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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24981-8.txt b/24981-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b384a46 --- /dev/null +++ b/24981-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3734 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trapped in 'Black Russia', by Ruth Pierce + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Trapped in 'Black Russia' + Letters June-November 1915 + +Author: Ruth Pierce + +Release Date: April 3, 2008 [EBook #24981] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAPPED IN 'BLACK RUSSIA' *** + + + + +Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + TRAPPED IN + "BLACK RUSSIA" + + _Letters_ + + JUNE-NOVEMBER 1915 + + BY RUTH PIERCE + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + 1918 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY + + COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY RUTH PHINNEY PIERCE + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _Published February 1918_ + + + + +TRAPPED IN "BLACK RUSSIA" + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + 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. + +Good-bye for now. Armfuls of love from + + RUTH. + + + _July 5, 1915._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +We have been in Kiev several days. Our passports have been handed in to +the police station to be viséed and put in order for our return trip to +Bucharest. They say a human being in Russia is made of body and +passport. + +Kiev is full of color. It is framed in green trees that hide the +ugliness of modern buildings and seem to lift the gold and silver domes +of the churches up into the air. And how many churches there are! Kiev +is in truth a holy city. Late afternoon, when the sun shines through the +dust of the day and envelops the city in golden powder; when the gold +and silver domes of the churches float up over the tree-tops like +unsubstantial, gleaming bubbles, and the bells fill the air with lovely, +mellow sounds,--then I can truly say I have felt more deeply religious +than ever before in my life. Yet, suddenly, I see the woman who climbs +Institutska Oulitza every evening on her knees. She is dressed in black, +and deeply veiled, and every evening she climbs the hill on her knees. +At first I thought she was a cripple, but, on arriving at the top of the +hill, she rose to her feet and walked away. + +"What is she doing?" I asked Marie. + +"Oh, a penance, probably, that the Church has imposed on her." + +And then the churches and their domes grow almost hateful to me. I think +of the Russian peasants with their foreheads in the dust, and the +greasy, long-haired priests I see on the streets. + +Yet I don't know--perhaps the priests don't really matter. After all, +there must be something in the people's hearts--a belief--an idealism--a +faith in God that keeps them loving Russia, dreaming for her, and able +to dream again after they've seen their dreams trampled on. No, the +priests and their autocracy don't matter. The people believe, and that's +the important thing. + +We went out yesterday afternoon to the Lavra--the stronghold of Black +Russia. It is a monastery on the edge of the town, overlooking the +Dnieper and flanked with battlemented walls to withstand the attacks of +the infidels in olden times. From all over Russia and the Balkans +pilgrims go there to visit the catacombs, where many church saints are +buried, their bodies miraculously preserved under red and gold +clothes--so the priests say. + +The road leading to it passed the barracks, where we saw young recruits +drilling. They were learning to walk, and their arms swung stiffly and +self-consciously, and their legs bent at the knees and straightened +again like the wooden legs of mechanical toys. As they marched, they +sang wonderful Russian soldier songs. They appeared to be about +twenty-three or twenty-four, as though they had got their growth, and +were tall and broad-shouldered--not at all like the batch of Austrian +prisoners we passed a few minutes later, and who looked like pathetic, +bewildered children, beardless for the most part, and in uniforms too +large for them. They shuffled along in a cloud of gray dust under a +metallic sun. Some were slightly wounded in the head or arm, and were +supported by their comrades. As I passed, I encountered certain +eyes--frank, gray eyes that reminded me of Morris. The long, white, +dusty road became tragic to me, with the prisoners in their worn blue +uniforms, and those who were about to die, singing in the distance. + +We met bullock-carts crawling into town, coming from distant villages, +with fresh vegetables for the markets. The peasants walked by the oxen, +prodding them with short sticks. There seem to be so many men here of +military age, yet not in the army. It isn't like other countries, where +every one but the Jews is in uniform. Russia has so many men. They say +five million more could easily be raised if they had the officers and +ammunition. + +We reached a high plaster wall, with little booths built under its +shadows, where pilgrims bought souvenirs of the Lavra--gaudy ikons, +colored handkerchiefs and shawls, beads and baskets. + +A group of pilgrims entered the gate in front of us, all from the same +village, evidently, for the women's dresses resembled each other's in +cut and embroidery, and a few of the younger women's were even dyed the +same color, as often happens in wool of the same shearing. In spite of +the heat, the men wore sheepskin coats and fur caps, and the women's +skirts were thick with petticoats. Some of the women led children by the +hand; others carried babies in their arms, poor little mites, with faces +covered with sores, and eyes red and blinking as though they were going +blind. They all bent and kissed the hand of the priest who sold candles +under the covered arched gateway, and then they passed into the open +square surrounded by the monastery walls. There was a sort of garden +here; all the grass worn off by the countless pilgrims who had visited +the shrine, but with trees in whose shade the peasants rested when their +sins had been forgiven. Some lay curled up on the ground, fast asleep; +others sat with their legs spread comfortably apart, eating bread and +meat; and others drank thirstily from the well, or let the water run +over their tired feet. + +Facing us was the church with its gold domes blindingly bright against +the blue sky. We followed the pilgrims and entered the chapel, where +everything suddenly grew hushed and dark, with a strange odor--a mixture +of thick, sweet incense and melting candle grease, and smelly, +perspiring peasants. + +The pilgrims bought candles and lighted them, and knelt on the flagging +before the altar. Behind an elaborate railing the lustrous jewels and +gold of the vessels and crucifixes glowed richly in the dim light. +Priests in gorgeous vestments were going through some church ceremony. +Their deep chanting filled the church. They knelt and rose, and finally, +by a mechanical contrivance, something was raised in an inner shrine, +and a priest took off a cloth of crimson and gold, and uncovered a +wonderful gold cup encrusted with jewels. I leaned against a pillar, +watching the kneeling peasants, and over their bent backs the mystery +and richness of the altar glowing with jewels and only half disclosed by +the tiny pointed candle flames flickering in the darkness. The Lavra is +one of the two richest monasteries in Russia. Its wealth is fathomless. +It has lent emperors treasure with which to fight the infidels, and on +returning from holy wars the emperors have brought it back to the church +increased a hundred fold by royal gifts of jewels and loot. + +We went out into the blinding sunlight again, and down a long flight of +cloister steps to the catacombs. + +A priest was selling bottles of a white liquid. + +"What is it?" Marie asked. + +"Holy water," the priest replied. "It is not for your kind." But he took +the kopecks of an old peasant woman. "Rub it on your joints and it will +cure their stiffness," he said to her, with a cynical smile. + +Three fat priests sat at the entrance of the catacombs, selling +different-sized candles. The very poor peasants, who came barefooted, +could only afford the very thin tapers, while the rich villagers, with +heavy, well-made boots and much embroidery on their clothes, bought +candles as thick as a man's thumb, and sometimes two or three at a time, +which they held lighted between their fingers. + +A short, fat priest, his face dripping with perspiration, led us through +the catacombs. He would wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the sleeve +of his dirty gown, and point to the saints' tombs with the big iron key +he carried. I was pressed close to him by the crowd of peasants behind. +The smell of his greasy body and the powder of dandruff from his long +hair on the shoulders of his gown, the malicious way he looked at me as +though to say, "You and I know that what I'm saying is rot, but it must +be said to them"--it was indescribably disgusting. + +We wound through narrow, dungeon-like passages with the cold, damp smell +of an unused cellar. Now and then, through barred windows in the stone +walls, I caught glimpses of tall forms lying in a row, covered with +dingy red and gold cloths. + +"Here lie nine brothers who lived for twenty years in this cell. Their +only food was bread and water three times a week. As you see, they had +no room to stand upright in, and were always pressed close to each +other." + +The peasants peered through the bars wonderingly. + +We passed a body stretched out on a stone ledge. + +"This holy saint cured the blind," the priest continued in a sing-song +voice. "He lived in a cell too small to lie down in. For twenty-two +years he never opened his mouth. His body, like the bodies of all the +holy saints in these catacombs, is preserved without a sign of decay +under this cloth." A peasant woman lifted her little boy up to kiss the +edge of the dirty red pall. The pale flame of her candle flickered and +the melted wax dripped on to the cloth. The woman wiped it off quickly, +and glanced in a frightened way at the priest. But he turned away +indifferently and went on. + +We saw the bust of a man buried to his arm-pits in the floor. I would +have stumbled over him, but the priest caught my arm. + +"This is a holy saint, who, for twenty-five years, stood as you see him, +buried in the earth to above his waist. He never spoke and only ate +bread and water twice a week." + +I looked at the peasants. Their faces were scared and white. A few hung +back with a morbid curiosity. + +"Come, come," the priest called impatiently. "Keep together. Some get +lost here and never get out again." + +I had heard of three pretty peasant girls who had mysteriously +disappeared in the catacombs. + +"Ouf!" The priest unlocked an iron door and we came squinting out into +the daylight again. He held the door open and mopped his face as we +filed past him, snuffing our candles. The pilgrims kept theirs. + +Outside, some of the peasants clustered about the priest and asked him +questions. As I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw the circle of +round, inquiring faces with their look of unbounded confidence. + +We went around back of the monastery to an open plateau overlooking the +Dnieper. The river curved like a blue ribbon, and we could see the three +pontoon bridges for "military reasons." On the low bank opposite were +the soldiers' white tents laid out in regular squares. A ferry-boat was +carrying some soldiers across the river. The sun flashed on the +sentries' bayonets along the bank. + +I heard the whine of a hand-organ. An armless beggar was turning the +crank of an organ with his bare feet. The plateau was fairly alive with +beggars, hopping about in the dust like fleas. Some were armless; others +legless. They swung along at our heels on long, muscular arms, with +leather on the palms of their hands, or dragged distorted, paralyzed +bodies that tried to stand upright by our sides. + +In the white, hot sunlight squatted an old man with a white, pointed +beard so long that it lay out on the dust in front of him. In his arms +he held a book done up in red cloth. He was blind. If you put a coin in +a tin cup he wore round his neck, he would undo his book and open it, +and by divine inspiration read the holy words of the page in front of +him. + +A row of seven blind women lined the exit. They began to whine as we +approached, and stretched out their hands gropingly. The eyes of one +woman had completely disappeared as though they had been knotted up and +pulled back into her head. Another's bulged like a dead fish's, with +that dull, bluish look in them. Another's lids were closed and crusted +with sores, flies continuously creeping over them, but apparently she +was indifferent. The seven blind women sat in rags and filth. Shall I +ever forget them in the burning sunlight, with their terrible eyes and +greedy fingers and the whine of their voices merging into the tune of +the hand-organ? + +When we left the monastery, a group of wounded soldiers were just +entering. With them was a woman in a man's uniform. Her hair was curly +and short, and her chin pointed. Her feet looked ridiculously small in +the heavy, high, soldier's boots, and in spite of a strut her knees +knocked together in an unmistakably feminine manner. But the men treated +her quite as one of themselves. One soldier, who had had his leg cut off +up to the thigh, supported himself by her shoulder. I have seen several +women soldiers in Kiev, and they say there are many in the Russian army. + +It is strange, seeing these things without Peter. I expect to go back to +Bucharest with Marie and Janchu within a week. There Peter will meet +us. I wish he were here now. + +So much love, my dearests, every day and every night from + + RUTH. + + + _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. + + RUTH. + + + _July 25, 1915._ + +The Tchedesky Pension is full of Poles--refugees from Poland and the +wooded Russian provinces. + +Pan Tchedesky himself was formerly an enormously wealthy landowner near +Kiev. He loves to tell how he drove through town behind six white +horses. Gambling ruined him, and to pay his debts he sold one acre after +another to the Jews, who cut down the timber and ruined the land. Of +course, where there are no trees the rainfall is scarce. The crops dried +up, and finally Pan Tchedesky and his wife and children were forced into +the city. There remained enough of his former property to start a +_pension_. The rooms are full of the remains of his splendor--heavy gilt +mirrors, thick, flowered carpets, a Louis XVI set in the drawing-room, +upholstered in faded blue brocade. + +Pan Tchedesky is a memorial of his own life; a relic suggesting an +earlier opulence. He is big-framed, but his flesh is shrunken, as though +the wind of conceit were oozing out of him day by day. His cheeks and +stomach hang flabbily. His blond mustache is getting thin and discloses +his full, sensual lips. His hands are thick and soft, always stained +with nicotine. He lives in constant terror of his wife, and all the +pockets of his coats are burned full of holes from his hiding his +cigarettes in them when he thinks he hears his wife coming. I have never +seen her, but she is the invisible force that keeps the _pension_ +running, and controls her husband by her knowledge of his past failures. + +"My wife is an executive woman--very executive," he says, shaking his +head sorrowfully. + +The bills are made out by her. Occasionally he intercepts the maid +carrying her back the money, and extracts enough to pay a small per cent +of his I O U's, which allows him to continue gambling with his guests. +His moist, soft fingers tremble as he holds the cards, and he infuriates +every one by his erratic bidding. + +A guest slams his hand down on the table and calls Tchedesky a name. + +Tchedesky's whitish, livid cheeks shake, and his lips open uncertainly. +But he must be discreet. He does not dare offend his guests, for he +wants to play with them again, and he must not let his wife know that he +is gambling. So he begs pardon in a whisper. + +There is a pretty maid in the _pension_ called Antosha. She has light, +frowzy hair, and a round, full figure. The other maids are jealous of +her. When she dresses up to wait on the table at dinner at three +o'clock, she wears a cheap pink silk waist and long gilt earrings, and +two or three little rings with blue and red stones. Her wages are +fifteen roubles a month. One day I saw Tchedesky kissing her on the +neck. Very white and shaken, he came to me afterwards and begged me to +say nothing about it to any one. + +He has terrible scenes with his wife, who is hysterical and grows rigid. +He stays up with her all night and uses it as an excuse to get a +morphine injection for his own nervousness next day. He is quite +courteous and frankly loves women and food and money. I feel as though, +if I poked my finger into him, he would burst like a rotten potato. + +There is the Morowski family from near Cracow. Pan Morowski's brother is +in the Austrian Chamber of Deputies, but he and his family are Russian +subjects. They have been here in Kiev for some months now. For seven +days he and his eldest daughter remained while the Russians and +Austrians fought for their farm. The rest of the family had been sent +into Kiev, but these two had hoped that by staying they might preserve +their farm from being plundered and burned. The Austrians had sacked +their neighbors' houses. The Austrian officers' wives had followed in +the wake of the army and had taken the linen from the closets, and the +ball-gowns, and the silver--even the pictures off the walls. + +Lovely weather it was. The girl said you would hardly realize there was +war, sometimes. The gardener would go out and straighten the trampled +flowers. The carts of wounded would pass regularly, stopping +occasionally for water or tea. They would say the fighting had passed +on. And then, suddenly, the crack and boom would approach again, shaking +the house walls--the little uncurling puffs of smoke against the blue +sky--the gray-blue uniformed Austrians hurrying past in retreat. No +carts of wounded any more. There was too much hurry to bother about the +wounded. + +Russians in possession again, and Russian instead of Austrian officers +quartered at their house. How much more polite the Russians were--so +much more gallant and kind-hearted! They didn't treat you as though you +were a servant--"Do this. Do that." They brought some of their wounded +to the farm, and Miss Morowski helped nurse them. + +But at last the father and daughter had been obliged to leave with the +Russians. How furious the Russians had been--so depressed and +discouraged when the order came to retreat. There had been no fighting +round there for several days, and suddenly the news came that the whole +army was retreating. Why? They said there was no ammunition. So the +father and daughter left their property in the care of the gardener and +his wife, who were too old to move. How terrible it had been to abandon +this ground that so many Russians had died to win! No ammunition. +Waste--mismanagement--graft. + +Those in Petrograd should think more of their country and less of their +own pockets. The unquestioning courage of the simple Russian soldiers! +Every one ready to die--and yet nothing to back them up. It was +disheartening. + +"The Russians gave us a place in a cart, and we left in utter +confusion--soldiers, motor-cars, cattle, wounded, with the Austrian +cannon rumbling behind us." + +"Were you frightened?" I asked. We were speaking French together. + +"Not so frightened as sad. I was leaving my home. All my life I had +spent there excepting for a few weeks in the winter when mother used to +take us to Cracow for the balls. I hated to leave my beautiful party +dresses hanging up in the closets. I know some Austrian woman will wear +them. And I can't bear to think of our house burned! We have had such +jolly times there, hunting and riding and visiting the neighbors. You +don't know life on a Polish estate, do you? I can tell you there is +nothing so charming in the world." + +Pan Morowski is a handsome, full-blooded man, and plays bridge all day +either in the _pension_ drawing-room or at the club. + +His wife is small and nervous, and you can see that her main object in +life is to marry off her daughters well. She has three daughters, +pretty, fresh girls, who are fond of reading, and perfectly willing to +read only what their brothers permit them. Every day I run across one or +two of them in the circulating library in the town, and always try to +get them to take out a forbidden book. They are convinced that Bourget +has sounded the depths of feminine psychology. "Isn't it mean!" they +cry. "If only our brothers would let us read more of his wonderful +books!" + +Sometimes, in the evening, we sit out on the balcony, and the Morowski +boys come in to talk to us. + +"Aren't you ashamed to treat your sisters in this Oriental way?" I ask. + +"The less they know till after they've married, the better for them. A +young girl should be pure in every thought." And then they begin to make +love to us. + +There are two brothers who have taken refuge in the Tchedesky _pension_, +with a collection of servants. Their house was burned under their eyes, +and their property is now in the Austrians' hands. The eldest brother, +Count S----, is very handsome and aristocratic, with a cherished gray +mustache carefully twisted upward, and soft, brown eyes, which he uses +with advantage. Evidently the Romantic poets influenced his youth, and +he has found the melancholy Byronic traditions the most effective for +his ends, since he continues the attitude. + +"He is very sad," his brother whispers a dozen times a day. "Of course +his experiences these past months have been frightful for one of his +nature. I am not so sensitive. But _he_ has always been this way. +Sometimes I'm afraid. Our other brother died insane." + +Count S---- affects to believe that the Germans can do anything. + +"They are devils! What can we do against them?" he cries at dinner, +combing his mustache with the little tortoise-shell comb he carries in +his vest. + +He never forgets his soda tablets after eating. + +His younger brother is round and red-faced, with twinkly blue eyes. He +limps, and follows his elder brother round like a faithful dog. The +slightest thing amuses him. Indeed, he laughs at nothing at all. He kept +the books on his brother's estates and he brought them with him in his +flight. They are his pride and joy. Sometimes he brings them into the +drawing-room after supper, with photographs of the property. There are +pictures of boar hunts, and huntsmen on horseback, with wolf-hounds in +the snow, and the tenants merry-making and the house and different +sections of the property, and the horses and dogs and cattle. I look at +them night after night. They love to live over again their life in +telling me about it. + +Among the servants with the S---- brothers is an old woman, a kindly, +slack one, who rarely goes out, but observes the passing life from her +windows. She wears a short, loose wrapper and petticoat, and scuffs +about in list slippers. + +Then there is a young girl with shy eyes and quiet, womanlike actions. +We often see her peeking through a crack in the door when Janchu is +naughty. + +And then there is Sigmund, a sly, goody-goody child of six or seven, +whom the old woman treats like a son, and whom the eldest S---- brother +has adopted as his heir. He plays with Janchu. The brothers adore him +and take him to Koupietsky Park, and watch him when he plays in the +_pension_ garden. We have heard that he is Count S----'s illegitimate +child, and that the old woman is his mother. It seems quite probable +when you think of the life on a big Polish estate--the loneliness, etc. +These three people live together in one room. The samovar is always +boiling and some one is always drinking tea there. The brothers share an +adjoining room, but they are usually with those in there, who constitute +all that remains of their former habits. + +Pan A---- lives in the _pension_, too. I am told that he is typical of a +certain kind of Pole. He is a turfman, with carefully brushed +side-whiskers dyed coal-black, and hawk-like eyes. He wears check suits, +and cravats with a little diamond horse-pin. His legs are bowed like a +jockey's. He was the overseer of a big Polish estate and has made a +fortune by cards and horses. His stable is famous. He has raced from +Petrograd to London. Now, of course, his horses have been requisitioned, +and he lives by his cards. Cards are a serious business to him. He will +not play in a room where he is apt to be interrupted. Occasionally, his +wife, a hard-faced woman with tight lips, comes to the _pension_, +between the visits she makes to friends in the country. Pan A---- pays +no attention to her except to treat her with an exaggerated politeness +at table; and she, on her side, concentrates on the young men in the +_pension_. After dinner he always hands her a cigarette first, out of +his massive gold case, encrusted with arms and monograms and jewels. + +"It's curious, is it not?" he says, handing me the case. "My friends +have put on their arms and monograms and mounted the jewels as +souvenirs." + +Generally, he goes to the Café François with a tall blonde woman, the +wife of an Austrian. Her husband and son are fighting in the Austrian +army, but she came to Kiev with the Russian General who occupied her +town. Now her protector is at the front, and she goes about with A----. + +A---- is cynical. Women and horses and cards make up his life. In a +conversation he feels his audience as if it were a new horse he is +learning to ride. He goes as near the danger line as he dares. He has no +breeding, and spends his money extravagantly. + +K----, the last comer at the _pension_, is a journalist. He has no race +or polish, and the rest rather despise him for having none of their +landed traditions. He is lean and brown, with a razor-like jaw and a +twisted, sardonic expression to his lips. His face is cruel. At Warsaw, +where he was working, he was thrown into prison time after time on +account of the radical, revolutionary character of his articles. He is +well known for the strong, intellectual quality of his work. The +reactionaries fear him. The slipshod Russian way of handling things gets +on his nerves. His eyes get like steel when he talks about it. Russia's +corruption and the German advance--ammunition willfully miscarried--guns +sent to the front without ammunition, and ammunition sent that doesn't +fit; and the soldiers obliged to fight with their naked fists! + +He has sent me Chamberlin's "Genesis of the Fourteenth Century." We +discuss it after dinner. It's interesting, though Chamberlin sets forth +an idea he tries to prove at all costs. Read it, if you haven't already. + +How terribly I miss you. Why do I write of Pan Tchedesky and the +Morowskis when I only want to be telling you how I love you and miss +you? But it is almost unbearable to write you a love-letter. So many +miles are between us and so many months still separate us. Over a year +more to be lived through. No. I must keep to decaying Polish gentlemen +and exiled noblemen and trust you to know that every word in this letter +is a love-word to you, telling you I hold you so close to me that you +are one with me in everything I think or do. + + + _July 27, 1915._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +It is very hot, and food is unappetizing. The drinking-water must be +boiled, and inevitably we drink it lukewarm. It never has time to cool. +There is fruit sold on the street, but we are warned against it on +account of cholera. There is already cholera and typhus reported in the +city. So we thick vegetable soup with sour cream, fried bread with +chopped meat inside, cheese noodles with sour cream, etc., all Polish +cooking. And we drink _kvass_. + +"What do you think of Bulgaria, now?" Count S---- asks me gloomily, +after dinner. + +"I still think she will go with Russia," I reply. "In every Bulgarian +house I've ever been in there is the picture of the Czar liberator. A +Bulgarian regards a Russian as of his own blood. Bulgaria gave Russia +her alphabet, and the languages are much the same: only the Russian is +richer in words and expressions. Why, there is a Bulgarian, General +Dimitrief, holding a high command in the Russian army. When I left +Bulgaria there was no talk of her going with Germany. 