WE LEAVE OUR TRAIN
We might have lived indefinitely in our railway carriage had it not
happened to be a very good one. The Polish soldiers and Russian
refugees in the long lines of captured echelons which stretched far
beyond Krasnoyarsk were not disturbed, because they occupied simple
_teplyushki_, and some of them have not perhaps been disturbed even yet.
But one day a warning came to us in some vague way that our carriage was
wanted. We were not told what to do with ourselves or where to go, and
no help was offered us for the removal of our baggage or the finding of
quarters in the town.
I was struck to some extent on this occasion, and was very much struck on
subsequent occasions, by a curious impersonality in Bolshevism. Orders
seemed to arise vaguely, like opinions, amid the Communist mass, and to
reach one in some haphazard way. One could not trace them back to any
authorized source, but as a rule one lost no time in obeying, for there
were but too many examples of how swiftly disobedience was punished.
This feeling that one is dealing with an impersonality persists, in
spite of the numerous signed decrees issued daily by Commissars, for
half those Commissars are men of no account, who do not know what they
have signed or why they signed it. And they are changed so often that
few of the general public get to learn anything about them except their
names or succeed in disentangling their personality from the obscure,
composite personality of the dark mass out of which they suddenly arise
and into which, after a short time, they as suddenly vanish. During
three weeks four changes took place, for instance, in the Governorship
of Krasnoyarsk, and there were similarly frequent changes in some of the
other Government departments.
These Red functionaries arise on the gloomy stream of Bolshevism like
bubbles which burst in a few moments and give place to other bubbles.
The great Communist chiefs in Moscow may seem to be exceptions, but
even Lenin and Derzhinsky, as well as several other Red leaders
who are Russian, believe firmly in the Tolstoyan doctrine that the
individual, however eminent in station, is nothing, and that the mass
is everything—the mass being of course the Bolshevik Secret Society of
604,000 men. I found at Moscow that both those leaders feel themselves
very often to be nothing but blind instruments of a force which may
finally rend them. Meanwhile they are occasionally as afraid of it as
a mediæval Sultan might be afraid of a movement against him among his
guards, a movement based on the suspicion that he trafficked with the
infidel or kept not the Law of the Prophet. Trotsky’s sudden weakening in
connection with the Labour Army is a case in point.
The removal of our baggage was a great difficulty, for we were six versts
from Krasnoyarsk, and _izvoshchiks_ would not leave the town owing to
their fear of being commandeered by the Reds. And then there was the
further difficulty that, as all Omsk money had been annulled on that
day by a decree of the Soviet Government and as we had practically no
other kind of money, we could not pay the _izvoshchiks_ even if they
came. Finally, thanks to the help of Mr. Yates, a British refugee from
Ekaterinburg whom Horrocks had chanced to meet at the railway station,
we secured the services of a sufficient number of _izvoshchiks_ by
promising, on my suggestion, to pay them partly in clothes, blankets,
soap, and other goods.
But no sooner had we loaded up our sleighs than a number of
villainous-looking Red soldiers gathered round them and started pulling
us and our things about, evidently with the intention of picking a
quarrel with us and then looting our belongings. We appealed in this
emergency to the Red soldier who had been the first to enter our carriage
on our arrival and who was now apparently in command at Bugatch. Having
just examined all our belongings and passed them, he was as irritated
as we were with those strangers who imposed a veto on our departure.
Addressing them with a sternness and dignity worthy of a Roman Tribune,
he asked them by what authority they were acting. Evidently taken
aback, the Reds lied shamelessly about their conduct towards us, and,
mumbling something about our being English and supporters of Kolchak,
they gradually slunk away. Towards evening, and without any other
misadventure, we reached the quarters that Horrocks and Yates had found
for us in town.
All this work was very difficult, exhausting, and nerve-racking owing to
the confusion which prevailed; and Horrocks deserves the greatest credit
for the way he toiled for us, not only on this occasion, but throughout
the whole course of our journey and in Krasnoyarsk. To mention a few of
the difficulties. First of all there was that curious impersonality of
which I have already spoken. Every official professed to be a servant of
the people, and referred us lower down to them, instead of higher up.
As, owing to their training, our officers were unable to think in such
terms, it may be imagined what a paralyzing effect this attitude had on
them. The military chiefs of the Red Army were still more helpless and
cautious. Owing to the influx of Reds, refugees, and disbanded White
troops, it was almost impossible to find a vacant room in the town; and,
even if a room was found, we were liable to be turned out of it unless
we got a written order from the Quartering Committee. This order it was
difficult to get owing to the great number of people who were trying
to get one at the same time. There was no foreign consul to appeal to
except a minor employee of the Norwegian consulate, and he himself was in
trouble, for he told us that a Commissar had visited him and said: “By
our law you are not entitled to all these rooms. Clear out within six
hours or we will throw you and your chattels into the street!”
