confusion ensued. Pushing and jostling each other; all
made for the door. Some fell. But all were silent. Only the heavy
breathing of the frightened girls could be heard in the darkness.
Gradually the room was cleared. Hannah took me by the arm, and we went
out.
“We had better leave this city immediately,” she said to me, “otherwise
we shall be arrested.”
That very evening we left for Oshmiany. This city made a great
impression upon me. I had never before seen such nice houses and
well-lighted streets. “This is a real paradise,” I thought to myself.
Hannah had a number of friends there and matters were arranged quickly.
Soon all the stocking-weavers joined the strike. Having accomplished our
purpose, Hannah and I returned to our homes. With a beating heart I
approached our village. The broken panes of our cheerless hut greeted my
eyes, and filled me with longing for the beautiful houses of the city.
-----
Footnote 1:
My grandfather settled in Borovoi-Mlin, in the province of Vilna, in
1851. The Government granted certain privileges to Jewish agricultural
colonists, exemption from military service for a period of twenty-five
years being one of them. Military service in Russia at that time
lasted twenty-five years, and the life of a soldier was terribly hard.
Few ever returned to their native places. To save his sons from
military duty, my grandfather decided to become a peasant.
Footnote 2:
Young gentleman.
Footnote 3:
Policeman.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
II
I
THE few days which I passed away from home and my first glimpse of the
city gave rise to very definite ideas in my mind: that there was a
better life than ours, and that this better life could be found only in
a large city, in those tall buildings and well-lighted streets. These
thoughts pursued me wherever I went and whatever I did. My mother beat
me; she burned the books which I read by stealth—she was illiterate and
considered reading a waste of time—but I bravely bore the persecution of
my mother and elder sister, and nothing could kill my desire to learn
about that life. I could hardly read on week-days, because the work
tired me out to such an extent that I used to fall fast asleep early in
the evening, but on Saturdays I spent the whole day reading. I called my
girl-friends together and we locked ourselves in the barn. I read to
them the “Four Brothers,” the only book I knew well, and which I could
almost recite from memory. I also shared with them any ideas which I
picked up in my association with Hannah.
My brother Wolf and I resorted to all sorts of tricks in order to gain
more time for reading. He liked books of travel and romance. After
reading a book of this kind, he imagined himself the hero and acted
accordingly.
On Friday evening, for economy’s sake, mother poured little kerosene
into the lamp. It was considered a great sin to put out the light on
that evening, and the lamp had to burn itself out. Wolf and I waited
until all fell asleep. Then we poured in more kerosene, seated ourselves
so that the light should not be seen, and read till late at night. No
one in the house knew of our scheme. But once my father got up quite
unexpectedly and saw us seated on the table with books in our hands.
Without saying anything about the dreadful sin we had committed, he
remarked:
“You will ruin your eyes reading by such a light. You had better go to
sleep.”
We complied, having left off at the most interesting passage.
II
One night we were all awakened by the neighing and tramping of horses
near our house. We ran to the windows and saw about a dozen mounted
gendarmes and police riding into our yard.
“What can this mean?” asked my father, with a tremble in his voice.
I immediately ran to the back of the stove and snatched a bundle of
pamphlets from under it. These were forbidden works given to me by
Hannah for safe keeping. I pressed them to my bosom. I was sure that the
gendarmes had come to take the pamphlets away from me, and was ready to
defend them with all my strength.
“What have you there in that bundle?” my father asked me.
“Books.”
“Give them to me. I will hide them.”
Father put the pamphlets in his coat-pocket and looked again out of the
window.
“They have gone,” he said, “but their horses are tied in our yard.”
In about an hour the gendarmes returned, mounted their horses and
galloped away without going into our house. When they had gone, father
took my bundle of pamphlets out in the field, back of our
kitchen-garden, and buried them deep in the ground.
On the following morning we learned that the gendarmes had arrested the
son of the synagogue president, who shortly before had come from Vilna,
for his connection with a secret organization. This event kept our
village in a state of turmoil and excitement for several months. My
mother, who repeatedly told my father that I would become a “nihilist,”
that I was keeping company with “nihilists,” now felt perfectly
convinced that she was right. She began to watch all my movements. The
persecution to which I was subjected for my reading and my frequent
excursions to town became still more severe.
One day when father and I remained alone he said to me:
“Maria, you must be a good girl. I know that you will not do anything
wrong. But you had better give those books back to the people from whom
you got them. They must not be kept in the house.”
“Papa, dear Papa,” I began excitedly, “let me go to a large city. I want
to study and become—” Here I stopped, as I did not know myself what I
wanted to become. Father looked at me with his kind, bright eyes, and
stroked my head. “I cannot bear to see our poverty any longer,” I
continued. “I will go and learn how we might live better. You will see
what a learned girl I shall return. Then we shall not be poor any more.”
Father paced up and down the room, listening to me in thoughtful
silence.
“You have an uncle at Odessa. He is a good and learned man. I shall
write to him about you and, if he agrees, then I will send you to
Odessa. He is my favorite brother,” father added, “and to him I will
trust my child. But you must be a good girl and obey him.”
