The forwarding prison was terribly congested. In cells which were built

for twenty-five were seventy-five and even a hundred people. Every day

200 or 300 politicals were sent away to different parts of Siberia, but

as many, if not more, were daily brought to Butírki. It seemed as if all

Russia were being exiled. But notwithstanding that the revolution was

crushed, the prisoners so deeply believed in the speedy liberation of

Russia that they went to hard labor and exile with a light heart.

“You may laugh at your life sentence,” comrades shouted to us through

the window bars. “You will not have stayed there long when a _free_

nation will carry you in their arms back to _free_ Russia.”

In the middle of June, at night, the governor of the prison came into my

cell and told me to get ready for the journey. A few minutes later I

learned, through the window, that all the six of us women hard-labor

convicts were to be transported somewhere. About twelve o’clock we were

led to the office and told that we should be sent to Akatúi. There, in

this office, I first met Marie Spiridonova. She looked so young and

frail,—she was only twenty—and her beautiful face was so pale that I

thought she would not live long. She tried to smile to us, but her eyes

remained sad.

All the six of us were conveyed to the railroad station in a closed

carriage, and put in a separate car attached to the Siberian express.

Accompanied by twelve soldiers and an officer, we left Moscow for the

distant prison of Akatúi.

II

When we were sent to Siberia the revolutionary movement there had not

yet been crushed by the government. The Krasnoyarsk “republic,” which

had lasted about forty days, was still fresh in the memory of the

people. The revolutionary committees in the various cities we had to

pass learned in some way about our coming and organized demonstrations

in our honor. A particularly striking demonstration occurred at Omsk.

The Omsk workingmen knew from their railroad comrades the day and hour

of our arrival there, and impatiently waited for us at the station. When

this reached the ears of the local authorities they met our train at

some distance from the city, uncoupled our car, and put it on a side

track, evidently hoping to take us through Omsk at night. But some one

on the train divulged their trick to the people at the station. A number

of workingmen seized a locomotive and started out to look for us,

followed by a crowd of several thousand people on foot.

Our car was sidetracked about five o’clock in the morning, and at noon

the workingmen located us. When the officer in charge of our convoy saw

the crowd approaching he showed us a paper he received at our departure

from Moscow. It instructed him to shoot us at the least attempt to

escape or to be released by a mob. The soldiers were in a state of

terror. They had become our friends during the long journey from Moscow,

and did not feel capable of executing such an order.

“We will rather die ourselves than shoot you,” they said to us.

The workingmen seized our car, fastened it to their locomotive, and

brought us to Omsk. Thousands of people met our approach with shouts of

delight. Rich women took off their jewelry and threw it in our windows.

All loudly demanded our appearance on the platform. For a moment the

situation was rather critical. The people were getting more and more

insistent, and threatened to take us out by force. In the meantime

Cossacks and soldiers were surrounding the crowd. The inevitable tragedy

with all its dreadful consequences rose before us. We began to implore

the officer to let us out on the platform for just a second, that we

might induce the crowd to disperse. Fortunately the officer, seeing that

the affair was assuming a very serious aspect, permitted us to go out

and address the crowd. As soon as we appeared on the platform all became

quiet. We asked the people not to attempt our release as we did not wish

to witness any bloodshed; we told them we did not believe we should stay

long at hard labor, and they finally consented to let us proceed on our

way.

For many miles the crowd followed after our train, waving red flags and

singing revolutionary songs. Peasants left their work in the field and

ran to see the unusual sight. They threw flowers at us, and soon our car

was covered with them.

It was late in the evening when the last shouts of farewell died away in

the distance. Similar demonstrations were repeated at Krasnoyarsk,

Irkutsk, and other places.

At last we reached Stretinsk. From there we had to proceed by _étape_.

It took us nine days to cover the distance of 130 miles, and in the

middle of July, 1906, we reached our destination.

III

The Akatúi prison is located in the little village of Akatúi, in the

Trans-Baikal, near the Mongolian border. It is famous in the history of

the revolutionary movement in Russia. Yet the Decembrists[24] were

confined in it. Chained to wheelbarrows they worked in the mines guarded

by soldiers with fixed bayonets. One of them, Lunin, died there a

hard-labor convict, and his lonely grave is the only evidence of

generations of political prisoners who were slowly tortured there to

death by the Russian czars. The Polish insurgents of 1863 were sent

there. The prison had been abandoned, but again rebuilt in 1889 and has

since held within its dreary walls a great number of political

offenders.

When we were brought to Akatúi the régime there was not very strict. The

wave of reaction which swept Russia soon after the October manifesto had

not yet reached this God-forsaken place, and the local administration

still believed that a new political era had dawned in Russia. We were

treated fairly well: we were permitted to wear our own clothing, to

receive books, and enjoyed similar little privileges. When out for the

daily walk we freely conversed with other prisoners, and argued about

affairs in far-away Russia. But month passed after month, and news from

there reached us less and less frequently, and what did reach us was far

from hopeful. The country was being crushed by the triumphant reaction,

and the chains of autocracy were becoming heavier and heavier. Our

prison régime grew worse and worse, until, by the end of 1906, we were

deprived of all the privileges and treated like ordinary hard-labor

convicts.

Our position in this living grave was intolerable. We were young, and

the fire of struggle was still burning in our breasts. We no longer

hoped for the speedy liberation of Russia, and could not reconcile

ourselves to a life of idleness and degradation. And we began to cast

about for a way to escape. A group of comrades commenced to dig a

tunnel. The digging had continued for over a month and the outer wall

had already been reached when the authorities discovered it. Within

several months five tunnels were begun, and each time it was discovered

when near completion. In the end we had to give up the thought of

gaining freedom in this way. Seeing that escape in a body was

impossible, the group of Socialist-Revolutionists headed by Grigóri

Gershuni[25] decided to find a way to escape singly. Gershuni, as the

more useful and capable member of our party, was chosen to go first.

For many years it was the custom among the prisoners at Akatúi to make

sauerkraut for the winter. The cabbage was brought into the prison, the

convicts cleaned and cut it, after which it was put in a barrel and

taken to the cellar, outside the prison gate. It occurred to Gershuni to

escape in this barrel, and we set about executing the plan. We punched

two little holes in the bottom, and inserted long pieces of thin rubber

pipe: these Gershuni was to hold in his mouth, and they were his only

source of air. He sat down in the barrel, bending almost double, as it

was not large enough for such a tall, stout man. On his head we laid a

metallic plate to protect it from the bayonet of the sentry at the gate

who always thrust it into the barrel to ascertain that no contraband was

being taken out of the prison. We stretched a cloth over him and nailed

it to the walls of the barrel. On the top we threw cabbage, and fastened

the cover.

At eleven o’clock in the morning everything was ready. The comrades who

had to cart the barrel to the cellar announced to the head-keeper that

the cabbage was done, and he gave the order to open the gate. Breathless

we stood and watched how the sentry stuck his bayonet into the barrel in

which our most respected and beloved comrade lay. At last it was without

the gate, and the comrades with the help of the soldiers lowered it into

the cellar. A tunnel leading into an open field had already been dug

from there, and horses were waiting in the forest near by.

To conceal his absence for a day or two and thus give him an opportunity

of getting away as far as possible from Akatúi, we made a dummy, dressed

in Gershuni’s clothes, and put it on his cot. Its head was made of

Holland cheese specially imported from Chitá and painted by one of our

comrades, an artist. When the keepers came in the evening to count the

prisoners a comrade spoke to the dummy, and they went away satisfied

that Gershuni was in his place.

When the keepers came into our cell and we saw their calm faces we knew

that everything was well. Our joy was indescribable. We already pictured

to ourselves the triumph of the Party, and warmly discussed the question

where Gershuni would be by the morning count. But scarcely an hour had

passed when we heard a noise in the yard. A number of keepers ran

excitedly into our cell and began to look under the beds. We understood

that some of the prisoners must have reported Gershuni’s absence, as the

authorities could not have found it out themselves before the morning

count.

In great trepidation we awaited Gershuni’s capture. But as the days

passed our fears were set at rest. We knew that if he had not been

caught on the first day of his escape the authorities had small chances

of getting him. He possessed wit and courage, and had money enough to

pay his way to the nearest seaport and cross to Japan.

Gershuni’s escape led to still further restrictions. But as it was

impossible to maintain a severe discipline in the overcrowded prison—it

was built for 80, but there were 150—the authorities transferred 50

prisoners to Gorni Zerentúi, about 128 miles away.

We were the only women in Akatúi. We were sent here because in the whole

Nertchinsk mining district there was not a decent prison for women. But

in order to subject us to the full rigors of the hard-labor régime the

higher administration decided to remove us from Akatúi. The government

again felt its power over the bleeding country, and the first on whom it

avenged itself were its political captives.

