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MY DISILLUSIONMENT IN RUSSIA
by
EMMA GOLDMAN
[Illustration: Decoration]
Garden City New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1923
Copyright, 1923, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation
into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian
Printed in the United States
at
The Country Life Press, Garden City, N. Y.
First Edition
PREFACE
The decision to record my experiences, observations, and reactions
during my stay in Russia I had made long before I thought of leaving
that country. In fact, that was my main reason for departing from that
tragically heroic land.
The strongest of us are loath to give up a long-cherished dream. I had
come to Russia possessed by the hope that I should find a new-born
country, with its people wholly consecrated to the great, though very
difficult, task of revolutionary reconstruction. And I had fervently
hoped that I might become an active part of the inspiring work.
I found reality in Russia grotesque, totally unlike the great ideal
that had borne me upon the crest of high hope to the land of promise.
It required fifteen long months before I could get my bearings. Each
day, each week, each month added new links to the fatal chain that
pulled down my cherished edifice. I fought desperately against the
disillusionment. For a long time I strove against the still voice
within me which urged me to face the overpowering facts. I would not
and could not give up.
Then came Kronstadt. It was the final wrench. It completed the terrible
realization that the Russian Revolution was no more.
I saw before me the Bolshevik State, formidable, crushing every
constructive revolutionary effort, suppressing, debasing, and
disintegrating everything. Unable and unwilling to become a cog in
that sinister machine, and aware that I could be of no practical use
to Russia and her people, I decided to leave the country. Once out of
it, I would relate honestly, frankly, and as objectively as humanly
possible to me the story of my two years' stay in Russia.
I left in December, 1921. I could have written then, fresh under the
influence of the ghastly experience. But I waited four months before
I could bring myself to write a series of articles. I delayed another
four months before beginning the present volume.
I do not pretend to write a history. Removed by fifty or a hundred
years from the events he is describing, the historian may seem to
be objective. But real history is not a compilation of mere data.
It is valueless without the human element which the historian
necessarily gets from the writings of the contemporaries of the
events in question. It is the personal reactions of the participants
and observers which lend vitality to all history and make it vivid
and alive. Thus, numerous histories have been written of the French
Revolution; yet there are only a very few that stand out true and
convincing, illuminative in the degree in which the historian has
_felt_ his subject through the medium of human documents left by the
contemporaries of the period.
I myself--and I believe, most students of history--have felt and
visualized the Great French Revolution much more vitally from the
letters and diaries of contemporaries, such as Mme. Roland, Mirabeau,
and other eye witnesses, than from the so-called objective historians.
By a strange coincidence a volume of letters written during the French
Revolution, and compiled by the able German anarchist publicist,
Gustav Landauer, came into my hands during the most critical period
of my Russian experience. I was actually reading them while hearing
the Bolshevik artillery begin the bombardment of the Kronstadt rebels.
Those letters gave me a most vivid insight into the events of the
French Revolution. As never before they brought home to me the
realization that the Bolshevik régime in Russia was, on the whole, a
significant replica of what had happened in France more than a century
before.
Great interpreters of the French Revolution, like Thomas Carlyle and
Peter Kropotkin, drew their understanding and inspiration from the
human records of the period. Similarly will the future historians of
the Great Russian Revolution--if they are to write real history and not
a mere compilation of facts--draw from the impressions and reactions of
those who have lived through the Russian Revolution, who have shared
the misery and travail of the people, and who actually participated in
or witnessed the tragic panorama in its daily unfoldment.
While in Russia I had no clear idea how much had already been written
on the subject of the Russian Revolution. But the few books which
reached me occasionally impressed me as most inadequate. They were
written by people with no first-hand knowledge of the situation and
were sadly superficial. Some of the writers had spent from two weeks
to two months in Russia, did not know the language of the country, and
in most instances were chaperoned by official guides and interpreters.
I do not refer here to the writers who, in and out of Russia, play
the rôle of Bolshevik court functionaries. They are a class apart.
With them I deal in the chapter on the "Travelling Salesmen of the
Revolution." Here I have in mind the sincere friends of the Russian
Revolution. The work of most of them has resulted in incalculable
confusion and mischief. They have helped to perpetuate the myth that
the Bolsheviki and the Revolution are synonymous. Yet nothing is
further from the truth.