The news that Mordecai’s daughter Maria was going to Odessa spread like
wild-fire; our house was constantly filled with women. My mother showed
them the long brown dress—my first long dress—which was being made for
the occasion, and also three pillows. Three pillows and a feather-bed
were the traditional part of a girl’s dowry.
“Although she is yet very young,” mother remarked to every new-comer,
“who can tell? Maybe she will not want to return home so soon, and will
grow up there, and find her happiness there: the city is a large one.”
* * * * *
The train was leaving at four o’clock in the afternoon, but I was ready
early in the morning. I put on my new brown dress, and tied a red ribbon
in my hair. The three pillows, a few coarse towels—the work of my
mother—and a piece of homespun linen were packed in a large valise, and
my preparations for the journey ended.
With a heavy heart I walked about the field and forest, bidding good-by
to every nook, to every little shrub along the paths. “Will I ever see
you again?” I thought, looking at the green meadows.
All went to the railroad station at Smorgon to see me off: My parents,
my brothers and sisters, our neighbors, and even strangers. Hannah, too,
came and brought me a letter to one of her friends at Odessa.
[Illustration:
PETER LAVROVICH LAVROFF
Scientist and philosopher.
Born 1823, sentenced in 1867 to exile in Siberia,
escaped, lived in Europe, died 1900
]
When father was bidding me good-by, he said:
“I believe, Maria, that you will be happy.”
My mother wept, and kissed me a long time. My elder brother Noah, who
was home on leave of absence,—he was serving in the army—gave me his
last fifty kopecks.
At last the third bell rang, and the train slowly pulled out. Soon
everything disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Seeing nothing but strange
faces around me, I sat down in a corner and cried bitterly.
On the third day I arrived in Odessa. When I went out of the station and
saw the long line of _izvoshchiks_[4] with their shining top hats, my
heart filled with gladness. “Everybody dresses so nicely here,” I
thought.
I approached one of them and said:
“Please take me to my uncle, Mr. Sukloff.”
“Sure, Miss,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eye. “Got his address?”
I was rather surprised that he did not know where my uncle lived. I took
out of my dress pocket a slip of paper and handed it to him.
“All right, Miss,” he said, and with a motion of the hand invited me to
climb into his carriage. When we started, he asked me where I came from.
I told him why I had come to Odessa and he, turning sideways in his seat
and listening to me, nodded his head approvingly.
After a long ride we stopped in front of an old four-story brick
building.
“This is where your uncle lives,” the izvoshchik said.
Disappointed, I stared at the dirty, weather-beaten structure. As I
learned later, my uncle lived in the poorest section of the city, called
Moldavanka.
I climbed three dark and filthy flights of stairs, followed by the
izvoshchik carrying my valise. On the fourth floor I saw a card on one
of the doors. It read: “Samuel Sukloff, Tutor.” I rang the bell. A man
of above middle height, thin, with a long beard and sparkling eyes,
opened the door. For a moment I thought it was my father, so greatly did
this man resemble him. It was my uncle. He greeted me very warmly and,
having paid the izvoshchik forty-five kopecks, led me into his
apartment. My aunt and cousins surrounded me and regarded me with
evident curiosity. Noticing that I was bareheaded, my aunt remarked:
“We must buy a hat for you.”
My uncle was a teacher of Russian at a Hebrew school. He earned sixty
rubles a month. But notwithstanding this small salary, he managed to
give his children—six sons and a daughter—a good education. One of his
sons was a civil engineer, the others were attending the gymnasium. Of
course, the children paid their own way through school, otherwise it
would have been absolutely impossible. But their earnings were not
regular, and often the whole family lived on those sixty rubles.
III
The secret society at Odessa, at the time I came there, in 1909, had
gained a firm footing among the working population of the city. It was
headed by Social Democrats. The work of a secret society at that time
consisted chiefly in forming educational circles among the working
people and in printing and distributing prohibited literature, chiefly
proclamations. Their distribution was accomplished in many ways. Late at
night, when all were fast asleep, dozens of young men and women posted
them on lamp-posts, telegraph-poles, houses and fences. They scattered
them in the streets where workmen passed on their way to their labor,
and threw them into the yards surrounding the mills and factories. At
the theaters, when the performance was at its height, showers of
leaflets would fall from the gallery, from several parts simultaneously.
It was a reign of paper terror, and the police were powerless against
it. Before they could gather up and destroy the proclamations, the
public read these uncensored words with avidity, despite the governor’s
order forbidding it under penalty of six months’ imprisonment. It was
hardly necessary to say that the proclamations bitterly assailed the
autocratic régime, explaining to the working-men that no changes in
their economic condition were possible under a political system which
forbids strikes, which denies the right of free speech and free
assembly.
The letter which Hannah gave me when I was leaving home was to one of
the leaders of the secret society, a Social Democrat. When I came to him
and told him that I wanted to study, he immediately gave me a number of
proclamations and promised to send somebody to teach me.
When I returned to my uncle’s I gave him and my cousins several
proclamations. I was sure that my uncle, as well as my cousins, shared
the views expressed in them, and how great was my astonishment when
these people, whom I regarded as very learned, turned in horror from my
secret leaflets.