'We will never go +with Germany,' I've heard over and over." + +"But there is a strong German party?" + +"Yes, and they're being paid well. If England and the Entente only took +the trouble to understand the Balkans. Germany has sent her ablest men +to Sofia with unlimited credit. The English representatives offend by +their snobbery." + +"Do you think they'll go in at all?" S---- persists. + +"Probably they'll be forced in, in the end. But the people don't want to +abandon their neutrality. They're making money. They're recouping after +the Balkan wars. Bulgaria has had nothing but wars and crises for the +last five years." + +"They say there are already German officers in the Bulgarian army." + +"I don't believe it's so. The Bulgarians are very independent. If they +went in I think they would command their own army." + +"But this war is not conducted along Balkan war lines," K---- said +amusedly. + +"No," I agreed. "You know more about the situation now than I do. I +can't even read a newspaper. All I know is the spirit of Bulgaria when I +left." + +"Isn't Bulgaria's Government autocratic enough to declare war without +consulting the people?" K---- continued. + +"Perhaps--unfortunately. The Bulgarians say, 'We have a wonderful +constitution, if the Czar would only use it.'" + +"The papers to-day already speak of Bulgaria's treason and ingratitude," +K---- observed. + +I was angry. "In Bulgaria, some think Russia doesn't want them to go in +on the Entente side. They think Russia wants to make a Russian lake out +of the Black Sea, and a Russian province out of Bulgaria. They say +Russia is the obstacle to their having joined the Entente months ago." + +"She will go with Germany," Count S---- insisted fatalistically. +"Everything is going Germany's way." + +"No--no--no!" I cried. + +"Of course she will go where she sees her advantage," said K----. + +"All she wants is to fight for Macedonia before the close of the war. +Certainly, it isn't too much to ask if she allows the English and +Russians to cross her territory to get at Turkey. The war will be +shortened by months if she goes in with the Entente, and Turkey in +Europe will be finished." + +I know you'll laugh, Dad, and think my pretentions to a political +opinion presumptuous. My hope is that I'll know more when I'm older! + +Love to you all. Think of me, won't you? Don't let _miles_ make any +difference. + + RUTH. + + + + +II + + + _July 30._ + +It is confirmed that Warsaw has fallen! Every one is very much +depressed. What can stop the Germans? Some one speaks of the forts of +Vilna and Grodno, which are supposed to be impregnable. But what about +the forts on the Western front? What do forts amount to nowadays? The +strongest walls are razed by the Germans' big guns! + +"The Germans do just as they like--nothing can stop them. In the +beginning the Kaiser said he would sleep at Warsaw," Count S---- says +gloomily. + +"And he said he would dine in Paris," some one else remarks. + +It is funny how much pleasure Count S---- takes in every foot of land +the Germans capture. When he talks about the war, he seems to take a +perverse pleasure in accenting their inexhaustible munitions and men and +the perfection of their whole military organization. "We have men, but +we are children." At every German victory he shakes his head. "I told +you so." "I've said from the first--" "There is no limit to what these +_cochons_ can do." He seems glad to see his prophecies come true; +probably, because he has seen his own security destroyed, he feels the +safety of the whole world shaken. A hundred times he has said: "There +isn't a foot of ground that belongs to me any more. For a man of my age +it is a terrible thing to see your life-work wiped out all of a sudden." +Only a world destruction could come up to his expectations now. + +After dinner, in the drawing-room, we spoke about the fall of Warsaw. +What would the Germans do to the city? Some spoke of German +frightfulness in Belgium. Pan K---- thinks Warsaw will be treated +leniently, as Germany wishes to enlist the German sympathizers. Still, +most of the Poles in the _pension_ are horrorstricken. They see the +Germans marching through the streets, and they see the flames and +shuddering civilians. I can see the Germans' spiked helmets in the room. + +"The English must start an offensive. England lets France and Russia +bleed to death before she sheds her own blood." There is much talk of +England's selfishness. + +Something is wrong somewhere. Every one seems skeptical about the Duma. + +I wish I could read the Russian newspapers. + +I feel as though I were watching a fire--a neighbor's house burning +down. I am excited and curious. Suddenly, I wonder how far the flames +are going to spread, and I feel panicstricken. Good-night, dear ones. +You in New England seem so far away from this European fire. + + RUTH. + + + _July 30, 1915._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +To-day I went to the Jewish detention camp with the wife of the French +Consul here. She called for me in her limousine. As I think of it now, +it was all so strange--the smooth-running car with two men on the box, +and ourselves in immaculate white summer dresses. The heat was intense, +but we were well protected. Through the windows we saw others sweating +and choking in the dust of the hot streets. + +"I'm afraid I've brought you here on a very hot morning," said Mme. +C---- apologetically. + +In spite of my curiosity I believe I felt a distaste of the detention +camp on such a day. A crowd is always depressing, and doubly so in the +heat. But we stopped at a door cut in a high board fence, and passed by +the sentinel into the enclosure where the Jews were penned in awaiting +the next stage of their journey. + +Hundreds of faces turned toward us; hundreds of eyes watched our +approach. There were old men with long, white, patriarchal beards +flowing over their dirty black gowns; there were younger men with peaked +black caps and long black beards; and there were women who had pushed +back their black shawls for air, and who held sore-eyed, whining babies +listlessly on their knees. Bits of old cloth stretched over poles +afforded shade to some. Others tried to get out of the burning sun by +huddling against the walls of the tenements that enclosed the yard on +three sides. The ground was baked hard as iron and rubbed smooth by the +shuffle of numberless feet. + +As we approached, the Jews rose and bowed low. Then they settled back +into their former immobility. Some stared at us vacantly; others lowered +their eyelids and rubbed their hands together softly, with a terrible +subservience. If we brushed close to one, he cringed like a dog who +fears a kick. Yellow, parchment-like faces, all with the high-bridged, +curving noses, and the black, animal-like eyes. I was as definitely +separated from them as though tangible iron bars were between us. We +seemed to be looking at each other across a great gulf. "They are human +beings," I said to myself. "I am one with them." But their isolation was +complete. I could not even begin to conceive the persecution and +suffering of ages that separated us. "All people are born free and +equal," indeed! I turned away. + +"This camp is run on communistic principles," Mme. C---- was explaining. +"The Jewish Ladies' Benevolent Society provides a certain amount of meat +and vegetables and bread, which is cooked and served by the Jews +themselves. Here is the kitchen." We spoke French among ourselves, which +seemed to put us farther away from the dumb, watchful Jews behind us. +"If it wasn't for us, they would starve. The Government allows them +eight kopecks a day. But who could live on that? Besides, most of the +Jews here pay the eight kopecks to the overseer to avoid his +displeasure. He makes a good revenue out of the blood money." + +Two rooms in one of the houses had been converted into a kitchen. A +dozen or so Jewish women were paring and cutting up potatoes and +cabbages and meat into huge soup-boilers. They were stripped to their +shirts, and their bodies were drenched with sweat. They curtsied to us +and went on preparing dinner. + +A blast of scorching heat puffed out from an open oven. Two women, with +long wooden handles pulled out big round loaves of black bread and laid +them on a shelf to cool. + +The warm fragrance of cooking attracted some white-faced Jewish +children. They edged into the kitchen and looked up at the food, their +eyes impenetrable and glittering like mica. A woman cut up some bread +and gave them each a piece, and they slunk outdoors again, sucking their +bread. + +"The food is scientifically proportioned to give the greatest possible +nutriment," Mme. C---- said. + +We went out. After the kitchen heat the air of the courtyard was cool. + +"This is the laundry. A certain number of the Jews here wash and iron +the others' clothes. They are kept as clean as possible." + +The laundry was gray with steam. A dozen or so women were bending over +wash tubs. Like the women in the kitchen, they were stripped to their +shirts. The wet cloth stuck to their sweating bodies and outlined their +ribs and the stretch of muscles as they scrubbed and wrung out the +clothes. When the water became too black, some young boys threw it out +of doors, and the women waited for the tubs to be filled again, their +red parboiled hands resting on their hips, in the way of washerwomen the +world over. + +We crossed the mud before the wash-house, on planks, and went into a +house across the courtyard. + +"This is the tailoring establishment," Mme. C---- continued. "The +tailors among them mend and cut over old clothes which we collect for +them, so that every Jew may start on the next stage of his journey in +perfectly clean and whole clothes. My husband and son complain that they +will have to stay in bed, soon, I have taken so many of their suits of +clothes.--And here are the shoemakers." + +We looked into the adjoining room, where the cobblers sat cross-legged, +sewing and patching and pegging shoes. + +"It's very hard to find the leather. But it is so important. If you +could see how they come here--their feet bleeding and swollen and their +shoes in tatters. And many of them were rich bankers and professors in +Galicia and Poland, used to their own automobiles like the rest of us. I +think I would steal leather for them." + +The workers were different from the waiting Jews in the courtyard. +Perhaps it was work that gave them importance in their own eyes, and +took away that dreadful degrading subserviency--degrading to us as much +as to themselves. The whirring noise of the sewing-machines, the click +of shears, the bent backs of the workers, and the big capable hands, +formed by the accustomed work! The trade of every man could have been +known by his hands! My heart was warm toward them. + +"It's splendid, I think," I said to Mme. C----. + +As though she guessed my thoughts, she replied, "They are grateful for +being allowed to work." + +"For being allowed to work." Those words damn much in the world. What +hindrances we erect in the way of life! + +And I looked out into the courtyard again, at the apathetic faces of +the waiting Jews. Waiting for what? The white, dead faces, with the +curved noses and hard, bright eyes, all turned toward us. Were they +submissive or expectant, or simply hating us? They say the Galician Jews +turn traitors and act as spies for the Austrians. But surely not these. +What could these broken creatures do? How near death they seemed! + +The courtyard burned like a furnace. The shade was shrinking from moment +to moment. The heat rose in blinding waves. I was sickened. The +courtyard smelled of dirt and waste and sickness. It was unreal--the +whole thing unreal: those working at usual, necessary tasks as well as +those furtive, watchful ones in the burning sunlight. Death was in them +all. + +I went out into the courtyard, walking slowly in the scorching heat. +There was no shade or coolness anywhere. My attention was drawn to a +pregnant woman who had evidently been sitting in a thin strip of shade +by the fence; but now the sun was beating down on her bare head. She sat +with her arms hanging along her sides, the palms of her hands turned +upwards. A baby hardly a year old twisted fretfully on her lap, +fumbling at her breast with a little red hand. But she looked steadily +over the baby's round head, a curiously intent expression in her dark +eyes, as though she were looking at something so far away that she must +concentrate all herself on it so as not to lose it from view. + +Near her a man leaned against the fence. He was red-headed, and his +unkempt hair and ragged beard flamed in the sun. A rope tied round his +waist kept up his loose trousers, and his shirt was open, disclosing a +hairy chest. Where his skin showed, it was unexpectedly white. He kept +plucking at his chest, smiling idiotically. + +"Is he insane?" I asked Mme. C----. + +"Yes. He's that woman's husband. He went out of his head on the road. +They say he was raging that his wife was obliged to walk in her +condition. Well, he's happier than she is, now." + +Under a canopy made from an old blue skirt lay a sick boy. His face was +like a death-mask already, the yellow skin stretched tightly over the +bones of his face, and his mouth unnaturally wide, with parched, swollen +lips. From his hollow eye-sockets his eyes looked out unwinking, as +though his lids had been cut off. He held himself halfway between a +reclining and an upright position. No normal person could hold himself +that way for long, but the sick boy kept himself motionless with +maniacal strength. The flies hung over him like a cloud of black +cinders. One of his friends attempted to keep them away with a leafy +branch which he had found, Heaven knows where! I could see no other sign +of green in the place. As we passed, I noticed the branch sweep back and +forth over the sick boy's face, touching the skin. And still the fixed +stare continued, uninterrupted--that blind gaze straight out into +emptiness. + +At the farther end, an opening between two of the tenements led into a +garden. This space, too, was crowded with waiting Jews. + +"But where do they sleep?" I asked. "Is there room for all those people +in the houses?" + +"No," Mme. C---- replied; "not when so many come through as came this +last time. But fortunately, these summer nights are fine; earlier, we +had much rain, and you can picture the suffering. Then there was no +shelter for them at all. They were simply herded into a pen, and many +died from the exposure. Now, however, we have made conditions better +for them." + +There was more reality here in the garden, where there was a suggestion +of growing grass and a thin leaf shade. The Jews lay on the ground as +though trying to get some coolness out of the earth. Up and down the +paths walked several spectacled men, who were brought up to me and +introduced as Professor So-and-So, and Doctor So-and-So. They were +constantly trying to get in touch with friends in Kiev or Moscow or +Petrograd, or colleagues in medicine or other sciences, or relatives who +could help them. They worked through the society. By the payment of +certain amounts they could bribe the overseers to let them stay on in +the Kiev detention camp, or even have the liberty of the city. One man, +a rich banker from Lvov, had been officially "sick" for several months, +but as his money had almost given out he was in danger of being sent on +to Tomsk in the near future. He lived in the hospital, where he had +better quarters and food. These professors and doctors, men of wide +learning and reputation, who are recognized as leaders in their +professions, and are constructive, valuable forces in society, were +herded together with the others, and will be allowed to disappear into +Siberia, where their minds and bodies will be wasted, their possible +future activity to count as nothing. + +A man in a soiled white coat came up, looked us over with little +blinking pig eyes, and addressed a few words to Mme. C---- in Polish. + +"That is the overseer," Professor A---- said to me in English. "He takes +every kopeck away from us. But he is no worse than the rest. All along +the way it is the same thing. One is bled to death." He shrugged +indifferently. "We most of us could have gathered together a little +money. But what will you? It was all so sudden. We had no time. Here we +are, _en tout cas_. And after all, in the end--" + +I might have been talking with the professors on the campus of their own +university. They exerted themselves to be attentive and entertaining, as +though they were our hosts. + +One doctor said to me in French, "I have seen your wonderful country. It +is amazing. I would like to see it again. I have been asked to lecture. +Perhaps, after the war--" + +He broke off abruptly. In a flash the end of his life came up to me. +His work and ambitions, and then the cleavage in his career; the sharp +division in his life; the preparation of years, and then, instead of +fulfillment, an exile to a country where life was a struggle for the +bare necessities of the body--food and shelter. I looked at his +hands--thin and white and nervous. What hideous, despairing moments he +must know! + +I asked him a question. His eyes blazed suddenly. + +"Do not speak of these things! They are not to be spoken of, much less +to _you_." He looked as though he hated me. "I beg your pardon, I am +nervous. You must excuse me." He went away hurriedly. + +"Poor chap!" Professor A---- said. "It is hard for us all in this heat. +And, yes, some of us have more imagination than others." + +A man in uniform came into the garden. He walked to a tree in the +center, and stood in the shade, a long sheet of paper in his hand. There +was a stir among the Jews. Those lying down got up and approached him. +The women, with their children, dragged themselves nearer. Every one +stopped talking. The apathy and indifference gave place to a strained +attention. There was a kind of dreadful anxiety on every face--a +tightening of the muscles round the eyes and mouths, as though the same +horrible fear fixed the same mark there. I have never seen a crowd where +personality was so stamped out by a single overmastering emotion. The +gendarme began to read in a sing-song voice. + +"What is he saying?" I whispered. + +"The names of those who are to leave this afternoon," Mme. C---- +replied. + +The garden was absolutely still except for the monotonous voice and the +breathing of the crowd. Oh, yes, and the flies. It was not that I forgot +the flies, only their buzzing was the ceaseless accompaniment to +everything that happened in the camp. + +"How horrible this is!" Mme. C---- observed. "They all know it must +come, but when it does, it is almost unbearable. It is truly a list of +death. Many of them here cannot survive another stage of the journey in +this heat. And yet they must be moved on to make place for those who are +pressing on from behind. In this very crowd were five old men who were +killed on the way here, by the soldiers, because they couldn't keep up +with the procession. How could these civilians be expected to endure +such hardships? They are townspeople, most of them having lived indoors +all their lives, like you or me." + +"Like you or me." No, no. It was unbelievable. I could not put myself in +their place. I could not imagine such insecurity--that lives could be +broken in the middle in this way. + +"How useless it all seems!" I said. + +"Useless. You think so?" Mme. C---- took me up. "Do you realize that +whole Galician towns have been moved into Siberia this summer? Part of +the way on foot, part in baggage cars, where they stifled to death in +the heat and for lack of water and food. One carload wasn't listed, or +was forgotten by some careless official, and when it was finally opened +it was a carload of rotting flesh. The bodies were thrown into the river +by the frightened official, but a soldier reported him and he was +court-martialed. One crowd of several thousand was taken to Siberia. +They reached Tomsk. Then the Government changed. What was the need to +transport these Galician Jews? the new Minister argued: a useless +expense to the Government: a waste of money and time. Let them go back +to their homes. So the Jews were taken back over the same route, many +more dying on the return journey, in the jails, and camps, and baggage +cars, or by the roadsides. They found themselves once more back in their +pillaged towns, with nothing to work with, and yet with their livelihood +to be earned somehow. They began to dig and plant and take up the +routine of their lives again. They began to look on themselves as human +again. The grind of suffering and hopelessness began to let up and they +had moments of hope. And then the reactionaries came into power with +their systematic oppression of the Jews. Back to Siberia with them! This +in midsummer heat. I saw them as they passed through Kiev for the third +time, a few weeks ago. Never shall I forget them as I saw them last. The +mark of the beast was on them. You couldn't call them living or +suffering or martyrs any more. They were beyond the point where they +prayed to die." + +The gendarme had finished his list. The tension relaxed. Some of the +Jews settled back into their former apathy; others gathered in excited +groups, pulling their beards and scratching their heads; still others +walked up and down the paths, restless, like so many caged animals. + +A man and a woman with two children approached the gendarme +deprecatingly. The man asked a question, indicating the woman and +children. The gendarme shook his head. The man persisted. The gendarme +refused again, and started to move away. The man detained him with a +hand on his arm. Another man approached. He spread out both hands, his +shoulders up to his ears. All three men spoke Polish in loud, excited +voices. + +"What are they saying?" I asked. + +"The gendarme has just read the names of the woman and children who are +to leave this afternoon. The father's name is not with theirs. +Naturally, he wants to be with his wife and children to protect and care +for them as best he can. If they are separated now, they can never find +each other again in Siberia--if they live till they get there. The third +man is alone. He is willing to give up his place to the father. But the +gendarme refuses. 'His name is written. Yours is not. It is the order,' +he says." + +The gendarme now left the garden. The woman was sobbing in her husband's +arms. He was patting her hair. The children hung at their mother's +skirt, crying and sucking their fingers. + + + _August 12, 1915._ + +_Dearest Mother and Dad:--_ + +They say there was no ammunition at the front. No shells for the +soldiers. They had nothing to do but retreat. And now? They are still +retreating, fighting with empty guns and clubs and even their naked +hands. And still, trainloads of soldiers go out of Kiev every day +without a gun in their hands. What a butchery! Can you imagine how +horrible it is to see them march through the streets, swinging their +arms and singing their stirring songs,--tall, able-bodied men,--while +the beggars, cripples from the Russo-Japanese War, stand whining at the +street corners. + +There seems to be no doubt about the enemy within the gates. How can the +soldiers give their lives so patiently and bravely for a Government +whose villainy and corruption take no account of the significance of +their sacrifices. The German influence is still strong. They say German +money bribes the Ministers at home and the generals at the front. + +There is great distrust of the Czarina and the Monk Rasputin. The latter +was a serf in Siberia, and now has a malignant, hypnotic influence in +the Russian Court. If he is refused anything, he falls on the floor in a +fit and froths at the mouth until he gets what he wants. The Court +ladies have to lick his dirty fingers clean, for he refuses to use a +finger-bowl at table. Take this for what it's worth. At any rate, there +is much talk now of the Germans working through this disreputable +creature. + +I asked a Russian if there could be a revolution. + +There seems to be no hope. Russia, apparently, lacks the coördination +and singleness of purpose necessary for one. And so many unseen +influences are at work. There is no agreement among the people as to +what they want. Each faction is secretly encouraged to war against the +other in order to weaken each other and blur the reason and end in the +people's minds. Besides, of course, nothing can be done as long as the +army can be used to crush any demonstration against the Government. But +if I were a Russian, all my hate would be directed against the traitors +of my country, rather than at the Germans, who, after all, are +political enemies. I would carry a gun against those who sell my country +and make capital out of her suffering. + +In every newspaper there are accounts of enormous graft by Ministers and +companies under contract to the Government for military supplies. One +case was translated to me the other day. Some men high up in the +Government took over a contract for a certain number of cavalry saddles +and bridles. They sold it to the Jews, making a tremendous rake-off. The +Jews, to get any profit, were obliged to furnish poor material. At the +trial, where some officers were testing them, the bridles broke in their +hands like paper and the saddles split into ribbons. + +Then there was a sugar factory in Kiev, whose owner wrote to the +Minister of the Interior, I think it was, and offered his factory, only +asking an estimate of the approximate amount of sugar the Government +would need turned out each day. No answer was made. The owner wrote +again. Still no answer. He went to Petrograd himself to find out why the +Department paid no attention to his letters. The Minister informed him +his letters had lacked the required war-tax stamps and had been turned +over to the proper authorities, who would speedily proceed to fine him +for his evasion of the law. + +I went up to a military hospital to-day. I wonder how I can write you +about it. The insignificance of personalities--whether any one lives or +dies seems to have no importance. Just life seems to matter any more, +and the forward movement of humanity--at least, you must believe the +movement is forward in spite of the horror of mangled bodies and +destroyed minds; otherwise, you would go mad, though you are outside of +it all. How the proportions of things are twisted after going through a +hospital. Things that counted before don't seem to count any more. You +take refuge in generalities to get out of your mind a look you have seen +in a soldier's eyes. + +It was an improvised hospital,--some building or other turned into a +place to receive the hundreds of wounded that are pouring into Kiev +every day. It was a big room, with rows and rows of beds, and in every +bed a man. One man was wounded in the back, and his breath whistled +through the open hole like steam through an escape valve. His face was +wound in white bandages. Others were there, dying from terrible stomach +wounds. One man's head moved from side to side incessantly, as though he +could never again find comfort on earth. Some moan. Others lay +absolutely motionless, their faces terrible dead-white masks. Their +bodies looked so long and thin under the sheets, with their toes turned +up. It was indescribably terrifying to think that human beings could go +through so much and continue to live. I was more frightened than ever +before in my life. The smell of blood--the closeness of the hot +sick-room--flies buzzing about. I saw brown varnish-like stains