POLTAVA
In the general dislocation of life in Russia and the breaking down
of her economic machinery the railroad system had suffered most. The
subject was discussed in almost every meeting and every Soviet paper
often wrote about it. Between Petrograd and Moscow, however, the real
state of affairs was not so noticeable, though the main stations
were always overcrowded and the people waited for days trying to
secure places. Still, trains between Petrograd and Moscow ran fairly
regularly. If one was fortunate enough to procure the necessary
permission to travel, and a ticket, one could manage to make the
journey without particular danger to life or limb. But the farther
south one went the more apparent became the disorganization. Broken
cars dotted the landscape, disabled engines lay along the route, and
frequently the tracks were torn up. Everywhere in the Ukraina the
stations were filled to suffocation, the people making a wild rush
whenever a train was sighted. Most of them remained for weeks on the
platforms before succeeding in getting into a train. The steps and even
the roofs of the cars were crowded by men and women loaded with bundles
and bags. At every station there was a savage scramble for a bit of
space. Soldiers drove the passengers off the steps and the roofs, and
often they had to resort to arms. Yet so desperate were the people and
so determined to get to some place where there was hope of securing
a little food, that they seemed indifferent to arrest and risked
their lives continuously in this mode of travel. As a result of this
situation there were numberless accidents, scores of travellers being
often swept to their death by low bridges. These sights had become
so common that practically no attention was paid to them. Travelling
southward and on our return we frequently witnessed these scenes.
Constantly the _meshotchniki_ [people with bags] mobbed the cars in
search of food, or when returning laden with their precious burden of
flour and potatoes.
Day and night the terrible scenes kept repeating themselves at every
station. It was becoming a torture to travel in our well-equipped car.
It contained only six persons, leaving considerable room for more; yet
we were forbidden to share it with others. It was not only because of
the danger of infection or of insects but because the Museum effects
and the material collected would have surely vanished had we allowed
strangers on board. We sought to salve our conscience by permitting
women and children or cripples to travel on the rear platform of our
car, though even that was contrary to orders.
Another feature which caused us considerable annoyance was the
inscription on our car, which read: Extraordinary Commission of the
Museum of the Revolution. Our friends at the Museum had assured us
that the "title" would help us to secure attention at the stations and
would also be effective in getting our car attached to such trains as
we needed. But already the first few days proved that the inscription
roused popular feeling against us. The name "Extraordinary Commission"
signified to the people the Tcheka. They paid no attention to the other
words, being terrorized by the first. Early in the journey we noticed
the sinister looks that met us at the stations and the unwillingness
of the people to enter into friendly conversation. Presently it
dawned on us what was wrong; but it required considerable effort
to explain the misunderstanding. Once put at his ease, the simple
Russian opened up his heart to us. A kind word, a solicitous inquiry,
a cigarette, changed his attitude. Especially when assured that we
were not Communists and that we had come from America, the people
along the route would soften and become more talkative, sometimes even
confidential. They were unsophisticated and primitive, often crude.
But illiterate and undeveloped as they were, these plain folk were
clear about their needs. They were unspoiled and possessed of a deep
faith in elementary justice and equality. I was often moved almost to
tears by these Russian peasant men and women clinging to the steps of
the moving train, every moment in danger of their lives, yet remaining
good-humoured and indifferent to their miserable condition. They
would exchange stories of their lives or sometimes break out in the
melodious, sad songs of the south. At the stations, while the train
waited for an engine, the peasants would gather into groups, form a
large circle, and then someone would begin to play the accordion,
the bystanders accompanying with song. It was strange to see these
hungry and ragged peasants, huge loads on their backs, standing about
entirely forgetful of their environment, pouring their hearts out in
folk songs. A peculiar people, these Russians, saint and devil in one,
manifesting the highest as well as the most brutal impulses, capable of
almost anything except sustained effort. I have often wondered whether
this lack did not to some extent explain the disorganization of the
country and the tragic condition of the Revolution.