“These things lead to Siberia,” they cried in chorus.
My uncle tore the proclamations across, and thus addressed himself to
me:
“This is not the village. Don’t look for the truth _here_, because it
will get you into prison.”
I was at a loss how to understand my uncle’s words.
“What do you mean?” I said. “I left my father and my mother, I left my
native village, and came here to learn the truth and you forbid me. How
can I agree to such a thing?”
“You are a child yet and understand little in these matters,” he said.
“I have grown sons, and you must not bring such things into my house.
Besides, you came to me and I am responsible for your well-being. There
is no one else here to look after you. We all like you and wish for your
happiness. Although I am a poor man, I am willing to help you. But you
must be very careful.”
A couple of days after this conversation a girl sent by the socialist
leader came to call me to a secret meeting, which was held at night.
Without saying anything to my uncle I went with her.
The circle to which I was thus admitted consisted of nine workers and
one _intelliguént_ who read political economy to them. I felt proud and
happy at having been received into their gathering. This circle, in
later days, played an important part in the revolutionary movement at
Odessa.
It was very late when I came home from the meeting. My uncle was not yet
asleep and evidently waiting for me.
“Where have you been?” he asked me. I told him everything.
“You must not have anything to do with those people,” he said. “And if
you go on like this, I shall be forced to send you back home.”
I found myself in a very difficult position. I could not renounce my
books and the people who taught me, but, on the other hand, I did not
want to go back home, not having learned anything. For several days I
went about undecided what course to take. Finally I found a way out of
the difficulty: I decided to leave my uncle’s house. I told this plan to
one of the girl members of our circle, and she suggested that I come and
stay with her, promising to find work for me at the factory where she
was employed. That very day I secretly removed some of my things from my
uncle’s house and went to live with the girl.
IV
The candy factory of “Krakhmalnikoff Brothers,” where my friend was
employed, had several departments, and work was found for me in the
“wrapping department.” Several hundred girls were engaged there in
putting candy into ready-cut pieces of paper. The work was very simple,
and after a couple of hours I learned to do it.
Toward the end of the day the tips of my fingers became so sensitive
that the contact of the stiff paper caused me terrible pain. Drops of
blood oozed through the thin skin. I looked helplessly at my hands, not
knowing how to continue the work. The girls tried to comfort me:
“Don’t be afraid, it is always like this the first days. It will pass.”
The working-hours at the factory were from seven in the morning to seven
in the evening, allowing one hour for luncheon. The girls were paid by
the _pood_[5]—fifteen kopecks. There were girls who could wrap up two
and one-half poods, and thus earned thirty-seven kopecks. This was
considered a big wage, and very few could work so fast and earn so much.
Before seven o’clock all carried their work upstairs to be weighed. To
my great surprise I had wrapped up only half a pood. When leaving the
factory we were searched. I found it a very embarrassing experience.
This search was conducted every evening. If any girl was found to have
some candy, she was immediately discharged.
For over six months I worked in this factory. The tips of my fingers
became as hard as leather. The searches no longer embarrassed me. There
were days when I wrapped up two and one-half poods and earned
thirty-seven kopecks, to the great delight of our circle.
There were six of us living in a sort of commune,—Zhenia, a factory girl
of twenty-two, who was a most ardent agitator and strike organizer;
David, a clerk; Grigory, a bookbinder, who had already been in prison
for distributing prohibited literature; Nicholai, a painter, who became
a socialist and joined our circle after his release from prison, where
he was put for preaching Tolstoyism; Ivan, the only intelliguént in our
circle; and myself. It seldom happened that we all had work; sometimes
the whole circle lived on the earnings of one or two. There were days
when none of us had anything to do, and we waited for the evening when
Ivan would come and lay his last coppers on the table. Then we ate our
“breakfast.”
But such trifles did not trouble the people of our circle. They were all
engaged in revolutionary activities, and entirely taken up by their
work. They established secret printing-offices, and printed and
distributed proclamations by the thousands. They organized new
educational circles, and were doing propaganda work among the mill and
factory workers. Of course, each one of them knew that prison, solitary
confinement, and exile were their inevitable lot, but this did not deter
them in the least. Although they awaited arrest at any hour of the day
or night, they spent their spare time as merrily as if nothing special
were going to happen to them.
I did not long remain “green” among these people. They soon opened my
eyes to the realities of life. I still dreamed of a better life, but I
saw that its realization was a possibility of the distant future.
With youthful ardor I began to agitate among the factory girls to strike
for higher pay. The foreman soon found it out, and discharged me. I
found work in an envelope factory, but as I continued my agitation there
also, I soon had to look for another place.
Thus, in constant changing from one factory to another, two years
passed. Our little circle had grown considerably, and became known in
the revolutionary movement as the “Southern Group.” Of the old members,
besides myself, only David remained. Zhenia and Ivan were in prison,
Grigory was exiled to Siberia, and Nicholai was sent to serve in the
army.
In the meantime a new revolutionary organization came into existence in
Russia, the “Socialist-Revolutionists’ Party.” Its aims and ideals were
similar to those of the Social-Democratic Party, but it differed from
the latter by its program and the methods it adopted in its struggle
against the tyranny of the Government.