on some +of the white bandages. The indifferent, business-like attitude of the +nurses infuriated me. But, of course, they can't be any other way and +deal with it all. + +I can't write any more. But is there any excuse for this? + + RUTH. + + + _August 10, 1915._ + +Lately, our conversation at table has been suppressed by the appearance +of a young woman whom the rest suspect of being a spy. She is dark, and +never utters a word. All through dinner she keeps her eyes on her +plate. I said something in French to her the other day, but, apparently, +she did not understand. Across the table, the Morowski boys laughed at +me. I suspect that they, too, had tried to speak to her, for she is +pretty, and had been snubbed like me. I don't know how the idea of her +being a spy got round. She may have been sent here to keep her eyes on +the Polish refugees in the _pension_. Her room is in our corridor, and +this morning Marie saw, through the open door, Panna Lolla and Janchu +talking to her. It appears that Janchu had been inveigled in by bonbons, +and Panna Lolla had gone in after him. Panna Lolla said the young woman +was so lonely. She is a Pole and wants to leave Russia. She hates it +here. But she has no passport. She showed Panna Lolla an old one that +she wants to fix up for the police authorities. But she can't speak +Russian, and is very frightened. She asked Panna Lolla if she knew any +one who could write Russian. Marie forbade Panna Lolla to go near the +woman again. It is just as well, for Panna Lolla likes excitement, and +is capable of saying anything to keep it going. + + + + +III + + + _August._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +We were arrested four days ago--and you will wonder why I keep on +writing. It relieves my nerves. Ever since the _revision_ Marie and I +have gone over and over the same reasoning, trying to get at why we were +arrested. To write it all out may help the restlessness and anxiety +and--yes--the panicky fear that rises in my throat like nausea. Life is +so terribly insecure. I feel as though I had been stripped naked and +turned out into the streets, with no person or place to go to. + +It was four o'clock, and we had just finished dinner. In an hour and a +half we were leaving for Odessa. All our trunks and bags were packed, +and our traveling suits brushed and pressed. Panna Lolla was crying at +having to part from Janchu, and mending some stockings for him. He was +asleep. Marie and I were sitting in our little salon, rejoicing that we +should be in Bucharest in a few days where there was no war and we could +speak French again. War--blood-tracks on the snow, and cholera and +typhus camps under a burning sun. To shut it out for one instant and +pretend that the world was the way it used to be. What a heaven +Bucharest seemed! + +And suddenly the door of our apartment opened. Six men came into the +room, two in uniform, the other four in plain clothes. It never occurred +to me that they had anything to do with me. I thought they had mistaken +the door. I looked at Marie questioningly. There was something peculiar +about her face. + +The four plain-clothes men stood awkwardly about the door which they had +closed softly behind them. The two men with white cord loops across the +breast of their uniforms went over to the table on the right and put +down their black leather portfolios. They seemed to make themselves at +home, and it angered me. + +"What are these people doing here?" I asked Marie sharply. + +She addressed the officer in Polish, and he answered curtly. + +"It's a _revision_," she replied. + +"A what?" + +"A _revision_," she repeated. + +I remember that I consciously kept my body motionless, and said to +myself, "There is nothing surprising in this. There is nothing +surprising in this." Everything had gone dark before my eyes. My heart +seemed to stop beating. + +Marie laughed and the sound of her cracking, high-pitched laugh came to +me from far off. + +The officer said something to her, and she stopped abruptly as though +some one had clapped a hand over her mouth. + +"What did he say?" I managed to articulate. My own language seemed to +have deserted me. + +"He says it is a matter for tears, not laughter." + +Her voice was sharp and anxious. I was relieved at the spite and vanity +in his words. They made the situation more normal. I felt myself +breathing again, and my stomach began to tremble uncontrollably. + +I kept my eyes where they were, fighting for my self-control. So many +terrifying thoughts were trying to penetrate my consciousness. I tried +to shut out everything but my realization of what I was looking at. I +kept my eyes glued on the officer's boots; shiny black boots they were, +that fitted him without a crease, with spurs fastened to the heels. I +shall never forget the stiff, red striped trouser-legs and those shiny +black boots that didn't seem to belong on the body of a living man, but +on the wooden form of some dummy. + +Janchu began to cry from the bedroom, and Marie got up to go to him. +Quickly a plain-clothes man with horn-rimmed spectacles slipped in +between her and the door. The officer, who had now seated himself behind +the table, raised his hand. + +"Let no one leave the room," he said in German. + +"But my baby is crying," Marie began. + +"Let him cry!" And he busied himself pulling papers out of his +portfolio. + +Soon Janchu, seeing that no one paid any attention to him, toddled in +and climbed into Marie's lap. He sat there sucking his fingers and +looking out at the roomful of strange men. + +An army officer entered and spoke to the head of the secret service. He +wore a dazzling, gold-braided uniform, and preened himself before us, +looking at us curiously over his shoulder. When he had gone, the head +told us that we were to have a personal examination in the salon of the +_pension_. + +A secret-service man escorted each of us, and we walked down the +corridor, past the squad of soldiers with their bayonets, and into the +salon, where we were delivered into the hands of two women spies. They +undressed us, and we waited while our clothes were passed out to the +secret-service men outside. Panna Lolla tried to twist herself up in the +window curtains. Marie and I grew hysterical at her modesty, looking at +her big, knobby feet and her fiery face, with her top-knot of disheveled +red hair. We were given our clothes again, and went back to our +apartment. + +The rooms were in confusion. All our trunks and bags were emptied, one +end of the carpet rolled back, the mattresses torn from the beds. The +secret-service men were down on their knees before piles of clothes, +going over the seams, emptying the pockets, unfolding handkerchiefs, +tapping the heels of shoes; every scrap of paper was passed over to the +chief, who tucked it into his portfolio. I watched him, hating his +square, stolid body that filled out his uniform smoothly. His eyes were +long and watchful like a cat's, and his fair mustache was turned up at +the ends, German fashion; in fact, there was something very German +about his thick thighs and shaved head and official importance. As I +have learned since, he _is_ a German and the most hated man in Kiev for +his pitiless persecution of all political offenders. They say he has +sent more people to Siberia than any six of his predecessors. They also +say every hand is against him, even to the spies' in his own force. + +I trembled to spring at him and claw him and ruffle his composure some +way. Instead, I sat quietly, my hands folded, and watched the spies +ransacking our clothes. I began to feel a sharp anxiety as to what they +would find. It was all so mysterious. What were they looking for? At one +moment it was ridiculous, and I felt like laughing at the whole affair; +and then the next, the silence in which the search was conducted, the +apparent dead-seriousness of the spies' faces, the deliberation with +which the chief turned the bits of paper over in his hands and +scrutinized them and put them carefully away, struck me with a cold, +sharp apprehension. I had the sensation of being on the very edge of a +precipice. I felt as though the world were upside down and the most +innocent thing could be turned against us. Every card and photograph I +tried to catch a glimpse of before it went into the black portfolio. And +suddenly I saw the letter about the Jewish detention camp, which I had +forgotten all about. I saw the close lines of my writing, and it seemed +as though the edge of the precipice crumbled and I went shooting down. A +cold sweat broke out over me. + +"But why are we arrested?" I heard Marie ask in German. + +"Espionage," the chief answered shortly. + +"But that is ridiculous. We're American citizens." + +No reply. + +"Can we leave for Odessa to-night?" + +No reply. + +Marie stopped her questions. + +"What money have you? Come here while I count it," one of the spies said +to me. He slipped me one hundred roubles on the sly, before turning the +rest over to the chief. I held it openly in my hand, too dazed to know +what to do with it, till he whispered to me to hide it. "You may want +it, later," he said. + +"Frau Pierce will go with us," the chief said, closing his portfolio; +and I understood that the _revision_ was finished. "Frau G---- can stay +here under room-arrest, with her little boy." + +He spoke to no one in particular, but addressed the room at large, his +face impassive, and his voice without an intonation. The spies stood in +the midst of the tumbled clothes, watching us silently, ominously. +Janchu now crept up into Marie's lap again. As a matter of course, I +went into the other room and changed into my traveling suit. + +"May I take my toilet things?" I asked the chief. + +"Ja." + +"You'd better make a bundle of bedclothes," the spy who had given me the +money whispered to me. + +I rolled up two blankets and a pillow with his help. + +"I'm ready," I said. "May I send a few telegrams?" + +"Certainly, certainly." The chief's manner suddenly became extremely +courteous. + +I wrote one to our Ambassador in Petrograd, one to Mr. Vopicka in +Bucharest, one to the State Department in Washington, and one to Peter. +I wrote Peter that I was delayed a few days. I was afraid that he might +come on and be arrested, too. My hand did not tremble, though it struck +me as very queer to see the words traced out on the paper--almost +magical. My imagination was racing, and I could see myself already being +driven into one of those baggage cars bound for Tomsk. + +"Keep your mind away from what is going to happen," I said to myself. +"You will have time enough to think in prison. Things are as they are. +You are going to walk out of this room, just the way you've done a +hundred times. Are you different now from what you've always been? Keep +your mind on things you know are real." + +I tried to move accurately, as though a false move would disturb the +balance of things so that I would walk out of the room on my hands like +an acrobat. + +Suddenly, the chief, who had been talking in a corner with the other man +in uniform, wheeled about. + +"Frau Pierce may stay here under room-arrest. Good-day." + +He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. His spies clustered +about him, and they left the room. + +All at once my bones seemed to crumble and my flesh dissolve. I fell +into a chair. Marie and I looked at each other. We began to laugh. "We +mustn't get hysterical," we said, and kept on laughing. + +The room was so dark that we looked like two shadows. Panna Lolla had +come after Janchu and taken him into Count S----'s room. We imagined the +excited curiosity of the rest of the _pension_. + +"I'll wager that woman was a spy, after all." + +"But why--why should _we_ have a _revision_?" + +"Anyway, they couldn't have found much. We'll be set free in a few +days," Marie said. + +"They found my letter about the Jews," I replied. + +"What letter? Oh, my dear, what did you say?" + +"I forget. But everything I saw or heard, I think." + +We began to laugh again. + +"Will they send our telegrams?"--"Will Peter come on?"--"What shall we +do for money?" + +The room was pitch-dark except for the electric light from the street. +We heard the creak and rattle of the empty commissariat wagons returning +from the barracks. We fell silent, feeling suddenly very tired and +lethargic. + +"Where is Janchu? It's time for his supper," Marie said, without moving. + +I started out of the room to call him, and fell across a dark figure +sitting in front of the door. He grunted and pushed me back into the +room. + +"I want Janchu," I said in perfectly good English, while he closed the +door in my face. + +"There's a spy outside our door," I whispered to Marie. + +Panna Lolla came in with Janchu and turned on the light. + +"There's a man outside our door, and two secret-service men at the +_pension_ door and two soldiers downstairs," she whispered excitedly in +one breath. "No one can leave the _pension_, and they take the name and +address of every one who comes here. And that woman _was_ a spy. Antosha +saw the chief go into her room and heard them talking together. And she +left when they did." + +I lay all night, half asleep, half awake, hearing the street noises +clearly through the open windows. I cried a little from exhaustion and +nerves, and then controlled myself, for my head began to ache, and who +knew what would happen the next day? I had to keep strength to meet +something that was coming. I had no idea what it was, but the +uncertainty of the future only made it more ominous and threatening. +That letter--In the darkness I saw the chief's watchful, narrow eyes, +and the horn-rimmed spectacles of the friendly spy, and the stuffed +portfolio. + + + _Later._ + +Nothing has happened yet. We have our meals brought to us by Antosha, +who tries to comfort us with extra large pickled cucumbers and portions +of sour cream. We are allowed to send Panna Lolla downtown for +cigarettes and books from the circulating library. Thank Heaven for +books! With our nerves stretched to the snapping-point and a pinwheel of +thoughts everlastingly spinning round in our heads, I think we should go +mad except for books. It is very hot, but my body is always cool and +damp, because I can't eat much, I suppose, and lie on a _chaise longue_ +motionless all day long. I can feel myself growing weak, and there is +nothing to do but sit and wait. + +Marie and I go over and over the whole thing, and finish at the point +where we began. "But why?" We think it may be because Marie came to +Bulgaria to visit me and brought me back here, and now we want to leave +Russia together. The papers say that Bulgaria already has German +officers over her troops. But I can't believe it. She is too +independent. They say that she will certainly go with the Central +Powers. That, too, is inconceivable. Perhaps, however, if it is true, +and already known by the Russian authorities, the secret service is +suspicious of our going back there, and of Marie's intention of sailing +home from Dedeagatch, via Greece. What else could it be? How this +uncertainty maddens us! Yet we are thankful for every day that passes +and leaves us together. What will happen when they translate my letter? +_Bojé moy!_ I hear a step outside the door, and my heart simply ceases +to beat. + +Pan Tchedesky to-day tiptoed into our room when the spy was having his +lunch. He whispered to us that he had seen the English Consul, Mr. +Douglas, and told him about our case. He begged us not to be +discouraged, and to eat. He said that he almost wept when he saw our +plates come back to the kitchen, untouched. How flabby and livid he +looked, his vague, blurred eyes watery with tears! Yet we could have +embraced him. He is the only person who has spoken to us. + +The sun is golden on the old convent wall across the street. The convent +is empty during the summer. Only the richest Court ladies send their +daughters there to be educated, and the Dowager Empress visits them when +she passes through Kiev. The trees in the garden are gold and green in +the late afternoon sun. A little bell tinkles musically. + +Below in the street some passing soldiers are singing. How fresh and +strong and beautiful their untrained voices are. I wonder if they are +off to the front, for each one carries a pack and a little tea-kettle +swung on his back and a wooden spoon stuck along the side of his leg in +his boot. Where will they be sent? Up north, to try and stem the German +advance? To Riga? Where? The Germans are still advancing. Something is +wrong somewhere. And still soldiers go to the front, singing. They are +thrown into the breach. I can't help but think of the fields of Russian +dead, unburied. Who has a chance to bury the dead on a retreat? There +is nothing "decent" in it. Yet they say the retreat is "orderly." I +wonder what that means? + +At night when I try to sleep, I see the map of Russia as if it was +printed on my eyeballs. It is so big and black with a thin red line of +fire eating into it. America seems millions of miles away. I wish I +could touch you just for a minute. If I could only feel your arms about +me for one moment. The only way is not to think beyond this room and +this minute. + + RUTH. + + + _August._ + +_Dearests:--_ + +Peter is here. Last night, about nine o'clock the door opened and he +rushed into the room. I got to my feet on impulse, and then tried to +brace myself and control my disordered reason, for, of course, I +believed myself delirious. He stopped by the door long enough to throw +down his suitcase, and in that instant I struggled fiercely to +disbelieve my eyes. I was fighting myself. My legs trembled. But when I +fell, his arms were around me, supporting me. + +"Is it you? Is it you?" I don't know whether I said the words out loud +or not, but I remember feeling the muscle in Peter's shoulder and +wondering if I could have gone out of my head as much as _that_. + +"What on earth has happened to you two?" he said at last. + +"Let me sit down," I said, feeling suddenly very sick and faint, and a +black spot in front of my eyes expanded all at once and shut out the +swaying room. + +"Why didn't you come to Bucharest?" he asked again. + +"How white and thin you are. Isn't he, Marie?" I observed, the blackness +gone from my eyes. + +"Please answer me. What is the matter? You both look sick." + +"We are under arrest for espionage," Marie and I suddenly burst out in +chorus, and we both began talking as fast and as loud as we could. + +"That's all right. I'll fix things for you," Peter reassured us when we +stopped at last, out of breath. I suddenly wanted to hide him so they +wouldn't get him as well as ourselves. He was so self-confident. What +did _he_ know of how things happened over here? He was talking and +acting like a rational human being, which was sure proof he was in no +position to cope with the Russian Secret Service. I felt a frantic +desire to get him out of the room and make him promise that on no +account would he admit he knew us. + +"You must go at once," I whispered. "There's a spy at the door. If he +sees you, they'll arrest you, too. Please go, go at once." And I tried +to push him away. + +"You poor things," he said, laughing. "There's no need to be frightened +like this. Of course I won't go. Why should they arrest me?" + +"Why should they have arrested us? Oh, you _don't_ know." My teeth were +chattering. + +"Now, look here," he said seriously. "You've been alone and scared, and +I'm sure you haven't eaten anything for days. Now, don't think about +this any more. I'll get you out in no time. Have you a cigarette, +anybody?" + +I sat back, and my body stopped shaking. Everything seemed very still. I +had the distinct thought, "What is to come, will come," and I drew a +deep breath that seemed to come from my toes. It was enough Peter was +here, after all. + +We talked till three in the morning. Peter had gone to Bucharest to meet +us, and when we didn't arrive, he took the first train to Kiev. I began +to believe in his bodily presence. Before he left to go back to his +hotel, I had regained my conviction he was a match for even the Russian +Secret Service. + +Can you imagine how we feel to-day? We go tottering round the room, +taking things up and putting them down again, in a nervous anxiety to +_do_ something. We chirp the rag-times popular in America two years ago. +We feel as though we were just recovering from a sickness, with a +pleasant bodily weakness like a convalescent's in the springtime. Peter +brought me a bunch of red roses when he came over this morning. I am +writing this while he is seeing Mr. Douglas, the English Consul. + +So much love to you from + + RUTH. + + + _September._ + +_Darlingest ones:--_ + +It has been three weeks since our arrest, and to-day is the first time +we have been allowed to leave the room and go outdoors. We are still +under house-arrest, but we can go out in the garden, while two soldiers +guard the entrance. Isn't it ludicrous? A gendarme came last night and +announced with ponderous importance that we were to be permitted the +liberty of the garden if we gave our word of honor not to try to escape. +We signed two red-sealed documents, and so we can go into the garden +while two soldiers with bayonets look to it that we don't go any +farther. + +Peter had to bully me into leaving my room this afternoon. I didn't want +to get healthy. I had grown so used to the proportions of our rooms I +hated to make the effort to adjust myself to any others. But Peter came +back from his daily round of visits to the English Consul, and the Army +Headquarters, and the office of Kiev's civil governor, and produced from +his coat-pocket a rubber ball. We were to play ball out in the garden, +he said. So, after some persuasion Marie and I went out into the garden +with him. How weak I was. My legs trembled going downstairs, and I was +exhausted when I reached the benches in the garden. + +Janchu, seeing us, ran up joyfully and took his mother by the hand. +"This is my mother," he said in Polish, looking around proudly at the +other children who were playing there. + +Every one looked at us curiously. A head appeared at every window in the +big stone apartment house. I saw the two women spies who had undressed +us. They were evidently employed as servants in some family, for one was +ironing and the other fixing a roast for the oven. They, too, looked out +at us. I felt hot and indignant and, yes, ashamed as though I had been +guilty. I wanted to hide. I felt inadequate to life. People were too +much for me. People--people, the living and the dead. What a weight of +life! I could hardly control my tears. Weakness, I suppose, for the +soles of my feet and my fingertips hurt me as though my nerves were +bared to the touch. + +I looked up over the garden-wall. The tree-tops were yellow. While we +had been locked in our room, the season had changed. Autumn was upon us. +I shivered. There was a lavender mist over the city dimming the radiance +of the gold and silver church domes. How beautiful Kiev was! The +church-bells were so mellow-toned; and the children's shrill laughter +and cries as they played in the garden. But it tired me. Every +impression seemed to bruise me. + +Peter bought some little Polish cakes, and we had hot tea to cheer us +up--three and four glasses of tea. + +Good-night. Sometimes, when I think of you, I don't see all of you, but +instead a particular gesture, or I hear an inflection of voice that is +too familiar to be borne. Now I see mother's hands and they are +beautiful. + + RUTH. + + + _September._ + +_Dearests:--_ + +Every day now we go out into the garden. We play ball and play tag in +the wind to get warm. + +There is a private hospital at one end of our apartment house, supported +by a wealthy Polish woman. Two or three times a week she visits the +patients, young officers who go out into the garden with her and kiss +her hand and talk and flirt. She sits on a garden-bench surrounded by +her young men, a big woman in black, with a long black veil, talking +vivaciously, using her hands in quick, expressive gestures, patting +their cheeks, leaning forward to give their hands an impulsive squeeze. +When she laughs, which is often, the black line of a mustache on her +upper lip makes the white of her teeth whiter still. The days when she +isn't there, the convalescents flirt with the nurses. There is nothing +horrible about this hospital. The patients are only slightly wounded, +and wear becoming bathrobes when they lounge round. + +The window-ledges of the rooms are gay with flowers. Almost always a +phonograph is going, "Carmen," or "Onégin," or "Pagliacci." Sometimes, +Peter and I one-step to the music on the pavement outside, and the +officers and nurses crowd to the windows and clap and cry, "Encore!" +Often, after sundown, when the children have gone indoors, and we go out +for a walk before dinner, we see a patient with a bandage around his +head, perhaps, but both arms well enough to be clasping a pretty nurse +in them. They laugh and we laugh. There is no cynicism about it. It's +bigger than that, it seems to me. + +Into the garden come many street musicians. They play and sing, and +showers of kopecks rain down from the windows. Two little girls came a +few days ago. They were Tziganes, barefooted, with gay petticoats and +flowered shawls and dangling earrings. Their dark hair was short and +curly. One of the children played a _balalaika_ and sang in a broken, +mournful voice that did not at all belong to her age. The other--who +wore the prettiest dress, yellow, with a green and purple shawl--danced +like a little marionette on a string, not an expression in her pointed, +brown face, but every now and then accelerating the pace of her dance, +and giving sharp, high cries. Then, suddenly, they stopped in the middle +of a measure, and held out their aprons for money. A window on the +ground floor opened and a very pretty woman leaned out. I have seen her +many times. She is Polish, the daughter of a concierge, and now the +mistress of a young Cossack, who is leaving shortly for the front. She +has heavy, pale-yellow hair, wound around her head in thick braids, and +she wears pearls, opaque like her skin. She beckoned the little girls +into her room. They went eagerly. Soon I heard them singing there. + +When we were with Dr. ----, from the Red Cross hospital this afternoon, +a soldier came up to us and saluted. He was a miserable-looking +creature, in a uniform too big for him. His face was unshaven, his beard +gray and sparse, and his eyes red and blinking and full of pain. He +slouched away again in a moment, his eyes staring down at the sidewalk +under his feet. + +"What did he want?" I asked. + +"He wants brandy. He's leaving for the front to-morrow, and he asked me +to write out a doctor's prescription so he could get a little brandy. +Poor fellow. It was impossible, of course, but I'd have done it gladly. +He said he'd been wounded and discharged, and had to go back to the +front and leave his family, helpless, again. The second time must be so +much worse than the first. You know what it's like out there." + + RUTH. + + + _September._ + +_Darlingest ones:--_ + +At last I have heard from the letter about the Jewish detention camp. +The English Consul came to our rooms yesterday afternoon and said he was +to act as interpreter for the head of the secret police. I was to be +ready to answer his questions about eight o'clock that night. He told me +to keep my temper and say as little as possible. + +Shortly before eight the Consul and the chief came round together. We +all sat down. I was quite calm. So often I had created my own terror of +this moment that when it came I met it with relief. I even felt a sense +of superiority over the chief of the secret service. I don't know why, +I'm sure. Perhaps because I was no longer afraid of him. It was as +though I had stuck my head under a pump of ice-cold water. I felt very +clear-headed. I had a curious feeling that things were as they were and +nothing I could say could change them. + +"Are you a Jew?" he asked me first. + +"No." + +"Is your mother or father Jewish?" + +"No. There is no Jewish blood in our family." I thought of Dad's +Quakerism and smiled. I wondered what he would have said if he had been +there. + +"Then why have you such sympathy for them?" He looked at me narrowly, as +though he had me _there_. + +"Because they are suffering." + +"Tck." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in the most +skeptical fashion. + +He took up my letter, translated into Russian, and went through it. The +whole thing was a farce. I answered the questions he asked me, but they +didn't get us anywhere. Of course, everything I knew about the Jewish +detention camp I had written in my letter. All I could do was to repeat +what I had said there. And when he asked questions like, "Who said five +old men had been killed along the way?" or, "How did you know throwing +the bodies into the Dnieper had brought cholera into Kiev this summer?" +I could only reply, "I was told it." "Who told you?" "I forget." + +When he got up to go he said:-- + +"This letter makes your case a very serious one. Of course, we can't +have such things as that published about us. Have you ever written +before?" + +I said, "No." + +"You aren't reporting for any journal?" + +I assured him it was only a letter I had written my mother and father. + +"It goes out of my hands to-night. I shall hand it with a report to the +Chief of the General Staff." + +"When shall I hear from them?" + +"They will let you know as soon as possible. It's unfortunate you should +have written it. Otherwise, I could have settled the matter myself. As +it is, it is a matter for the military authorities. Of course, such a +letter written in the war zone, at a time like this--" He stopped +himself. "Good-night. Good-night." He clicked his heels and bowed +himself out of the room. + +"Ouf!" we all said. + +"Mrs. Pierce, promise me you won't put your pen to paper again while you +are in Russia," the English Consul said, smiling. + +"But isn't it ridiculous--absurd--disgusting!" I said. + +"People are sent to Siberia for less," the Consul said. "But don't be +frightened, Mrs. Pierce. It will come out all right." + +"Of course. But when?" + +"_Seichas_," he replied, smiling. + +"_Seichas._" How I hate the expression. "Peter, you'd better cable for +some more money. Heaven knows when we'll get out now," I said. + +Peter sends love too. We are hungry for news from you, and we picture +greedily the piles of letters we shall find waiting for us in Bulgaria. +I try not to be anxious about you--But I wake up at night and this +silence of months is like a dead weight on my heart. + + RUTH. + + + + +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. + + RUTH. + + + _October._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +This afternoon I went up to the English Consulate with Sasha. As we +turned the corner we saw a long gray procession of carts crawling down +the hill toward us. I stopped and watched them pass me, one after the +other, crowded over to the side of the road by the usual traffic of a +busy street. Peasants walked by the horses' heads, men in dusty +sheepskin coats, or women muffled up somehow, their hands hidden in the +bosoms of their waists for warmth. They stared ahead with a curious, +blind look in their eyes, as though they did not realize the noise and +movement of the city life about them. How strange it was, the passing of +this silent peasant procession by the side of the clanging trains and +gray war automobiles! + +"Who are these people?" I asked Sasha. + +"They must be the fugitives," she replied. "Every day they come in +increasing numbers. I have heard the Kiev authorities are trying to turn +them aside and make them go round the outskirts; for what can a city do +with whole provinces of homeless and hungry peasants?" + +"You mean they are the refugees who have been driven out of their homes +by the enemy?" I asked. + +"Yes. By the Germans and Austrians." + +The carts jolted slowly down the hill, the brakes grinding against the +wheels, the little rough-coated horses holding back in the shafts. +Sometimes, where there should have been two horses, there was only one. +The others evidently had been sold or else died on the way. Only one +small horse to drag a heavy double cart crowded with people and +furnishings. One little horse looked about to drop. His sides were +heaving painfully and his eyes were glazed. "Why don't they stop and +rest," I thought. "Why does that man keep on? His horse will die, and +then what will he do?" + +"What do they do when their horses give out?" I asked Sasha. + +"What can they do?" she replied. "What did they do when they were forced +to leave their farms and lands? They bear it. The Russian people have a +great capacity for suffering. Think of it--what this means +now--hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people made homeless and sent +wandering over the face of the earth. Think of the separations--the +families broken up--the bewilderment. A month ago, perhaps, they had +their houses and lands and food to eat. They were muzhiks. And now they +are wandering, homeless, like Tziganes. Ah, the Russian people were born +into a heritage of suffering, and to us all the future is hidden." + +I kept my eyes on the endless procession. Some of the carts were open +farm wagons, piled with hay, and hung with strange assortments of +household utensils. Frying-pans and kettles were strung along the sides, +enameled ones, sometimes, that showed a former prosperity. Inside were +piles of mattresses and chairs; perhaps a black stovepipe stuck out +through the slatted sides of the cart. The women and children huddled +together in the midst of their household goods, wrapped up in the extra +petticoats and waists and shawls they had brought along--anything for +warmth. The children were pale and pinched, and some of them had their +eyes closed as though they were sick. If they looked at you, it was +without any curiosity or eagerness. How pitiful the indifference of the +children was! + +Sometimes the carts were covered with faded cloth stretched over rounded +frameworks like gypsy-wagons. There, the old _babas_ sat on the front +seats, eyes like black shoe-buttons, with their lives almost finished. +They seemed the least affected by the misery and change. They occupied +the most comfortable places, and held the bright-colored ikons in their +arms--the most precious possession of a Russian home. Perhaps a dog was +tied under the wagon, or a young colt trotted along by its mother's +side. + +It was as though there had been a great fire, and every one had caught +up what he could to save from destruction: homes broken into little bits +to be put together again in a strange land. + +An open cart broke down in front of us. The woman got out to help her +husband. She had a round, pock-marked face, as expressionless as wood. +She wore a bright shawl over her hair, and a long sheepskin coat, with +the sleeves and pockets beautifully embroidered in colors. It was dirty, +now, but indicated she had been well-to-do once. She limped badly. + +"Good-evening," I said. + +"Good-evening, excellency," she replied civilly. + +"Are you hurt?" I asked. + +"My feet are blistered from the walking," she replied. "I take turns +with my husband." + +"Where are you from?" + +"Rovno." + +"How long have you been on the way?" + +"Many weeks. Who knows how long?" + +"And where are you going?" + +"Where the others go. Somewhere into the interior." + +The procession had not halted, but, turning out for the broken-down +cart, continued uninterruptedly down the hill. Every now and then the +peasant looked up anxiously. + +"We must hurry. We mustn't be left behind," he muttered. + +"What do you eat?" I asked the woman. + +"What we can find. Sometimes we get food at the relief stations, or we +get it along the way." + +"Do the villages you pass through help you?" I persisted. + +"They do what they can. But there are so many of us." + +"Can't you find cabbages and potatoes in the fields?" I asked. + +The woman looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and did not reply. + +"Why do you want to know these things?" she asked, after a silence. +"What business is it of yours?" + +"I want to help you." + +"Help us." She shook her head. "But I'll tell you," she said. "I did +take some potatoes once. It was before the cold weather. I dug them out +of a field we passed through after dark. No one saw me. My children were +crying with hunger and I had nothing to give them. So I dug up a handful +of potatoes in the dark. But God saw me and punished me. I cooked the +potatoes over a fire by the roadside, but He kept the heat from reaching +the inside of the potatoes. Two of my children sickened and died from +eating them. It was God's punishment. We buried them along the road. My +husband made the crosses out of wood and carved their names on them. +They lie way behind us now--unsung. But perhaps those who pass along the +road and see the crosses will offer up a prayer." + +"I will burn candles for them," I said. "What were their names?" + +"Sonia and Peter Kolpakova, your excellency. You are good. God bless +you!" And she kissed my hands. + +I looked at the three children who were left. They sat in the cart +silently, surrounded by the incongruous collection of pots and pans, and +leaning against a painted chest. The chest was covered with dust, but +you could still see a bunch of bright-painted flowers behind the +children's heads. + +"Poor little things," I said. "Are they cold?" + +"It's hard on the children," the mother replied stolidly. "They can't +stand it as we can. We are used to trouble. We know what life is. But +the children--they are sick most of the time. They have no strength +left. What can we do for them? We have no medicines. Have you any +medicines?" she asked, with a sudden, hopeful glint in her dull, +wide-set eyes. "No?" Her face regained its impassivity. + +Her husband straightened himself, grunting. He had finished tying the +broken wheel together with rope. + +"Come, we must be moving. Hurry, or we'll be left behind," he said, +going to the little horse's head. + +The woman climbed back into the cart and took the youngest child in her +arms. A feeble wail came from the dull-colored bundle. Her husband +turned the horse into the procession again. + +Still the carts were coming over the hill, gray and dusty, with the +peasants and their wives walking beside the horses' heads. What a river +of suffering! What a smell came from it! And automobiles and tramways +rushed by. + +Is this the twentieth century? + + + _October._ + +I delayed mailing my last letter, so I shall tell you about another +glimpse I've had of the refugees. Yesterday, as we sat drinking tea, we +heard the rumble and creak of heavy wagons outside the _pension_. The +noise reached us distinctly in spite of the windows being hermetically +sealed with putty for the winter. At first we thought it was the regular +train of carts that climb Institutska Oulitza every evening at six +o'clock carrying provisions to the barracks. But the rumble and creak +persisted so long that I went to the window at last to see why there +were so many more carts than usual. + +There was a procession of carts, but instead of going up the hill in the +direction of the barracks, it was descending the hill, and instead of +soldiers in clumsy uniforms, peasants in bell-shaped sheepskin coats +walked by their horses' heads, snapping the long lash whips they carried +in their hands. I recognized the covered gypsy wagons and the open carts +with their bulky loads. It was too dark to see distinctly, but I knew +they were refugees by the strings of kettles along the sides of the +carts, which caught the electric light in coppery flashes. And in the +open wagons I could see the pale disks of faces. As I watched, the +procession came to a stand-still and the drivers collected in little +groups under the white globes of the street lamps. I went outdoors and +crossed the street to them. + +I approached a group of three men. + +"Good-evening," I said. + +"Good-evening, Panna," they replied. + +"Have you come far?" + +"Far? I should say we've been two months on the road," replied the +best-dressed man of the three. He had fur cuffs and collar on his long +sheepskin coat, and his boots were strong and well made. + +"Can you tell me where we can get some tobacco?" he asked. + +I directed him down the street a little way. He took a piece of silver +from a leather purse he wore round his neck, and gave it to one of his +companions, who left on the errand. The other man went round to the tail +of the cart and took down two bags of grain for the horses' supper. + +"Good horses you have there," I said, to say something. + +"Yes, indeed; the best horses a man ever had; less good ones would have +died on the road long ago. I bought them for fifty roubles apiece, and I +wouldn't take two hundred and fifty for them to-day. But, then, they're +all I have left of back there." He spoke in a quiet voice, scratching +his stubby, unshaven face, absent-mindedly. + +"Is he traveling with you?" I asked, pointing to the man who was +slinging the grain-bags round the horses' necks. + +"Yes. I picked him up along the road. His horse had died under him and +he counted himself no longer a human being. What was he, indeed, with +nothing he could call his own in the world any more? I let him come +along with me. I had extra room. So I let him come along with me." His +voice had no expression in it. + +"But haven't you a family?" I asked. + +"I have three children," he replied. + +"It must be hard to take care of children at such a time as this." + +"God knows it is," he replied. There was a sudden desperate note in his +voice. "It's a woman's business. But my wife died on the way. A month +and a half ago--soon after we started. It seems soon, now, but we'd been +long enough on the road to kill her with the jolting and misery of it." + +"Was she sick?" + +"She died in childbirth. There was no one to take care of her, and +nothing for her to eat. I made a fire, and she lay on the ground. All +night she moaned. She died toward morning. The baby only lived a few +hours. It was better it should die. What was ahead of it but suffering? +It was a boy, and my wife and I had always wanted a boy. But I wouldn't +have minded so much if the little wife had lived. It's hard without +her." + +The man returned with the tobacco and the three peasants lighted +cigarettes. All was quiet. I heard nothing but the champing of the +horses as they munched the grain and the whistling of the wind through +the poplars in the convent garden. + +"Kiev is a big city--a holy city, I've heard. Many from our town have +made a pilgrimage here," the rich peasant observed. + +For the moment I'd forgotten where I was. Now I heard the city noises; +the footsteps grinding on pavements; the whistle and grinding of trains. +And the lights from the city reddened the mists that rose from the +Dnieper. + +The carts in front began to move on. + +"Where are we going?"--"What are the orders?"--"Is there a relief +station here?" every one cried at once. + +"Good-bye. A good journey," I cried. + +"Thank you. Good-bye." + +The men stepped out into the road again. I watched cart after cart pass +me. The women looked straight out between the horses' ears, and showed +no curiosity or wonderment at being in a big city for the first time in +their lives. Strange sights and faces had no significance for them any +more. + +I ducked under a horse's nose and went indoors again. + +There is something shameful in our security. We have shelter and bread. +We can only feel life indirectly, after all. We are always muffled up by +things. And America. A pathologic fear clutches me, for how will it all +end? + +My love to you every minute. + + RUTH. + + + _October._ + +_Dearests:--_ + +There seems no beginning or end to my stay here. How strange it is to +look back to July and remember the long, hot days and the languorous +nights when, in spite of the war, people walked in the gardens and +listened to the music and drank punch out of tea-cups, pretending it was +tea. The still, starlit nights of July. + +I remember a dinner Princess P---- gave at Koupietsky Park a few nights +after my arrival in Russia. Everything was so new to me. Our table was +set out on the terrace, overlooking the Dnieper, with the music and stir +of people in the distance. An irresponsible joy filled my heart as I +looked down at the black, winding river with its shadowy banks and the +fantastic shimmer of lights on the water. The city lights crowded down +to the very water's edge; then the drifting red and green lights of +steamers and ferry-boats moving on the black, magic stream, and beyond, +the flat plain, silent and mysterious, with, over the horizon rim, the +thunder and clang of war. But war was far away those first days I was in +Russia. I hardly thought of it. + +The dome and square walls of a monastery were momentarily whitened by a +wheeling searchlight, and high up against the dusky, starlit sky was +printed a shining gold cross. Women's dresses glimmered in the darkness +like gray, widespread wings of moths, and laughter came from the curve +of the terrace overlooking the monastery garden. + +"My child, there are tears in your eyes; how pretty!" the Princess +cried, taking my hand in hers and stroking it with her small, cold +fingers. + +There were other Americans present beside myself, and I knew the +Princess loved one of them. It was to make him jealous, I knew, that she +held my hand in hers throughout dinner. She, herself, hardly ate +anything, only smoked one cigarette after another. There were all sorts +of _zakouski_, stuffed tomatoes and cucumbers and queer little fishes in +oil, and pickled sturgeon and mushrooms, and salads and caviar, and +there was _kvass_ to drink,--deep red,--and a champagne cup served in a +teapot, and cigarettes all through the meal. + +The Princess was middle-aged and wanted to appear youthful; so she dyed +her hair blue-black which was harsh for her pointed face, and wore +costly, too elaborate clothes from Paris. But her body showed delicately +round under the laces and chiffons, and she was quick and light in her +gestures like a bird. Her husband, who had been twice her age, had died, +leaving her large estates and much money. Now she moved about Russia +with a maid and a wee little dog and numberless trunks, frivolously +seeking her pleasure. Her eyes were black and glittering, and her mouth +red and thin and flexible. She had caressing, spoiled ways with every +one from the American whom she called "Meester" to her chow dog, and all +she asked from any one was amusement. + +"I like Americans," she said with shameless flattery. "So much I like +them. The women--_and_ the men. I shall go to New York after the war, +and you will show me your famous cabarets, and--what do you call it?" +She appealed to "Meester." + +"Broadway--good old Broadway," he replied indulgently. + +"Ah, yes. B-r-r-oadway. And I will dance all night. I dance +magnificently. Is it not so, Meester? Yes, I will go to New York and +become just like an American." + +After dinner we went to a wrestling-match, and "Meester" took the +Princess, radiant and vivacious and paying all the bills, back to the +Continental. + +Since July war has come nearer Kiev. The hospitals are full of maimed +and wounded soldiers who fought to defend Russia. They made a bulwark of +their breasts. It was as though one single giant breast, hundreds of +versts broad, thrust itself between the Germans and home. + +And it is winter now. The days are short with an icy, gray mist from the +Dnieper, and flurries of snow. There is a shortage of coal, and we sit +shivering in our apartment. We drag the covers off the beds and wrap +ourselves up in them while we read books from the circulating library or +play three-handed bridge. The wind rattles the windows and streaks the +panes with snow and rain. But however dirty they get, they must remain +unwashed till spring; for they are sealed for the winter with putty, and +you can open only one small pane at the top. The apartment is darker +than ever. Not once does the sun shine into our rooms. We see the +sunlight in the street, but the dark shadow of the building lengthens +minute by minute, stretching itself across the street and reaching up +over the convent wall like the smothering black hand of a giant, till +only the tips of the cypresses and poplars in the gardens are red in the +late sunlight. + +At tea-time we go to "François's" or to some other little sweet-shop, in +order to get warm. There, we drink glass after glass of weak tea and eat +little Polish cakes, and look over the English and French periodicals. + +It is dark when we go out into the street again, and the air is frosty. +The officers wear short gray coats, braided and lined with fur, and fur +caps. The women are muffled in seal and sable, which make the skin look +clear and white and their eyes brilliant. Even the peasants wear +sheepskin coats, bell-shaped and richly embroidered. Marie has winter +clothes, but the warmest thing I possess is my traveling suit I wore +here in June, which has been getting thinner and thinner ever since. My +feet, in low summer pumps, are swollen and burning with chilblains. I +must get some high shoes when our next money comes. You see, that is the +trouble. We are promised our passports from day to day, and, expecting +to go at any time, we try to get along with what money we have, and wait +to buy clothes till we get back to Bucharest. But our passports are not +given us and our money gets low. We are waiting for money now, and, of +course, a cold snap has set in just when we can't possibly buy anything. +Peter's summer suit hangs on him in folds. The heaviest iron couldn't +crease it into even temporary shape. When we went to the cinematograph +last night he wore Marie's black fur coat to keep from freezing. + +"Look at that man," we heard a woman say in the street. "He's wearing a +woman's coat!" + +Yes, we go from café to cinematograph and try and keep warm. + +I've never liked moving pictures before. Here they are presented +differently than in America. Some of the plays I've seen have the +naïveté and simplicity of a confession. Others interpret abnormal, +psychopathic characters whose feelings and thoughts are expressed by the +actors with a fine and vivid realism. There is the exultation of life, +and the despair, the aggression and apathy, the frivolity and the +revolt. The action is taken slowly. There are no stars. You look at the +screen as though you were looking at life itself. And the films don't +always have happy endings, because life isn't always kind. It often +seems senseless and cruel and crushes men's spirits. I wish we could +have these films in America instead of the jig-saw puzzles I've seen. + + + _October._ + +There is a gypsy who sells fruit at the corner of Institutska Oulitza, a +woman so enormous that she resembles a towering mountain, and her +customers look, beside her, like tiny Russian toys. Every one looks at +her curiously, and I have seen several gentlemen in fur pelisses, with +gold-headed canes, stop and speak to her. In the morning she wheels up +her cart by the curbing and polishes the pears and apples with the end +of her shawl till they shine. Then she piles them up in red and yellow +pyramids and waits for customers, her hands on her hips. Everything +about her is crude and flaming and inextinguishable like life itself. +Her scarlet skirt lights up the whole street. It floats about her, and +when she bends over to serve a customer, you can see the edges of green +and yellow and pink and brown petticoats underneath as her overskirt +tilts up. The lines of her body are brutal and compact. Her dark, +mulberry-colored shawl is stretched tightly across her full bosom. Her +eyebrows meet over her nose in a heavy, broad line like a smudge of +charcoal, and her nose is spongy, and her lips swollen and red from +taking snuff. She holds her black and silver snuff-box in her hand or +hides it away in a pocket in her voluminous skirt when she serves some +one. Her fingers are covered with rings and she wears yellow hoops in +her ears. I am repulsed as well as attracted. She is like a bold, +upright stroke of life, and then I see her crafty eyes and notice how, +in spite of her size, when she moves it is with the softness and +flexibility of a huge cat. + +Peter went to Petrograd to-day and he will stay there till he gets our +passports. He would have gone a month ago, but first came the panic +from the German advance, and then the railways were used only for +military purposes. Now, Marie and I are alone, waiting for a telegram +from him. + + + + +V + + + _October._ + +To-day, the chief of the secret service came and told us all political +prisoners were to be sent on to Siberia. He told us to make a small +bundle of necessary things and be ready to leave at any time. With Peter +in Petrograd! I asked him where we were going and he shrugged his +shoulders. I went to Mr. Douglas, who has wired Peter. Also, he is going +to see the chief and try and keep in touch with us. We won't leave till +the last moment. But already many of the hospitals have been moved, and +certain prisoners. I suppose I must destroy these letters to you. But I +will wait till the last moment. I want so much for you to get them and +know what has happened, because I shan't see you, to tell you with my +voice, for over a year still. I have written so fully for that reason. + + + _A few days later._ + +We are still here, and there is more hope in the situation. There is a +persistent report in the papers, and it is repeated in the streets and +houses, that the Germans have been stopped by Riga and Dvinsk. Large +bodies of troops are moved through Kiev, day and night, for the front. +Regular train service is suspended by this movement of troops. + +Huge vans pass through the city, carrying aeroplanes to the aviation +field outside the barracks. Once we saw a wrecked one being sent to be +repaired. A troop of small boys followed it, looking curiously at the +broad, broken wings and the tangle of steel framework. + +Guns are arriving, too. We see them being carted through the streets. +And early this morning we heard cannon. Our first thought was of the +Germans, and we lay in bed, stiff with fright. Later, we heard they were +the new cannon being tried out before being sent to the front. They say +that fresh ammunition has been received from Japan and America. All +trains are held up to let these trainloads of guns and cannon and +ammunition go tearing over the rails to the front to save Russia. And +just in time. I see the open cars packed and covered and guarded by +soldiers. I lie in bed and hear the whistle and shriek of the trains in +the night, and I imagine row upon row of long iron-throated cannon +staring up at the stars. + +The Czar has arrived in Kiev for a conference at Headquarters. He came +during the night, and no one knows when he will leave. There was no +demonstration, and the police break up any groups of more than three +persons in the streets. + +A dozen or so Japanese officers passed through Kiev, too. They were +bound for the front, escorting their guns and ammunition. How curious +they looked beside the big, naïve Russians. They were like porcelain +figurines with impenetrable, yellow faces, mask-like, and tiny hands and +feet. What a finished product they appear, and yet they go to the front +and observe the latest methods of warfare and multiply their merchant +marine while the rest of the world is spending itself. + + + _October._ + +I went to a military hospital to-day. It was up on a hill, a huge place, +formerly a school, I think, with a broad piazza where the convalescents +walked in their gray bathrobes. Inside were rows and rows of cots, and +on every cot a wounded man. It appeared that a fresh batch had arrived +from the front, and the doctors were just finishing with them. There was +a foul smell of blood and sweat and anæsthetics, and the light came +dismally through the dirty window-panes, showing dimly the rows and rows +of pale, weary faces on the thin pillows. Sometimes the gray blankets +came up to the chin, and the man looked dead