Thus the Bolsheviks used for the good of the people, as they professed,
the same laws of violence as the German militarists had used for the
good of the army. In fact, if the word “proletariat” were substituted
everywhere for the word “army,” a good deal of Bernhardi’s best-known
book could have been written by a Bolshevik. But it must be borne in
mind that, in the mouths of the Bolsheviks, the word “proletariat” means
604,000 men, only 70,000 of whom are workmen.
Further difficulties were due to the fewness and inexperience of the
Bolshevik officials who had, so far, put in an appearance, to their
excessive addiction to Red Tape, and, at the same time, to their
well-meant but foolish practice of making themselves personally
accessible to every citizen—a practice which led to their wasting all
the day on trifles and having no time left for really important work. I
speak only of the civil officials: the army had its own organization,
which worked rather well. I afterwards discovered, in Moscow and
elsewhere, that this attempt to do too much is the outstanding fault
of the Bolsheviks in their policy and in their practice. Obsessed by a
dazzling apparition which they think to be near and accessible, they are
rushing madly forward in the darkness, ignoring all insuperable physical
obstacles and trampling down all moral laws.
On arriving at our destination we paid off our _izvoshchiks_ (drivers),
but one of them, to whom we had given a fur coat for his services, soon
returned in charge of a Red soldier and restored it to us. He was in a
state of alarm, and said that the soldier had declared that since our
clothes were, like everything else in Russia, the property of the State,
we could not give away State property, and the _izvoshchik_ could not
receive such property. The soldier was illogical, however, for he allowed
us to pay the man in Omsk roubles, which were absolutely valueless.
Our quarters consisted of one small room and a passage in a very crowded
building belonging to the Zemsky Soyuz, and they were a very tight
fit. At night we slept, some of us on our camp-beds, and some of us on
wooden shelves arranged in tiers, one above the other, after the fashion
prevalent in the lowest-class Chinese “doss” houses in Hong Kong. All the
other rooms in the house were crowded with Russian refugees of both sexes
and of every age from one to seventy, all sleeping together at night on
shelves such as we had. For several nights I and some of my companions
had to sleep amongst them, and it was an unpleasant experience owing to
the foul air and to the disagreeable habit one sleeper had of gnashing
his teeth all night long.
Some of the refugees were of a refined type and had evidently been
accustomed to a life of ease, but they were quite apathetic and so poor
that they could not even buy a newspaper. The middle-class Russian does
not, as a rule, bear misfortunes well. He seems to have no backbone, he
collapses altogether, and he makes no effort to get up again. Meanwhile
he indulges in the most virulent abuse, not of the Bolshevik who is
standing over him with a club, but of the foreign nations who are trying
to help him to his feet again. A querulous old White General who had
drifted in amongst us was of this type. I discovered later on, in Russia,
that there are ex-landowners who, though they are still allowed to
inhabit a corner of their ancestral mansions, have not sufficient energy
left to wash their own faces. Such helplessness could not occur under
similar circumstances in England or America; and, though Christianity
teaches pity for the weak, I do not believe that it obliges us to put
this class back into its old position.
After we had been in our new quarters for a few days cases of sickness,
said to be typhus, occurred in the adjoining rooms; while, among our
own little party, two officers and one man contracted contagious skin
diseases for which isolation was indispensable but impossible.
The skin diseases spread amongst us, and, after my departure from
Krasnoyarsk three weeks later, all our officers caught typhus. This was
the disease we dreaded most, and, though we managed to get baths once a
week and to keep our persons tolerably clean, we were always in great
danger of catching it from the Russians.
This was trouble Number One. Trouble Number Two was our impecuniosity. We
had over 100,000 roubles in Omsk notes with us, but, as I have already
said, the Bolsheviks had declared all Omsk money worthless, and it did
become absolutely worthless. Our 100,000 roubles would not buy us as much
as a packet of cigarettes. The White officers, who had brought millions
of roubles with them in Omsk notes, were left absolutely destitute, but,
as the local Bolshevik workmen were also hard hit, bread was issued
free, as a temporary measure, to everybody. Horrocks applied for it on
our behalf and got it, but a prominent local Bolshevik told me that this
free distribution would not last long. Our position might, therefore,
become critical at any moment, for money was essential not only to
purchase food but also to buy fuel, which was quite as indispensable as
food. Money was also necessary to pay for medical attendance to the sick
members of our party, but the Communists provided medicines free, not to
us alone, but to everybody.
To add to our troubles an official notice suddenly appeared ordering all
White officers and functionaries in Krasnoyarsk to register, within three
days, at the Town Commandant’s, and stating that those who omitted to
do so would be “shot without trial.” Although, properly speaking, this
notice did not apply to us, it was pretty certain that ninety-nine Reds
out of a hundred who found us without papers would regard us as White
officers “within the meaning of the Act,” and would shoot us out of hand.
All the authorities whom we consulted on the subject were unanimously of
this opinion. Among them was a Czech intelligence officer who was posing
as a Russian private and who wanted to pose as a British officer. He had
called on us in order to enlist our aid, and his wife, a beautiful young
Russian lady, who accompanied him begged us with tears in her eyes to
help. But when we explained the danger of our own position, she ceased
to urge us, and her husband, who knew the Reds thoroughly and had lived
among them, warned us that, if we did not register, we should run a
terrible risk of being shot.