One of the most fundamental planks in the new party’s platform was,
“Land for the Peasants.” Although my life and interests were no longer
those of the village; although I was entirely absorbed in the struggles
of a city worker, deep down in my heart I still remained a peasant, and
my sympathies were with them. I remembered the misery in which my own
kinsfolk and millions of other peasants lived and I joined the new
party. Nearly the whole “Southern Group” followed me into the fold of
the new organization.
My first act of allegiance to the party almost led to my arrest. We
received a trunkful of proclamations from the Kief headquarters of the
organization, and about twenty people undertook to distribute them. I
and several others went to the theater. We sat in the gallery, in
different corners, and waited for the end of the performance. As soon as
the curtain was lowered, each of us threw down two bundles of
proclamations. The whole parterre floor was covered with them. The
policemen who were stationed in the building immediately ran to the
gallery. One of the theater ushers, who was standing at the door, saw me
throw the proclamations. He grabbed me by the shoulders and called for
the police. But the gallery was thronged with working-men and students
who all sympathized with us. A dozen hands seized me and tore me away
from his grasp. A fight started. Some one threw a large kerchief on my
head. When the police reached our floor, they locked the door and began
to look for the culprits. The fight became general. The usher,
accompanied by a policeman, vainly looked for me. I was already seated
at the other end of the gallery, looking quite unconcerned. The gray
kerchief saved me from his detecting eye.
[Illustration:
LIEUTENANT PETER PETROVICH SHMIDT
Implicated in the Uprising of the Sevastopol fleet, executed in 1906
]
One of the most pressing needs of our group was the establishment of a
secret printing-office. The shipments of literature from Kief were, of
necessity, very irregular and attended with great risks. It was found
impossible to establish one at Odessa, as the gendarmes were on our
track. Several members of our group had already been arrested. It was,
therefore, decided to do our printing at Kishinev, which city is several
hours’ ride from Odessa. I do not know what inspired them with such
confidence in me, but I was chosen by the executive committee for this
responsible undertaking. Naturally, I was very proud of their high
opinion of my abilities as a conspirator.
With a suit-case filled with type and various typographical
paraphernalia, I came to Kishinev and settled in a quiet little lane. A
new sign with a boot painted on it, bearing the inscription “Repairing
neatly done,” was placed over the front door. Inside a cobbler’s bench
with a complete set of instruments bore testimony to our honorable
occupation. A local comrade spent there a couple of hours every day
mending my old shoes. Under this cloak I kept my suit-case containing
the typographic outfit.
I found work as a seamstress. Not wishing to remain alone at night, I
slept at the house of an old couple whose daughter was one of my Odessa
friends. She had written them about me, and they were glad to
accommodate me. They lived with their granddaughter, a little girl of
eight.
Thus I established myself, and waited for the promised compositor and
“copy” to arrive. But days and weeks passed, and they did not come. I
wrote letter after letter, without getting any reply. Finally I decided
to go to Odessa myself to investigate. But a very unfortunate
circumstance prevented me from carrying out my decision.
-----
Footnote 4:
Cabmen.
Footnote 5:
A little over thirty-six pounds.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
III
I
ON the night of February 8, 1902, all the four of us were awakened by
thunderous knocks on the door. Then we heard the words, “In the name of
the law: open!” But before the old man had time to unlatch it, there was
a crash, and the door flew wide open. The room filled with gendarmes and
police. Without saying a word to us, they looked about the house,—there
were two rooms and a kitchen—and began a long and careful search.
Everything in the house was turned upside down. They cut pillows and
mattresses, they tore the lining of old hats, they even examined the
backs of pictures on the wall. But nothing suspicious was to be found:
there were not even any books in the house. The disappointed gendarmes
were on the point of departing, when one of them picked up my dress
which lay on a chair. He fumbled in its pocket, and drew forth a few
pieces of type. These were capital letters which I had borrowed from a
type-setter, an acquaintance of mine, intending to add to my supply, but
had forgotten to put them in my suit-case. The faces of the gendarmes
instantly changed. Each of them closely examined the unfortunate
letters. They handled them with as much care as though they were not
mere metal type, but dynamite bombs.
The gendarme officer sat down and began to write a _protocol_.[6] He
only asked me:
“Does this dress belong to you?”
“Yes.”
“You are arrested. Dress yourself.”
Much to my terror, he turned to the old man with the same words. The old
woman and the little girl began to cry. In great agitation I tried to
explain to the officer that the old man knew nothing about the type
found in my pocket, but he rudely interrupted me:
“No use of talking. This question will be settled later. It is not our
business to decide who is right and who is wrong.”
At the officer’s command the gendarmes closed around us in a circle and
we were led out of the house. The old woman wept. The little
granddaughter, who ran crying after her grandfather, was roughly pushed
aside. I had only time to call out to my hostess, “Forgive me!” when the
door slammed behind us.
The night was dark and cold. Surrounded on all sides by police and
gendarmes, we walked in the middle of the road, with our heads lowered.
The old man was silent, and his silence was terrible to me. I could not
see clearly what was my guilt before him, but the feeling grew in my
heart.