already, he was so +dreadfully still, with his closed eyes and waxlike face. Another moaned +continuously, moving his head from side to side--"Oh, oh--Oh, oh." His +eyes were open, and hard and bright with fever. Several had their heads +wound with strips of bandages. You would hardly have known they were +human. Two or three were blind, with the bandage only round their eyes, +and it was strange to see the expression their hands took on--workmen's +hands with stubby fingers, now white and helpless-looking, and picking +at the cover aimlessly. + +A nurse told me how an officer who had been blinded and was about to be +discharged and sent home, had committed suicide the other day. In some +way one of his men, who had been wounded in the arm, had been able to +smuggle in a revolver to him. The officer killed himself in the middle +of the night. + +"I don't suppose he knew whether it was day or night, and took a chance +that no one was looking," I said. + +"I think he knew it was night," she replied. "He could tell by the +others' breathing. I was night nurse. He was dead before I reached him. +The soldier gave himself up of his own accord. He will be +court-martialed, of course, though every one knows he did the best +thing. He said to us, 'He was my captain. He ordered me to get the +revolver, and I only obeyed orders. I would do it again.' We had a hard +time the rest of the night to quiet the men." + +In a small room to one side were six men gone mad. They were quite +harmless and lay quietly in bed. Besides having their reason smashed to +bits by the horrors at the front, they were badly wounded. I was ashamed +to stand there looking at them. What was I? Suddenly, one of them, a +young boy surely not more than twenty-one or twenty-two, caught sight of +us, and he fixed his eyes upon us in a curious, concentrated way as if +to assure himself we were real. And then, all at once, abject terror +leapt into his eyes. His mouth opened and the cords of his neck stood +out. He threw both arms before his face as if to ward off somebody or +something. He began to scream out quick, unintelligible words in a +high-pitched, staccato voice. I looked fearfully at the others to see if +his terror would be communicated to them. But they were apparently +oblivious of each other, wrapped up in their separate lives and +experiences. One middle-aged man, with a rough, reddish beard, was +smiling mildly and smoothing the sheet as though it had been somebody's +hair. We left the room, leaving the nurse to calm the screaming man. I +thought of the terrors and fears and memories in that room: the snatches +of memories pieced together that made up the actual lives, now, of those +broken men in there. + +"Are they--do they suffer?" I asked the doctor. + +"No. They don't seem to realize that they are wounded and suffer the way +normal people would with their wounds. The only thing is, they all have +moments of terror, when it's all we can do to quiet them. They think the +wall of the room is the enemy moving down on them. I guess they went +through hell all right, there at the front!" + +"Will they get better?" + +"We can't tell. We have a specialist studying just such cases. These men +seem pretty well smashed, to me." + +In one corner lay a young man propped up with pillows. A nurse was +holding his hand. His eyes were looking at her so trustfully. He hardly +seemed to be breathing and his face was bloodless--even his lips were +dead white. And as I looked, he gave a little sigh, and his eyes closed +and his body sagged among the pillows. The nurse bent over him and then +straightened herself. Quickly she arranged a screen round the bed. When +she walked away, I could see she was crying uncontrollably. + +"Is he--?" + +"Yes. He's dead," the doctor replied. "He's been dying for a week. He +was terribly wounded in the stomach, and there was nothing we could do +for him. It was a repulsive case to care for, but Sister Mary had full +charge of it. She sat with him for hours at a time. In the beginning, to +encourage him, she bought a pair of boots he was to wear when he got +well. For days, now, he's been out of his head and fancied she was his +mother." + +And life presses as close to death as that--while I was looking at him, +he had died. I just managed to reach the door before I fainted. + + + _October._ + +The Governor of Kiev has been removed. He was too cautious. It was a bad +example! + + + + +VI + + + _October._ + +_Darling ones:--_ + +There is the most careful avoidance of any official responsibility here +in trying to find out where our passports are, and who is to return +them. We have already unraveled yards of red tape, and still there is no +end. Of course, ever since Peter came he has followed a schedule of +visits--one day to the English Consul; another day to the secret police, +then to the Military Governor, the Civil Governor, the Chief of Staff, +and back, in desperation, to the English Consul. There is an American +Vice-Consul here, but he is wholly ineffectual, since he has not yet +been officially received. His principal duty consists in distributing +relief to the Polish refugees. Mr. Douglas, the English Consul, is our +one hope, and he is untiring in his efforts to help us. If we ever get +out, it will be due to him. The English Government is behind its +representatives here in a way that the American State Department is not. +Partly, I suppose, this is because America has no treaty with Russia, +on account of the Jew clause. At any rate, you might just as well be a +Fiji Islander as an American, for all the consideration you get from +officialdom. + +Did I write you about the naturalized American Jew in the detention +camp? He had come back to Galicia in the summer of 1914 to see his +sister married. After the outbreak of the war, he was refused permission +to leave the country, and when the wholesale clean-up started, he was +deported with the others. The day I visited the detention camp he had +just arrived, and, knowing we were Americans, he tried to secure our +aid. He had managed to keep his American passport, and brought it out to +us to prove his naturalization and to strengthen his demand to be set +free as an American citizen. The overseer, hearing his excited voice and +seeing us examine a large sheet of paper, came up. He looked like a +butcher, in his dirty-white linen coat, his legs planted apart, his +hands fingering his short whip. The way in which he joined our group and +made himself one with us, without so much as by your leave, was +disturbing. The cool self-assurance of even a petty Russian official is +sinister. They are straw men to your reason, but hard facts if you bump +up against them. Our curiosity flagged, conscious as we were all the +time of his unblinking ferret-eyes on us, and we showed a certain +alacrity to return the passport to its rightful owner. When we were +handing it back to the Jew, the overseer thrust out his hand and said, +"Let me see it." + +There was nothing for the Jew to do but hand it over. The overseer could +not read a word of English, of course, but from the big red American +seal he could recognize it as an official document. + +Suddenly, he tore it in halves, and as the Jew tried to grab it out of +his hands, he cuffed the Jew down, and continued deliberately to tear it +into tiny bits. + +"I am an American and that is my passport," the Jew cried. + +"That's what I think of an American passport," the overseer replied, +looking us over with incredible impudence as he walked away. + +The rest of Russian officialdom must regard American rights in much the +same way, since it is four months now that we have been detained. + +I went to the headquarters of the secret police the other day with Mr. +Douglas. It is located in the opposite end of the town, down a quiet +side street--an unobtrusive, one-storied brown house that gives the +impression of trying to hide itself from people's notice. It is reached +by a narrow, stone-flagged path, crowded in between two houses which +block its view from the street. There are four windows in a row on the +front façade, all with the curtains drawn. These four blind windows add +to the secretive appearance. Over the front steps the yellowing leaves +of a lime tree rustled in the wind and detached themselves one by one. + +We rang the bell. While we waited, I was conscious of being watched, +and, glancing up quickly, I saw the curtain at one of the windows fall +back into place. The door opened a crack, and a white face with a long, +thin nose, and horn-rimmed spectacles with smoky glass to hide the eyes, +peered out at us furtively. Mr. Douglas handed the spy his card and the +door was shut softly in our faces. + +In about three minutes the door was opened again, and a gendarme in +uniform ushered us into a long room thick with stale tobacco-smoke. He +gave me a chair, and while we waited I looked about at the walls with +the brightly colored portraits of the Czar and the Czarina and the royal +family, and the ikon in one corner. "Give up all hope all ye who enter +here." + +The room was silent except for the scratch of pens on paper. The +secret-service spies sat at long tables, writing laboriously, and +smoking. They all wore civilian clothes, and I recognized most of them. +I had passed them on the street or sat beside them in restaurants, and +three had come with the chief to arrest us. I wondered what they were +writing. Some one was being betrayed or ruined. That was how they lived. +I looked for the mark of their calling on them, but at first they +appeared an ordinary crowd, pale, with a thick, unhealthy pallor, as +though from an indoor life. Their suits were poor enough,--worn +threadbare,--and their fingernails were dirty. Furtively they glanced up +at me and examined me curiously, and then gave quick, frightened looks +on either side to see if their comrades had observed their interest in +me. What a mediocre, shabby crowd, with their low foreheads and +dead-white skin and dirty linen, and, yes, the stamp on them that made +them infamous! It was as though their profession affected them the way +that living in a close, dark room would, stupefying and making them +bestial. + +And then the chief came in, accompanied by two spies with black +portfolios under their arms. When he saw us, he grew white with anger. +He looked like a German, spurred and booted, with square head and jaw +and steel-like eyes and compressed, cruel lips. He was the only +well-dressed one in the crowd, but his livery was the same as theirs. He +was their superior, that was all, and how I loathed him! + +"He's angry because we were brought in here," Douglas whispered under +his breath. + +The chief turned his back on us. + +The spies scribbled away furiously, their noses close to their paper, +not daring to look up. + +We were taken into another room, a small back room, bare except for a +table and sofa and a tawdry ikon in the farthest corner. And there we +waited fully fifteen minutes in absolute silence. How silent that house +was, full of invisible horrors! The headquarters of the secret +police--why shouldn't it be terrifying when you think of the men and +women who have been brought here in secret, and their existence suddenly +snapped off: secret arrest, secret trial, or no trial at all, and then a +secret sending-off up north, out of the reach of the world! What strange +abortions of life this Government brings forth! Is it curious that +thinking men and women, who have lived apparently well-regulated lives, +suddenly throw bombs at a minister in a railway station, or at an +official as he drives to the palace in dress uniform, with jeweled +decorations on his breast? I ran my hand over the faded sofa-covering, +wondering who had sat there before me. + +Suddenly the chief came into the room, closing the door carefully behind +him. He was quite calm again. + +"What do you want?" He looked at Douglas. + +Douglas explained how anxious we were to get out of Russia, how we had +insufficient money for cold weather, how my husband's business called +for his immediate presence, and so forth, all of which we had gone over +at least three times a week since my arrest, and all of which was a +matter of complete indifference to the secret police. They had failed to +find any proof of espionage, which was their charge against us, and my +letter, their only evidence, had been passed on and was snarled up +somewhere in official red-tape. Now they washed their hands of me. + +"We can do nothing. It is out of our hands." He was extremely courteous, +speaking German for my benefit. "It is unfortunate that Frau Pierce +should have written the letter. I was obliged to send it on to the +General Staff. You should have a reply soon." + +There was nothing more to be said. Douglas was conciliatory, almost +ingratiating. My nerves gave way. + +"A reply soon!" I burst out. "I'm sick of waiting. If we have the +liberty of the city, surely there can't be anything very serious against +us. It's an outrage keeping our passports. I'm an American and I demand +them." I was almost crying. + +"You must demand them through your Ambassador, meine Frau." + +I knew that he knew we had been telegraphing him since our arrest and my +impotence made me speechless with rage. Douglas took advantage of my +condition to beat a hasty retreat. + +As we were going through the doorway, the chief said carelessly, "By +the way, how did you happen to find this house?" + +"I have been here before," Douglas replied. + +"Thank you. I was only curious." + +I could feel the spies' eyes on my back as we went down the path. + +"Mrs. Pierce--Mrs. Pierce, you must not lose your temper that way." + +"I don't care!" I cried. "I had no way to express what I felt." + +"I know," Douglas agreed thoughtfully. + +We hailed a droshky and got in. + +"I have a friend--a Pole," said Douglas. "For no reason except that he +was a Pole, they made a _revision_ at his house, and among other things +took away every calling card they found. They made a _revision_ then on +each one of those people whose names they found. Though they found +nothing incriminating in his possession, they make him report every day +at the police headquarters. A year ago he was a giant in strength. Now +he is a sick man. The uselessness of it. Nothing was found against him, +and yet he is followed and watched. What are they driving at? They are +wearing him to the bone with their persecution." He shrugged his +shoulders and laughed suddenly. "Come, Mrs. Pierce, you can do nothing +against them. But let me tell you what I will give you. It is a German +helmet that a friend of mine brought from the Riga front. You can put it +in your room and blow beans at it!" + + + _October._ + +"Passports--passports, who's got the passports?" It's like a game--or +_la recherche de l'absolu_. And it isn't as though you could hop into a +cab and make the round of visits on the General Staff, Civil Governor, +and the rest, all in one day, or even all in a week. Nothing so +efficient and simple as that. What is an official without an anteroom? +As well imagine a soldier without a uniform. And the importance of the +official is instantly seen by the crowd waiting on him. Soldiers and +Jews and patient, unobtrusive women in black wait at police +headquarters; generals and ladies of quality crowd the anteroom of the +General Staff. For days the faces vary only slightly when you enter and +take your accustomed place. Patient, dull faces that light with +momentary expectation on the opening of a door, and relapse into +depression and tragic immobility when the aide walks through the +anteroom without admitting any one to the inner office. + +I gained admittance to the Military Governor the other day. He is the +successor of that over-cautious governor who moved all his household +goods during the German advance, and was then relieved of office. His +palace, set back from the street behind a tall iron fence, is guarded by +soldiers with bayonets, and secret-service men. I laughed, recognizing +my old friends the spies. + +Upstairs, the Governor was just saying good-bye to Bobrinsky, former +Governor of Galicia, and we stood to one side as they came out of an +inner office, bowing and making compliments to each other. Gold braid +and decorations! These days the military have their innings, to be sure! +I wonder how many stupid years of barrack-life go to make up one of +these men? Or perhaps so much gold braid is paid for in other ways. + +The Governor was an old man, carefully preserved. His uniform was +padded, but his legs, thin and insecure, gave him away, and his standing +collar, though it came up to his ears, failed to hide his scrawny neck +where the flesh was caving in. He wore his gray beard trimmed to a +point, and inside his beaklike nose was a quantity of grayish-yellow +hair which made a very disagreeable impression on me. All the time I was +speaking he examined his nails. When he raised his eyes finally, to +reply, I noticed how lifeless and indifferent they were, and glazed by +age. I could see the bones of his face move under the skin as he talked, +especially two little round bones, like balls, close to his ears. + +"I have nothing to do with the case. It has been referred to the General +Staff, I believe. You will have to wait for the course of events." + +He turned his back, went over to the window, and began to play with a +curtain-tassel. An aide bowed me to the door. + +Outside, the anteroom was crowded with supplicants. It was his reception +hour. The murmur of whispered conversations stopped when we appeared. +Every one rose, pressing forward to reach the aide. Some held out soiled +bits of paper; others talked in loud, explanatory voices, as though +hoping by sheer noise to pierce the crust of official attention. But the +aide took no more notice than if they had been crowding sheep. He +pushed through them and escorted me to the head of the staircase. Down I +went, boiling with rage. + + +_Dearest Mother and Dad:--_ + +I am just back from the General Staff, where the mysterious rotation of +the official wheel landed me unexpectedly into the very sanctum +sanctorum of the Chief of the Staff, and to see him I had to wait only +five hours with Mr. Douglas in the anteroom! Mr. Douglas has just left +me to go to his club, exhausted, ready to devour pounds of Moscow +sausages, so he said. + +The anteroom of the General Staff was as Russian as Russian can be. I +suppose I shall never forget the dingy room, with its brown painted +walls and the benches and chairs ranged along the four sides of the +room, and the orderlies bringing in glasses of tea, and the waiting +people who were not ashamed to be unhappy. In the beginning Mr. Douglas +and I tried to talk, but after an hour or so we relapsed into silence. I +looked up at the large oil paintings of deceased generals which hung +about the room. At first, they all looked fat and stupid and alike in +the huge, ornate gilt frames. But after much study they began to take +on differences--slight differences which it seemed that the painters had +caught in spite of themselves, but which made human beings of even +generals. + +There was one portrait that I remember, in the corner, a general in the +uniform of the Crimean War. He looked out at you with green eyes, like a +cat's. The more I looked at him, the more he resembled a cat, with his +flat, broad head and slightly almond eyes and long mustache. His cheek +bones were high and his jaw square and cruel. He settled into his +coat-collar the way a cat shortens its neck when it purrs. He, too, was +purring, from gratification, perhaps, at having his portrait painted; +but, wholly untrustworthy himself, he distrusted the world and held +himself ready to strike. + +Another portrait was of a man who might have been of peasant origin. An +inky black beard hid the lower part of his face, but his nose was blunt +and pugnacious, and his eyes were like black shoe-buttons sewn close +together. He stuck out his stomach importantly, and the care with which +his uniform and decorations were painted strengthened the impression +that he had made his career himself and set the highest value on the +insignia that stood for his accomplishment. + +Well, I made up characters to fit the portraits, and the time went on. +There were three entrances to the room, through which aides and +orderlies were constantly appearing and disappearing. The room filled up +with people and smelt of oiled leather and smoke. The women did not move +from their chairs, but the men got up and stood about, talking in +groups. I began to feel that I had known these captains and majors and +lieutenants all my life. They looked at me curiously, and if they knew +Mr. Douglas they asked to be presented to me. + +"How do you like Russia?" + +They spoke French. I looked at Mr. Douglas and smiled. + +"Very much." + +They were pleased. + +"Ah, you do? That is good. Russia is a wonderful country and its +resources are endless. But it is war-time. You should see Russia in +peace-time. There is no country in the world where one amuses one's self +so well as in Russia. But first we must beat the Germans." + +They all begin that way, and then branch out into their particular line +of conversation. + +There was a woman near me, her mourning veil thrown back, disclosing a +death-like face. Her features were pinched, and her pale lips were +pressed tightly together in suffering. She had been waiting surely three +hours since sending in her card, and all that time she had scarcely +moved. Sometimes I forgot her, and then my eyes would fall on her and I +wondered how I could see anybody else in the room. In comparison to her +all the others seemed fussy or melodramatic or false in some way. +Suffering was condensed in her. It flowed through her body. It settled +in the shadows of her face and clothed her in black. Her gloved hands +pressed each other. Her eyes stared in front of her, full of pain like a +hurt beast's. She sat as though carved in stone, dark against the +window, the lines of her body rigid and clear-cut like a statue's. + +At last an aide came toward her, spruce and alert, holding a paper in +his hand. She rose at his approach, leaning on the back of her chair, +her body bent forward tensely. He spoke to her in a low voice, +consulting the slip of paper in his hand. All at once she straightened +herself, and a burning expression came into her face. One hand went to +her heart, exactly as though a bullet had pierced her breast. Then she +gave a sharp cry, and hurling her pocketbook across the room with all +her strength, she rushed outside. + +Every one dodged as though the pocketbook had been aimed at him. A young +second lieutenant picked it from the floor and stood twisting it in his +hands, not knowing what to do with it. People looked uneasy and ashamed +as though a door had been suddenly opened on a terrible secret thing +that was customarily locked up in a closet. But the uncomfortable +feeling soon passed, and they began to talk about the strange woman and +to gossip and play and amuse themselves with her sorrow. A crowd +collected about the aide, who grew more and more voluble and important +each time he repeated his explanation of the incident. + +Shortly afterward, Mr. Douglas and I were admitted to the Chief of +Staff. The walls of his office were covered with large maps, with tiny +flags marking the battlefronts, and he sat at a large table occupying +the center of the room. + +When we entered, he rose and bowed, and after waving me to a chair, +reseated himself. He was rather like a university professor, courteous, +with a slightly ironical twist to his very red lips. His pale face was +narrow and long, with a pointed black beard, and a forehead broad and +high and white. While he listened or talked, he nervously drew +arabesques on a pad of paper on the table. + +"I have your petition, but since I have just been appointed here, I am +not very familiar with routine matters." Here he smiled slightly. "Yours +is a routine matter, I should say. How long have you waited for an +answer--four months? We'll see what can be done. I have sent to the +files and I should have a report in a few minutes." + +An aide brought in a collection of telegrams and papers, and the chief +glanced through them. Then he looked at me searchingly and suddenly +smiled again. + +"From your appearance I should never imagine you were as dangerous as +these papers state. Are you an American?" + +"Yes," I replied; "and I assure you that I am dangerous only in the +official mind. I have no importance except what they give me." + +"Mrs. Pierce is an American and unused to Russian ways," Mr. Douglas +said apologetically. + +"Well, your case has been referred to General Ivanoff, and I will wire +him again at once. If you come back next Thursday I will give you a +definite answer." + +We went out. It was a gray winter day, with a cold wind from the river, +but I felt glowing and stimulated and alive, seeing the future +crystallize and grow definite again. You can't imagine the wearing +depression of months of uncertainty. + +"That Chief of Staff is the first human official I've met," I said to +Mr. Douglas. + +"Give him time, give him time," Douglas replied. "Didn't you hear him +say he was new to the job?" + +I write such long letters and all about _things_. But I want you to see +with me so we may share our lives in spite of distance. Armfuls of love +to you, my dearest ones, from + + RUTH. + + + _November._ + +The Dowager Empress came to Kiev to-day to visit a convent that she has +under her protection. The Christiatick was very animated, with curious +crowds lining the sidewalks and fierce-looking gendarmes who snapped +their whips and made a great fuss about keeping the people in order. The +trams were stopped and officials rushed up and down the Christiatick in +huge gray automobiles. It was bitterly cold, and the waiting people grew +restless. At last a feeble cheer started up the street and swept down +the lines as a big car came tearing down the middle of the street. I +caught a glimpse of an elderly woman in black--that was all. + +I went home. All the way up the hill I walked beside a "crocodile." How +pathetic those convent children are in their funny little round hats, +all so much too small, and their maroon-colored dresses with the +shoulder-capes to hide any suggestion of sex. Their noses were pinched +and their lips were blue from waiting in the cold to see their +"protector." They were at the age "between hay and grass," +narrow-chested, and long-legged like colts. They climbed the hill +stiffly two by two, their eyes looking meekly at the ground. Three +sisters kept them in line. + +At home I found a summons from the police to appear with Marie at the +local police bureau to-morrow at nine, to receive our passports. I +telegraphed Peter through Mr. Douglas. Now that our affair is settled, I +feel no emotion--neither relief nor joy. + + THE END + + + + + The Riverside Press + + CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS + U. S. A. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES + + +1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetter's errors and to +make the use of hyphenated words consistent; otherwise, the transcriber +has made a diligent effort to be true to the original text. + +2. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Trapped in 'Black Russia' + Letters June-November 1915 + +Author: Ruth Pierce + +Release Date: April 3, 2008 [EBook #24981] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAPPED IN 'BLACK RUSSIA' *** + + + + +Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1><span class="smcap">Trapped In<br /> +"Black Russia"</span></h1> + +<h2><i>Letters</i></h2> + +<h2>JUNE-NOVEMBER 1915</h2> + +<h3>BY RUTH PIERCE</h3> + +<p class="gap"> </p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 151px;"> +<img src="images/ititle.jpg" width="151" height="200" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h4>BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</h4> + +<h4>The Riverside Press Cambridge<br /> +1918</h4> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY</p> + +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY RUTH PHINNEY PIERCE</p> +<p class="center">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p> + +<p class="smallgap"> </p> +<p class="center"><i>Published February 1918</i> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>TRAPPED IN "BLACK RUSSIA"</h2> + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" width="65%" cellpadding="8" cellspacing="1" summary="CONTENTS"> + +<tr> +<td align="right"> </td> +<td align="left"> </td> +<td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> + +<tr> +<td align="right">I.