The _actual_ Russian Revolution took place in the summer months of
1917. During that period the peasants possessed themselves of the
land, the workers of the factories, thus demonstrating that they knew
well the meaning of social revolution. The October change was the
finishing touch to the work begun six months previously. In the great
uprising the Bolsheviki assumed the voice of the people. They clothed
themselves with the agrarian programme of the Social Revolutionists and
the industrial tactics of the Anarchists. But after the high tide of
revolutionary enthusiasm had carried them into power, the Bolsheviki
discarded their false plumes. It was then that began the spiritual
separation between the Bolsheviki and the Russian Revolution.
With each succeeding day the gap grew wider, their interests more
conflicting. To-day it is no exaggeration to state that the Bolsheviki
stand as the arch enemies of the Russian Revolution.
Superstitions die hard. In the case of this modern superstition the
process is doubly hard because various factors have combined to
administer artificial respiration. International intervention, the
blockade, and the very efficient world propaganda of the Communist
Party have kept the Bolshevik myth alive. Even the terrible famine is
being exploited to that end.
How powerful a hold that superstition wields I realize from my own
experience. I had always known that the Bolsheviki are Marxists. For
thirty years I fought the Marxian theory as a cold, mechanistic,
enslaving formula. In pamphlets, lectures, and debates I argued against
it. I was therefore not unaware of what might be expected from the
Bolsheviki. But the Allied attack upon them made them the symbol of the
Russian Revolution, and brought me to their defence.
From November, 1917, until February, 1918, while out on bail for
my attitude against the war, I toured America in defence of the
Bolsheviki. I published a pamphlet in elucidation of the Russian
Revolution and in justification of the Bolsheviki. I defended them
as embodying _in practice_ the spirit of the revolution, in spite
of their theoretic Marxism. My attitude toward them at that time is
characterized in the following passages from my pamphlet, "The Truth
About the Bolsheviki:"[1]
The Russian Revolution is a miracle in more than one respect.
Among other extraordinary paradoxes it presents the phenomenon
of the Marxian Social Democrats, Lenin and Trotsky, adopting
Anarchist revolutionary tactics, while the Anarchists Kropotkin,
Tcherkessov, Tschaikovsky are denying these tactics and falling
into Marxian reasoning, which they had all their lives repudiated
as "German metaphysics."
The Bolsheviki of 1903, though revolutionists, adhered to the
Marxian doctrine concerning the industrialization of Russia
and the historic mission of the bourgeoisie as a necessary
evolutionary process before the Russian masses could come into
their own. The Bolsheviki of 1917 no longer believe in the
predestined function of the bourgeoisie. They have been swept
forward on the waves of the Revolution to the point of view held
by the Anarchists since Bakunin; namely, that once the masses
become conscious of their economic power, they make their own
history and need not be bound by traditions and processes of a
dead past which, like secret treaties, are made at a round table
and are not dictated by life itself.
In 1918, Madame Breshkovsky visited the United States and began
her campaign against the Bolsheviki. I was then in the Missouri
Penitentiary. Grieved and shocked by the work of the "Little
Grandmother of the Russian Revolution," I wrote imploring her to
bethink herself and not betray the cause she had given her life to. On
that occasion I emphasized the fact that while neither of us agreed
with the Bolsheviki in theory, we should yet be one with them in
defending the Revolution.
When the Courts of the State of New York upheld the fraudulent methods
by which I was disfranchised and my American citizenship of thirty-two
years denied me, I waived my right of appeal in order that I might
return to Russia and help in the great work. I believed fervently that
the Bolsheviki were furthering the Revolution and exerting themselves
in behalf of the people. I clung to my faith and belief for more than a
year after my coming to Russia.
Observation and study, extensive travel through various parts of the
country, meeting with every shade of political opinion and every
variety of friend and enemy of the Bolsheviki--all convinced me of the
ghastly delusion which had been foisted upon the world.
I refer to these circumstances to indicate that my change of mind
and heart was a painful and difficult process, and that my final
decision to speak out is for the sole reason that the people everywhere
may learn to differentiate between the Bolsheviki and the Russian
Revolution.
The conventional conception of gratitude is that one must not be
critical of those who have shown him kindness. Thanks to this notion
parents enslave their children more effectively than by brutal
treatment; and by it friends tyrannize over one another. In fact, all
human relationships are to-day vitiated by this noxious idea.