We reached Poltava in the morning. The city looked cheerful in the
bright sunlight, the streets lined with trees, with little garden
patches between them. Vegetables in great variety were growing on them,
and it was refreshing to note that no fences were about and still the
vegetables were safe, which would surely not have been the case in
Petrograd or Moscow. Apparently there was not so much hunger in this
city as in the north.
Together with the Expedition Secretary I visited the government
headquarters. Instead of the usual _Ispolkom_ [Executive Committee of
the Soviet] Poltava was ruled by a revolutionary committee known as the
_Revkom_. This indicated that the Bolsheviki had not yet had time to
organize a Soviet in the city. We succeeded in getting the chairman of
the _Revkom_ interested in the purpose of our journey and he promised
to coöperate and to issue an order to the various departments that
material be collected and prepared for us. Our gracious reception
augured good returns.
In the Bureau for the Care of Mothers and Infants I met two very
interesting women--one the daughter of the great Russian writer,
Korolenko, the other the former chairman of the Save-the-Children
Society. Learning of the purpose of my presence in Poltava the women
offered their aid and invited me to visit their school and the near-by
home of Korolenko.
The school was located in a small house set deep in a beautiful garden,
the place hardly visible from the street. The reception room contained
a rich collection of dolls of every variety. There were handsome
Ukrainian lassies, competing in colourful dress and headgear with their
beautiful sisters from the Caucasus; dashing Cossacks from the Don
looked proudly at their less graceful brothers from the Volga. There
were dolls of every description, representing local costumes of almost
every part of Russia. The collection also contained various toys, the
handwork of the villages, and beautiful designs of the _kustarny_
manufacture, representing groups of children in Russian and Siberian
peasant attire.
The ladies of the house related the story of the Save-the-Children
Society. The organization in existence, for a number of years, was of
very limited scope until the February Revolution. Then new elements,
mainly of revolutionary type, joined the society. They strove to extend
its work and to provide not only for the physical well-being of the
children but also to educate them, teach them to love work and develop
their appreciation of beauty. Toys and dolls, made chiefly of waste
material, were exhibited and the proceeds applied to the needs of the
children. After the October Revolution, when the Bolsheviki possessed
themselves of Poltava, the society was repeatedly raided and some
of the instructors arrested on suspicion that the institution was a
counter-revolutionary nest. The small band which remained went on,
however, with their efforts on behalf of the children. They succeeded
in sending a delegation to Lunacharsky to appeal for permission to
carry on their work. Lunacharsky proved sympathetic, issued the
requested document, and even provided them with a letter to the local
authorities, pointing out the importance of their labours.
But the society continued to be subjected to annoyance and
discrimination. To avoid being charged with sabotage the women offered
their services to the Poltava Department of Education. There they
worked from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, devoting
their leisure time to their school. But the antagonism of the Communist
authorities was not appeased: the society remained in disfavour.
The women pointed out that the Soviet Government pretended to stand
for self-determination and yet every independent effort was being
discredited and all initiative discouraged, if not entirely suppressed.
Not even the Ukrainian Communists were permitted self-determination.
The majority of the chiefs of the departments were Moscow appointees,
and Ukraina was practically deprived of opportunity for independent
action. A bitter struggle was going on between the Communist Party of
Ukraina and the Central authorities in Moscow. The policy of the latter
was to control everything.
The women were devoted to the cause of the children and willing to
suffer misunderstanding and even persecution for the sake of their
interest in the welfare of their charges. Both had understanding
for and sympathy with the Revolution, though they could not approve
of the terroristic methods of the Bolsheviki. They were intelligent
and cultured people and I felt their home an oasis in the desert of
Communist thought and feeling. Before I left the ladies supplied me
with a collection of the children's work and some exquisite colour
drawings by Miss Korolenko, begging me to send the things to America as
specimens of their labours. They were very eager to have the American
people learn about their society and its efforts.
Subsequently I had the opportunity of meeting Korolenko who was still
very feeble from his recent illness. He looked the patriarch, venerable
and benign; he quickly warmed one's heart by his melodious voice and
the fine face that lit up when he spoke of the people. He referred
affectionately to America and his friends there. But the light faded
out of his eyes and his voice quivered with grief as he spoke of the
great tragedy of Russia and the suffering of the people.