</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">June-July, 1915</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr> +<td align="right">II.</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">July-August, 1915</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr> + +<tr> +<td align="right">III.</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">August-September, 1915</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr> + +<tr> +<td align="right">IV.</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">September-October, 1915</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr> + +<tr> +<td align="right">V.</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">October, 1915</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td></tr> + +<tr> +<td align="right">VI.</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">October-November, 1915</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_130">130</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h2>"<span class="smcap">Black Russia</span>"</h2> + +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>June 30, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Dearest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>opéra-bouffe</i> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>douane</i>, behind locked and guarded doors, +together with a crowd of bewildered Jews and Roumanians.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"No," I replied. "This is Russia. I am <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>in Russia," kept going through +my head, and I felt like Alice in Wonderland, trying to adjust myself to +new perspectives.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 <i>douane</i>, I felt like puffing out +and growing to make room for Russia inside me.</p> + +<p>We waited hours.</p> + +<p>"Can't you hurry our passports?" Marie asked an official. "We want to +leave on this train."</p> + +<p>The official raised his shoulders helplessly.</p> + +<p>"<i>Seichas</i>," he replied.</p> + +<p>"What does that mean?"</p> + +<p>"Presently—immediately—never," Marie replied in exasperation.</p> + +<p>The train we were to have taken for Kiev left without us, on tracks +twice as <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>wide as those of the Roumanian toy railroad. Only a courier +with a diplomatic pouch got on.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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 +<i>douane</i>.</p> + +<p>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, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>They spent the day in prayer and eating and drinking. +They were evidently bound for Kiev on a holy pilgrimage to the Lavra.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>zakouskas</i>, and thick +<i>ztchee</i> 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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Another night to get through somehow, sitting bolt upright in a car +thick with tobacco smoke and smelling of stale food and soldiers' boots.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>soldier songs in parts, with pronounced rhythm +and unutterably sad cadences. Some one played their accompaniment on a +<i>balalaika</i>. Back and forth under our train window a woman paced +restlessly. Never shall I forget the soldiers' singing to the +<i>balalaika</i>, and the woman with her white face in the darkness, and the +millions of stars so very far away.</p> + +<p>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. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>"Who are they?" I asked Marie.</p> + +<p>"They are Galician Jews whom the Government is transporting into +Siberia."</p> + +<p>"But why?"</p> + +<p>"Because the Russians don't trust Jews. Whole villages and towns in +Galicia are emptied and taken to Siberia by <i>étapes</i>—part <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>of the way +by marches, part in baggage cars."</p> + +<p>"In this heat?" I exclaimed. "But hundreds must die!"</p> + +<p>"Not hundreds—thousands," Marie replied.</p> + +<p>"Does it do any good?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Good-bye for now. Armfuls of love from</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>July 5, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>We have been in Kiev several days. Our passports have been handed in to +the police station to be viséed and put in order for our return trip to +Bucharest. They say a human being in Russia is made of body and +passport.</p> + +<p>Kiev is full of color. It is framed in green trees that hide the +ugliness of modern buildings and seem to lift the gold and silver domes +of the churches up into the air. And how many churches there are! Kiev +is in truth a holy city. Late afternoon, when the sun shines through the +dust of the day and envelops the city in golden powder; when the gold +and silver domes of the churches float up over the tree-tops like +unsubstantial, gleaming bubbles, and the bells fill the air with lovely, +mellow sounds,—then I can truly say I have felt more deeply religious +than ever before in my life. Yet, suddenly, I see the woman who climbs +Institutska Oulitza every evening on her knees. She is dressed in black, +and deeply veiled, and every evening she climbs the hill on her knees. +At first I thought she was a cripple, but, on arriving at the top of the +hill, she rose to her feet and walked away.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p><p>"What is she doing?" I asked Marie.</p> + +<p>"Oh, a penance, probably, that the Church has imposed on her."</p> + +<p>And then the churches and their domes grow almost hateful to me. I think +of the Russian peasants with their foreheads in the dust, and the +greasy, long-haired priests I see on the streets.</p> + +<p>Yet I don't know—perhaps the priests don't really matter. After all, +there must be something in the people's hearts—a belief—an idealism—a +faith in God that keeps them loving Russia, dreaming for her, and able +to dream again after they've seen their dreams trampled on. No, the +priests and their autocracy don't matter. The people believe, and that's +the important thing.</p> + +<p>We went out yesterday afternoon to the Lavra—the stronghold of Black +Russia. It is a monastery on the edge of the town, overlooking the +Dnieper and flanked with battlemented walls to withstand the attacks of +the infidels in olden times. From all over Russia and the Balkans +pilgrims go there to visit the catacombs, where many church saints are +buried, their bodies miraculously preserved under red and gold +clothes—so the priests say.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p><p>The road leading to it passed the barracks, where we saw young recruits +drilling. They were learning to walk, and their arms swung stiffly and +self-consciously, and their legs bent at the knees and straightened +again like the wooden legs of mechanical toys. As they marched, they +sang wonderful Russian soldier songs. They appeared to be about +twenty-three or twenty-four, as though they had got their growth, and +were tall and broad-shouldered—not at all like the batch of Austrian +prisoners we passed a few minutes later, and who looked like pathetic, +bewildered children, beardless for the most part, and in uniforms too +large for them. They shuffled along in a cloud of gray dust under a +metallic sun. Some were slightly wounded in the head or arm, and were +supported by their comrades. As I passed, I encountered certain +eyes—frank, gray eyes that reminded me of Morris. The long, white, +dusty road became tragic to me, with the prisoners in their worn blue +uniforms, and those who were about to die, singing in the distance.</p> + +<p>We met bullock-carts crawling into town, coming from distant villages, +with fresh vegetables for the markets. The <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>peasants walked by the oxen, +prodding them with short sticks. There seem to be so many men here of +military age, yet not in the army. It isn't like other countries, where +every one but the Jews is in uniform. Russia has so many men. They say +five million more could easily be raised if they had the officers and +ammunition.</p> + +<p>We reached a high plaster wall, with little booths built under its +shadows, where pilgrims bought souvenirs of the Lavra—gaudy ikons, +colored handkerchiefs and shawls, beads and baskets.</p> + +<p>A group of pilgrims entered the gate in front of us, all from the same +village, evidently, for the women's dresses resembled each other's in +cut and embroidery, and a few of the younger women's were even dyed the +same color, as often happens in wool of the same shearing. In spite of +the heat, the men wore sheepskin coats and fur caps, and the women's +skirts were thick with petticoats. Some of the women led children by the +hand; others carried babies in their arms, poor little mites, with faces +covered with sores, and eyes red and blinking as though they were going +blind. They all bent and kissed the hand of the priest who sold candles +under the covered arched <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>gateway, and then they passed into the open +square surrounded by the monastery walls. There was a sort of garden +here; all the grass worn off by the countless pilgrims who had visited +the shrine, but with trees in whose shade the peasants rested when their +sins had been forgiven. Some lay curled up on the ground, fast asleep; +others sat with their legs spread comfortably apart, eating bread and +meat; and others drank thirstily from the well, or let the water run +over their tired feet.</p> + +<p>Facing us was the church with its gold domes blindingly bright against +the blue sky. We followed the pilgrims and entered the chapel, where +everything suddenly grew hushed and dark, with a strange odor—a mixture +of thick, sweet incense and melting candle grease, and smelly, +perspiring peasants.</p> + +<p>The pilgrims bought candles and lighted them, and knelt on the flagging +before the altar. Behind an elaborate railing the lustrous jewels and +gold of the vessels and crucifixes glowed richly in the dim light. +Priests in gorgeous vestments were going through some church ceremony. +Their deep chanting filled the church. They knelt and rose, and finally, +by a mechanical <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>contrivance, something was raised in an inner shrine, +and a priest took off a cloth of crimson and gold, and uncovered a +wonderful gold cup encrusted with jewels. I leaned against a pillar, +watching the kneeling peasants, and over their bent backs the mystery +and richness of the altar glowing with jewels and only half disclosed by +the tiny pointed candle flames flickering in the darkness. The Lavra is +one of the two richest monasteries in Russia. Its wealth is fathomless. +It has lent emperors treasure with which to fight the infidels, and on +returning from holy wars the emperors have brought it back to the church +increased a hundred fold by royal gifts of jewels and loot.</p> + +<p>We went out into the blinding sunlight again, and down a long flight of +cloister steps to the catacombs.</p> + +<p>A priest was selling bottles of a white liquid.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" Marie asked.</p> + +<p>"Holy water," the priest replied. "It is not for your kind." But he took +the kopecks of an old peasant woman. "Rub it on your joints and it will +cure their stiffness," he said to her, with a cynical smile.</p> + +<p>Three fat priests sat at the entrance <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>of the catacombs, selling +different-sized candles. The very poor peasants, who came barefooted, +could only afford the very thin tapers, while the rich villagers, with +heavy, well-made boots and much embroidery on their clothes, bought +candles as thick as a man's thumb, and sometimes two or three at a time, +which they held lighted between their fingers.</p> + +<p>A short, fat priest, his face dripping with perspiration, led us through +the catacombs. He would wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the sleeve +of his dirty gown, and point to the saints' tombs with the big iron key +he carried. I was pressed close to him by the crowd of peasants behind. +The smell of his greasy body and the powder of dandruff from his long +hair on the shoulders of his gown, the malicious way he looked at me as +though to say, "You and I know that what I'm saying is rot, but it must +be said to them"—it was indescribably disgusting.</p> + +<p>We wound through narrow, dungeon-like passages with the cold, damp smell +of an unused cellar. Now and then, through barred windows in the stone +walls, I caught glimpses of tall forms lying in a row, covered with +dingy red and gold cloths.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p><p>"Here lie nine brothers who lived for twenty years in this cell. Their +only food was bread and water three times a week. As you see, they had +no room to stand upright in, and were always pressed close to each +other."</p> + +<p>The peasants peered through the bars wonderingly.</p> + +<p>We passed a body stretched out on a stone ledge.</p> + +<p>"This holy saint cured the blind," the priest continued in a sing-song +voice. "He lived in a cell too small to lie down in. For twenty-two +years he never opened his mouth. His body, like the bodies of all the +holy saints in these catacombs, is preserved without a sign of decay +under this cloth." A peasant woman lifted her little boy up to kiss the +edge of the dirty red pall. The pale flame of her candle flickered and +the melted wax dripped on to the cloth. The woman wiped it off quickly, +and glanced in a frightened way at the priest. But he turned away +indifferently and went on.</p> + +<p>We saw the bust of a man buried to his arm-pits in the floor. I would +have stumbled over him, but the priest caught my arm.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p><p>"This is a holy saint, who, for twenty-five years, stood as you see him, +buried in the earth to above his waist. He never spoke and only ate +bread and water twice a week."</p> + +<p>I looked at the peasants. Their faces were scared and white. A few hung +back with a morbid curiosity.</p> + +<p>"Come, come," the priest called impatiently. "Keep together. Some get +lost here and never get out again."</p> + +<p>I had heard of three pretty peasant girls who had mysteriously +disappeared in the catacombs.</p> + +<p>"Ouf!" The priest unlocked an iron door and we came squinting out into +the daylight again. He held the door open and mopped his face as we +filed past him, snuffing our candles. The pilgrims kept theirs.</p> + +<p>Outside, some of the peasants clustered about the priest and asked him +questions. As I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw the circle of +round, inquiring faces with their look of unbounded confidence.</p> + +<p>We went around back of the monastery to an open plateau overlooking the +Dnieper. The river curved like a blue ribbon, and we could see the three +pontoon bridges for "military reasons." On the low bank opposite <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>were +the soldiers' white tents laid out in regular squares. A ferry-boat was +carrying some soldiers across the river. The sun flashed on the +sentries' bayonets along the bank.</p> + +<p>I heard the whine of a hand-organ. An armless beggar was turning the +crank of an organ with his bare feet. The plateau was fairly alive with +beggars, hopping about in the dust like fleas. Some were armless; others +legless. They swung along at our heels on long, muscular arms, with +leather on the palms of their hands, or dragged distorted, paralyzed +bodies that tried to stand upright by our sides.</p> + +<p>In the white, hot sunlight squatted an old man with a white, pointed +beard so long that it lay out on the dust in front of him. In his arms +he held a book done up in red cloth. He was blind. If you put a coin in +a tin cup he wore round his neck, he would undo his book and open it, +and by divine inspiration read the holy words of the page in front of +him.</p> + +<p>A row of seven blind women lined the exit. They began to whine as we +approached, and stretched out their hands gropingly. The eyes of one +woman had completely disappeared as though they had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>been knotted up and +pulled back into her head. Another's bulged like a dead fish's, with +that dull, bluish look in them. Another's lids were closed and crusted +with sores, flies continuously creeping over them, but apparently she +was indifferent. The seven blind women sat in rags and filth. Shall I +ever forget them in the burning sunlight, with their terrible eyes and +greedy fingers and the whine of their voices merging into the tune of +the hand-organ?</p> + +<p>When we left the monastery, a group of wounded soldiers were just +entering. With them was a woman in a man's uniform. Her hair was curly +and short, and her chin pointed. Her feet looked ridiculously small in +the heavy, high, soldier's boots, and in spite of a strut her knees +knocked together in an unmistakably feminine manner. But the men treated +her quite as one of themselves. One soldier, who had had his leg cut off +up to the thigh, supported himself by her shoulder. I have seen several +women soldiers in Kiev, and they say there are many in the Russian army.</p> + +<p>It is strange, seeing these things without Peter. I expect to go back to +Bucharest with Marie and Janchu within a week. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>There Peter will meet +us. I wish he were here now.</p> + +<p>So much love, my dearests, every day and every night from</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>July 20, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>"Where are they going?"—I whispered to Marie.</p> + +<p>"To the Detention Camp here. They come from Galicia, and Kiev is one of +the stopping-places on their way to Siberia."</p> + +<p>"Do they walk all the way here?"</p> + +<p>"Usually. Let's shut the window and keep out the smell."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p><p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>July 25, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Tchedesky Pension is full of Poles—refugees from Poland and the +wooded Russian provinces.</p> + +<p>Pan Tchedesky himself was formerly an enormously wealthy landowner near +Kiev. He loves to tell how he drove through town behind six white +horses. Gambling ruined him, and to pay his debts he sold one acre after +another to the Jews, who cut <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>down the timber and ruined the land. Of +course, where there are no trees the rainfall is scarce. The crops dried +up, and finally Pan Tchedesky and his wife and children were forced into +the city. There remained enough of his former property to start a +<i>pension</i>. The rooms are full of the remains of his splendor—heavy gilt +mirrors, thick, flowered carpets, a Louis XVI set in the drawing-room, +upholstered in faded blue brocade.</p> + +<p>Pan Tchedesky is a memorial of his own life; a relic suggesting an +earlier opulence. He is big-framed, but his flesh is shrunken, as though +the wind of conceit were oozing out of him day by day. His cheeks and +stomach hang flabbily. His blond mustache is getting thin and discloses +his full, sensual lips. His hands are thick and soft, always stained +with nicotine. He lives in constant terror of his wife, and all the +pockets of his coats are burned full of holes from his hiding his +cigarettes in them when he thinks he hears his wife coming. I have never +seen her, but she is the invisible force that keeps the <i>pension</i> +running, and controls her husband by her knowledge of his past failures.</p> + +<p>"My wife is an executive woman—very <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>executive," he says, shaking his +head sorrowfully.</p> + +<p>The bills are made out by her. Occasionally he intercepts the maid +carrying her back the money, and extracts enough to pay a small per cent +of his I O U's, which allows him to continue gambling with his guests. +His moist, soft fingers tremble as he holds the cards, and he infuriates +every one by his erratic bidding.</p> + +<p>A guest slams his hand down on the table and calls Tchedesky a name.</p> + +<p>Tchedesky's whitish, livid cheeks shake, and his lips open uncertainly. +But he must be discreet. He does not dare offend his guests, for he +wants to play with them again, and he must not let his wife know that he +is gambling. So he begs pardon in a whisper.</p> + +<p>There is a pretty maid in the <i>pension</i> called Antosha. She has light, +frowzy hair, and a round, full figure. The other maids are jealous of +her. When she dresses up to wait on the table at dinner at three +o'clock, she wears a cheap pink silk waist and long gilt earrings, and +two or three little rings with blue and red stones. Her wages are +fifteen roubles a month. One day I saw Tchedesky kissing her on the +neck. Very <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>white and shaken, he came to me afterwards and begged me to +say nothing about it to any one.</p> + +<p>He has terrible scenes with his wife, who is hysterical and grows rigid. +He stays up with her all night and uses it as an excuse to get a +morphine injection for his own nervousness next day. He is quite +courteous and frankly loves women and food and money. I feel as though, +if I poked my finger into him, he would burst like a rotten potato.</p> + +<p>There is the Morowski family from near Cracow. Pan Morowski's brother is +in the Austrian Chamber of Deputies, but he and his family are Russian +subjects. They have been here in Kiev for some months now. For seven +days he and his eldest daughter remained while the Russians and +Austrians fought for their farm. The rest of the family had been sent +into Kiev, but these two had hoped that by staying they might preserve +their farm from being plundered and burned. The Austrians had sacked +their neighbors' houses. The Austrian officers' wives had followed in +the wake of the army and had taken the linen from the closets, and the +ball-gowns, and the silver—even the pictures off the walls.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p><p>Lovely weather it was. The girl said you would hardly realize there was +war, sometimes. The gardener would go out and straighten the trampled +flowers. The carts of wounded would pass regularly, stopping +occasionally for water or tea. They would say the fighting had passed +on. And then, suddenly, the crack and boom would approach again, shaking +the house walls—the little uncurling puffs of smoke against the blue +sky—the gray-blue uniformed Austrians hurrying past in retreat. No +carts of wounded any more. There was too much hurry to bother about the +wounded.</p> + +<p>Russians in possession again, and Russian instead of Austrian officers +quartered at their house. How much more polite the Russians were—so +much more gallant and kind-hearted! They didn't treat you as though you +were a servant—"Do this. Do that." They brought some of their wounded +to the farm, and Miss Morowski helped nurse them.</p> + +<p>But at last the father and daughter had been obliged to leave with the +Russians. How furious the Russians had been—so depressed and +discouraged when the order came to retreat. There had been no fighting +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>round there for several days, and suddenly the news came that the whole +army was retreating. Why? They said there was no ammunition. So the +father and daughter left their property in the care of the gardener and +his wife, who were too old to move. How terrible it had been to abandon +this ground that so many Russians had died to win! No ammunition. +Waste—mismanagement—graft.</p> + +<p>Those in Petrograd should think more of their country and less of their +own pockets. The unquestioning courage of the simple Russian soldiers! +Every one ready to die—and yet nothing to back them up. It was +disheartening.</p> + +<p>"The Russians gave us a place in a cart, and we left in utter +confusion—soldiers, motor-cars, cattle, wounded, with the Austrian +cannon rumbling behind us."</p> + +<p>"Were you frightened?" I asked. We were speaking French together.</p> + +<p>"Not so frightened as sad. I was leaving my home. All my life I had +spent there excepting for a few weeks in the winter when mother used to +take us to Cracow for the balls. I hated to leave my beautiful party +dresses hanging up in the closets. I know some Austrian woman will wear +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>them. And I can't bear to think of our house burned! We have had such +jolly times there, hunting and riding and visiting the neighbors. You +don't know life on a Polish estate, do you? I can tell you there is +nothing so charming in the world."</p> + +<p>Pan Morowski is a handsome, full-blooded man, and plays bridge all day +either in the <i>pension</i> drawing-room or at the club.</p> + +<p>His wife is small and nervous, and you can see that her main object in +life is to marry off her daughters well. She has three daughters, +pretty, fresh girls, who are fond of reading, and perfectly willing to +read only what their brothers permit them. Every day I run across one or +two of them in the circulating library in the town, and always try to +get them to take out a forbidden book. They are convinced that Bourget +has sounded the depths of feminine psychology. "Isn't it mean!" they +cry. "If only our brothers would let us read more of his wonderful +books!"</p> + +<p>Sometimes, in the evening, we sit out on the balcony, and the Morowski +boys come in to talk to us.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you ashamed to treat your sisters in this Oriental way?" I ask.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p><p>"The less they know till after they've married, the better for them. A +young girl should be pure in every thought." And then they begin to make +love to us.</p> + +<p>There are two brothers who have taken refuge in the Tchedesky <i>pension</i>, +with a collection of servants. Their house was burned under their eyes, +and their property is now in the Austrians' hands. The eldest brother, +Count S——, is very handsome and aristocratic, with a cherished gray +mustache carefully twisted upward, and soft, brown eyes, which he uses +with advantage. Evidently the Romantic poets influenced his youth, and +he has found the melancholy Byronic traditions the most effective for +his ends, since he continues the attitude.</p> + +<p>"He is very sad," his brother whispers a dozen times a day. "Of course +his experiences these past months have been frightful for one of his +nature. I am not so sensitive. But <i>he</i> has always been this way. +Sometimes I'm afraid. Our other brother died insane."</p> + +<p>Count S—— affects to believe that the Germans can do anything.</p> + +<p>"They are devils! What can we do against them?" he cries at dinner, +combing <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>his mustache with the little tortoise-shell comb he carries in +his vest.</p> + +<p>He never forgets his soda tablets after eating.