In February, 1907, the chief of _kátorga_,[26] Mehtus, telegraphed to

the governor of the Akatúi prison, Zubkovski, that the women politicals

must be immediately transferred to the Maltzev prison, about 130 miles

from Akatúi. Marie Spiridonova, who had not yet recovered from the

effects of the tortures to which she was subjected at the time of her

arrest, was not well. I, too, was sick, having contracted inflammation

of the lungs. For us to undertake a midwinter journey over the frozen

mountains of Akatúi was to court death. The étapes which were built in

the thirties of last century were in ruins, and to spend a night in them

was just like sleeping in the street. We knew it all, but it was utterly

useless to struggle against the decision. There, within the walls of the

dreary prison, thousands of miles away from Russia, they could do with

us whatever they chose. It must be noted here that had the authorities

waited another month our lives would not have been put to such a risk:

in March the frosts are not so severe, and there happens even warm days.

When the comrades learned the intention of the administration to

transfer us immediately their indignation knew no bounds. Even the

governor and the prison doctor were unwilling to send us. Zubkovski

telegraphed to Mehtus that the two of us were sick and that the doctor

thought our lives would be endangered if we should have to travel by

étape at this time of the year. Several days later, on February 12th,

the governor ordered four of us, Bitzenko, Izmailovitch, Yezerskaya, and

Fialka, to get ready. With a heavy heart we bade them good-by. It was a

sad parting, as we did not expect to see them any more.

Alone in our deserted cell we lay thinking of our friends. It was late

at night, but we did not sleep. Spiridonova felt very bad after the

day’s excitement. Soon she began to toss about and talk in a delirium,

and I went over to her cot. With great difficulty I succeeded in rousing

her.

“Dear, dear, look at me! There is nobody here but myself.”

She sat up on her cot, and embraced me.

“Do not sleep, my dear, do not sleep,” I begged her, fearing that the

terrible fit would again seize her if she should fall asleep.

In a close embrace, clinging to each other, we sat in silence, seized

with the consciousness of our utter loneliness and defenselessness. The

prison clock struck two.

“Oh, how long it is yet till dawn!” sighed Marie. Suddenly she began to

listen.

“Do you hear?” she asked me.

“No, I don’t hear anything. It is the wind roaring in the mountains,” I

tried to quiet her.

But soon footsteps were heard outside, and our gate was opened.

“Oh, they are coming!” I cried involuntarily.

We heard the door of our corridor open. We covered ourselves with our

blankets, embraced each other still closer, and waited. Heavy footsteps

filled the corridor. They kept coming and coming, and it seemed there

would be no end to them. Several people approached our door. We held our

breath. The door was violently opened, and an officer with a paper in

his hand stood near our bed.

“I am the governor of Algatchí prison, Borodulin. Have been sent here by

the chief of kátorga, Mehtus, to transfer you immediately to the Maltzev

prison. I will do that even if I have to take you naked and to shoot

down the whole prison. At the least resistance on your part I will

employ force,” and he pointed in the direction of the corridor where

armed soldiers stood in readiness.

I looked at his ferocious face, at his white gloves, and a tremor passed

through my whole body. Marie closed her eyes, and I thought that she

would again become delirious.

“Very well,” I said to Borodulin. “Let us dress ourselves, and when we

are dressed you will be able to do your business.”

Borodulin turned to the wall.

“Dress yourself.”

“No,” I answered, “this is absolutely impossible. We cannot dress when

you are in our room.”

He thought for a moment, and went out, closing the door after him. We

dressed hastily, and opened the door. Borodulin entered.

“Are you ready? I will not wait any longer.”

At this moment there came a knock on the wall. Our comrades had heard

Borodulin’s loud voice, and were uneasy. The whole prison was awake. The

knock was repeated.

“Wait!” I knocked to them.

“Listen,” Marie suddenly turned to Borodulin, “they will not let us go,

and you will have to shoot down the whole prison. But if you will permit

us to explain to them the situation they will agree for our sake.”

“This is against the law, and I cannot do it,” Borodulin answered.

“Then call our governor,” I suggested.

Zubkovski, who was in the yard at that time, was called in.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. He knew what a tragedy would

inevitably follow Borodulin’s attempt to take us by force.

“Induce Borodulin to allow us an interview with Sazonov and

Karpovitch.[27] They are the only people here who can prevail upon the

comrades not to raise a riot.”

Borodulin stood right there when I spoke to Zubkovski and calmly

examined his white gloves.

“Come,” said Zubkovski to him, and they went out. A few minutes later

Sazonov and Karpovitch were led into our cell. Sazonov was pale as a

ghost, and could not utter a word. He seized Marie’s hands, and held

them, looking at the soldiers all the time. Karpovitch was all in a

tremble.

“You shall not go, you shall not go,” he repeated, grinding his teeth

and shaking his powerful fists. His eyes were bloodshot, his face

assumed a bluish hue, and his whole body trembled with excitement. For a

moment I thought that he would attack Borodulin who retreated a few

steps, seeing him in such a terrible state.

“Leave them for a minute,” said Zubkovski to Borodulin, and they went

into the corridor.

When we were left alone Marie said to them:

“You must let us go, otherwise we shall not live it through. We shall

not be able to bear the thought that you will perish and that we shall

be the cause of it. What will be with us if the whole prison will be

shot down?”

They remained silent. Borodulin and Zubkovski entered, and Borodulin

announced to us in much milder tones that he would take a _féldsher_[28]

along and that we would not stop in the étapes. Zubkovski looked

questioningly at our comrades.

“We are ready,” said Spiridonova. Sazonov took Karpovitch by the arm,

and they went towards the door. Before going out they turned back and

looked at us, evidently still unwilling to leave us in the hands of the

heartless Borodulin.

It was about four o’clock when we, dressed in heavy sheepskin coats and

supported by the soldiers, went out into the prison yard. The frost was

so severe that we could hardly catch our breath. Sleighs were standing

at the gate, and we started, accompanied by Borodulin, a féldsher, and

several soldiers.

[Illustration:

MARIE SPIRIDONOVA

Assassinated General Minn, the famous torturer of revolutionists

]

It was twelve miles to the first étape, the Aleksándrovski Zavód.[29]

Borodulin stopped a couple of times on the road, came over to our

sleigh, and asked ironically:

“Well, are you not yet frozen?”

Early in the morning we arrived at the Aleksándrovski prison. In the

semi-dark barrack where we were led in lay our friends, muffled up in

their khaláts. A look of terror came into their eyes when they saw us.

They were sure that we had been spared this dreadful journey. In a few

words we related to them the events of the previous night, and told them

that Borodulin had come with us.

We passed the whole day in this cold, unheated barrack without seeing

any one of the authorities. During the evening roll-call the governor of

the prison announced to us that Borodulin had gone back to Akatúi and

that he had left orders to send us early in the morning by the regular

étape. All protests were of no avail. At six o’clock in the morning we

started out, accompanied by twelve soldiers. The féldsher did not go

with us.

We traveled seven days, stopping for the night in the hideous holes

called Siberian étapes. Marie Spiridonova was so weak that she had to be

carried to and from the sleigh. Although the cracks in the walls

admitted air freely the atmosphere in them was unspeakably foul,

poisoned by the filth and the _parásha_ which had evidently not been

washed for years. When we at last reached the Maltzev prison we were

more dead than alive....

IV

The old Maltzev prison was built exclusively for women, and had a

capacity of fifty. But in reality the number of prisoners there was

never less than 100, and sometimes reached 120. We were the first

politicals sent there.

The six of us were put in one cell. It was about fifteen feet long and

ten feet wide. Six beds covered with coarse, gray blankets, a long

table, and two benches on the sides were all its contents. It had two

windows, from which we could see the stone wall.

The cold, the dampness in our cell, and the food which consisted of

black bread, _balandá_,[30] and tea without sugar, were not conducive to

good health, and Spiridonova felt worse and worse. There was no hospital

in the prison, and we prevailed upon the governor to summon the doctor

from Gorni Zerentúi, about four miles away. He came, and only looked at

us sorrowfully.

“What can I do?” he said. “Everything depends upon the chief of kátorga,

Mehtus. Send for him, and ask him to transfer the sick to solitary

cells: they are warmer and drier.”

We immediately sent a petition to Mehtus, who lived in Gorni Zerentúi. A

couple of weeks later he arrived. He entered our cell without a

greeting, and stood without looking at us. In answer to our request to

transfer Spiridonova to a solitary cell he made a curt and coarse reply,

and went out. After this we never asked him for anything.[31]

Time passed slowly in the Maltzev prison. Days, months, years stretched

into one long and weary monotony. At first we were only six politicals

there, but gradually our number increased by new arrivals from all parts

of Russia, and soon we were forty. Their arrival was the only break in

the monotony of our existence. But the news which they brought and their

own spirits soon faded in the atmosphere of the prison, and they, in

turn, waited for others to come and revive their dying hopes.

The first few years after the revolution Russia yet remembered her sons

and daughters who were immured in the prisons of remote Siberia. But the

constant persecution and misfortunes at home made them forget the living

corpses who were buried in the frozen wilderness. Communications and

financial assistance came less and less frequently, and finally ceased

altogether.