“O God, this is how I have repaid these good old people for their
kindness,” I thought as I walked along.
I absolutely forgot that I was being marched to prison. The sight of
that gray head bowed before the gendarmes had made me oblivious of my
own plight.
At last we arrived, and the heavy gates of the prison swung open before
us. We were led to the office. There we were searched. The governor at
the prison wrote down our names, and ordered one of the guards to put us
in cells. I dared not look at the old man, but he extended me his hand
and said:
“Be brave. Don’t be afraid.”
A lump rose in my throat, and I could not utter a word. Afterward I
could not forgive myself that I had not asked this good old man’s
pardon.
Occupied with these thoughts, I did not even notice where I was being
led. I only remember climbing a narrow staircase. The guard stopped in a
long, dimly-lit corridor and opened one of the doors. I entered, and he
immediately closed the door after me and turned the key in the lock. I
remained standing near the door, listening to his retreating steps.
Through a little hole in the door I could see the hanging lamp in the
corridor. This lamp also lighted my cell. I looked about me. The cell
was about nine feet by six. It contained a small table, a stool, and a
wooden cot. A narrow window, with double iron bars, was high in the
wall.
I stood in this dark cage, having no desire to move. The only thought in
my mind was that the door was locked, and that I could not go out of
that place.
Suddenly footsteps were heard. My heart began to beat with hope: Maybe
they are going to release me! But the guard came, put out the lamp in
the corridor, peeped into the door-hole, and calmly walked away.
The feeble light of the approaching day penetrated the double bars, and
I could see the bare stone walls of my cell which were painted black
half-way from the floor. The light seemed to have roused my energies.
My first thought was to look out of the window. I approached it, but it
was high above my head. I dragged the stool over and climbed upon it.
Opposite me, at a distance of about twenty paces, I saw a row of narrow
iron-barred windows. The gray stone wall which surrounded the prison did
not seem high from my point of observation.
“I will escape from here,” I decided immediately. “I can’t remain in
this hole.” But days, weeks, months passed, and I still sat within those
walls.
II
In the morning a guard entered my cell and brought me black bread and
hot water.
“Tell me,” I asked him, “how long do you think I shall be kept here?”
The guard looked at me in surprise.
“And how are _we_ to know?” he answered, and went out.
A few days later I was called to the examination. It was necessary to
cross the prison yard to get to the office.
“Comrade!” I heard several voices issuing from somewhere. I raised my
head and saw hands with white handkerchiefs, which fluttered in the
wind, thrust out between the window bars. They greeted me.
“Good-morning!” I shouted cheerfully. But the heavy arm of the guard was
on my shoulder.
“You must not speak to them, otherwise I will put you in the
_kartzer_.”[7]
But it was too late: I already knew that I was not alone there.
The gendarme colonel met me very cordially. His broad face was smiling,
and his little gray eyes looked at me insinuatingly.
“Be seated.” He pointed to a chair near his table. “What is your
Christian name? Surname? What is your age?”
I told him.
“Well, how do you like to be in prison?” he asked me in a free manner.
“Oh, it’s terrible!” I said.
“Well, you see, you are too young yet to be in prison, and I shall be
glad to release you. It all depends on you, though.”
“How?” I asked, surprised.
“You have only to tell—” here the colonel took from the table drawer the
unfortunate pieces of type which were found in my pocket, “who gave you
_this_, then I will immediately release you.”
“I cannot tell,” I said.
“It would be very imprudent on your part not to tell. You will fare
badly, and regret it.”
“But if I should name the person who gave me these letters you will
arrest him. How can I do such a thing?”
“Oh, he is already in prison, anyway, and we know who he is.”
“Then why do you ask me to name him?”
“That is only a little formality which the law requires for your
release. Sign this paper, and I will let you free.”
He shoved a paper over to me. I looked at the paper upon which my
release depended, and doubt rose in my mind. Is it really so? Does he
not fool me? And suddenly I remembered a little book I had read in
Odessa, entitled: “Comrades, decline to give evidence!” In this booklet,
published by the Socialist-Revolutionists’ Party, it was explained that
the gendarmes took advantage of the inexperience of young political
prisoners and obtained from them incriminating evidence by false
promises of release, etc.
“I decline to give evidence,” I said.
The colonel took from the table drawer a little book and handed it to
me.
“Have you read this book?” he asked.
It turned out to be the very same booklet.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
I was silent.
“Don’t be afraid,” the colonel went on. “I ask this as a private person,
not as the gendarme colonel. I am simply curious to know who could have
given you this booklet.”
The colonel’s tone was so simple and so sincere, and in general he was
not as I had pictured to myself a gendarme colonel ought to be. I
hesitated. The colonel, evidently guessing my thoughts, put his plump
hand on mine and said:
“We are not such bad people.”
“Then why do you keep this old man B——?” I asked. “If you are a nice
man, you must release him, because you know that he is not guilty of
anything.”
“That does not depend upon me,” the colonel answered.
“Then I don’t believe you,” I cried. “You merely want to get a
confession from me, so that you might arrest several more innocent
people.”
“The worse for you,” the colonel said, changing his tone sharply. He got
up, opened the door, and summoned the guard.