</p> + +<p>His younger brother is round and red-faced, with twinkly blue eyes. He +limps, and follows his elder brother round like a faithful dog. The +slightest thing amuses him. Indeed, he laughs at nothing at all. He kept +the books on his brother's estates and he brought them with him in his +flight. They are his pride and joy. Sometimes he brings them into the +drawing-room after supper, with photographs of the property. There are +pictures of boar hunts, and huntsmen on horseback, with wolf-hounds in +the snow, and the tenants merry-making and the house and different +sections of the property, and the horses and dogs and cattle. I look at +them night after night. They love to live over again their life in +telling me about it.</p> + +<p>Among the servants with the S—— brothers is an old woman, a kindly, +slack one, who rarely goes out, but observes the passing life from her +windows. She wears a short, loose wrapper and petticoat, and scuffs +about in list slippers.</p> + +<p>Then there is a young girl with shy eyes <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>and quiet, womanlike actions. +We often see her peeking through a crack in the door when Janchu is +naughty.</p> + +<p>And then there is Sigmund, a sly, goody-goody child of six or seven, +whom the old woman treats like a son, and whom the eldest S—— brother +has adopted as his heir. He plays with Janchu. The brothers adore him +and take him to Koupietsky Park, and watch him when he plays in the +<i>pension</i> garden. We have heard that he is Count S——'s illegitimate +child, and that the old woman is his mother. It seems quite probable +when you think of the life on a big Polish estate—the loneliness, etc. +These three people live together in one room. The samovar is always +boiling and some one is always drinking tea there. The brothers share an +adjoining room, but they are usually with those in there, who constitute +all that remains of their former habits.</p> + +<p>Pan A—— lives in the <i>pension</i>, too. I am told that he is typical of a +certain kind of Pole. He is a turfman, with carefully brushed +side-whiskers dyed coal-black, and hawk-like eyes. He wears check suits, +and cravats with a little diamond horse-pin. His legs are bowed like a +jockey's. He was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>the overseer of a big Polish estate and has made a +fortune by cards and horses. His stable is famous. He has raced from +Petrograd to London. Now, of course, his horses have been requisitioned, +and he lives by his cards. Cards are a serious business to him. He will +not play in a room where he is apt to be interrupted. Occasionally, his +wife, a hard-faced woman with tight lips, comes to the <i>pension</i>, +between the visits she makes to friends in the country. Pan A—— pays +no attention to her except to treat her with an exaggerated politeness +at table; and she, on her side, concentrates on the young men in the +<i>pension</i>. After dinner he always hands her a cigarette first, out of +his massive gold case, encrusted with arms and monograms and jewels.</p> + +<p>"It's curious, is it not?" he says, handing me the case. "My friends +have put on their arms and monograms and mounted the jewels as +souvenirs."</p> + +<p>Generally, he goes to the Café François with a tall blonde woman, the +wife of an Austrian. Her husband and son are fighting in the Austrian +army, but she came to Kiev with the Russian General who occupied her +town. Now her protector is at the front, and she goes about with A——.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p><p>A—— is cynical. Women and horses and cards make up his life. In a +conversation he feels his audience as if it were a new horse he is +learning to ride. He goes as near the danger line as he dares. He has no +breeding, and spends his money extravagantly.</p> + +<p>K——, the last comer at the <i>pension</i>, is a journalist. He has no race +or polish, and the rest rather despise him for having none of their +landed traditions. He is lean and brown, with a razor-like jaw and a +twisted, sardonic expression to his lips. His face is cruel. At Warsaw, +where he was working, he was thrown into prison time after time on +account of the radical, revolutionary character of his articles. He is +well known for the strong, intellectual quality of his work. The +reactionaries fear him. The slipshod Russian way of handling things gets +on his nerves. His eyes get like steel when he talks about it. Russia's +corruption and the German advance—ammunition willfully miscarried—guns +sent to the front without ammunition, and ammunition sent that doesn't +fit; and the soldiers obliged to fight with their naked fists!</p> + +<p>He has sent me Chamberlin's "Genesis <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>of the Fourteenth Century." We +discuss it after dinner. It's interesting, though Chamberlin sets forth +an idea he tries to prove at all costs. Read it, if you haven't already.</p> + +<p>How terribly I miss you. Why do I write of Pan Tchedesky and the +Morowskis when I only want to be telling you how I love you and miss +you? But it is almost unbearable to write you a love-letter. So many +miles are between us and so many months still separate us. Over a year +more to be lived through. No. I must keep to decaying Polish gentlemen +and exiled noblemen and trust you to know that every word in this letter +is a love-word to you, telling you I hold you so close to me that you +are one with me in everything I think or do.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>July 27, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>It is very hot, and food is unappetizing. The drinking-water must be +boiled, and inevitably we drink it lukewarm. It never has time to cool. +There is fruit sold on the street, but we are warned against it on +account of cholera. There is already cholera and typhus reported in the +city. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>So we thick vegetable soup with sour cream, fried bread with +chopped meat inside, cheese noodles with sour cream, etc., all Polish +cooking. And we drink <i>kvass</i>.</p> + +<p>"What do you think of Bulgaria, now?" Count S—— asks me gloomily, +after dinner.</p> + +<p>"I still think she will go with Russia," I reply. "In every Bulgarian +house I've ever been in there is the picture of the Czar liberator. A +Bulgarian regards a Russian as of his own blood. Bulgaria gave Russia +her alphabet, and the languages are much the same: only the Russian is +richer in words and expressions. Why, there is a Bulgarian, General +Dimitrief, holding a high command in the Russian army. When I left +Bulgaria there was no talk of her going with Germany. 'We will never go +with Germany,' I've heard over and over."</p> + +<p>"But there is a strong German party?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and they're being paid well. If England and the Entente only took +the trouble to understand the Balkans. Germany has sent her ablest men +to Sofia with unlimited credit. The English representatives offend by +their snobbery."</p> + +<p>"Do you think they'll go in at all?" S—— persists.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p><p>"Probably they'll be forced in, in the end. But the people don't want to +abandon their neutrality. They're making money. They're recouping after +the Balkan wars. Bulgaria has had nothing but wars and crises for the +last five years."</p> + +<p>"They say there are already German officers in the Bulgarian army."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it's so. The Bulgarians are very independent. If they +went in I think they would command their own army."</p> + +<p>"But this war is not conducted along Balkan war lines," K—— said +amusedly.</p> + +<p>"No," I agreed. "You know more about the situation now than I do. I +can't even read a newspaper. All I know is the spirit of Bulgaria when I +left."</p> + +<p>"Isn't Bulgaria's Government autocratic enough to declare war without +consulting the people?" K—— continued.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—unfortunately. The Bulgarians say, 'We have a wonderful +constitution, if the Czar would only use it.'"</p> + +<p>"The papers to-day already speak of Bulgaria's treason and ingratitude," +K—— observed.</p> + +<p>I was angry. "In Bulgaria, some think Russia doesn't want them to go in +on the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>Entente side. They think Russia wants to make a Russian lake out +of the Black Sea, and a Russian province out of Bulgaria. They say +Russia is the obstacle to their having joined the Entente months ago."</p> + +<p>"She will go with Germany," Count S—— insisted fatalistically. +"Everything is going Germany's way."</p> + +<p>"No—no—no!" I cried.</p> + +<p>"Of course she will go where she sees her advantage," said K——.</p> + +<p>"All she wants is to fight for Macedonia before the close of the war. +Certainly, it isn't too much to ask if she allows the English and +Russians to cross her territory to get at Turkey. The war will be +shortened by months if she goes in with the Entente, and Turkey in +Europe will be finished."</p> + +<p>I know you'll laugh, Dad, and think my pretentions to a political +opinion presumptuous. My hope is that I'll know more when I'm older!</p> + +<p>Love to you all. Think of me, won't you? Don't let <i>miles</i> make any +difference.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>July 30.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is confirmed that Warsaw has fallen! Every one is very much +depressed. What can stop the Germans? Some one speaks of the forts of +Vilna and Grodno, which are supposed to be impregnable. But what about +the forts on the Western front? What do forts amount to nowadays? The +strongest walls are razed by the Germans' big guns!</p> + +<p>"The Germans do just as they like—nothing can stop them. In the +beginning the Kaiser said he would sleep at Warsaw," Count S——nbsp;says +gloomily.</p> + +<p>"And he said he would dine in Paris," some one else remarks.</p> + +<p>It is funny how much pleasure Count S—— takes in every foot of land +the Germans capture. When he talks about the war, he seems to take a +perverse pleasure in accenting their inexhaustible munitions and men and +the perfection of their whole military organization. "We have men, but +we are children." At every German victory he shakes his head. "I told +you so." "I've <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>said from the first—" "There is no limit to what these +<i>cochons</i> can do." He seems glad to see his prophecies come true; +probably, because he has seen his own security destroyed, he feels the +safety of the whole world shaken. A hundred times he has said: "There +isn't a foot of ground that belongs to me any more. For a man of my age +it is a terrible thing to see your life-work wiped out all of a sudden." +Only a world destruction could come up to his expectations now.</p> + +<p>After dinner, in the drawing-room, we spoke about the fall of Warsaw. +What would the Germans do to the city? Some spoke of German +frightfulness in Belgium. Pan K—— thinks Warsaw will be treated +leniently, as Germany wishes to enlist the German sympathizers. Still, +most of the Poles in the <i>pension</i> are horrorstricken. They see the +Germans marching through the streets, and they see the flames and +shuddering civilians. I can see the Germans' spiked helmets in the room.</p> + +<p>"The English must start an offensive. England lets France and Russia +bleed to death before she sheds her own blood." There is much talk of +England's selfishness.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p><p>Something is wrong somewhere. Every one seems skeptical about the Duma.</p> + +<p>I wish I could read the Russian newspapers.</p> + +<p>I feel as though I were watching a fire—a neighbor's house burning +down. I am excited and curious. Suddenly, I wonder how far the flames +are going to spread, and I feel panicstricken. Good-night, dear ones. +You in New England seem so far away from this European fire.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>July 30, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>To-day I went to the Jewish detention camp with the wife of the French +Consul here. She called for me in her limousine. As I think of it now, +it was all so strange—the smooth-running car with two men on the box, +and ourselves in immaculate white summer dresses. The heat was intense, +but we were well protected. Through the windows we saw others sweating +and choking in the dust of the hot streets.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I've brought you here on a very hot morning," said Mme. +C—— apologetically.</p> + +<p>In spite of my curiosity I believe I felt a distaste of the detention +camp on such a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>day. A crowd is always depressing, and doubly so in the +heat. But we stopped at a door cut in a high board fence, and passed by +the sentinel into the enclosure where the Jews were penned in awaiting +the next stage of their journey.</p> + +<p>Hundreds of faces turned toward us; hundreds of eyes watched our +approach. There were old men with long, white, patriarchal beards +flowing over their dirty black gowns; there were younger men with peaked +black caps and long black beards; and there were women who had pushed +back their black shawls for air, and who held sore-eyed, whining babies +listlessly on their knees. Bits of old cloth stretched over poles +afforded shade to some. Others tried to get out of the burning sun by +huddling against the walls of the tenements that enclosed the yard on +three sides. The ground was baked hard as iron and rubbed smooth by the +shuffle of numberless feet.</p> + +<p>As we approached, the Jews rose and bowed low. Then they settled back +into their former immobility. Some stared at us vacantly; others lowered +their eyelids and rubbed their hands together softly, with a terrible +subservience. If we brushed close to one, he cringed like a dog who +fears <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>a kick. Yellow, parchment-like faces, all with the high-bridged, +curving noses, and the black, animal-like eyes. I was as definitely +separated from them as though tangible iron bars were between us. We +seemed to be looking at each other across a great gulf. "They are human +beings," I said to myself. "I am one with them." But their isolation was +complete. I could not even begin to conceive the persecution and +suffering of ages that separated us. "All people are born free and +equal," indeed! I turned away.</p> + +<p>"This camp is run on communistic principles," Mme. C—— was explaining. +"The Jewish Ladies' Benevolent Society provides a certain amount of meat +and vegetables and bread, which is cooked and served by the Jews +themselves. Here is the kitchen." We spoke French among ourselves, which +seemed to put us farther away from the dumb, watchful Jews behind us. +"If it wasn't for us, they would starve. The Government allows them +eight kopecks a day. But who could live on that? Besides, most of the +Jews here pay the eight kopecks to the overseer to avoid his +displeasure. He makes a good revenue out of the blood money."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p><p>Two rooms in one of the houses had been converted into a kitchen. A +dozen or so Jewish women were paring and cutting up potatoes and +cabbages and meat into huge soup-boilers. They were stripped to their +shirts, and their bodies were drenched with sweat. They curtsied to us +and went on preparing dinner.</p> + +<p>A blast of scorching heat puffed out from an open oven. Two women, with +long wooden handles pulled out big round loaves of black bread and laid +them on a shelf to cool.</p> + +<p>The warm fragrance of cooking attracted some white-faced Jewish +children. They edged into the kitchen and looked up at the food, their +eyes impenetrable and glittering like mica. A woman cut up some bread +and gave them each a piece, and they slunk outdoors again, sucking their +bread.</p> + +<p>"The food is scientifically proportioned to give the greatest possible +nutriment," Mme. C—— said.</p> + +<p>We went out. After the kitchen heat the air of the courtyard was cool.</p> + +<p>"This is the laundry. A certain number of the Jews here wash and iron +the others' clothes. They are kept as clean as possible."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p><p>The laundry was gray with steam. A dozen or so women were bending over +wash tubs. Like the women in the kitchen, they were stripped to their +shirts. The wet cloth stuck to their sweating bodies and outlined their +ribs and the stretch of muscles as they scrubbed and wrung out the +clothes. When the water became too black, some young boys threw it out +of doors, and the women waited for the tubs to be filled again, their +red parboiled hands resting on their hips, in the way of washerwomen the +world over.</p> + +<p>We crossed the mud before the wash-house, on planks, and went into a +house across the courtyard.</p> + +<p>"This is the tailoring establishment," Mme. C—— continued. "The +tailors among them mend and cut over old clothes which we collect for +them, so that every Jew may start on the next stage of his journey in +perfectly clean and whole clothes. My husband and son complain that they +will have to stay in bed, soon, I have taken so many of their suits of +clothes.—And here are the shoemakers."</p> + +<p>We looked into the adjoining room, where the cobblers sat cross-legged, +sewing and patching and pegging shoes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p><p>"It's very hard to find the leather. But it is so important. If you +could see how they come here—their feet bleeding and swollen and their +shoes in tatters. And many of them were rich bankers and professors in +Galicia and Poland, used to their own automobiles like the rest of us. I +think I would steal leather for them."</p> + +<p>The workers were different from the waiting Jews in the courtyard. +Perhaps it was work that gave them importance in their own eyes, and +took away that dreadful degrading subserviency—degrading to us as much +as to themselves. The whirring noise of the sewing-machines, the click +of shears, the bent backs of the workers, and the big capable hands, +formed by the accustomed work! The trade of every man could have been +known by his hands! My heart was warm toward them.</p> + +<p>"It's splendid, I think," I said to Mme. C——.</p> + +<p>As though she guessed my thoughts, she replied, "They are grateful for +being allowed to work."</p> + +<p>"For being allowed to work." Those words damn much in the world. What +hindrances we erect in the way of life!</p> + +<p>And I looked out into the courtyard <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>again, at the apathetic faces of +the waiting Jews. Waiting for what? The white, dead faces, with the +curved noses and hard, bright eyes, all turned toward us. Were they +submissive or expectant, or simply hating us? They say the Galician Jews +turn traitors and act as spies for the Austrians. But surely not these. +What could these broken creatures do? How near death they seemed!</p> + +<p>The courtyard burned like a furnace. The shade was shrinking from moment +to moment. The heat rose in blinding waves. I was sickened. The +courtyard smelled of dirt and waste and sickness. It was unreal—the +whole thing unreal: those working at usual, necessary tasks as well as +those furtive, watchful ones in the burning sunlight. Death was in them +all.</p> + +<p>I went out into the courtyard, walking slowly in the scorching heat. +There was no shade or coolness anywhere. My attention was drawn to a +pregnant woman who had evidently been sitting in a thin strip of shade +by the fence; but now the sun was beating down on her bare head. She sat +with her arms hanging along her sides, the palms of her hands turned +upwards. A baby hardly a year old twisted fretfully on <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>her lap, +fumbling at her breast with a little red hand. But she looked steadily +over the baby's round head, a curiously intent expression in her dark +eyes, as though she were looking at something so far away that she must +concentrate all herself on it so as not to lose it from view.</p> + +<p>Near her a man leaned against the fence. He was red-headed, and his +unkempt hair and ragged beard flamed in the sun. A rope tied round his +waist kept up his loose trousers, and his shirt was open, disclosing a +hairy chest. Where his skin showed, it was unexpectedly white. He kept +plucking at his chest, smiling idiotically.</p> + +<p>"Is he insane?" I asked Mme. C——.</p> + +<p>"Yes. He's that woman's husband. He went out of his head on the road. +They say he was raging that his wife was obliged to walk in her +condition. Well, he's happier than she is, now."</p> + +<p>Under a canopy made from an old blue skirt lay a sick boy. His face was +like a death-mask already, the yellow skin stretched tightly over the +bones of his face, and his mouth unnaturally wide, with parched, swollen +lips. From his hollow eye-sockets his eyes looked out unwinking, as +though his lids had been cut off. He <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>held himself halfway between a +reclining and an upright position. No normal person could hold himself +that way for long, but the sick boy kept himself motionless with +maniacal strength. The flies hung over him like a cloud of black +cinders. One of his friends attempted to keep them away with a leafy +branch which he had found, Heaven knows where! I could see no other sign +of green in the place. As we passed, I noticed the branch sweep back and +forth over the sick boy's face, touching the skin. And still the fixed +stare continued, uninterrupted—that blind gaze straight out into +emptiness.</p> + +<p>At the farther end, an opening between two of the tenements led into a +garden. This space, too, was crowded with waiting Jews.</p> + +<p>"But where do they sleep?" I asked. "Is there room for all those people +in the houses?"</p> + +<p>"No," Mme. C—— replied; "not when so many come through as came this +last time. But fortunately, these summer nights are fine; earlier, we +had much rain, and you can picture the suffering. Then there was no +shelter for them at all. They were simply herded into a pen, and many +died from <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>the exposure. Now, however, we have made conditions better +for them."</p> + +<p>There was more reality here in the garden, where there was a suggestion +of growing grass and a thin leaf shade. The Jews lay on the ground as +though trying to get some coolness out of the earth. Up and down the +paths walked several spectacled men, who were brought up to me and +introduced as Professor So-and-So, and Doctor So-and-So. They were +constantly trying to get in touch with friends in Kiev or Moscow or +Petrograd, or colleagues in medicine or other sciences, or relatives who +could help them. They worked through the society. By the payment of +certain amounts they could bribe the overseers to let them stay on in +the Kiev detention camp, or even have the liberty of the city. One man, +a rich banker from Lvov, had been officially "sick" for several months, +but as his money had almost given out he was in danger of being sent on +to Tomsk in the near future. He lived in the hospital, where he had +better quarters and food. These professors and doctors, men of wide +learning and reputation, who are recognized as leaders in their +professions, and are constructive, valuable forces in society, were +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>herded together with the others, and will be allowed to disappear into +Siberia, where their minds and bodies will be wasted, their possible +future activity to count as nothing.</p> + +<p>A man in a soiled white coat came up, looked us over with little +blinking pig eyes, and addressed a few words to Mme. C—— in Polish.</p> + +<p>"That is the overseer," Professor A—— said to me in English. "He takes +every kopeck away from us. But he is no worse than the rest. All along +the way it is the same thing. One is bled to death." He shrugged +indifferently. "We most of us could have gathered together a little +money. But what will you? It was all so sudden. We had no time. Here we +are, <i>en tout cas</i>. And after all, in the end—"</p> + +<p>I might have been talking with the professors on the campus of their own +university. They exerted themselves to be attentive and entertaining, as +though they were our hosts.</p> + +<p>One doctor said to me in French, "I have seen your wonderful country. It +is amazing. I would like to see it again. I have been asked to lecture. +Perhaps, after the war—"</p> + +<p>He broke off abruptly. In a flash the end <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>of his life came up to me. +His work and ambitions, and then the cleavage in his career; the sharp +division in his life; the preparation of years, and then, instead of +fulfillment, an exile to a country where life was a struggle for the +bare necessities of the body—food and shelter. I looked at his +hands—thin and white and nervous. What hideous, despairing moments he +must know!</p> + +<p>I asked him a question. His eyes blazed suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Do not speak of these things! They are not to be spoken of, much less +to <i>you</i>." He looked as though he hated me. "I beg your pardon, I am +nervous. You must excuse me." He went away hurriedly.</p> + +<p>"Poor chap!" Professor A—— said. "It is hard for us all in this heat. +And, yes, some of us have more imagination than others."</p> + +<p>A man in uniform came into the garden. He walked to a tree in the +center, and stood in the shade, a long sheet of paper in his hand. There +was a stir among the Jews. Those lying down got up and approached him. +The women, with their children, dragged themselves nearer. Every one +stopped talking. The apathy and indifference <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>gave place to a strained +attention. There was a kind of dreadful anxiety on every face—a +tightening of the muscles round the eyes and mouths, as though the same +horrible fear fixed the same mark there. I have never seen a crowd where +personality was so stamped out by a single overmastering emotion. The +gendarme began to read in a sing-song voice.</p> + +<p>"What is he saying?" I whispered.</p> + +<p>"The names of those who are to leave this afternoon," Mme. C—— +replied.</p> + +<p>The garden was absolutely still except for the monotonous voice and the +breathing of the crowd. Oh, yes, and the flies. It was not that I forgot +the flies, only their buzzing was the ceaseless accompaniment to +everything that happened in the camp.</p> + +<p>"How horrible this is!" Mme. C—— observed. "They all know it must come, +but when it does, it is almost unbearable. It is truly a list of death. +Many of them here cannot survive another stage of the journey in this +heat. And yet they must be moved on to make place for those who are +pressing on from behind. In this very crowd were five old men who were +killed on the way here, by the soldiers, because they couldn't keep up +with the procession. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>How could these civilians be expected to endure +such hardships? They are townspeople, most of them having lived indoors +all their lives, like you or me."</p> + +<p>"Like you or me." No, no. It was unbelievable. I could not put myself in +their place. I could not imagine such insecurity—that lives could be +broken in the middle in this way.</p> + +<p>"How useless it all seems!" I said.