Those who were sentenced for a term of years counted the days and

months. They knew that if only they should be able to serve out their

sentence they would see a glimpse of freedom—as much as one can see in

Siberian exile.[32] But what awaited us, sent here for life?

The belief in the speedy liberation of Russia was being slowly crushed

by the overwhelming grief which filled our souls. “How many such years

will pass, one as dreary as the other?” I often asked myself. Whether I

circled aimlessly our small prison yard on our daily walk or tossed

about on the hard bed in the long sleepless nights, these thoughts

tormented me unceasingly. Lying awake of nights I often heard the

whispered conversation of my comrades in the corners of the semi-dark

cell. They could not bear the oppressive silence of the prison, and

would begin to speak of their past life, of their dreams and wishes. But

to me it seemed that what they were dreaming about would never return,

that all was lost in this abyss of misery and degradation.

Bad as our position was, that of the common-law convicts was still

worse. The Siberian administration is to a certain extent afraid to do

to the politicals what they do to these unfortunate women. There was a

barrack just outside the prison wall in which women ex-convicts lived.

Half of this barrack was occupied by soldiers, who, following the

example of their superiors, perpetrated most atrocious acts of violence

upon these defenseless women. During the last year of my stay there two

died almost simultaneously from the effects of such mistreatment. There

were cases when women were killed when they resisted. A young Tartar

woman with a two-year-old child was strangled on the first night after

her release from prison.

I do not know of a single instance when the administration or the

soldiers were punished for these crimes. We reported these cases to the

governor, but he never investigated, and I am sure that our reports

never left his office. These horrors made our life there a perpetual

torment, and we lived under their constant impression.

The most trying time we experienced when the higher administration came

to inspect our kátorga. Their inspection did us no good, and only added

to our suffering. To show that discipline was strictly enforced in his

prison our governor used to put us in chains—those of us who were

sentenced for life—and keep us thus for weeks. The only advantage we

derived from their occasional visits was that for a few days previous to

their arrival our food was somewhat better than ordinarily, as the local

authorities were then afraid to appropriate the money which the

government allowed for the maintenance of the prison. The robbing of the

convicts in Siberian prisons has become a tradition, and is practised on

a large scale. The governor of the Maltzev prison, Pokrovski, sold not

only cloth and linen which the convicts were supposed to wear, but even

foodstuffs and firewood. Large sums of money were sent from St.

Petersburg to repair the building, but we continued to freeze because

the governor preferred to pocket the money than use it for repairs.

There was only one bright spot in our dark and cheerless life, and this

was our warm friendship for one another. This friendship fed our

sorrowing hearts, and sustained us in the hours of trial and affliction.

V

In the summer of 1910 I fell sick. The doctor from Gorni Zerentúi was

summoned, and he found that I suffered with appendicitis. My comrades

began to send petition after petition to the chief of kátorga, asking

him to do something for me, but received no reply. My condition seemed

hopeless. I could not eat the coarse food, and a slow death from

starvation threatened me. Just then the chief prison inspector,

Semenkovski, came from St. Petersburg to inspect our prison. When he

asked my comrades if they had any requests to make they all answered

that the only thing they asked for was that I should be transferred to a

hospital. Several days later the governor announced to us that

Semenkovski had ordered to transfer me to Gorni Zerentúi. We could

hardly believe it. During the three and one-half years of our stay in

the Maltzev prison there were many cases of sickness, but we never

succeeded in having the patients removed to a hospital.

Four soldiers came in, and laid me on a stretcher. My comrades stood

around me in a circle, and each one of them tried to say a few words of

encouragement. But their eyes and faces were sad, and told me something

different. They bade me good-by, hardly able to restrain their tears.

The gate opened, and the soldiers carried me out. Yet for a long time I

could see the group of comrades who stood in the prison yard and waved

their handkerchiefs to me.

The soldiers walked briskly, and soon we came to Gorni Zerentúi. I was

placed in a narrow, half-dark, solitary cell—this was the hospital. I

lay there for several weeks. The prison doctor, who was drunk most of

the time, could not help me. After a great deal of official

correspondence the authorities at last summoned another doctor from

Algatchí, and the two decided to perform an operation. For two days they

cleaned some cell which was supposed to be the operating-room. Then the

doctor went to the Nertchinsk Zavód to get the necessary instruments.

But when everything was ready, and they were preparing to take me to the

operating-room, our drunken doctor refused to operate upon me.

For two and one-half months I was kept in Gorni Zerentúi. I do not know

what would have become of me if not for Comrade Sazonov.[33] He

prevailed upon the governor to get for me permission to summon a private

doctor from Chitá or Irkutsk. Money for this purpose he had received

from his parents. When this request was telegraphed to the governor of

Chitá he ordered to transfer me to the Irkutsk prison.

It was the beginning of October, and the cold weather had already set

in. I was exhausted with constant fever and hunger. To travel to Irkutsk

in my condition seemed altogether impossible. But I welcomed this

decision of the higher authorities, considering it the best way out of

my misery.

“Now the end will come sooner,” I thought to myself. “And it will not be

so hard for my comrades when I shall be far away from them.”

On the 22d of October, early in the morning, I was carried out of my

cell and put in a sleigh. Two soldiers, a matron, and a féldsher

accompanied me. The farther I went from the prison the greater my desire

to live grew. I breathed the clear, frosty air of the mountains, I

enjoyed the sights of nature, and my strength gradually returned to me.

I felt better every day. I passed ten happy days, and on the eleventh I

came to Irkutsk, and the heavy gates of the prison again closed upon me.

But without these gates there were neither the black forests of Akatúi

nor the bare mountains of Maltzev: I heard the bustle of city life

outside, and the possibility of escape from here gave me new hope.

For eight months I struggled with my illness. The prison hospital was

filthy and had no facilities for an operation. The doctor could not

perform it alone, and private physicians refused to operate under such

unsatisfactory conditions. The authorities were already contemplating

sending me back when a happy idea occurred to me. I wrote secretly to an

Irkutsk doctor asking him to perform the operation. I told him in my

letter that it would be easier for me to die at once than meet a slow

and lingering death from starvation. He understood my position. He came

with two of his colleagues, bringing instruments and everything else

necessary. I went to the operation firmly believing that I would get

well and escape.

-----

Footnote 22:

Her sister Yekaterina shot at Admiral Tchukhnin at Sebastopol after

his summary execution of soldiers and sailors of the Black Sea fleet

and slightly wounded him. She was shot without trial immediately after

the attempt, in the yard of Tchukhnin’s residence, and the admiral

personally gave the command to fire.

Footnote 23:

She said at her trial: “General Sakharov suppressed the peasants and I

suppressed him.”

Footnote 24:

So called after the military insurrection of December 1825.

Footnote 25:

One of the organizers of the “Fighting League.” He was accused of

having planned the assassination of Minister Sipyagin, Governor

Bogdanovitch of Ufá, and the attempt on Governor Obolenski of Kharkof,

and sentenced to death, which was commuted to penal servitude for

life. He was brought to Akatúi from the fortress of Shlússelburg, in

1906.

Footnote 26:

Penal colonies.

Footnote 27:

Karpovitch shot Minister Bogolyepov in 1897. He was brought to Akatúi

from the fortress of Shlússelburg, in 1906. After completing his

hard-labor term he was exiled to a little village in the Trans-Baikal,

and escaped from there.

Footnote 28:

A male nurse.

Footnote 29:

Alexander Works.

Footnote 30:

A kind of soup.

Footnote 31:

Mehtus was sent to the Nertchinsk kátorga with the special mission to

“discipline” the political prisoners. The régime which he established

was beyond human endurance. For the least trifle they were beaten, put

in chains, and kept in the kartzer for weeks. He was the first in

recent years to order the flogging of politicals. Both he and

Borodulin were later assassinated by the order of the Party. Mehtus

was shot at a restaurant at Chitá by a woman whom the crowd hid from

the police. Borodulin was shot near his house at Algatchí. After this

the régime in the hard-labor prisons changed somewhat for the better,

and continued so until 1910.

Footnote 32:

Hard-labor convicts, after completing their term, spend the rest of

their life in Siberian exile.

Footnote 33:

When, several weeks later, the new prison governor Vysotzki issued an

order to flog the political prisoners Sazonov committed suicide by

drinking poison. Nine others failed in their attempt to end their

lives.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

VIII

NINE days after the operation I found out, quite accidentally, that

after two days I would be sent back to Akatúi. I was too weak to stand

the journey which awaited me—marching with a batch of prisoners from one

town to another until we reached our destination. Consequently, it was

necessary to make up my mind to escape. The thought “two days, two days”

did not leave me for a moment. And I resolved to make an attempt to

escape. I knew what would follow. But could the most terrible death

compare with being buried alive in that grave in which my best years had

been spent, with no hope of ever getting out into the light of day? I

thought: “Has cruel fate released me from that dungeon, only to throw me

back into it? I cannot; I haven’t the strength to go away from the

living sounds of the city.”

