I. JUNE-JULY, 1915 1
II. JULY-AUGUST, 1915 42
III. AUGUST-SEPTEMBER, 1915 66
IV. SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1915 93
V. OCTOBER, 1915 122
VI. OCTOBER-NOVEMBER, 1915 130
"BLACK RUSSIA"
I
_June 30, 1915._
_Dearest Mother and Dad:--_
There is no reason why this letter should ever reach you if you consider
that it's war-time and that I am in Russia. Still, the censor may be
sleeping when it comes along, or I may find a way to slip it over the
border under his very nose. I always have a blind faith that my words
will reach you somehow.
I am in Russia--without Peter. Don't be frightened, dearests. I came
with Marie, and we will go back to Bucharest together in a week. Only a
week in Russia. Oh, if the top of my head could be lifted off and let
out everything I want to tell you.
We had no difficulty in crossing the frontier. The little Roumanian
train took us over a river, and all at once we were out of the
make-believe country where the stage always seems set for _opéra-bouffe_
There were no more pretty Tziganes, with disheveled hair and dirty,
bare breasts, to offer you baskets of roses and white lilies. There were
no Turks in red fezes squatting in the dust, hunting among their rags
for fleas, and there were no more slender peasants in tight white-wool
trousers and beautiful embroidered shirts. Everything, just by crossing
a river, had grown more serious and sober-colored and several sizes
larger. Pale-blue uniforms gave place to dingy olive-brown ones.
A porter took care of our luggage. He was exactly what I expected. He
wore a white smock with red and blue embroidery at the neck and wrists.
His reddish beard was long and Tolstoyan. We followed him into the big,
empty railway station, and there a soldier took away our passports and
we were left waiting in the _douane_, behind locked and guarded doors,
together with a crowd of bewildered Jews and Roumanians.
"It isn't much like the Roumanian frontier, is it?--where the
dreamy-eyed official visés your passport without looking at it--he's so
busy looking at you," Marie observed.
"No," I replied. "This is Russia. I am in Russia," kept going through
my head, and I felt like Alice in Wonderland, trying to adjust myself to
new perspectives.
"I hate getting back here," Marie went on. "It was too good to be in a
country, if only for a little while, where they took things easily. If
I'd stayed a little longer, I believe I could have laughed myself and
felt in a personal relationship toward life again."
That's what I was glad to get away from. You get too personal if you
stay in Roumania long. Roumania gets to mean Bucharest, and Bucharest
the universe. As I sat waiting in the _douane_, I felt like puffing out
and growing to make room for Russia inside me.
We waited hours.
"Can't you hurry our passports?" Marie asked an official. "We want to
leave on this train."
The official raised his shoulders helplessly.
"_Seichas_," he replied.
"What does that mean?"
"Presently--immediately--never," Marie replied in exasperation.
The train we were to have taken for Kiev left without us, on tracks
twice as wide as those of the Roumanian toy railroad. Only a courier
with a diplomatic pouch got on.
"It's like that here, always," Marie said. "No system, no economy of
time, or anything else." Suddenly she began to laugh. "Everything gets
on my nerves as soon as I get into Russia."
We left late in the afternoon. The air in our compartment was hot and
stale. When we opened the window, the wind blew in on our faces in
parching gusts. But it was grateful after the smells of cabbage, soup,
tobacco, and dirty Jews that we had been breathing for five hours in the
_douane_.
We sat by the window, cracking dried sunflower seeds, and looking out at
the steppes of Little Russia. The evening shadows were already lying in
the hollows of the fields of ripening wheat, but the late sun still
reddened the crests and the column of smoke from our engine. Frightened
larks rose from the tall grain. We passed patches of dark woods,
scattered thatched huts. Along a road came a man and a woman in peasant
dress. The train seemed to slow up on purpose to let us have a glimpse
of them through a thin, fine powder of golden dust, in their dark
homespuns, with patches of red embroidery on the white sleeves and
necks of their blouses. They carried a green box between them. Once we
passed through a wood of pale-green birches with thin silver stems. It
was a relief to see lines going up and down after the wide, level lines
of the steppes.
And then it grew dark. A sense of sadness filled me, and I was glad when
the conductor lighted the lamp and made up my berth. We lay down as we
were, all dressed, and the train rushing and swinging along deadened my
mind and feelings.
I was wakened by the conductor's twitching the covering back from the
light. Our carriage had broken down and was going to be side-tracked.
Then began the most restless night I ever spent. We bumped along in a
third-class carriage, and descended to wait for an hour or more on the
platform of some little crossroad station. We sat on our bags till our
spines cracked with fatigue. The men smoked one cigarette after another.
As far as I could see stretched dark fields lighted dimly by thick
stars, with a wind blowing out of the darkness into our faces. No one
spoke. Down the tracks a round white headlight grew bigger and bigger.
The noise of the approaching train filled the night. We scrambled into
another third-class carriage and sat on some more hard, narrow seats for
an hour or so.
At last the dawn came--a square of gray light through the train window.
Almost every one had fallen asleep. How pallid and ugly they looked with
their mouths open and their heads lolling forward!
At ten we changed for the last time before Kiev. The carriage was not
divided up into compartments, but was open, with rows of seats and an
aisle down the center, like our trains in America,--only there was an
upper story of seats, too. I stretched out and went to sleep. When I
woke the carriage was filled. Marie and I occupied one seat together.
