_July 20, 1915._
_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_
Before dawn this morning I was wakened by a shuffling noise from the
street. It was not soldiers marching. There was no rhythm to it. Marie
and I went to the window and looked out.
Behind the dark points of the poplars, in the convent garden across the
street, the sky was growing light. The birds were beginning to sing. The
air was sweet and cool after the night. And down the hill was passing a
stream of people, guarded on either side by soldiers with bayonets. I
rubbed the sleep from my eyes to look more closely, for there was
something ominous in the snail's pace of the procession.
They were Jews, waxen-faced, their thin bodies bent with fatigue. Some
had taken their shoes off, and limped along barefooted over the
cobble-stones. Others would have fallen if their comrades had not held
them up. Once or twice a man lurched out of the procession as though he
was drunk or had suddenly gone blind, and a soldier cuffed him back into
line again. Some of the women carried babies wrapped in their shawls.
There were older children dragging at the women's skirts. The men
carried bundles knotted up in their clothes. They stumbled and pitched
along, as if they had no control over their skinny bodies; as if after
another step they would all suddenly collapse and fall down on their
faces like a crowd of scarecrows with a strong wind behind them. Some
had their eyes closed; others stared ahead with their faces like dirty
gray masks, with huge bony noses and sunken eyes. The procession showed
no sign of coming to an end. It crawled on and on, and a stench rose
from it that poisoned the morning air. The sound of the shuffling feet
seemed to fill the universe.
"Where are they going?"--I whispered to Marie.
"To the Detention Camp here. They come from Galicia, and Kiev is one of
the stopping-places on their way to Siberia."
"Do they walk all the way here?"
"Usually. Let's shut the window and keep out the smell."
I went back to bed. I felt so safe, with Janchu sleeping in his crib in
the corner. The creeping, submissive procession seemed a dream. It was
incredible to think of only the wall of a house separating our security
from those hundreds of fainting, persecuted Jews!
We are still here--waiting for our passports to be returned. Of course
no mail from you has been forwarded to me here, as Peter is hourly
expecting me back. I am cut off from all I love most in the world. The
Russian frontier takes on a new significance once you're inside it. I
hope you don't forget me. Sometimes you seem millions of miles away--and
then I look in my heart and find you there. I love you.