Some people have upbraided me for my critical attitude toward the
Bolsheviki. "How ungrateful to attack the Communist Government after
the hospitality and kindness she enjoyed in Russia," they indignantly
exclaim. I do not mean to gainsay that I have received advantages while
I was in Russia. I could have received many more had I been willing to
serve the powers that be. It is that very circumstance which has made
it bitter hard for me to speak out against the evils as I saw them
day by day. But finally I realized that silence is indeed a sign of
consent. Not to cry out against the betrayal of the Russian Revolution
would have made me a party to that betrayal. The Revolution and the
welfare of the masses in and out of Russia are by far too important to
me to allow any personal consideration for the Communists I have met
and learned to respect to obscure my sense of justice and to cause me
to refrain from giving to the world my two years' experience in Russia.
In certain quarters objections will no doubt be raised because I have
given no names of the persons I am quoting. Some may even exploit the
fact to discredit my veracity. But I prefer to face that rather than
to turn any one over to the tender mercies of the Tcheka, which would
inevitably result were I to divulge the names of the Communists or
non-Communists who felt free to speak to me. Those familiar with the
real situation in Russia and who are not under the mesmeric influence
of the Bolshevik superstition or in the employ of the Communists will
bear me out that I have given a true picture. The rest of the world
will learn in due time.
Friends whose opinion I value have been good enough to suggest that
my quarrel with the Bolsheviki is due to my social philosophy rather
than to the failure of the Bolshevik régime. As an Anarchist, they
claim, I would naturally insist on the importance of the individual
and of personal liberty, but in the revolutionary period both must
be subordinated to the good of the whole. Other friends point out
that destruction, violence, and terrorism are inevitable factors in a
revolution. As a revolutionist, they say, I cannot consistently object
to the violence practised by the Bolsheviki.
Both these criticisms would be justified had I come to Russia expecting
to find Anarchism realized, or if I were to maintain that revolutions
can be made peacefully. Anarchism to me never was a mechanistic
arrangement of social relationships to be imposed upon man by political
scene-shifting or by a transfer of power from one social class to
another. Anarchism to me was and is the child, not of destruction, but
of construction--the result of growth and development of the conscious
creative social efforts of a regenerated people. I do not therefore
expect Anarchism to follow in the immediate footsteps of centuries of
despotism and submission. And I certainly did not expect to see it
ushered in by the Marxian theory.
I did, however, hope to find in Russia at least the beginnings of the
social changes for which the Revolution had been fought. Not the fate
of the individual was my main concern as a revolutionist. I should have
been content if the Russian workers and peasants as a whole had derived
essential social betterment as a result of the Bolshevik régime.
Two years of earnest study, investigation, and research convinced me
that the great benefits brought to the Russian people by Bolshevism
exist only on paper, painted in glowing colours to the masses of Europe
and America by efficient Bolshevik propaganda. As advertising wizards
the Bolsheviki excel anything the world had ever known before. But
in reality the Russian people have gained nothing from the Bolshevik
experiment. To be sure, the peasants have the land; not by the grace
of the Bolsheviki, but through their own direct efforts, set in motion
long before the October change. That the peasants were able to retain
the land is due mostly to the static Slav tenacity; owing to the
circumstance that they form by far the largest part of the population
and are deeply rooted in the soil, they could not as easily be torn
away from it as the workers from their means of production.
The Russian workers, like the peasants, also employed direct action.
They possessed themselves of the factories, organized their own shop
committees, and were virtually in control of the economic life of
Russia. But soon they were stripped of their power and placed under the
industrial yoke of the Bolshevik State. Chattel slavery became the lot
of the Russian proletariat. It was suppressed and exploited in the name
of something which was later to bring it comfort, light, and warmth.
Try as I might I could find nowhere any evidence of benefits received
either by the workers or the peasants from the Bolshevik régime.
On the other hand, I did find the revolutionary faith of the people
broken, the spirit of solidarity crushed, the meaning of comradeship
and mutual helpfulness distorted. One must have lived in Russia,
close to the everyday affairs of the people; one must have seen
and felt their utter disillusionment and despair to appreciate
fully the disintegrating effect of the Bolshevik principle and
methods--disintegrating all that was once the pride and the glory of
revolutionary Russia.