"You want to know my views on the present situation and my attitude
toward the Bolsheviki?" he asked. "It would take too long to tell you
about it. I am writing to Lunacharsky a series of letters for which
he had asked and which he promised to publish. The letters deal with
this subject. Frankly speaking, I do not believe they will ever appear
in print, but I shall send you a copy of the letters for the Museum as
soon as they are complete. There will be six of them. I can give you
two right now. Briefly, my opinion is summarized in a certain passage
in one of these letters. I said there that if the gendarmes of the
Tsar would have had the power not only to arrest but also to shoot
us, the situation would have been like the present one. That is what
is happening before my eyes every day. The Bolsheviki claim that such
methods are inseparable from the Revolution. But I cannot agree with
them that persecution and constant shooting will serve the interests
of the people or of the Revolution. It was always my conception that
revolution meant the highest expression of humanity and of justice. In
Russia to-day both are absent. At a time when the fullest expression
and coöperation of all intellectual and spiritual forces are necessary
to reconstruct the country, a gag has been placed upon the whole
people. To dare question the wisdom and efficacy of the so-called
dictatorship of the proletariat or of the Communist Party leaders is
considered a crime. We lack the simplest requisites of the real essence
of a social revolution, and yet we pretend to have placed ourselves at
the head of a world revolution. Poor Russia will have to pay dearly
for this experiment. It may even delay for a long time fundamental
changes in other countries. The bourgeoisie will be able to defend its
reactionary methods by pointing to what has happened in Russia."
With heavy heart I took leave of the famous writer, one of the last of
the great literary men who had been the conscience and the spiritual
voice of intellectual Russia. Again I felt him uttering the cry of that
part of the Russian _intelligentsia_ whose sympathies were entirely
with the people and whose life and work were inspired only by the love
of their country and the interest for its welfare.
In the evening I visited a relative of Korolenko, a very sympathetic
old lady who was the chairman of the Poltava Political Red Cross. She
told me much about things that Korolenko himself was too modest to
mention. Old and feeble as he was, he was spending most of his time
in the Tcheka, trying to save the lives of those innocently condemned
to death. He frequently wrote letters of appeal to Lenin, Gorki, and
Lunacharsky, begging them to intervene to prevent senseless executions.
The present chairman of the Poltava Tcheka was a man relentless and
cruel. His sole solution of difficult problems was shooting. The lady
smiled sadly when I told her that the man had been very gracious to
the members of our Expedition. "That was for show," she said, "we know
him better. We have daily occasion to see his graciousness from this
balcony. Here pass the victims taken to slaughter."
Poltava is famous as a manufacturing centre of peasant handicrafts.
Beautiful linen, embroidery, laces, and basket work were among the
products of the province's industry. I visited the Department of Social
Economy, the _sovnarkhoz_, where I learned that those industries
were practically suspended. Only a small collection remained in the
Department. "We used to supply the whole world, even America, with our
_kustarny_ work," said the woman in charge, who had formerly been the
head of the _Zemstvo_, which took special pride in fostering those
peasant efforts. "Our needlework was known all over the country as
among the finest specimens of art, but now it has all been destroyed.
The peasants have lost their art impulse, they have become brutalized
and corrupted." She was bemoaning the loss of peasant art as a mother
does that of her child.
During our stay in Poltava we got in touch with representatives of
various other social elements. The reaction of the Zionists toward the
Bolshevik régime was particularly interesting. At first they refused
to speak with us, evidently made very cautious by previous experience.
It was also the presence of our secretary, a Gentile, that aroused
their distrust. I arranged to meet some of the Zionists alone, and
gradually they became more confidential. I had learned in Moscow, in
connection with the arrest of the Zionists there, that the Bolsheviki
were inclined to consider them counter-revolutionary. But I found the
Poltava Zionists very simple orthodox Jews who certainly could not
impress any one as conspirators or active enemies. They were passive,
though bitter against the Bolshevik régime. It was claimed that the
Bolsheviki made no pogroms and that they do not persecute the Jews,
they said; but that was true only in a certain sense. There were two
kinds of pogroms: the loud, violent ones, and the silent ones. Of the
two the Zionists considered the former preferable. The violent pogrom
might last a day or a week; the Jews are attacked and robbed, sometimes
even murdered; and then it is over. But the silent pogroms continued
all the time. They consisted of constant discrimination, persecution,
and hounding. The Bolsheviki had closed the Jewish hospitals and now
sick Jews were forced to eat _treife_ in the Gentile hospitals. The
same applied to the Jewish children in the Bolshevik feeding houses.