Opposite us sat a fat, red-nosed man, with a fur cap, though it was
summer. Between his legs was a huge, bulky bag. When the train stopped,
he put a pinch of tea in his little blue enameled teapot, which he
filled at the hot-water tank that is at every Russian station just for
that purpose. He pulled out of his bag numberless newspaper packages and
spread them out on the newspaper across his knees--big fat sausages and
thin fried ones, a chunk of ham, a boiled chicken, dried pressed meat, a
lump of melting butter, some huge cucumber pickles, and cheese. With a
murderous-looking knife he cut thick slices from a big round loaf of
bread that he held against his breast. He sweetened his tea with some
sugar from another package, and sliced a lemon into it. When he had
finished eating, he carefully rolled up the food again and put it away,
and settled back in his chair. With great deliberation he took out of
his vest pocket a little black box with bright flowers painted on the
lid. He fingered it lovingly for a moment, then he took a pinch of
snuff, closing his eyes in ecstasy and inhaling deeply. He did this
three times and blew his nose vigorously. Then he put the box away,
brushing off the gray grains of powder that had fallen down his vest
front. All day long, every time the train stopped, he refilled his
little blue enameled teapot and repeated the ceremony, even to the last
grain of snuff.
Across the aisle sat two priests, unshaven and unshorn, in wide black
hats, their long, greasy black hair falling over the shoulders of their
dirty gray gowns. They spent the day in prayer and eating and drinking.
They were evidently bound for Kiev on a holy pilgrimage to the Lavra.
In the seat above the old man who took snuff lay a young woman, propped
on her elbow. Every time I looked at her she was laughing, pressing a
pomegranate seed between her lips. Her hands were very thin and white.
Her face was long and thin and framed by short, clipped hair. Every now
and then a young officer came up to her and took her hand, and asked if
she wanted anything. She answered him indifferently, but when he went
back to his seat, her eyes followed him and rested on him with the long,
narrow look of a watchful cat.
At noon and night we stopped at railway stations for our meals. After
Bulgaria and Roumania it was bewildering to see the counters laden with
hot and cold meats and vegetables and appetizing _zakouskas_, and thick
_ztchee_ soup, and steaming samovars for tea. Through the open windows
came refreshing puffs of wind. At the restaurant tables sat officers,
rich Jews, and traveling business men--nothing much in it all to suggest
war. Always, on the station walls were bright-colored portraits, in
heavy gilt frames, of the Czar and Czarina and the royal family. And
always in the corners of the room were ikons with candles lighted before
them at night. The train always started before people had finished
eating. At supper, one of the priests almost got left and had to run for
it, a piece of meat-pie in one hand, the other holding up his flapping
gray gown.
After sunset, more and more officers and soldiers about. At stations,
orderlies elbowing their way through the crowd to secure seats for their
officers; officers shouting to their orderlies; officers alone or with
their families, arriving with valises and bundles and pillows--enough
equipment to meet any eventuality.
Another night to get through somehow, sitting bolt upright in a car
thick with tobacco smoke and smelling of stale food and soldiers' boots.
Once we stopped for an hour out in the fields. Marie and I opened our
window and stuck our heads out of doors to breathe the cool air. Extra
cars had been put on during the day, and we could see the long curve of
the train behind us, with the red squares of the lighted windows. There
was a movement of troops, and soldiers occupied every inch of space. We
could hear them singing soldier songs in parts, with pronounced rhythm
and unutterably sad cadences. Some one played their accompaniment on a
_balalaika_. Back and forth under our train window a woman paced
restlessly. Never shall I forget the soldiers' singing to the
_balalaika_, and the woman with her white face in the darkness, and the
millions of stars so very far away.
The second morning, about eight, we pulled into Kiev. Our train was so
long that we had some distance to walk before reaching the station. As
we approached, I saw a crowd of people being driven into baggage cars. I
was so tired and confused by the journey that I didn't distinguish who
they were at first. When I got close to them, I saw that they were
thin-faced Jews in clothes too big for them. The men looked about them
with quick, furtive movements, a bewildered, frightened look in their
dark eyes. The women held their shawls over their faces, and pressed
against their skirts were little children. A stale, dirty smell came
from them all. I overcame my disgust and looked more closely. How white
the faces were, with purple sockets for the eyes, and dried, cracked
lips! No one seemed to have any personality. One pallid face was like
another under the stamp of suffering. Gendarmes with whips kept them on
the move, and struck the leader when there was any mix-up that halted
the procession for a moment. The Jews seemed to shrink into themselves
under the lash, sinking their heads between their thin, narrow
shoulders, then pressed forward again with frantic haste.
I heard the clanking of iron, and into a separate baggage car I noticed
the gendarmes were driving a group linked together with heavy iron
chains. I was horrified! I had the persistent impression of passing
through an experience already known--"Where have I seen this before?"
went over and over in my mind, and I felt a dread that seemed the
forewarning of some personal danger to myself. I was so very near such
terrible and hopeless suffering. What kept me from stepping into that
stream of whip-driven, helpless people?
"Who are they?" I asked Marie.
"They are Galician Jews whom the Government is transporting into
Siberia."
"But why?"
"Because the Russians don't trust Jews. Whole villages and towns in
Galicia are emptied and taken to Siberia by _étapes_--part of the way
by marches, part in baggage cars."
"In this heat?" I exclaimed. "But hundreds must die!"
"Not hundreds--thousands," Marie replied.
"Does it do any good?"
"No. But this present Government is very reactionary and the persecution
of the Jews is part of its programme. You know, it is always under the
reactionary Government, which is pro-German, that the pogroms take
place."
We had got into a droshky and were driving through city streets. Women
from the country were bringing in milk. People seemed to be walking
about freely enough.
The Jews with their bowed necks seemed far away--as though, after all, I
had read about them in a book. Could I have elbowed them and smelt them
only a few minutes ago?
I was in Russia. How sweet the morning air was! We were climbing a
cobble-stoned hill. Institutska Oulitza. Here we are! And we stopped at
the Tchedesky Pension.