The argument that destruction and terror are part of revolution I do
not dispute. I know that in the past every great political and social
change necessitated violence. America might still be under the British
yoke but for the heroic colonists who dared to oppose British tyranny
by force of arms. Black slavery might still be a legalized institution
in the United States but for the militant spirit of the John Browns.
I have never denied that violence is inevitable, nor do I gainsay it
now. Yet it is one thing to employ violence in combat, as a means of
defence. It is quite another thing to make a principle of terrorism, to
institutionalize it, to assign it the most vital place in the social
struggle. Such terrorism begets counter-revolution and in turn itself
becomes counter-revolutionary.
Rarely has a revolution been fought with as little violence as the
Russian Revolution. Nor would have Red Terror followed had the people
and the cultural forces remained in control of the Revolution. This was
demonstrated by the spirit of fellowship and solidarity which prevailed
throughout Russia during the first months after the October revolution.
But an insignificant minority bent on creating an absolute State is
necessarily driven to oppression and terrorism.
There is another objection to my criticism on the part of the
Communists. Russia is on strike, they say, and it is unethical for
a revolutionist to side against the workers when they are striking
against their masters. That is pure demagoguery practised by the
Bolsheviki to silence criticism.
It is not true that the Russian people are on strike. On the contrary,
the truth of the matter is that the Russian people have been _locked
out_ and that the Bolshevik State--even as the bourgeois industrial
master--uses the sword and the gun to keep the people out. In the case
of the Bolsheviki this tyranny is masked by a world-stirring slogan:
thus they have succeeded in blinding the masses. Just because I am a
revolutionist I refuse to side with the master class, which in Russia
is called the Communist Party.
Till the end of my days my place shall be with the disinherited and
oppressed. It is immaterial to me whether Tyranny rules in the Kremlin
or in any other seat of the mighty. I could do nothing for suffering
Russia while in that country. Perhaps I can do something now by
pointing out the lessons of the Russian experience. Not my concern for
the Russian people only has prompted the writing of this volume: it is
my interest in the masses everywhere.
The masses, like the individual, may not readily learn from the
experience of others. Yet those who have gained the experience must
speak out, if for no other reason than that they cannot in justice to
themselves and their ideal support the great delusion revealed to them.
EMMA GOLDMAN.
Berlin, July, 1922.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Mother Earth Publishing Association, New York, February, 1917.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
CHAPTER
I. DEPORTATION TO RUSSIA 1
II. PETROGRAD 11
III. DISTURBING THOUGHTS 22
IV. MOSCOW: FIRST IMPRESSIONS 32
V. MEETING PEOPLE 46
VI. PREPARING FOR AMERICAN DEPORTEES 57
VII. REST HOMES FOR WORKERS 67
VIII. THE FIRST OF MAY IN PETROGRAD 74
IX. INDUSTRIAL MILITARIZATION 79
X. THE BRITISH LABOUR MISSION 90
XI. A VISIT FROM THE UKRAINA 94
XII. BENEATH THE SURFACE 107
XIII. JOINING THE MUSEUM OF THE REVOLUTION 118
XIV. PETROPAVLOVSK AND SCHLÜSSELBURG 126
XV. THE TRADE UNIONS 132
XVI. MARIA SPIRIDONOVA 141
XVII. ANOTHER VISIT TO PETER KROPOTKIN 153
XVIII. EN ROUTE 160
XIX. IN KHARKOV 166
XX. POLTAVA 194
XXI. KIEV 211
MY DISILLUSIONMENT IN RUSSIA
CHAPTER I
DEPORTATION TO RUSSIA
On the night of December 21, 1919, together with two hundred and
forty-eight other political prisoners, I was deported from America.
Although it was generally known we were to be deported, few really
believed that the United States would so completely deny her past as
an asylum for political refugees, some of whom had lived and worked in
America for more than thirty years.
In my own case, the decision to eliminate me first became known when,
in 1909, the Federal authorities went out of their way to disfranchise
the man whose name gave me citizenship. That Washington waited till
1917 was due to the circumstance that the psychologic moment for the
finale was lacking. Perhaps I should have contested my case at that
time. With the then-prevalent public opinion, the Courts would probably
not have sustained the fraudulent proceedings which robbed me of
citizenship. But it did not seem credible then that America would stoop
to the Tsaristic method of deportation.
