Going farther into the forest I come upon a crowd. A priest is
explaining to them how and where to go that their horses may be
properly inspected and priced, how to go to Muchin yard, sell their
horses, and receive the money; how to go to the railway station and
wait their turn for a seat in the train, how much will be given to each
man for food.
"And I will drive ahead and meet you at such and such a station."
That's so many versts away. This is a priest from the province of Holm,
and he is explaining to his flock. Many of the priests of Holm province
accompany their refugees. And the help which they give is colossal.
They get some sort of understanding of the situation for themselves and
explain everything to their people.
It is asked: "Where are the numberless local officials, the people
looking after the village in time of peace, where are they now in the
time of terror and calamity, where have they betaken themselves--where,
saving themselves, do they receive their former official salary? How
they have abandoned this illiterate people who do not even understand
the Russian language well, in such a moment."
They looked after them all the time like children, and then, in the
difficult moment, abandon the children to the will of Fate! Had they
come with their own refugees, had even the least important of them
come, there would have been someone to whom to turn for information,
to find out things. But abandoned, left entirely to themselves, the
fugitives grope about, and feel their way like people with bandaged
eyes.
* * * * *
I made acquaintance with a priest. He spoke bitterly. There was
desperation in his voice.
"We try to preserve ourselves together. But we are assigned to places!
Assigned! One part of the flock to Riazan, another to Kazan, a third to
Orenburg!"
Here in the wood are fugitives at the last limit of their strength,
making a decision: To deprive themselves of the last thing--to sell
their horses. They sell them in the market-place, in Muchin yard, to
"Northern-Help," to the Government, _fkaznu_, as they say. Then they
are already not muzhiks; they wander over from this camp to the camp
near the railway station. And whilst they are encamped in the wood they
go backwards and forwards between the relief points of "Northern-Help"
and the "Municipal Alliance."
On the great highway--a promenade--as one of the numerous gendarmes
keeping order put it. Not only is it difficult to drive through, but
difficult to walk through. The people flock first one way, then the
other, with downcast visage, to the forest, from the forest, from one
side of the highway to the other side of the highway. At the bonfires
they warm their red and chilblained hands. Horses pass through the
crowd. With triangular brandings on their hind legs.
Many horses wander about lost. They come to the high-road, to the
people, to the other horses. They wander about quietly, somehow
helplessly, looking around them with their wise, sad eyes. As if
they were seeking their own people. Horses at the last gasp of their
strength. But no one pays any attention to them. Neither do the horses
pay attention. They stumble upon people.
In the peasant huts occupied as relief points bread is taken in at the
back door, cut up there, and handed out from a little window in the
front. So from morning to night bread flows in an uninterrupted stream.
Sentries keep the order of those who are waiting for bread. In front
of the bread windows range endless ranks of fugitives. Thousands and
thousands of people. One person moves an inch, another person moves an
inch, and from the midst is heard wails.
"You're suffocating me! Oh, suffocating!"
People fall unconscious. Here indeed only the stronger can stand the
strain. The hungry crush the hungry in order that they may squeeze into
a better place in the line and receive their bit of bread sooner. The
women, the children, with wide staring eyes, with deathly pale faces.
Quietly and silently the fierce and cruel struggle goes on. All around
the people swarm like flies.
A man in a uniform has only to appear, or even a gentleman in civil
attire, and the fugitives swarm about him.
"Your high nobility! Show us your official mercy!"
Where have I heard this melancholy, hopeless tone, these very words of
humiliation?
* * * * *
"What is it you want?"
"Give us a certificate!"
Food is only given out to those who have certificates--according to the
number of souls in the family. Such certificates ought to have been
obtained from the village authorities at the point from which they
started.
"They did not give us them! We had not time to get them."
--"Lost!"
--"We shall die of hunger."
--"Your high nobility!"
They come for everything, they come to make complaints.
"Your high nobility! Permit me to explain. The _starosta_ advised me
to wait for the Germans and not go away. I did not agree. He got angry
and refused to give me a certificate. Decide for yourself! Show God's
mercy, and give me one now."