“The examination is over. Take the prisoner to the secret division.”
I was led out by another passage, and soon found myself in a low,
circular cell. A heavy smell of dampness filled the air, as in a grave.
The tiny window was on a level with the ground. Only the lower part of
the prison wall could be seen from it; not a bit of sky or anything
which might cheer the prisoner’s eye.
But I did not think of comforts then. A feeling of gladness that I had
not fallen into the gendarme’s trap filled me. The thought that they had
not discovered the house where I kept the type was a great relief to me.
And the knowledge that I was not alone in prison, that all around me
were comrades who were also fighting for liberty and justice, raised my
spirits still more.
“If they only should let the old man out,” I thought.
I paced my half-dark cell, not knowing how to give vent to my feelings.
“It is impossible they should keep me long here,” I thought to myself.
I was then not quite seventeen. Life was just beginning to unfold before
me. It was still shrouded in mystery. Everything in the world seemed so
beautiful and attractive. Suddenly the stone walls of the prison had
shut out everything from my view.
For many days I could not believe that I was there to stay. From morning
till night I dreamed how my door would open and the guard would say:
“You are free!”
Three times a day he came to my cell bringing me food, and every time I
heard his footsteps near the door my heart filled with hope that he
would utter those magic words: “You are free!” But days, weeks, months
passed, and the guard, instead of freedom, brought me bread and _kasha_.
My dreams faded, and the thought that they had forgotten me in this
grave occurred to me more and more frequently.
“Why am I not called to the examination?” I asked the governor, who
sometimes came to the evening roll-call.
“That is not our affair,” was his invariable reply. “Write a petition.”
The darkness and dampness of my cell began to have their effect upon me.
I began to suffer with insomnia. The twenty-minutes’ daily walk in the
prison-yard became a torture to me. The sun shone so brightly without
the prison walls, and here I was shut up, deprived of its rays, deprived
of my freedom, without which I felt I could not live.
III
Easter came, my second one in prison. Easter had been my favorite
holiday in the village, but here it made me still more sad. The church
bells which toll so solemnly and joyfully outside, in liberty, here in
the prison, sounded like the ringing of bells at a funeral.
There is no holiday for the prisoner. On such days he feels still more
keenly that he is not free and is deprived of the possibility of being
with those dear to him. The longing for my folks at home and the desire
to know something about them almost drove me insane. My enforced
solitude on those days became unbearable.
On the second day unusual sounds reached my ear; now loud, now subdued,
they seemed to crowd into my cell from all sides. Guards ran past my
door more and more frequently. I became uneasy. What can it mean? In
alarm I paced my cell, like a caged animal, seeking to escape from those
sounds which filled me with a strange foreboding. I knocked on the door,
and the guard came.
“What is going on?” I asked him. He only motioned with his hand, and
went away. But I felt that those sounds would drive me mad. I knocked
again, and the same guard came.
“I cannot stand it any longer,” I began, greatly agitated. “I shall go
mad if you don’t tell what are these cries. For God’s sake, only one
word!” I implored him.
The guard looked at me for a few seconds, and said in a whisper:
“It was ordered to kill the Jews, that’s what it is.”
All my blood rushed into my head at these words. I remained standing
near the door, unable to take a step.
An hour or so later the door of my cell opened, and the governor
entered.
“Collect your things. You are transferred to another cell.”
His words made no impression upon me. It was all the same to me whether
I was to remain in this hole or go to a better cell, or even be
released. I heard nothing, I was conscious of nothing but the cries of
the Jews who were being killed.
A strange sight greeted my eyes when I was led out of my cell. The whole
prison yard was covered with feathers which the wind brought from town.
These were from the Jewish pillows and feather-beds torn by the rioters.
Soon the prison filled with Jews who sought protection within its walls,
but this did not enter into the plans of the authorities, and an order
was issued not to let any more Jews into the prison.
For two days and two nights the massacre of the Jews continued, and
their agonizing cries were heard in our prison. Only on the third day
they began to arrest the rioters, who were so drunk that they could not
walk, and the police carried them into the cells.
Several days after the _pogróm_ I was called to the examination. The
procureur and the same gendarme colonel met me with very solemn faces.
The procureur said to me:
“You are accused of belonging to a secret society which has for its
object the overthrow of the existing form of government, and of
conspiring against the sacred person of his Imperial Majesty. With this
aim in view you took part in the establishment of a secret
printing-office and the distribution of forbidden proclamations which
instigated a pogróm in the city of Kishinev. Are you guilty of the
criminal offenses?”
I was dumfounded.
“How is that?” I protested when I had regained my power of speech. “I
have been in prison since February 8, 1902, so how can I be accused of
instigating the pogróm which took place only a few days ago?”
“The point is,” said the procureur, “that the letters which were found
in the pocket of your dress are of the same identical type with which
the forbidden leaflets were printed. As to your plotting to overthrow
the existing form of government, this can be seen from your letters to
Nicholai Shpeizman. In one of them you say: ‘I shall not rest until I
shed the blood of the vampire.’ Do you admit that these letters—” here
he took out of a portfolio a bundle of my letters to Comrade Nicholai,
who was serving in the army,—“found on Private Shpeizman, and which are
written in Yiddish, are yours?”