I felt hatred toward the people about me. They made me lie. They all

thought that I was going back to hard labor. They washed my things and

were getting everything in readiness for the journey. I was watched

closely. The least misstep on my part, and all would have been lost. My

comrades who were at liberty had planned to liberate me by means of a

tunnel that had been dug from outside, but the authorities discovered

the plot, arrested the people, and confiscated the money which had been

kept for me. I was placed in a solitary cell, from which I was let out

only for a few minutes during the day.

In my pillow I had a man’s outfit hidden; only shoes were missing. I

decided to wear my own. I made up my mind to escape by crawling through

under the gate.[34] The board could easily be removed. At first I could

not believe myself. “Is it possible,” I thought, “that in this prison,

where every crack is so carefully filled, the board under the gate could

be removed, thus leaving an opening large enough for a grown person to

crawl through?” But I convinced myself that it was so. The gate was

located in the middle of the wall, and was always guarded by a soldier.

Besides, the wall itself was guarded by two more soldiers.

I sent a note to my friends in town, asking that a carriage might be

waiting for me on Saturday from nine to ten in the morning, the hour

when I was let out for a walk in the prison yard. “But will it be there?

Have my friends received my note which was entrusted to not very

faithful hands?” were questions that I asked myself over and over again.

But I was going to escape; I was determined. I knew that success

depended upon my self-control. The problem before me was very simple,

but the least error might prove fatal. It was necessary to act with

mathematical precision. I paced my cell up and down, rehearsing under my

breath: “I have to remove the board noiselessly, and crawl through

without making a sound. I have to do all this before the guard has time

to turn his face to me. Then I have to walk ten steps in a straight

line, and turn to the right. I must walk slowly.” But deep down in my

heart there was a creeping sensation, and a stealthy thought, “_Will_

you do it? will you have the courage to put your head at the very feet

of the sentry?” lurked in my mind. And I had a feeling as if somebody

were trying to choke me....

Thus passing from hope to despair I spent Thursday and Friday. The

evening roll-call was over, and I was locked up for the night. Only at

night I was alone, in the daytime a guard was always with me. Oh, how I

loved the night! At night I felt free. I did not see the dreary walls or

the guards. In my dreams I soared into space, I dwelt in the skies, I

performed miracles. The walls of the prison crumbled under my touch,

bullets did not strike me, and I could defeat all the czar’s legions.

But the first glimmer of day scattered my dreams, and I, chained, was

again in the hands of my enemies.

It was midnight. Everything was asleep and quiet, only the measured

steps of the sentry under my window could be heard. Quietly, without

rising from my cot, I ripped my pillow open and took out my masculine

garb. I was afraid to move, because the soldier peeped into my window

every minute. With trembling hands I cut my long tresses. I put a

kerchief on my head, and on the top of my masculine attire I donned the

prisoner’s gray coat. And thus, fully dressed, I lay. I could not sleep,

and I did not want to sleep. There were only a few hours left for me to

live, I thought, and I was willing to fall from the soldier’s bullet

outside the prison wall rather than go back to Akatúi. At six o’clock I

got up. The sun was rising over my window, bright and smiling as ever,

but in my heart there was no response to its smiles, no reflection of

its rays—only darkness and uncertainty were there. Minutes and hours

passed. My heart was growing cold, and at times almost ceased beating.

When I came out into the yard for my last walk the regular strokes of a

hammer reached my ear. Through crevices in the wall I could see two

prisoners at work; they were building a staircase to the watchman’s

tower. They were guarded by a soldier. All grew dark before me. There

was no more hope. Another soldier at the gate!

The clock struck ten. I stood near the wall where the sounds came from,

and it seemed to me that with every stroke of the hammer they nailed

down the cover of my coffin. But a sudden thought flashed through my

mind. I asked the guard who watched me to fetch my book in the cell, and

he went on this errand. I knocked on the wall. The strokes of the hammer

ceased.

“Brother, hello, brother!”

“What do ye want?” asked a gruff voice.

“Where is the soldier that is watching you?”

“He went away for a minute. He isn’t afraid of us—we shan’t run away. We

have got only three days more to serve.”

[Illustration:

PETER KARPOVITCH

Assassinated minister Bogolyepov, sentenced to solitary

confinement in Shlússelburg fortress in 1906,

sent to Akatúi, escaped

]

My heart fairly leaped with joy. With one jump I was near the gate. I

threw down my prisoner’s coat. I removed the board from under the gate

without making the slightest sound, and crawled through. I rose from the

ground, and at that moment the soldier on guard, having come to the end

of his beat, turned his face to me. I saw the carriage standing on the

corner. I knew that I had to make just ten steps. But seconds seemed

eternities to me, and the short distance between me and the carriage

turned into interminable space. It seemed to me that I was not moving at

all, but standing as if chained to the spot by the bewildered look of

the sentry. Suddenly a shot rang out, and the bullet whizzed over my

head. But before the smoke had cleared away I was already in the

carriage. Bullets were falling about us in a shower. I shot aimlessly

into the air, to scare off our pursuers. Soon we were lost from the view

of the pursuing soldiers in a thoroughfare of Irkutsk. A feeling of

utter happiness, the happiness of freedom, filled my whole being. I

inhaled the dusty air of the street, and it seemed to me to be permeated

with the odor of roses and violets. I saw no more the prison walls, and

the narrow thoroughfare appeared to me a limitless expanse. My carriage

was going at a terrific speed, and carrying me farther and farther away

from the prison. I was ready to die right then, being happy with the

thought that I saw the streets and the people on them not through the

gray walls of my prison, but face to face, a free being. My head was

like in a whirl. I saw as through a mist the faces of passers-by, and it

seemed to me that they were smiling to me and celebrating with me my

great victory over the walls of the dreary prison.

Our carriage stopped in front of a sumptuous residence, which was shaded

by a row of trees. I jumped out and rang the bell. An old lackey opened

the door. To my question, “Is so-and-so at home?” he replied that all

had departed and would not be back before evening. My carriage was gone,

and I knew that I could not lose a moment’s time, because the soldiers

who were pursuing me would find me there. I did not know the city, and

besides I could not appear in the streets in my attire without arousing

suspicion. “I _must_ enter this house,” I thought, “otherwise I am

lost.” I looked at the lifeless face of the old lackey who stood before

me at the door and kept on repeating that nobody was at home.

“Listen,” I began in a feminine voice, “I _must_ get in here, I _cannot_

go away from this house in this attire. And you _must_ help me.”

I stepped into the hall, closed the door, and took his hands. “We must

hurry, because the police and the soldiers may come here at any minute.”

The old lackey stared at me in utter bewilderment and did not say a

word. I thought that he had lost his power of speech from fright. He led

me through the rooms, opened the bureaus and closets, and burned my

masculine garb. Suddenly the door-bell rang. I understood that the

police must have come after me.

“Dear, good man,” I said to the lackey, “you must take me out by the

back door, and not say a word about what has taken place here, otherwise

it will be all over with you.” And I ran in the direction he pointed

without breaking his silence.

Here I was in the street, walking with none too firm steps and trying to

remember the plan of the city. After about an hour’s search I found a

house the address of which I had with me. I was admitted by a man of

thirty or thirty-five. I told him my name. He grasped my hands, squeezed

them hard, and kept on repeating like a madman: “Oh, what a miracle!

what a miracle! In the middle of the day, before the very eyes of all

the guards!” I had never seen this man, but his voice was firm, and I

was beginning to hope that he would help me.

It was twelve o’clock then, only two hours having passed from the moment

of my escape. Mr. N—— locked me in his cabinet and went out to see what

was going on in the street. Only then I clearly saw what a problem I had

before me. When I was in prison my only thought was, how to get out of

it. I could not bring myself to think of the difficulties which would

confront me when once out of it, and at liberty. “How shall I hide,

where shall I go?” were questions that demanded immediate answer. I knew

that all my comrades would be arrested immediately, and that to accept

their aid would be giving myself into the hands of the gendarmes.

Mr. N—— came back and brought me new dresses.

“I think,” he said, “that it is best for you to leave this house. The

house in which you have just been hiding is surrounded by the police,

and we cannot depend upon the lackey. He may tell everything. I have a

very good plan, but the road over which we shall have to go leads past

the prison. Can you make up your mind to pass there?”

“And you,” I asked,—“Do you know what awaits you if you should be

arrested with me?”

I knew that N—— sympathized with the revolution, but I also knew that he

had never taken an active part in it, and besides he had a wife and two

children.

“Don’t think of that,” he answered.

“All right, we will go.”

I dressed all in white, and put on a blond wig. The day was fine, and

the sun again smiled to me. We neared the prison, and I could see the

hospital, the cot on which I had lain eight months. There was the

operating table. I recalled the faces of the doctors, who were the only

people dear to me, _dear_ because they were from the outside world, were

free men. Even the prison guards then looked at me with a soft

expression in their eyes, because they were sure that I would not

survive the operation. I recalled the hard labor-prison where I had

spent five years, five terrible years. My friends were still there, in

that living grave. And I swore by all that was sacred to me that I would

not forget them, and would devote my life to them. The carriage passed

the prison, and in a minute left it far behind. But I could not free

myself from the thought of that prison. I felt that all that I had lived

through in those six years had tied me to that place where thousands of

lives were chained. I was free, but it was only an external freedom, for

I never could free myself from the thought of those people who were left

within those dark walls.