Our anti-war agitation added fuel to the war hysteria of 1917, and
thus furnished the Federal authorities with the desired opportunity to
complete the conspiracy begun against me in Rochester, N. Y., 1909.
It was on December 5, 1919, while in Chicago lecturing, that I was
telegraphically apprised of the fact that the order for my deportation
was final. The question of my citizenship was then raised in court, but
was of course decided adversely. I had intended to take the case to a
higher tribunal, but finally I decided to carry the matter no further:
Soviet Russia was luring me.
Ludicrously secretive were the authorities about our deportation. To
the very last moment we were kept in ignorance as to the time. Then,
unexpectedly, in the wee small hours of December 21st we were spirited
away. The scene set for this performance was most thrilling. It was six
o'clock Sunday morning, December 21, 1919, when under heavy military
convoy we stepped aboard the _Buford_.
For twenty-eight days we were prisoners. Sentries at our cabin doors
day and night, sentries on deck during the hour we were daily permitted
to breathe the fresh air. Our men comrades were cooped up in dark,
damp quarters, wretchedly fed, all of us in complete ignorance of the
direction we were to take. Yet our spirits were high--Russia, free, new
Russia was before us.
All my life Russia's heroic struggle for freedom was as a beacon to me.
The revolutionary zeal of her martyred men and women, which neither
fortress nor _katorga_ could suppress, was my inspiration in the
darkest hours. When the news of the February Revolution flashed across
the world, I longed to hasten to the land which had performed the
miracle and had freed her people from the age-old yoke of Tsarism. But
America held me. The thought of thirty years of struggle for my ideals,
of my friends and associates, made it impossible to tear myself away. I
would go to Russia later, I thought.
Then came America's entry into the war and the need of remaining true
to the American people who were swept into the hurricane against their
will. After all, I owed a great debt, I owed my growth and development
to what was finest and best in America, to her fighters for liberty, to
the sons and daughters of the revolution to come. I would be true to
them. But the frenzied militarists soon terminated my work.
At last I was bound for Russia and all else was almost blotted out.
I would behold with mine own eyes _matushka Rossiya_, the land freed
from political and economic masters; the Russian _dubinushka_, as the
peasant was called, raised from the dust; the Russian worker, the
modern Samson, who with a sweep of his mighty arm had pulled down the
pillars of decaying society. The twenty-eight days on our floating
prison passed in a sort of trance. I was hardly conscious of my
surroundings.
Finally we reached Finland, across which we were forced to journey in
sealed cars. On the Russian border we were met by a committee of the
Soviet Government, headed by Zorin. They had come to greet the first
political refugees driven from America for opinion's sake.
It was a cold day, with the earth a sheet of white, but spring was in
our hearts. Soon we were to behold revolutionary Russia. I preferred to
be alone when I touched the sacred soil: my exaltation was too great,
and I feared I might not be able to control my emotion. When I reached
Beloöstrov the first enthusiastic reception tendered the refugees was
over, but the place was still surcharged with intensity of feeling. I
could sense the awe and humility of our group who, treated like felons
in the United States, were here received as dear brothers and comrades
and welcomed by the Red soldiers, the liberators of Russia.
From Beloöstrov we were driven to the village where another reception
had been prepared: A dark hall filled to suffocation, the platform lit
up by tallow candles, a huge red flag, on the stage a group of women in
black nuns' attire. I stood as in a dream in the breathless silence.
Suddenly a voice rang out. It beat like metal on my ears and seemed
uninspired, but it spoke of the great suffering of the Russian people
and of the enemies of the Revolution. Others addressed the audience,
but I was held by the women in black, their faces ghastly in the yellow
light. Were these really nuns? Had the Revolution penetrated even the
walls of superstition? Had the Red Dawn broken into the narrow lives of
these ascetics? It all seemed strange, fascinating.
Somehow I found myself on the platform. I could only blurt out that
like my comrades I had not come to Russia to teach: I had come to
learn, to draw sustenance and hope from her, to lay down my life on the
altar of the Revolution.
After the meeting we were escorted to the waiting Petrograd train,
the women in the black hood intoning the "Internationale," the whole
audience joining in. I was in the car with our host, Zorin, who had
lived in America and spoke English fluently. He talked enthusiastically
about the Soviet Government and its marvellous achievements. His
conversation was illuminative, but one phrase struck me as discordant.