If a Jew and a Gentile happened to be arrested on the same charge, it
was certain that the Gentile would go free while the Jew would be sent
to prison and sometimes even shot. They were all the time exposed to
insult and indignities, not to mention the fact that they were doomed
to slow starvation, since all trade had been suppressed. The Jews in
the Ukraina were suffering a continuous silent pogrom.
I felt that the Zionist criticism of the Bolshevik régime was inspired
by a narrow religious and nationalistic attitude. They were Orthodox
Jews, mostly tradesmen whom the Revolution had deprived of their sphere
of activity. Nevertheless, their problem was real--the problem of the
Jew suffocating in the atmosphere of active anti-Semitism. In Poltava
the leading Communist and Bolshevik officials were Gentiles. Their
dislike of the Jews was frank and open. Anti-Semitism throughout the
Ukraine was more virulent than even in pre-revolutionary days.
After leaving Poltava we continued on our journey south, but we
did not get farther than Fastov owing to the lack of engines. That
town, once prosperous, was now impoverished and reduced to less than
one third of its former population. Almost all activity was at a
standstill. We found the market place, in the centre of the town, a
most insignificant affair, consisting of a few stalls having small
supplies of white flour, sugar, and butter. There were more women
about than men, and I was especially struck by the strange expression
in their eyes. They did not look you full in the face; they stared
past you with a dumb, hunted animal expression. We told the women that
we had heard many terrible pogroms had taken place in Fastov and we
wished to get data on the subject to be sent to America to enlighten
the people there on the condition of the Ukrainian Jews. As the news
of our presence spread many women and children surrounded us, all much
excited and each trying to tell her story of the horrors of Fastov.
Fearful pogroms, they related, had taken place in that city, the
most terrible of them by Denikin, in September, 1919. It lasted eight
days, during which 4,000 persons were killed, while several thousand
died as the result of wounds and shock. Seven thousand perished from
hunger and exposure on the road to Kiev, while trying to escape the
Denikin savages. The greater part of the city had been destroyed or
burned; many of the older Jews were trapped in the synagogue and there
murdered, while others had been driven to the public square where
they were slaughtered. Not a woman, young or old, that had not been
outraged, most of them in the very sight of their fathers, husbands,
and brothers. The young girls, some of them mere children, had suffered
repeated violation at the hands of the Denikin soldiers. I understood
the dreadful look in the eyes of the women of Fastov.
Men and women besieged us with appeals to inform their relatives in
America about their miserable condition. Almost everyone, it seemed,
had some kin in that country. They crowded into our car in the
evenings, bringing scores of letters to be forwarded to the States.
Some of the messages bore no addresses, the simple folk thinking the
name sufficient. Others had not heard from their American kindred
during the years of war and revolution but still hoped that they were
to be found somewhere across the ocean. It was touching to see the
people's deep faith that their relatives in America would save them.
Every evening our car was filled with the unfortunates of Fastov. Among
them was a particularly interesting visitor, a former attorney, who had
repeatedly braved the pogrom makers and saved many Jewish lives. He
had kept a diary of the pogroms and we spent a whole evening listening
to the reading of his manuscript. It was a simple recital of facts and
dates, terrible in its unadorned objectivity. It was the soul cry of
a people continuously violated and tortured and living in daily fear
of new indignities and outrages. Only one bright spot there was in the
horrible picture: no pogroms had taken place under the Bolsheviki. The
gratitude of the Fastov Jews was pathetic. They clung to the Communists
as to a saving straw. It was encouraging to think that the Bolshevik
régime was at least free from that worst of all Russian curses, pogroms
against Jews.