We arrived at the house. It stood on the outskirts of the city and was

surrounded by a large park. The family that occupied it was of very

noble descent and immensely rich. With the revolutionary movement they

had no connection whatever, but the mother of the family was a highly

intelligent and progressive woman, and always regarded with extreme

disapproval the treatment which the government accorded its political

prisoners. My identity was to be kept secret from all the members of the

family, except the lady of the house, who alone knew who I was. I was to

be hired as a chambermaid, and thus allay all suspicion and avoid any

possible questions. I hoped that the rôle of a chambermaid would render

it possible for me to remain in that house for a time. I put on a

servant’s dress and assumed the duties of my position.

The sun sank below the horizon, and it grew dark. The skies were wrapped

in the mysterious covers of night. Stars began to twinkle here and

there. I stood absorbed in the sight of the approaching night. Six years

I had not been under the open sky in the evening. But there was no joy

in my heart, only fear. I was afraid to move. Something unknown was in

the darkness of the night, and it threatened me on all sides. Suddenly

soft arms embraced me and some one began to kiss me. I felt hot tears

falling on my hands. It was the lady of the house. This woman, a total

stranger to me, tried to comfort me like my own mother, and relieve the

burning anguish of my heart.

At eight o’clock in the evening the whole family and a number of guests,

most of whom were high government officials, went into the dining-room

and took their seats. I brought the soup. The son of my hostess, a

student at St. Petersburg University, who was home on his vacation, was

reading an evening newspaper. When I handed him his plate he looked at

me and exclaimed, “Mama! Mama! Our maid resembles—” He did not finish

the sentence, for he noticed that his mother had turned ghastly pale.

All the guests began to examine the picture reproduced in the newspaper

and compare it with me. There could be no doubt of my identity as there

were several photographs of me printed in different positions. Besides

my features were described in detail, and there was even a photographic

reproduction of my hands. I, without showing the least concern,

continued to serve the soup, which the hostess passed to me with

trembling hands. Her eyes looked at me with maternal tenderness, but she

was helpless to defend me. I was recognized. Nobody asked me any

questions. But a dead silence reigned in the room during the whole

dinner. At last the torture ended, and I, thoroughly exhausted, went to

my room.

It was twelve o’clock. The guests had departed. I was sitting in my room

with my hostess and awaiting the return of her son, who had gone to town

to look for a place for me to hide. He came and brought terrible news;

the neighboring house was surrounded by the police, who had a bloodhound

with them. He had found a room, but if we should leave the house right

then we would surely be stopped by the police. It was necessary to act

quickly, for I did not want those good, innocent people to suffer with

me. I decided to leave the house. It was one o’clock at night. I dressed

myself in black, and wanted to go to a near-by wood which was at a

distance of about two miles from Irkutsk. It could be reached by walking

over a field and thus avoiding the streets.

“But, mama,” said the student, “can a man, no matter what his political

opinions are, turn a woman out into the street at night? _I_ cannot do

that! _I_ will go with her.”

It was futile to argue with this man the risk he took in accompanying

me, for he was firm in his determination to share my fate with me. We

started out, walked a great distance over fields, and entered the city

from the opposite side. I was so exhausted that I could not walk any

more, and he carried me in his arms into a house where we were expected.

Two days I lay in a semi-conscious condition. I remember only one thing:

whenever I opened my eyes, I saw the face of a student. I tried to

recall who he was, but in vain. His face would grow bigger and bigger

and resolve itself into many faces of the prison doctors and guards, and

I would again fall into a stupor. The people at that house did not know

who I was; they only knew that I had to be in hiding. They were plain

townspeople, greedy for money, and knowing that the man who brought me

to their house was of a rich family, expected to get a large sum for

keeping me.

On the third day I felt much better, and got out of bed. My hosts were

still ignorant of my identity. I was beginning to hope that all had

quieted down. But at noon my aristocratic friend came to see me. She was

greatly excited. She told me that the city was in a state of terror;

that the police had searched all the houses in some streets and had

arrested absolutely innocent people; that the authorities had released a

number of criminals who knew my face—some of them had yet to serve eight

months of their sentences—and sent all over town to look for me; that

the government had announced a large reward for my capture, and even the

prison administration offered 1,000 rubles for any information that

would lead to my arrest. She was not sure that she was not being

shadowed by the secret police and therefore thought that the best thing

for her to do was to leave town for some time. She gave me money and

bade me good-by with tears in her eyes.

On the fourth day of my stay with those people, I noticed that they

looked worried. They began to suspect that I was the woman about whom

the newspapers printed all sorts of sensational stories. Those miserable

newspapers almost led to my being discovered again. Without saying

anything to me, my landlord, in the simplicity of his heart, solved the

matter in a very simple and rather unexpected way. He invented a

fictitious name, and, having entered it in his housebook as that of his

boarder, went to the police station to register me. By this means he

hoped to avert all suspicion from himself. I was sitting in my room and

did not suspect anything. Suddenly my landlady rushed in and told me in

very excited tones what her husband had done. My first impulse was to

flee. But where? There was no time to deliberate, because I did not at

all know what sort of man my landlord was, and the landlady was in such

great trepidation that she could not be depended upon. I dressed myself,

and was going down the stairs when I met the landlord.

“Where are you going?” he asked in a very calm voice.

“Well, did you register me?” I inquired.

“No, there wasn’t anybody in the station. It is a holiday.”

That was great luck. I went back into my room. But scarcely half an hour

passed when the door-bell rang and my landlady, pale as a ghost, ran in

to me, shouting: “Police, police, flee!” I ran to the kitchen and into

the back yard and hid in the building where firewood was kept. I stood

breathless in a corner, with my revolver ready in my hand. A feeling of

shame and humiliation filled my heart in that filthy place. A voice

within me whispered: “Ah, you wanted freedom! You wanted to escape from

life-imprisonment! But have you the strength to do it? Why don’t you

shoot yourself?” And my long-formed resolution to die rather than fall

into the hands of the gendarmes came to me. I nervously clutched the

pistol in my hand and opened the trigger guard. Many times during my

revolutionary life have I experienced the proximity of death, and every

time, at those moments, pictures of my whole life flashed through my

mind like lightning. And what I can’t understand is, that those pictures

always looked so attractive and so cheerful! There was no trace of

sufferings and persecution, no memory of the terrible years of my

imprisonment.

The door of the building opened and my landlord’s aged mother entered.

“The gorodovoi[35] is gone, thank the Lord. He came to find out what my

son wanted in the police station and we didn’t tell him anything about

you.”

It was plain to me that I could not remain any longer with these people.

They could betray my presence in their house through sheer stupidity and

fear. But where was I to go?

In an apartment at the same house several men were playing cards at that

time. My landlord, in the excitement caused by the visit of the

policemen, told those people that, to his mind, the woman who had

escaped from prison was hiding in his house. His story excited the

curiosity of the company, and they came down to have a look at me. One

of them, a man of about forty, expressed his willingness to help me.

“Don’t worry,” he said; “I am an honest man, although I lead a

disreputable life. Nobody will ever suspect that you are hiding in my

home. I live with my boy, and often bring women to my house.”

I told this man frankly what awaited him if I was arrested in his house.

But he insisted that there was no danger. When it grew dark I went with

this man, who was a total stranger to me. We climbed up several flights

of filthy, slippery, and badly lighted stairs and knocked. The door was

opened by a boy of about 15, who had a very pleasant face.

“Make yourself at home,” said my host. “You see, the rooms here have not

been cleaned these last four months. There was a woman here last week,

but she only brought more filth.”

He slept with his boy in one room, and gave me his bedroom, in which the

whole furniture consisted of a broken couch. In the morning he told me

to be quiet, so that my footsteps should not be heard by the tenants of

the apartment below. I could stay there three or four days, and no one

would know that there was a woman in the house. He went away, having

locked the door of my room from the outside, and I was left alone. In

the evening he came back drunk, but he talked sensibly, and did not

forget his rôle. He began to tell me about himself:

“I am a civil engineer and a good mechanic, and have ‘golden hands,’ but

one must bow one’s head and obey superiors, and I just can’t do that. It

is already a year since I have been out of a job. I have sold everything

there was in the house. The rent has not been paid, and my boy wears

tatters and cannot go to school. I have two more children in the

village, and the old woman who boards them threatens to send them back

because I have long stopped paying their board-bill.”

While telling me his story, he kept on drinking, now beer, now vódka

from a large glass, and at about twelve o’clock became violent, and

began to hit the boy. He ordered him to say some nonsensical words, and

when the boy hesitated, he beat him mercilessly. I was in agony, and

tried to shield the unfortunate child with my own body. Suddenly the

thought of the drunken man turned on me.

“Do you see,” he cried to his son, “this woman is a saint; she is not

like those you have seen here before. And if you will ever think of

betraying her, you will answer me with your own head.” And he made the

boy swear to something.