Speaking of the political organization of his Party, he remarked:
"Tammany Hall has nothing on us, and as to Boss Murphy, we could teach
him a thing or two." I thought the man was jesting. What relation could
there be between Tammany Hall, Boss Murphy, and the Soviet Government?
I inquired about our comrades who had hastened from America at the
first news of the Revolution. Many of them had died at the front,
Zorin informed me, others were working with the Soviet Government. And
Shatov? William Shatov, a brilliant speaker and able organizer, was
a well-known figure in America, frequently associated with us in our
work. We had sent him a telegram from Finland and were much surprised
at his failure to reply. Why did not Shatov come to meet us? "Shatov
had to leave for Siberia, where he is to take the post of Minister of
Railways," said Zorin.
In Petrograd our group again received an ovation. Then the deportees
were taken to the famous Tauride Palace, where they were to be fed
and housed for the night. Zorin asked Alexander Berkman and myself to
accept his hospitality. We entered the waiting automobile. The city was
dark and deserted; not a living soul to be seen anywhere. We had not
gone very far when the car was suddenly halted, and an electric light
flashed into our eyes. It was the militia, demanding the password.
Petrograd had recently fought back the Yudenitch attack and was still
under martial law. The process was repeated frequently along the route.
Shortly before we reached our destination we passed a well-lighted
building. "It is our station house," Zorin explained, "but we have
few prisoners there now. Capital punishment is abolished and we have
recently proclaimed a general political amnesty."
Presently the automobile came to a halt. "The First House of the
Soviets," said Zorin, "the living place of the most active members
of our Party." Zorin and his wife occupied two rooms, simply but
comfortably furnished. Tea and refreshments were served, and our hosts
entertained us with the absorbing story of the marvellous defence
the Petrograd workers had organized against the Yudenitch forces.
How heroically the men and women, even the children, had rushed to
the defence of the Red City! What wonderful self-discipline and
coöperation the proletariat demonstrated. The evening passed in these
reminiscences, and I was about to retire to the room secured for me
when a young woman arrived who introduced herself as the sister-in-law
of "Bill" Shatov. She greeted us warmly and asked us to come up to
see her sister who lived on the floor above. When we reached their
apartment I found myself embraced by big jovial Bill himself. How
strange of Zorin to tell me that Shatov had left for Siberia! What did
it mean? Shatov explained that he had been ordered not to meet us at
the border, to prevent his giving us our first impressions of Soviet
Russia. He had fallen into disfavour with the Government and was being
sent to Siberia into virtual exile. His trip had been delayed and
therefore we still happened to find him.
We spent much time with Shatov before he left Petrograd. For whole days
I listened to his story of the Revolution, with its light and shadows,
and the developing tendency of the Bolsheviki toward the right. Shatov,
however, insisted that it was necessary for all the revolutionary
elements to work with the Bolsheviki Government. Of course, the
Communists had made many mistakes, but what they did was inevitable,
imposed upon them by Allied interference and the blockade.
A few days after our arrival Zorin asked Alexander Berkman and myself
to accompany him to Smolny. Smolny, the erstwhile boarding school for
the daughters of the aristocracy, had been the centre of revolutionary
events. Almost every stone had played its part. Now it was the seat of
the Petrograd Government. I found the place heavily guarded and giving
the impression of a beehive of officials and government employees. The
Department of the Third International was particularly interesting. It
was the domain of Zinoviev. I was much impressed by the magnitude of it
all.
After showing us about, Zorin invited us to the Smolny dining room. The
meal consisted of good soup, meat and potatoes, bread and tea--rather a
good meal in starving Russia, I thought.
Our group of deportees was quartered in Smolny. I was anxious about my
travelling companions, the two girls who had shared my cabin on the
_Buford_. I wished to take them back with me to the First House of the
Soviet. Zorin sent for them. They arrived greatly excited and told
us that the whole group of deportees had been placed under military
guard. The news was startling. The people who had been driven out of
America for their political opinions, now in Revolutionary Russia again
prisoners--three days after their arrival. What had happened?
We turned to Zorin. He seemed embarrassed. "Some mistake," he said, and
immediately began to make inquiries. It developed that four ordinary
criminals had been found among the politicals deported by the United
States Government, and therefore a guard was placed over the whole
group. The proceeding seemed to me unjust and uncalled for. It was my
first lesson in Bolshevik methods.