At this point Captain Martel, a French intelligence officer and
fellow-prisoner, came to see us, and he took exactly the same view of
our position as the Czech. His opinion also was entitled to be heard
with respect, for he was a native of Moscow, had lived there under the
Bolsheviks, and spoke Russian as well as he spoke French. It was rather
curious, by the way, that while these two able specialists in Bolshevism
had a most profound horror of it, the younger members of our British
party, who did not speak Russian and had only been a few months in
Siberia, laughed at Bolshevism as a bogey whose terrors had been much
exaggerated. It seemed that the more one knew about the system the more
one dreaded and distrusted it, and that the less one knew about it the
less one feared it. I myself had been favourably impressed by the Reds
on the occasion of our capture, but, as I got to know them better, I
gradually came first to dislike them and then to hate them, until, after
my experiences in Moscow, I left Russia with a feeling of relief such as
I had never before experienced on leaving any country.
I had been greatly impressed at first by the unique opportunity that
chance had thrown in my way of studying Bolshevism at close quarters
from a point of view that nobody else had had, and I was determined to
utilize it to the full. When, afterwards, I came to Moscow and was well
received and offered every facility for the investigation of a system of
government such as the world has never before seen, I planned not one but
three books about it. The more I learned, however, the greater grew my
horror of that vast and formidable conspiracy which aimed at nothing less
than the overthrow of our Christian civilization. The higher the veil
was lifted the more intense became my fear of the monstrous figure whose
lineaments were being gradually disclosed. I saw that the Communists
aimed at bringing about universal chaos, and pursued that aim with a
directness, an unscrupulousness, and an ability which left the German
militarists of 1914 far behind. This vision so appalled me that all
journalistic and literary ambitions were quenched in an intense desire to
get out of the country at any cost and as soon as possible.
The danger of Bolshevism grows on one like the danger of earthquakes.
Foreigners just arrived in Japan laugh at the Japanese who, though
a very brave people, rush out into the open as soon as the terrible
earth-tremors begin, but by the time they have been forty years in the
country and have learned what earthquakes really are, they themselves are
the first to run.
It was late in the evening when we had this conversation with Captain
Martel and the Czech, and, as the Town Commandant’s office was closed,
we could do nothing save promise that we would use our utmost endeavours
to get registered next day. This gives me an opportunity, therefore, to
break my narrative in order to say something about Captain Martel.
This brilliant young Frenchman, who had been cut off in the same way as
ourselves, but in another echelon, had visited us in our carriage a few
days after our capture and had promised on that occasion to come and
live with us. He never did so, however, and finally managed to get sent
off to Tomsk alone, his reason for thus dropping us being, I think, the
perfectly legitimate one that we were, on the whole, too unsuspicious,
too little secretive, and too difficult to convince of the extreme danger
of Bolshevism. No class of man in the world is so joyously frank and
open as young English subalterns and soldiers—I say “English” instead of
“British,” for the Scots and the Irish are of a secretive and suspicious
nature, though the one is curtly and the other volubly uncommunicative.
This transparent candour suits well the smooth, merry faces of the
English young, and is quite in keeping with their bright cricket fields
and their rolling downs, but it is out of place among the bearded
Bolsheviks and in the dark forests of Russia.
Martel told us that, though correct, the leaders of the Red Army were
absolutely powerless to help. He had therefore gone among the civilian
Commissars, and these he found to be nearly all very fanatical and
bitter. He thought he had made good friends with one Commissar who was
moderate and reasonable, but then that one met another who was fanatical,
with the result that he began to fear for himself, cut Martel “dead,” and
would have nothing more to do with him.
The poor Frenchman managed, however, to ingratiate himself with another
Commissar, but perhaps the word “ingratiate” is too strong, for though
the Bolshevik allowed Martel to sleep in a corner of his room, he
hardly ever spoke to him; and when, in the morning, the guest greeted
his host with a cheery “Bonjour, camarade,” the host never answered a
word, but only glared at him. Finally, one day, the Commissar flew into
a sudden rage apropos of nothing at all and ordered Martel to clear out
at once. When the Frenchman began packing his few things together, the
Commissar’s infant child, of whom the guest had been very fond, began to
weep and to cry, “Thou art not going to drive away the French uncle.” The
child even got hold of the “French uncle’s” coat in its determination to
keep him; and the Commissar, seeing this, relented and allowed Martel to
stay on.
Martel’s stories conveyed to me an impression of fierce fanaticism such
as had prevailed among the Turks in Stamboul in the beginning of the
seventeenth century, and reminded me strongly of some books written about
their experiences by Christians who fell into the hands of the Ottomans
at that time. Those were the good old days when the Sultan graciously
signified his disapproval of a foreign ambassador by having him literally
kicked downstairs whenever he called at the Sublime Porte; and when it
was a frequent experience of the _corps diplomatique_ to be bound hand
and foot and thrown into the Tower of Blood at the Golden Gate.