At two o’clock I succeeded in putting him to sleep. I lay awake the

whole night. On the following morning he apologized to me, and in the

evening the same story was repeated. I knew I had to leave that house,

that I could not remain under such conditions; but I knew of no place

where I could go.

On the third day my host went away and locked me in as usual. At twelve

o’clock I got up from the couch, intending to make some tea. I moved

about the room with great caution, as I was afraid the neighbors might

hear there was somebody in the locked apartment. On the floor near the

window, over which a curtain hung, stood a spirit-lamp and a bottle of

alcohol. While striking a match, I overturned the bottle with my elbow,

and the alcohol momentarily flamed up. I hardly had time to jump aside.

The curtain caught fire, and the red flames could be seen from the

street. The room filled with smoke, and the door of my room was locked.

For a moment it seemed to me that my end was near; for I thought that if

people came before I was burned to death, I should be recognized, and in

that case I was going to die by my own hand. But suddenly remembering, I

began to throw on the fire everything I could get in my room, and by a

supreme effort I managed to extinguish the flames. My fear that the

people down-stairs may have heard the noise of my struggle was great,

and I waited in extreme suspense. At last the boy came, and I decided to

send him with a message to my friends. The idea to enlist his services

had long occurred to me; but it was a terrible risk to intrust my life

into the hands of a child. Besides, it was imperative that I should

leave the house without his father knowing my destination, as I felt I

could no more rely upon the drunkard. But before I had time to despatch

the boy, his father came. He was so drunk that he could scarcely stand

on his feet. He did not even notice the traces of the fire. He went to

the window, opened it, and began to shout to the people in the street,

accompanying his words with most dreadful oaths: “I know who you are.

You are spies—spies, all of you.”

[Illustration:

GENERAL VIEW OF THE MALTZEV HARD-LABOR PRISON

]

I dragged him away from the window. Then he sat down close to me, and I

felt his hot breath on my cheek. His eyes were bloodshot. I saw that the

man was quite out of his senses. I got up, he seized my hands, and began

to kiss them. I tried to free myself, and there began a struggle with a

drunken man. I was not afraid. I knew that I had only to free one hand

for a second, and pick up my revolver, which lay right near under the

touch. The noise of the scuffle was heard in the other room, and the boy

ran in. His sudden appearance surprised the drunkard, who released his

hold upon me and began to beat the boy. It was a horrible spectacle, and

all my efforts to tear the boy away from his father’s grasp were in

vain. At last, exhausted by his exertion, the drunkard fell to the floor

and was soon asleep, to the great relief of myself and the poor boy. I

did not sleep the whole night, and at sunrise I awakened the boy. He

looked at me with an expression of childish pride in his eyes. He

understood the seriousness of the mission he was to take upon himself.

Before departing on his errand, he looked at his sleeping father, and

with downcast eyes asked me, “Are you not afraid to remain here alone?”

After a few hours of anxious waiting I received word that an officer

would come to fetch me. Soon a colonel of the Russian army arrived. I

thought it was one of my friends dressed up like an officer, but he

turned out to be a real colonel, of the local garrison.

“You see,” he tried to explain, noticing my look of astonishment, “I do

not agree with your ideas, but as a man I highly value heroism in

people, particularly in women. I am an army officer, and I was in the

Japanese War. I saw and took part in most bloody battles. But we are men

and soldiers, and you!”

I considered it unnecessary to argue with him that I did not at all

think my act was heroic.

“Your bold escape has excited my warmest admiration,” he continued, “and

I, as an officer, appreciate it, and wish to help you slip out of this

city. I and my comrades found out by chance where you were, and we will

all be awfully glad to meet you. You know the police are searching for

you very energetically and bending every effort to find you. They even

imported the famous bloodhound ‘Rex’ from Kief. In general, there are

all sorts of interesting rumors about you in town. They say that on the

first day of your escape you were hiding in the governor-general’s

house.”

He spoke with great enthusiasm, evidently forgetting what awaited him in

case I was found in his company. I went with him, and after several

minutes’ walk was at his house. He lived with his man-servant, a soldier

of his regiment, who managed all his household affairs. A little later

three more officers of his regiment came. Among them I felt like a

prisoner; their epaulets, sabers, and clicking spurs reminded me of the

gendarmes and the prison officials in whose power I had been for so many

years. They joked, laughed, and their manner was free and careless. But

I was grieved at the thought that perhaps on the morrow these servants

of the czar would blindly obey the command of some half-witted general

and shoot down innocent people. It was hard to reconcile what they were

doing in my case with their every-day mission. But they were far from

having any principles. To them I was only a young woman who was being

persecuted, and they did not associate the fact that they were hiding

me, a political offender for whose head a large reward had been offered

by the Government, with the general conditions of life in Russia. At

twelve o’clock at night all went away, leaving the whole house to me.

I spent six uncomfortable days in the society of these officers,

stopping now with one, now with another. It was not safe to remain

longer with them, because each had a servant, a soldier. These soldiers

apparently obeyed their masters, but in reality they did as they

pleased. Despite the strict orders not to speak to anybody about the

“lady from Vienna” who was stopping at their houses, despite their

ever-ready reply, “Yes, sir,” they were not to be trusted; the

temptation to share the interesting news with their fellow-soldiers was

too great. So the colonel arranged with some musicians from St.

Petersburg to give me shelter for two days.

The risk of hiding in Irkutsk was becoming greater and greater. The

police and gendarmes kept up the search untiringly. The railway station

was watched by dozens of spies. According to rumors, people who knew my

face were sent to the Manchurian and Chinese borders. It was necessary

to leave the city, but it was impossible to find a free exit.

On the second day of my stay with the musicians the colonel came to see

me.

“Did you hear?” said he. “They say that you have already gone to

Switzerland.”

He related to me that after I had left his house he had paid a visit to

the colonel of gendarmes on the pretext of some fictitious case, and had

started a conversation about me.

“How do you explain the fact,” he asked the colonel of gendarmes, “that

Miss Sukloff has not been apprehended?”

“For a very simple reason,” replied the colonel of gendarmes. “She is

long in Switzerland, and we expect to receive a report about her from

our agents abroad.”

Thus the time was ripe for me to leave the city. The colonel found a

room for me with an old woman, to whom I was introduced as a university

student. At last, by the tenth of September, everything was ready for my

departure. Money was collected, a man was found who undertook to

accompany me to Manchuria and China, and passports in the name of a

“Sister of Mercy” were procured.

I was to go on the eight o’clock train. I dressed like a “Sister of

Mercy,” dyed my black hair a golden brown, and from a slim young girl

was converted into a stout, middle-aged woman. I arrived at the station

a few seconds before the train started, and went straight to my car

without looking at the people. The few seconds seemed eternities to me.

At last the signal to start was given, and the train rolled past the

platform, past the gendarmes and spies who scanned the faces in the car

windows, and was soon in the open field. With a sigh of relief I sat

down at a window and looked in the direction of the city, which I would

see no more.

-----

Footnote 34:

A gate in Russia does not reach to the very ground, and the narrow

space left is covered with a board.

Footnote 35:

Policeman.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

IX

A FEW moments after the train left Irkutsk I began to feel sick. I lay

helpless on my cot, and melancholy thoughts passed through my mind. “O

God! O God! when will all this come to end?” I asked aloud. When I heard

my own voice it seemed to me that I was going mad. The pain I felt was

so severe that I bit my lips in order not to cry aloud.

Suddenly my eyes fell on my traveling bag. I remembered that it

contained drugs and other things which I, as a “Sister,” had to carry

with me. With unsteady hands I opened the bag, and found a bottle of

opium. I took several drops and lay down again. I must have fallen

asleep soon after. When I opened my eyes the train guard was standing

near my cot.

“Miss,” he said, “there is something the matter with a woman in the next

car. Won’t you be so kind and take a look at her?”

Day was beginning to dawn, and sky and earth were shrouded in a bluish

mist. At first I did not know where I was, but gradually my thoughts

cleared. I felt my head, my hands, as I did not believe that I, the

being who was to be immured in a remote Siberian prison for life, was

now actually riding in this train, and absolutely free.

Springing up from my cot, I put my burning forehead to the wet

window-pane. The thought came to me: I can open the window! And I

repeated aloud: “I can open the window!” Rejoicing like a child, I

hastily pulled up the window and thrust out my head. The cool morning

air blew in my face.

The train was moving at great speed, and the very wheels seemed to grind

out the words: “You-are-free! You-are-free!”

Peering into the bluish mist I saw a wide field covered with drops of

golden dew. From afar came the singing of peasant women on their way to

work in the field. All at once I recalled the words of the train guard.

What about the woman? Picking up several drugs, such as peppermint drops

and bromide, I went into the next car, which was of the third class.

The sight that greeted my eye there made me forget all the wonderful

beauties of nature. Amid a multitude of dirty bundles of all sizes and

descriptions, there sat and lay Russian peasants, men and women

together. They had emigrated from European Russia and were going to

their new homes, somewhere near Vladivostok. Most of them were fast

asleep. In a corner a woman sat. She was swaying to and fro and moaning

in a subdued voice.