“Yes,” I replied, “but these letters were written a year ago, and I do
not remember having used the expression you attribute to me.”
“This will be the business of experts to determine,” he said. “And now,
the preliminary inquest in your case has been terminated, and by order
of his Excellency, the Minister of the Interior, Plehve, you will be put
on trial.”
The examination was over, and I was led back to my cell. After this
examination it became clear to me that I would not be released so soon.
The letters which were found on Comrade Nicholai were ample evidence
against me, as I spoke in them, in no uncertain tones, about the tyranny
of the government. The thought that my comrade must have been arrested
and, being a soldier, would surely be court-martialed, darkened my
existence still more.
In the meantime the prison was being filled with politicals and
anti-Jewish rioters. The latter were being arrested because they
declared that they had been ordered to “kill the Jews.” Small cells
built for one now sheltered two or three people.
One night a woman carrying a little baby in her arms was brought into my
cell. She was arrested, together with her husband and servant. Her
husband, one Alexander Orloff, was one of the leading spirits of the
Social-Democratic Party, and at his house was found a secret
printing-office where the first issues of the well-known, forbidden
journal _Iskra_ (The Spark) had been printed.
The presence of the woman and her nine-months-old baby completely
changed my prison life. My own sufferings seemed to me as nothing
compared to those of the mother and child. This child later played a
great part in my life.
A few weeks after their arrest, Mrs. Orloff chanced to see her husband
through the window, and called out to him, “Good-morning!” Just at that
moment the governor of the prison was crossing the yard. He immediately
ordered to put her in the kartzer. When the guard came to take her she
refused to go, saying that she could not leave the baby. Then the
governor ordered that she be taken by force. Hearing this, I shouted to
Mr. Orloff: “Your wife is being taken to the kartzer.” He began to knock
on the door of his cell, calling for the governor. Several guards came
into his cell, gave him a terrible beating, and tied him hand and foot.
On learning of it, all the politicals began to make a terrific noise,
knocking on the doors with their feet, throwing the furniture on the
floor, and shouting for the governor to come. He came, but with a
company of soldiers. He lined them up in the yard, and himself with
several soldiers came into our cell. Mrs. Orloff held the baby in her
arms, pressing it close to her breast.
[Illustration:
GUARDING THE ROAD TO THE AKATÚI PRISON
]
“Soldiers,” she addressed herself to them, “is it possible that you will
have the heart to tear me away from my little baby?”
She cried and the baby, frightened by the sight of strange men, screamed
at the top of its voice. The soldiers were taken aback, and did not dare
come near her. Then the governor himself approached her, seized her by
the arms, and began to squeeze them above the elbows. After a struggle
which lasted a few minutes the arms of the mother relaxed, and the baby
fell to the floor. A pitiful moan filled the cell.
“Take him,” shouted the governor to the soldiers, “and get him out of
here.”
I seized a log and threw it at the governor’s head, but he jumped aside.
He ordered to take me also to the kartzer.
When Mrs. Orloff and I were led to the kartzer the whole prison was in
an uproar. The noise of falling furniture, knocking, and shouting was
deafening. The common-law criminals had seen the soldiers carrying
somewhere a half-naked child and joined the politicals in the protest.
Soon the procureur arrived. He visited every cell and assured the
prisoners that the child had been restored to its mother, and that the
mother had been released from the kartzer. The common-law criminals
quieted down, but the politicals, knowing from past experience that his
word could not be trusted, continued the noise. Then they were all tied,
and lay helplessly on their cots.
In the meantime Mrs. Orloff, locked in the dark cell, was frantic with
anxiety over her child’s condition. After several hours we were let out
from the kartzer, and the baby was brought to the mother. Happily it was
not injured; only bruised in some parts of the body.
As we learned later, Mr. Orloff, on hearing that the soldiers forced
their way into his wife’s cell, decided to commit suicide. He managed to
break a window, and with a piece of glass began to cut an artery in his
arm. A guard happened to open his door at that time and frustrated the
attempt. When this had been reported to the governor, he ordered to
release us from the kartzer.
IV
Because of the crowded condition of our prison it was impossible to
maintain a régime of strict isolation. The politicals who had relatives
in town were allowed interviews with them. Notwithstanding that these
interviews took place in the presence of gendarmes, they succeeded in
sending verbal messages to friends outside, and also found out what was
going on without the prison walls. The news that the Orloffs, their
servant, and I would be put on trial reached the outside world.
In those years politicals had not been tried in any court. Since the
seventies they had been exiled in the “administrative order,” which
means that any one suspected of “political unreliability” was sent,
after a more or less protracted stay in prison, to some remote northern
province, or to Siberia, for as many years as the Minister of the
Interior, the chief of the gendarmes, or any gendarme general, or
colonel saw fit. This was a new move against the politicals by the
all-powerful Plehve. The advantage it offered was the possibility of
sending them to hard labor, whereas under the old order they were “only”
exiled.
