IV

_September._

_Dear ones:--_

The Germans are advancing. Nothing seems able to stop them. And every

day brings new refugees from the country. They come in bewildered,

frightened hordes and pass through the city streets, directed by

gendarmes. They do as they are told. There is something dreadful in

their submission and in the gentle alacrity with which they obey orders.

The other day we were waiting on a street corner for a line of the

refugees' covered carts to pass. Suddenly, a woman, walking by a horse's

head, collapsed. She sank on to the paving-stones like a bundle of dusty

rags. People stopped to look, but no one touched her. The refugees

behind left their carts and came up to see what had halted the

procession. They, too, stood without touching her--peasants in dusty

sheepskins, leaning on their staffs, looking down at the woman who had

fallen out of their ranks. A gendarme elbowed his way through the crowd.

He began to wave his arms and strike his boot with his whip, and shout

at the weary-eyed, uncomprehending peasants. At last, two of them tucked

their staffs under their arms and, leaning down, picked up the fainting

woman. They carried her round to her cart and laid her down on the

straw, her head on the lap of one of her children. For a moment the

child looked down at her mother's white face, so strangely still, and

then, terrified, suddenly jumped to her feet and her mother's head fell

back against the boards with a dull thud. The children huddled together,

crying. A peasant whipped up the little horse, and the procession began

to move on.

There seems to be a horrible fear behind them that never lets them halt

for long. The Germans--After all, they are human beings like the

Russians. They, too, have their wounded and dying. People here speak of

special red trains that leave the front continuously for Germany. These

red trains are full of human beings whose brains have been smashed by

the horrors of war. The German soldier is not supernatural. Then I think

of those terrible red trains rushing through the dark, filled with

raving maniacs, of men who have become like little children again. And

yet when you hear, "The Germans are advancing! They are coming!" the

German army seems to take on a supernatural aspect, to become a ruthless

machine that drives everything before it in its advance, and in its wake

leaves a country stripped of life--all the people and cottages rubbed

off the face of the earth.

People here in Kiev feel the same terror of the German advance. Can

nothing stop it? A panic has swept over the city that makes every one

want to run away and hide. They crowd the square before the railway

station and camp there for days, waiting to secure a place on the trains

that leave for Petrograd or Odessa. For three weeks Peter has been

waiting for his reservation to get to Petrograd. Our case drags on so.

He wants to see the Ambassador personally. But the trains are packed

with terrified people. Men leave their affairs and go down to the square

with their families and baggage. They sleep on the cobble-stones,

wrapped up in blankets, their heads on their bags. It is autumn, and the

nights are cold and rainy, and the children cry in discomfort. I have

seen the square packed with motionless, sleeping people, and in the

morning I have seen them fight for places in the train, transformed by

this unbearable terror of the Germans into beasts that trample each

other to death. And when the train goes off, they settle back, waiting

for their next chance. Perhaps some are so much nearer the station, but

others are carried away wounded or dead. Who knows what they are capable

of till they are so afraid?

My dressmaker's sister was a cripple. Fear had crept even into her

sick-room. When Olga came to try on my dress, she fumbled and pinned

things all wrong in her haste. I spoke to her sharply and asked her to

be more careful. Then she burst into tears and told me about her sister.

It appeared her sister was afraid to be left alone. Every time Olga left

the room, her sister caught at her dress and made her promise not to

desert her. She thought of the Germans day and night. She cursed Olga if

she should ever run away and leave her to them. A few days later, Olga

came again. She was so pale and thin it frightened me, and she didn't

hurry nervously any more when she fitted me.

"What is it, Olga? You are sick," I said.

"My sister is dead. Last Saturday, it was late when I left you, and I

stopped on the way home to get some herring for supper. I was later than

usual, and when I got home I found my sister dead. She had died from

fear. She thought I had deserted her. She had half fallen out of her

chair as though she had tried to move. How could she think I would

desert her ever? Haven't I taken care of her for fifteen years? But it

was fear. She has been like one out of her mind since they have been so

near Kiev. What will they do in Kiev? They say the Germans are only two

days' march away!"

All day the church-bells have been ringing for special prayers. I went

into one of the churches in the late afternoon. It was dark and filled

with people who had come to pray for help to stop the Germans. There

were soldiers and peasants and townspeople, all with their thoughts

fixed on God. I cannot tell you how solemn it was. All the people united

in thought against the common menace. Women in black, soldiers and

officers with bands of black crêpe round their sleeves, square,

stolid-looking peasants, with tears running down their cheeks. They

knelt on the stone flagging, their eyes turned toward the altar with

its gold crucifix and jeweled ikons. The candle-flames only seemed to

make the dimness more obscure. And the deep voice of the priest chanting

in the darkness: all Russia seemed to be on its knees offering its faith

as a bulwark against the Germans. When I turned to leave, I came face to

face with an old woman. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but she

was smiling.

"Kiev is a holy city," she said. "God will protect the tombs of his holy

Saints." And she brushed by, paying no more attention to me.

There are placards in all the banks, offering to give people the value

of their jewels and silverware.

Extra pontoon bridges are thrown across the Dnieper, ready for the

retreat of the Russian troops. Though there are lines of trenches and

barbed-wire entanglements before the city, no effort will be made to

defend it, as it would probably mean its destruction. I wonder what the

Germans will do when they get here? They are human beings, but I can't

help but think of Belgium, and then I am sick with fear. At other times,

it seems the one way to bring our affair with the Secret Service to a

finish. How strange it will be to have no longer a Russian army between

the Germans and Kiev. No more a wall of flesh to protect us. Poor

soldiers, without a round of ammunition, fighting with naked hands. They

will cross the Dnieper to one side of the city, crowding, fighting,

falling together. And the German cannon driving them on, and crashing

into the city, sometimes, wiping out whole streets of townspeople. And

then, the gray lines of the Germans running into Kiev. The thousands of

blue-eyed Germans and their pointed helmets and guttural speech taking

possession of everything.

As we came down the hill to-day, we saw great vans drawn up before the

Governor's mansion. Soldiers were loading them with the rich furnishings

of the house. Evidently, the Governor had no intention of letting _his_

things fall into the Germans' hands. How strange it looked--the feverish

haste with which the house was being emptied!

At the station a special train was waiting to take the Governor's things

to a place of safety--and the crowds were waiting to escape with their

lives! Now every one with any sort of a boat that will float is making

a fortune taking the terrified townspeople down the river. There are, of

course, horrible accidents, for the boats are overcrowded. One

completely turned turtle with its load of men and women and children.

And yet the Governor's things must be removed to a place of safety.

Aeroplanes scout over the city every day, and at night you can see their

lights moving overhead in the darkness. Sometimes they fly so low that

you can hear the whir of their engines. For the moment you don't know if

they're Russian or enemy ones.

And all night long high-powered automobiles rush up the hill to the

General Headquarters, bearing dispatches from the front.

I lie in bed, and it is impossible for me to sleep. It is as if I were

up over Kiev in an aeroplane, myself. I can see millions of Germans

marching along the roads from Warsaw, dragging their cannon through the

mud, fording streams, with their field kitchens and ambulances, moving

onward irresistibly toward the golden domes of Kiev.

You seem far away to-night. Only I love you. I can't love you enough.