“What is the matter with you, my dear?” I asked.

The woman stared at me with a far-away look and said nothing. Her

expression frightened me.

“What _is_ the matter with you?” I repeated. But she was silent, and

only looked at me with dull eyes. Then, upon observing her figure

closely, I understood, and everything grew cold within me. Cold drops of

perspiration stood out on my forehead. What shall I do? I asked myself.

I went back into my car and examined the time-table. It was still about

six hours to the nearest town. There was nothing for me to do but to

take the woman to my compartment. I hastened back to her.

“Can you come with me?” I asked her.

She got up and leaned heavily on my arm. Then we slowly moved into my

car. Before I left the Irkutsk prison, I had learned to assist women in

child-birth. The prison nurse lived far away in the city and as the

women-prisoners in most cases gave birth to their children at night, the

child was generally born before the nurse could be summoned.

Willy-nilly, we had to become practical midwives. There I was not alone;

there were other women there who knew far more about it than I did, but

here all the responsibility for the life of the unfortunate woman and

her unborn child rested on me.

The groans of the woman made my heart bleed, and I felt as if I were

committing some heinous crime. I tried my utmost to remain outwardly

calm, to encourage the patient. I undressed her and, in the absence of

warm water, washed her with alcohol and put her on the cot.

“Have you had any children?” I asked her, when the paroxysm of pain

subsided.

“Four,” she replied. I felt relieved, as I knew it would then be easier

for her.

“And who attended you in all those cases?”

She smiled feebly and answered:

“Dear Miss, it is very simple with us peasants. We give birth whichever

way it pleases God.”

In my bag I found cotton, gauze, obstetric scissors and thread. I knew

theoretically all that had to be done in such cases, but would I be able

to apply my knowledge satisfactorily? And what if everything might not

go well? These questions greatly worried me. I kissed the woman and

patted her, but she shrieked more and more frequently. Suddenly she

uttered a terrible cry. If I could only pray, I thought. If I had only

believed, as in my childhood, that God would hear me, I would have

fallen on my knees and implored Him to help me now.

The cries of the woman continued to grow louder and louder, and her

voice did not seem human. And then something happened. I don’t know how

it came about. My brain began to think clearly only when I heard the

feeble squeak of the infant. The mother quieted down, and began to cross

herself.

Soon we arrived at the station, and summoned a cab. I held the

newly-born baby, wrapped in my underclothing. It was suddenly hard for

me to part with that child. An unfamiliar feeling had awakened in my

heart. Never before had I thought of a mother’s feelings. I hardly slept

the following night, and whenever I dozed off, I heard the cries of the

woman and the whole picture of the birth passed through my memory. It

made me forget my position for awhile.

On the next day at four o’clock we arrived at the station Manchuria, on

the Manchurian frontier. I went to the appointed place and met there my

friend, a young woman. She had come earlier and was waiting for me. I

returned to her the passport, which she was to deliver to its owner, and

narrated all that had happened to me on the road. She was greatly amused

and laughed heartily.

We bade each other good-by, and I went to the lodging which had been

prepared for me. In that little town I had to wait for my comrade who

was to help me cross the border into Manchuria. He had to get a passport

and money. I stopped at the house of a Polish woman, who knew nothing

about me. My friends had invented a very romantic story for her benefit,

telling her I had run away because I wanted to marry a man of whom my

parents did not approve. She sympathized with all such cases, because

she herself had run away from home and secretly married her present

husband. She held whispered conversations with me, offering advice as to

how best to have the ceremony performed and where to go afterwards.

“Are you quite sure that your fiancé will come?” she asked me on the

second day.

“Oh, yes,” I assured her.

At last my comrade came, and we began to lay our plans. It is very

difficult to get across the border, and our task was not a light one.

When a train arrives at the frontier station the gendarmes lock all the

cars and examine the passports. I had reason to fear such an

examination, as among the gendarmes there might be disguised spies who

knew me. Moreover, the passport procured by my comrade was a forged one.

He had not succeeded in getting a suitable document.

It was necessary to invent some scheme whereby we could lessen the risk

of being recognized. The Polish woman with whom we were stopping helped

us. She went to the railroad station and reserved for us a first-class

coupé. I and my comrade dressed up as though for a wedding. My face was

covered with a white veil which reached far down my back, and my dress

had a long train. This costume made me look much taller and slimmer than

I really was. Two splendid carriages came to take us to the station. In

one I sat with my comrade, and in the other the Polish woman with her

husband.

At the station the porters cleared the way for us with a show of great

respect, and in a few seconds we were seated in our coupé. But the main

difficulty was yet to be overcome. There remained about fifteen minutes

before starting. We heard the noise of closing doors and the clinking of

spurs. My heart began to beat violently, and I thought: What if I should

be recognized! My comrade would pay dearly for his effort to help me.

He, too, had run away from his place of exile, and for his escape he

would have been sentenced to four years of hard labor. The fact that he

would have been caught in my company would aggravate his offense. This

man had known me in Odessa, when I was only seventeen. He, as is not

unusual among revolutionists in Russia, sacrificed a great deal for me.

He gave up a lucrative position with a gold-mining concern in Siberia,

which he did not expect to get back, and left his wife whom he dearly

loved. She, too, had known me in Odessa, and gladly consented to let her

husband accompany me on this dangerous journey.

My comrade held in his hand the necessary documents—the passport,

certificates of birth, and the certificate of marriage, all forged by

himself a few hours before. I stood with my face to the window and my

back to the door. There came a knock, and the door opened. An officer of

the frontier guards entered, accompanied by several gendarmes. My

comrade answered in a calm voice all the questions put to him by the

officer.

“We are on our honeymoon trip to Japan, and expect to be back in three

months,” I heard him say.

The officer turned the bundle of documents in his hands, evidently not

knowing what to examine first. The time was limited. Casting a hasty

glance around our coupé they went out, without having examined a single

document. When the door closed after them, I looked gratefully at my

comrade, and he shook my hands with great feeling. A few minutes later

the train started.

After thirty-six hours of travel we arrived at Kharbin. I was not well

enough to continue our journey without a rest. My health was growing

worse and worse, as the result of my early start after the operation.

Having rested two days in that city, we went to Dairen, formerly the

Russian city of Dalny. I did not have sufficient funds to go on to

Europe, and we waited three weeks in Dairen, until we received money

from Russia.

In those three weeks my health improved remarkably. Manchurian scenery

greatly impressed me with the splendor of its wonderful colors. For days

I sat on the shore of the Yellow Sea enjoying the sight of the sparkling

waters. When the air was hot I bathed in the sea, and every touch of the

mighty waves added vigor to my regenerated body. In those wonderful

days, when the sun of the Orient warmed me with its soft rays, I thought

there could not be a being happier than myself. I was free, free from so

many chains. And it seemed to me that the stormy sea alone had it in its

power to penetrate into the depths of my soul and heal all my bleeding

wounds. Only at the sea I found absolute peace. Never before had I felt

so much love. There was no hatred in my heart: I loved each and all. The

feeling of love was stronger than myself. I couldn’t understand what was

going on within me. In sheer paroxysms of delight I would throw myself

on the ground, which was covered with soft grass. My body trembled from

the contact with the soil. In those moments I forgot everything, and

through my memory passed the pictures of my native hills and fields, in

the midst of which I was born and raised.

[Illustration:

THE PRISON YARD AND GATE

]

We received the money we were expecting, and decided to go to Shanghai,

China, where I could get a steamer direct to Europe. At eleven o’clock

in the morning of a sunny day we sailed from Dairen on a Japanese

steamer. Soon the strains of a march reached our ears. It was the call

for lunch. When I, with my companion, came to the dining-room all the

passengers already were at the table. Directly opposite me sat an old

woman who tried to explain something in German to a Chinese waiter. I do

not know until now in what way she resembled my mother, but as soon as

my eyes fell on her gray hair I had a vivid recollection of my mother. I

felt happy when, during the meal, I could guess her wishes and satisfy

them. “My mother is just as old and just as gray, perhaps,” I thought,

looking at the old woman, and my heart filled with love for the

stranger.

Without finishing her lunch she retired to her cabin, as the steamer was

beginning to rock quite perceptibly and she felt sick. In the afternoon

the sea became stormy. Big waves rolled so high that our little steamer

at times disappeared in the foam. It grew dark, and almost all the

passengers went to their cabins. I was not sea-sick, and seeing the

sufferings of my comrade and others I greatly pitied them. I remembered

the old woman, and asked a Chinese steward to take me to her. She was in

bed and suffering intensely. She wept like a child and prayed to God to

take her to Heaven. I knelt near her bed and held her head in my hands.

I don’t know how long I remained in that posture. The voice of my

comrade roused me from my stupor.

“Where in Heaven are you, Marie?” he called to me in dissatisfied tones.

“Go to your room. You will fall ill yourself. Don’t forget your own

situation.”