This departure from the time-honored “system” aroused great interest in
the liberal circles of Russian society, particularly among the members
of the legal profession. Several prominent St. Petersburg lawyers,
Maklakoff, Pereverzeff, Kalmanovitch, and others, wrote to the procureur
offering their services to us free of charge.
At last copies of the indictment were delivered to us. The crime with
which I was charged was punishable by from eight to twelve years’ hard
labor. The main evidence against me were my letters, of which the
strongest passages were quoted in the indictment.
The trial was set for October 15, 1903. A few days before the trial I
was called to the prison office. Instead of the gendarmes I had expected
to meet, I saw two gentlemen in civilian clothes. The guard told them my
name and went out, leaving me alone with them. This was the first time
since my imprisonment that I was alone with free people, without the
company of gendarmes.
The two gentlemen regarded me for some time in surprise, and then one of
them said:
“I am Maklakoff, attorney-at-law, and this is my colleague, Mr. Ratner.
We came to defend you. Are you really the author of the letters which
are quoted in the indictment?” he asked, again looking me over in
surprise.
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“How old were you when you wrote those letters?” asked Mr. Ratner.
“Sixteen.”
They laughed heartily, and shook my hands.
“That’s clever, very clever!” exclaimed Maklakoff. “Eight years’ hard
labor for letters written at sixteen! Fine!”
He began to pace up and down the room, somewhat agitated. Suddenly he
stopped, as if remembering my presence, and said:
“But you needn’t worry. We will see that you are acquitted.”
“No,” I said, “it will hardly be possible to acquit me. You know when I
wrote those letters, I really had no serious intentions. But after they
have kept me in these stone walls for over nineteen months, my mind is
made up, and nothing, nothing can ever change it. I hate this despotic
government with all the fibers of my soul, and I will fight it to the
last drop of blood in me. And I intend to tell this openly to the czar’s
court.”
They remained silent for some time.
“We understand you,” they said, “and this makes us wish still more to be
of help to you.”
They bade me good-by in a very friendly manner and went away, having
promised to see me again before the trial. After this interview a
beautiful bouquet was brought to me every morning, together with my
bread and water. I learned later that these bouquets were sent by my
lawyers, who had obtained special permission from the procureur.
At last the long-awaited day of the trial arrived. On the fifteenth of
October, early in the morning, I was led out of the prison gate. The
autumn sun greeted me from a cloudless sky. The air was cool and
fragrant. My eyes, which for many months had seen nothing but gray
walls, bathed in the green grass. The open space before the prison
fascinated me.
“To escape,” an inner voice whispered to me.
A carriage was waiting near the gate. I entered it, and two gendarmes
with drawn sabers took their seats on each side of me. The carriage
rolled fast over deserted streets, and after a short ride stopped in
front of a massive brown-brick structure. It was the court-house.
“Here we are!” said one of the gendarmes. They led me into the
prisoners’ room and locked me in there. But soon the door opened, and
the lawyers, counsel for the defense, came in one by one, six of them.
They were more agitated than I, because they already knew the verdict
which had been ordered by Plehve in advance, and felt the futility of
their efforts to save us.
At ten o’clock two gendarmes in brand-new uniforms, with drawn sabers,
took me to the court-room. The immense hall was empty. Only in a corner,
opposite a long table covered with a green cloth, sat my comrades.
Gendarmes, with drawn sabers, stood in front and back of them, but
before I reached their bench I noticed, amid a sea of vacant chairs, the
bent figure of an old man. He sat with his head bowed low. “Father!” The
thought struck me like an electric shock. Instantly I ran to him, and
before the gendarmes had time to recover from their surprise, I was near
him. “Father, dear!” I had time to say. The trembling arms of my father
were torn from my neck, and the gendarmes led me to the prisoners’
bench, holding me fast with their free hands.
“The Court enters! Rise!” called out the court _príestav_ in loud tones.
The judges entered, took their seats, and the farce of a trial began.
The secretary read the indictment. All of us were charged with having
established a secret printing-office and published the forbidden journal
_Iskra_. I, in addition, was charged with having uttered threats against
the czar’s life. The usual questions were asked. In answer to the
presiding justice’s question:
“Do you acknowledge yourself guilty?” I replied:
“No. From the letters it will become clear to you that I had no
connection with the publication of the _Iskra_, which is a Social
Democratic organ. I say this, not because I want to clear myself, but
because I am a convinced Socialist-Revolutionist, and as such have been
and always will be an enemy of the existing form of government. I do not
expect mercy from anybody.”
The witnesses gave favorable testimony, with the exception of the
official translator of my Yiddish letters. He maintained that one of my
expressions was, “I shall not rest until I shed the blood of the
vampire,” while another translator, not official, said that the sentence
read: “I shall not rest until the blood of the vampires is shed.” While
admitting that my Jewish was poor and ungrammatical, he asserted that
this particular sentence was written clearly and correctly, and that he
had translated it exactly. May heaven forgive him! He was simply afraid
of the gendarmes.
On the second day the speeches of the prosecution and the defense were
made. The procureur demanded the maximum sentence of twelve years’ hard
labor, saying there was no question of my guilt, as I had acknowledged
in my speech that I was a Social Democrat. My counsel, Mr. Ratner, said
in his speech:[8]