I obeyed, but returned in ten minutes and directed them to put a cot for

me in the woman’s room. I stayed with her the whole night. In the

morning the sea quieted down and she felt better. She looked at me with

a very grateful expression in her eyes, and asked who I was and where I

was going. I told her that I was traveling with my husband after our

marriage.

When the steamer neared Shanghai, the woman found me and said:

“You have been like a daughter to me, and I want to be of service to

you. I live in a fine, large house, and would be very glad to have you

and your husband stop with me.”

I mentioned something about a hotel.

“Why go to a hotel?” she interrupted. “That will cost you a lot of

money. If you don’t want to stop with me because I will not accept money

from you, you may pay me.”

I agreed, disregarding the protests of my comrade. I could see nothing

suspicious in her inviting me to her house. On the way there we found

that a German steamer would be in Shanghai two weeks later, and we

really could not spare much money for hotel accommodations.

The room in which we were put up was on the same floor with the woman’s

own apartment. Only a small hall-room separated us. To one side of the

door stood a bed and to the other a table. A couch, on which my noble

and unselfish companion was to spend the night, stood in a corner. We

hung up our things on the door, and on the table we put my hand-bag

containing my diary and some money, my comrade’s watch and some other

articles. The door was locked.

In the morning when my comrade got up he found that all our things had

disappeared. The door as well as the window remained locked. How was the

theft to be explained? There could be no doubt that our things were

stolen by some one of the household. I was in great fear lest my

identity should be discovered from my diary. We knew that while in

Shanghai we were not safe, as the Chinese police could deliver us into

the hands of the Russian Consul the moment our presence in Shanghai was

discovered.

I dressed immediately and summoned the woman to my room. My comrade

questioned her about the mysterious theft in her house.

“You are inventing it!” she fairly shouted at him. “There could be no

such thing as a theft in my house. I know who you are and what your

business is,” she shrieked in angry tones.

My comrade grew pale. Before I could realize it, he had grabbed her by

the shoulders and threw her out of the room. She fell heavily on the

threshold. I placed myself between them and begged my comrade to calm

himself. The woman lay on the floor yelling and cursing him in most

violent language. She threatened to go to the Russian Consul and

denounce him as a “white slaver.” My comrade was a powerful man and of a

very excitable temper, and I saw that if the woman did not leave

immediately, he could choke her to death. I dragged her away from the

threshold and closed the door.

“I shall come to you presently,” I tried to quiet her. “For God’s sake,

don’t go to the Consul.”

“Well, we got in here mighty bad,” remarked my comrade to me when I

returned to our room. “And we must get out of this hole without losing a

moment’s time.”

“What if the woman should report us to the Consul and we should be

arrested?” I asked myself. I had not the slightest idea what she meant

when she shouted to my comrade that he was a “white slaver.” My mind was

busy with the thought of how to regain possession of my diary which was

a direct proof of my identity. I decided to talk it over with the woman

myself.

Without saying anything to my comrade of my intention I went to her. She

evidently was waiting for me. She led me through many rooms, and finally

we came to a luxuriously furnished drawing-room. She locked the door and

put the key in her pocket.

“Well, dearie,” she began in a very soft voice, “you must remain with

me. You needn’t go where he sends you. You will be getting much more

money here.”

These dreadful words frightened me.

“You are greatly mistaken in what you think of me,” I said. “I am an

honest girl, and nobody sends me anywhere.”

“Don’t deny it,” she insisted. “I can see that in your eyes. You —” she

began to speak very warmly— “you yourself don’t understand your charms.

You are a real treasure, and I will give you all the money you may wish.

You will live here like a queen. You see, all this will be yours.”

She opened a wardrobe and began to pile on the floor expensive dresses

of different colors and design. She looked at me so queerly that I began

to tremble. I felt as if she were undressing me.

“Still better, if you are an honest girl. I watched you, and I know that

you are honest, and the better it will be for you; the more money you

will get.”

How shall I escape from here? I asked myself. Will I be able to take the

key from her by force, or shall I break the window and jump from the

second story? Or would it be better, perhaps, to cry out so that my

comrade can hear me? I hesitated, not knowing what means of escape to

choose.

At last a happy idea struck me. I took out all the money I kept in my

corsage. There must have been about four hundred rubles. “Look here,” I

said, “all this money will be yours.”

Her eyes began to sparkle.

“I swear to you,” I continued, “that before you will have a chance to

sell my body, I shall kill myself. You are an old, gray-haired woman,

and you have lived a great many years in this world. Is it possible that

you can’t tell me from those unfortunate women with whom you have had to

deal? Give me back my papers. I know that they are of no value to you,

but to me they are everything. And let me out of your house.”

The woman stood silent, but her face showed signs of hesitation.

“I can’t report you to the Consul,” I went on, “because I am a

‘political’ and have no real passport. Consequently you do not risk

anything by letting me go.”

“Give me the money,” said the woman without looking at me.

“Give me first my papers. I don’t trust you,” I ventured.

She unlocked the door, and we went into the same room where I had found

her. She returned to me my bag with all the papers in it intact, and I

gave her all the money I had with me.

My comrade was beginning to feel uneasy at my long absence. He was

pacing up and down the room when I opened the door. I entered and,

without saying a word, showed him my diary. He felt greatly relieved. We

hastily packed our things and went to the railroad station. There we

changed our cab and drove to a hotel in another part of the city.

After four weeks of anxious waiting we succeeded at last in getting some

more money from Russia, but not sufficient to pay for second cabin

passage, and I had to travel in the steerage.

The impressions of those four weeks in China are still fresh in my

memory. I have seen and experienced all sorts of misery in my life, I

have suffered much want and privation, but what I saw there was worse

than anything I could imagine. It is not enough to say that the Chinese

live in poverty. To understand the awful conditions of their life, one

must see them with one’s own eyes. I used to go to the market and see

what food a Chinese woman buys for a family of five or six for a whole

day’s supply. A little rice, a few nuts, and a couple of tomatoes,

that’s all. For all this she spends three cents.

Their houses are not any better than dog-kennels in Russia. There are

hundreds of families who live on floats, where they work and sleep, and

where their children are born and raised. Nowhere else have I seen so

many beggars. On some streets they sit in companies of a dozen and more.

Labor in China is terribly underpaid. For a whole day’s work a Chinese

laborer sometimes receives four cents; a jinrikisha-man drives you the

greatest distance for five cents; and he runs faster than a horse. The

Chinese go about almost naked, and the only thing they work for all

their lives is a piece of bread, of which they never have enough. And

yet the load that a Chinaman can carry on his back is beyond

description. The hotel in which I stopped was located near the port, and

day and night I could hear the heart-rending groans, called singing,

with which the “longshoremen” enliven their task. Prostitution is

practised without restraint in China, and women are traded like horses.

I was glad to leave that country. Having bid good-by to my comrade, I

sailed on a German steamer bound for Genoa. As I spoke nothing but

Russian—but understood a little German—all the steerage passengers, most

of whom were Germans, were greatly mystified by my silence. “Who is this

girl with the pale face and sparkling eyes who looks all day at the

sea?” they used to ask the stewards and one another. And every one of

them stared insolently at me. Oh, how I hated them for their curious

stares! But whenever they forgot about my presence, I remained alone

with the sea and listened to the wonderful music of the waves. For days

and days I sat looking on the water, and only then I realized that I was

free, that my freedom was a living reality, not a dream.

But as soon as I _felt_ that I was free, the old wounds re-opened in my

heart. Memories of the past, day after day and year after year, rose in

my mind and whispered to me: “There can be no freedom for you after all

that you have gone through, after all that you _know_. There can be no

freedom for you when all your best and dearest friends have remained in

the world of shadows and stone walls, in the world of torture and

humiliation. There can be no freedom for you!”

A sudden change came over everything. The melodious music of the calm

waves turned into a storm, it grew dark, and our gigantic steamer was

thrown about like a shell by the storming seas.

“Go back, go back there whence you came!” roared the sea. “Your life no

more belongs to you. You have saved yourself not for your own sake. You

must either free them all, or be with them....”

I ran about the deck. My face burned. Where am I going, and why? I asked

myself.

The sea and skies became red like the blood of my martyred comrades. The

music in my heart ceased, and the thought of my freedom no longer

agitated me. The decision to go back to them and continue that for which

they perished was slowly forming in my mind. And all through the rest of

the journey it was uppermost in my thoughts. The jungles of India, the

Red Sea, the green coasts of Africa and the bare desert of Arabia, the

Suez Canal, and the beautiful skies of Italy—all those wonders of nature

did not for a minute change my resolution, did not weaken my desire to

go back and throw myself again into the unequal struggle.

THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Notes

▪ Printers’ errors, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were

silently corrected.

▪ Variations in hyphenation have been preserved.

▪ For the reader’s convenience, a Table of Contents has been added and

is granted to the public domain.

▪ Page numbers in the List of Illustrations reflect the position of the

illustration in the original text, but links point to the current

position of the illustrations.

▪ Pg. 3: Removed duplicate half-title.