</p> + +<p>"Useless. You think so?" Mme. C—— took me up. "Do you realize that +whole Galician towns have been moved into Siberia this summer? Part of +the way on foot, part in baggage cars, where they stifled to death in +the heat and for lack of water and food. One carload wasn't listed, or +was forgotten by some careless official, and when it was finally opened +it was a carload of rotting flesh. The bodies were thrown into the river +by the frightened official, but a soldier reported him and he was +court-martialed. One crowd of several thousand was taken to Siberia. +They reached Tomsk. Then the Government changed. What was the need to +transport these Galician Jews? the new Minister argued: a useless +expense to the Government: a waste of money and time. Let <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>them go back +to their homes. So the Jews were taken back over the same route, many +more dying on the return journey, in the jails, and camps, and baggage +cars, or by the roadsides. They found themselves once more back in their +pillaged towns, with nothing to work with, and yet with their livelihood +to be earned somehow. They began to dig and plant and take up the +routine of their lives again. They began to look on themselves as human +again. The grind of suffering and hopelessness began to let up and they +had moments of hope. And then the reactionaries came into power with +their systematic oppression of the Jews. Back to Siberia with them! This +in midsummer heat. I saw them as they passed through Kiev for the third +time, a few weeks ago. Never shall I forget them as I saw them last. The +mark of the beast was on them. You couldn't call them living or +suffering or martyrs any more. They were beyond the point where they +prayed to die."</p> + +<p>The gendarme had finished his list. The tension relaxed. Some of the +Jews settled back into their former apathy; others gathered in excited +groups, pulling their beards and scratching their heads; still <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>others +walked up and down the paths, restless, like so many caged animals.</p> + +<p>A man and a woman with two children approached the gendarme +deprecatingly. The man asked a question, indicating the woman and +children. The gendarme shook his head. The man persisted. The gendarme +refused again, and started to move away. The man detained him with a +hand on his arm. Another man approached. He spread out both hands, his +shoulders up to his ears. All three men spoke Polish in loud, excited +voices.</p> + +<p>"What are they saying?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"The gendarme has just read the names of the woman and children who are +to leave this afternoon. The father's name is not with theirs. +Naturally, he wants to be with his wife and children to protect and care +for them as best he can. If they are separated now, they can never find +each other again in Siberia—if they live till they get there. The third +man is alone. He is willing to give up his place to the father. But the +gendarme refuses. 'His name is written. Yours is not. It is the order,' +he says."</p> + +<p>The gendarme now left the garden. The woman was sobbing in her husband's +arms. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>He was patting her hair. The children hung at their mother's +skirt, crying and sucking their fingers.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>August 12, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Dearest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>They say there was no ammunition at the front. No shells for the +soldiers. They had nothing to do but retreat. And now? They are still +retreating, fighting with empty guns and clubs and even their naked +hands. And still, trainloads of soldiers go out of Kiev every day +without a gun in their hands. What a butchery! Can you imagine how +horrible it is to see them march through the streets, swinging their +arms and singing their stirring songs,—tall, able-bodied men,—while +the beggars, cripples from the Russo-Japanese War, stand whining at the +street corners.</p> + +<p>There seems to be no doubt about the enemy within the gates. How can the +soldiers give their lives so patiently and bravely for a Government +whose villainy and corruption take no account of the significance of +their sacrifices. The German influence is still strong. They say German +money bribes the Ministers at home and the generals at the front.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p><p>There is great distrust of the Czarina and the Monk Rasputin. The latter +was a serf in Siberia, and now has a malignant, hypnotic influence in +the Russian Court. If he is refused anything, he falls on the floor in a +fit and froths at the mouth until he gets what he wants. The Court +ladies have to lick his dirty fingers clean, for he refuses to use a +finger-bowl at table. Take this for what it's worth. At any rate, there +is much talk now of the Germans working through this disreputable +creature.</p> + +<p>I asked a Russian if there could be a revolution.</p> + +<p>There seems to be no hope. Russia, apparently, lacks the coördination +and singleness of purpose necessary for one. And so many unseen +influences are at work. There is no agreement among the people as to +what they want. Each faction is secretly encouraged to war against the +other in order to weaken each other and blur the reason and end in the +people's minds. Besides, of course, nothing can be done as long as the +army can be used to crush any demonstration against the Government. But +if I were a Russian, all my hate would be directed against the traitors +of my country, rather than at the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>Germans, who, after all, are +political enemies. I would carry a gun against those who sell my country +and make capital out of her suffering.</p> + +<p>In every newspaper there are accounts of enormous graft by Ministers and +companies under contract to the Government for military supplies. One +case was translated to me the other day. Some men high up in the +Government took over a contract for a certain number of cavalry saddles +and bridles. They sold it to the Jews, making a tremendous rake-off. The +Jews, to get any profit, were obliged to furnish poor material. At the +trial, where some officers were testing them, the bridles broke in their +hands like paper and the saddles split into ribbons.</p> + +<p>Then there was a sugar factory in Kiev, whose owner wrote to the +Minister of the Interior, I think it was, and offered his factory, only +asking an estimate of the approximate amount of sugar the Government +would need turned out each day. No answer was made. The owner wrote +again. Still no answer. He went to Petrograd himself to find out why the +Department paid no attention to his letters. The Minister informed him +his letters had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>lacked the required war-tax stamps and had been turned +over to the proper authorities, who would speedily proceed to fine him +for his evasion of the law.</p> + +<p>I went up to a military hospital to-day. I wonder how I can write you +about it. The insignificance of personalities—whether any one lives or +dies seems to have no importance. Just life seems to matter any more, +and the forward movement of humanity—at least, you must believe the +movement is forward in spite of the horror of mangled bodies and +destroyed minds; otherwise, you would go mad, though you are outside of +it all. How the proportions of things are twisted after going through a +hospital. Things that counted before don't seem to count any more. You +take refuge in generalities to get out of your mind a look you have seen +in a soldier's eyes.</p> + +<p>It was an improvised hospital,—some building or other turned into a +place to receive the hundreds of wounded that are pouring into Kiev +every day. It was a big room, with rows and rows of beds, and in every +bed a man. One man was wounded in the back, and his breath whistled +through the open hole like steam through an escape valve. His face was +wound in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>white bandages. Others were there, dying from terrible stomach +wounds. One man's head moved from side to side incessantly, as though he +could never again find comfort on earth. Some moan. Others lay +absolutely motionless, their faces terrible dead-white masks. Their +bodies looked so long and thin under the sheets, with their toes turned +up. It was indescribably terrifying to think that human beings could go +through so much and continue to live. I was more frightened than ever +before in my life. The smell of blood—the closeness of the hot +sick-room—flies buzzing about. I saw brown varnish-like stains on some +of the white bandages. The indifferent, business-like attitude of the +nurses infuriated me. But, of course, they can't be any other way and +deal with it all.</p> + +<p>I can't write any more. But is there any excuse for this?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>August 10, 1915.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Lately, our conversation at table has been suppressed by the appearance +of a young woman whom the rest suspect of being a spy. She is dark, and +never utters a word. All through dinner she keeps her <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>eyes on her +plate. I said something in French to her the other day, but, apparently, +she did not understand. Across the table, the Morowski boys laughed at +me. I suspect that they, too, had tried to speak to her, for she is +pretty, and had been snubbed like me. I don't know how the idea of her +being a spy got round. She may have been sent here to keep her eyes on +the Polish refugees in the <i>pension</i>. Her room is in our corridor, and +this morning Marie saw, through the open door, Panna Lolla and Janchu +talking to her. It appears that Janchu had been inveigled in by bonbons, +and Panna Lolla had gone in after him. Panna Lolla said the young woman +was so lonely. She is a Pole and wants to leave Russia. She hates it +here. But she has no passport. She showed Panna Lolla an old one that +she wants to fix up for the police authorities. But she can't speak +Russian, and is very frightened. She asked Panna Lolla if she knew any +one who could write Russian. Marie forbade Panna Lolla to go near the +woman again. It is just as well, for Panna Lolla likes excitement, and +is capable of saying anything to keep it going.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>August.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>We were arrested four days ago—and you will wonder why I keep on +writing. It relieves my nerves. Ever since the <i>revision</i> Marie and I +have gone over and over the same reasoning, trying to get at why we were +arrested. To write it all out may help the restlessness and anxiety +and—yes—the panicky fear that rises in my throat like nausea. Life is +so terribly insecure. I feel as though I had been stripped naked and +turned out into the streets, with no person or place to go to.</p> + +<p>It was four o'clock, and we had just finished dinner. In an hour and a +half we were leaving for Odessa. All our trunks and bags were packed, +and our traveling suits brushed and pressed. Panna Lolla was crying at +having to part from Janchu, and mending some stockings for him. He was +asleep. Marie and I were sitting in our little salon, rejoicing that we +should be in Bucharest in a few days where there was no war and we could +speak French again. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>War—blood-tracks on the snow, and cholera and +typhus camps under a burning sun. To shut it out for one instant and +pretend that the world was the way it used to be. What a heaven +Bucharest seemed!</p> + +<p>And suddenly the door of our apartment opened. Six men came into the +room, two in uniform, the other four in plain clothes. It never occurred +to me that they had anything to do with me. I thought they had mistaken +the door. I looked at Marie questioningly. There was something peculiar +about her face.</p> + +<p>The four plain-clothes men stood awkwardly about the door which they had +closed softly behind them. The two men with white cord loops across the +breast of their uniforms went over to the table on the right and put +down their black leather portfolios. They seemed to make themselves at +home, and it angered me.</p> + +<p>"What are these people doing here?" I asked Marie sharply.</p> + +<p>She addressed the officer in Polish, and he answered curtly.</p> + +<p>"It's a <i>revision</i>," she replied.</p> + +<p>"A what?"</p> + +<p>"A <i>revision</i>," she repeated.</p> + +<p>I remember that I consciously kept my <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>body motionless, and said to +myself, "There is nothing surprising in this. There is nothing +surprising in this." Everything had gone dark before my eyes. My heart +seemed to stop beating.</p> + +<p>Marie laughed and the sound of her cracking, high-pitched laugh came to +me from far off.</p> + +<p>The officer said something to her, and she stopped abruptly as though +some one had clapped a hand over her mouth.</p> + +<p>"What did he say?" I managed to articulate. My own language seemed to +have deserted me.</p> + +<p>"He says it is a matter for tears, not laughter."</p> + +<p>Her voice was sharp and anxious. I was relieved at the spite and vanity +in his words. They made the situation more normal. I felt myself +breathing again, and my stomach began to tremble uncontrollably.</p> + +<p>I kept my eyes where they were, fighting for my self-control. So many +terrifying thoughts were trying to penetrate my consciousness. I tried +to shut out everything but my realization of what I was looking at. I +kept my eyes glued on the officer's boots; shiny black boots they were, +that fitted him without a crease, with spurs <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>fastened to the heels. I +shall never forget the stiff, red striped trouser-legs and those shiny +black boots that didn't seem to belong on the body of a living man, but +on the wooden form of some dummy.</p> + +<p>Janchu began to cry from the bedroom, and Marie got up to go to him. +Quickly a plain-clothes man with horn-rimmed spectacles slipped in +between her and the door. The officer, who had now seated himself behind +the table, raised his hand.</p> + +<p>"Let no one leave the room," he said in German.</p> + +<p>"But my baby is crying," Marie began.</p> + +<p>"Let him cry!" And he busied himself pulling papers out of his +portfolio.</p> + +<p>Soon Janchu, seeing that no one paid any attention to him, toddled in +and climbed into Marie's lap. He sat there sucking his fingers and +looking out at the roomful of strange men.</p> + +<p>An army officer entered and spoke to the head of the secret service. He +wore a dazzling, gold-braided uniform, and preened himself before us, +looking at us curiously over his shoulder. When he had gone, the head +told us that we were to have a personal examination in the salon of the +<i>pension</i>.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p><p>A secret-service man escorted each of us, and we walked down the +corridor, past the squad of soldiers with their bayonets, and into the +salon, where we were delivered into the hands of two women spies. They +undressed us, and we waited while our clothes were passed out to the +secret-service men outside. Panna Lolla tried to twist herself up in the +window curtains. Marie and I grew hysterical at her modesty, looking at +her big, knobby feet and her fiery face, with her top-knot of disheveled +red hair. We were given our clothes again, and went back to our +apartment.</p> + +<p>The rooms were in confusion. All our trunks and bags were emptied, one +end of the carpet rolled back, the mattresses torn from the beds. The +secret-service men were down on their knees before piles of clothes, +going over the seams, emptying the pockets, unfolding handkerchiefs, +tapping the heels of shoes; every scrap of paper was passed over to the +chief, who tucked it into his portfolio. I watched him, hating his +square, stolid body that filled out his uniform smoothly. His eyes were +long and watchful like a cat's, and his fair mustache was turned up at +the ends, German fashion; in fact, there was something very <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>German +about his thick thighs and shaved head and official importance. As I +have learned since, he <i>is</i> a German and the most hated man in Kiev for +his pitiless persecution of all political offenders. They say he has +sent more people to Siberia than any six of his predecessors. They also +say every hand is against him, even to the spies' in his own force.</p> + +<p>I trembled to spring at him and claw him and ruffle his composure some +way. Instead, I sat quietly, my hands folded, and watched the spies +ransacking our clothes. I began to feel a sharp anxiety as to what they +would find. It was all so mysterious. What were they looking for? At one +moment it was ridiculous, and I felt like laughing at the whole affair; +and then the next, the silence in which the search was conducted, the +apparent dead-seriousness of the spies' faces, the deliberation with +which the chief turned the bits of paper over in his hands and +scrutinized them and put them carefully away, struck me with a cold, +sharp apprehension. I had the sensation of being on the very edge of a +precipice. I felt as though the world were upside down and the most +innocent thing could be turned against us. Every card and photograph <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>I +tried to catch a glimpse of before it went into the black portfolio. And +suddenly I saw the letter about the Jewish detention camp, which I had +forgotten all about. I saw the close lines of my writing, and it seemed +as though the edge of the precipice crumbled and I went shooting down. A +cold sweat broke out over me.</p> + +<p>"But why are we arrested?" I heard Marie ask in German.</p> + +<p>"Espionage," the chief answered shortly.</p> + +<p>"But that is ridiculous. We're American citizens."</p> + +<p>No reply.</p> + +<p>"Can we leave for Odessa to-night?"</p> + +<p>No reply.</p> + +<p>Marie stopped her questions.</p> + +<p>"What money have you? Come here while I count it," one of the spies said +to me. He slipped me one hundred roubles on the sly, before turning the +rest over to the chief. I held it openly in my hand, too dazed to know +what to do with it, till he whispered to me to hide it. "You may want +it, later," he said.</p> + +<p>"Frau Pierce will go with us," the chief said, closing his portfolio; +and I understood that the <i>revision</i> was finished. "Frau <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>G—— can stay +here under room-arrest, with her little boy."</p> + +<p>He spoke to no one in particular, but addressed the room at large, his +face impassive, and his voice without an intonation. The spies stood in +the midst of the tumbled clothes, watching us silently, ominously. +Janchu now crept up into Marie's lap again. As a matter of course, I +went into the other room and changed into my traveling suit.</p> + +<p>"May I take my toilet things?" I asked the chief.</p> + +<p>"Ja."</p> + +<p>"You'd better make a bundle of bedclothes," the spy who had given me the +money whispered to me.</p> + +<p>I rolled up two blankets and a pillow with his help.</p> + +<p>"I'm ready," I said. "May I send a few telegrams?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly, certainly." The chief's manner suddenly became extremely +courteous.</p> + +<p>I wrote one to our Ambassador in Petrograd, one to Mr. Vopicka in +Bucharest, one to the State Department in Washington, and one to Peter. +I wrote Peter that I was delayed a few days. I was afraid that he might +come on and be arrested, too. My <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>hand did not tremble, though it struck +me as very queer to see the words traced out on the paper—almost +magical. My imagination was racing, and I could see myself already being +driven into one of those baggage cars bound for Tomsk.</p> + +<p>"Keep your mind away from what is going to happen," I said to myself. +"You will have time enough to think in prison. Things are as they are. +You are going to walk out of this room, just the way you've done a +hundred times. Are you different now from what you've always been? Keep +your mind on things you know are real."</p> + +<p>I tried to move accurately, as though a false move would disturb the +balance of things so that I would walk out of the room on my hands like +an acrobat.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, the chief, who had been talking in a corner with the other man +in uniform, wheeled about.</p> + +<p>"Frau Pierce may stay here under room-arrest. Good-day."</p> + +<p>He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. His spies clustered +about him, and they left the room.</p> + +<p>All at once my bones seemed to crumble and my flesh dissolve. I fell +into a chair. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>Marie and I looked at each other. We began to laugh. "We +mustn't get hysterical," we said, and kept on laughing.</p> + +<p>The room was so dark that we looked like two shadows. Panna Lolla had +come after Janchu and taken him into Count S——'s room. We imagined the +excited curiosity of the rest of the <i>pension</i>.</p> + +<p>"I'll wager that woman was a spy, after all."</p> + +<p>"But why—why should <i>we</i> have a <i>revision</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Anyway, they couldn't have found much. We'll be set free in a few +days," Marie said.</p> + +<p>"They found my letter about the Jews," I replied.</p> + +<p>"What letter? Oh, my dear, what did you say?"</p> + +<p>"I forget. But everything I saw or heard, I think."</p> + +<p>We began to laugh again.</p> + +<p>"Will they send our telegrams?"—"Will Peter come on?"—"What shall we +do for money?"</p> + +<p>The room was pitch-dark except for the electric light from the street. +We heard the creak and rattle of the empty commissariat wagons returning +from the barracks. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>We fell silent, feeling suddenly very tired and +lethargic.</p> + +<p>"Where is Janchu? It's time for his supper," Marie said, without moving.</p> + +<p>I started out of the room to call him, and fell across a dark figure +sitting in front of the door. He grunted and pushed me back into the +room.</p> + +<p>"I want Janchu," I said in perfectly good English, while he closed the +door in my face.</p> + +<p>"There's a spy outside our door," I whispered to Marie.</p> + +<p>Panna Lolla came in with Janchu and turned on the light.</p> + +<p>"There's a man outside our door, and two secret-service men at the +<i>pension</i> door and two soldiers downstairs," she whispered excitedly in +one breath. "No one can leave the <i>pension</i>, and they take the name and +address of every one who comes here. And that woman <i>was</i> a spy. Antosha +saw the chief go into her room and heard them talking together. And she +left when they did."</p> + +<p>I lay all night, half asleep, half awake, hearing the street noises +clearly through the open windows. I cried a little from exhaustion and +nerves, and then controlled <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>myself, for my head began to ache, and who +knew what would happen the next day? I had to keep strength to meet +something that was coming. I had no idea what it was, but the +uncertainty of the future only made it more ominous and threatening. +That letter—In the darkness I saw the chief's watchful, narrow eyes, +and the horn-rimmed spectacles of the friendly spy, and the stuffed +portfolio.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>Later.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Nothing has happened yet. We have our meals brought to us by Antosha, +who tries to comfort us with extra large pickled cucumbers and portions +of sour cream. We are allowed to send Panna Lolla downtown for +cigarettes and books from the circulating library. Thank Heaven for +books! With our nerves stretched to the snapping-point and a pinwheel of +thoughts everlastingly spinning round in our heads, I think we should go +mad except for books. It is very hot, but my body is always cool and +damp, because I can't eat much, I suppose, and lie on a <i>chaise longue</i> +motionless all day long. I can feel myself growing weak, and there is +nothing to do but sit and wait.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p><p>Marie and I go over and over the whole thing, and finish at the point +where we began. "But why?" We think it may be because Marie came to +Bulgaria to visit me and brought me back here, and now we want to leave +Russia together. The papers say that Bulgaria already has German +officers over her troops. But I can't believe it. She is too +independent. They say that she will certainly go with the Central +Powers. That, too, is inconceivable. Perhaps, however, if it is true, +and already known by the Russian authorities, the secret service is +suspicious of our going back there, and of Marie's intention of sailing +home from Dedeagatch, via Greece. What else could it be? How this +uncertainty maddens us! Yet we are thankful for every day that passes +and leaves us together. What will happen when they translate my letter? +<i>Bojé moy!</i> I hear a step outside the door, and my heart simply ceases +to beat.</p> + +<p>Pan Tchedesky to-day tiptoed into our room when the spy was having his +lunch. He whispered to us that he had seen the English Consul, Mr. +Douglas, and told him about our case. He begged us not to be +discouraged, and to eat. He said that he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>almost wept when he saw our +plates come back to the kitchen, untouched. How flabby and livid he +looked, his vague, blurred eyes watery with tears! Yet we could have +embraced him. He is the only person who has spoken to us.</p> + +<p>The sun is golden on the old convent wall across the street. The convent +is empty during the summer. Only the richest Court ladies send their +daughters there to be educated, and the Dowager Empress visits them when +she passes through Kiev. The trees in the garden are gold and green in +the late afternoon sun. A little bell tinkles musically.</p> + +<p>Below in the street some passing soldiers are singing. How fresh and +strong and beautiful their untrained voices are. I wonder if they are +off to the front, for each one carries a pack and a little tea-kettle +swung on his back and a wooden spoon stuck along the side of his leg in +his boot. Where will they be sent? Up north, to try and stem the German +advance? To Riga? Where? The Germans are still advancing. Something is +wrong somewhere. And still soldiers go to the front, singing. They are +thrown into the breach. I can't help but think of the fields of Russian +dead, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>unburied. Who has a chance to bury the dead on a retreat? There +is nothing "decent" in it. Yet they say the retreat is "orderly." I +wonder what that means?</p> + +<p>At night when I try to sleep, I see the map of Russia as if it was +printed on my eyeballs. It is so big and black with a thin red line of +fire eating into it. America seems millions of miles away. I wish I +could touch you just for a minute. If I could only feel your arms about +me for one moment. The only way is not to think beyond this room and +this minute.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>August.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Dearests:—</i></p> + +<p>Peter is here. Last night, about nine o'clock the door opened and he +rushed into the room. I got to my feet on impulse, and then tried to +brace myself and control my disordered reason, for, of course, I +believed myself delirious. He stopped by the door long enough to throw +down his suitcase, and in that instant I struggled fiercely to +disbelieve my eyes. I was fighting myself. My legs trembled. But when I +fell, his arms were around me, supporting me.</p> + +<p>"Is it you? Is it you?" I don't know <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>whether I said the words out loud +or not, but I remember feeling the muscle in Peter's shoulder and +wondering if I could have gone out of my head as much as <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>"What on earth has happened to you two?" he said at last.</p> + +<p>"Let me sit down," I said, feeling suddenly very sick and faint, and a +black spot in front of my eyes expanded all at once and shut out the +swaying room.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you come to Bucharest?" he asked again.</p> + +<p>"How white and thin you are. Isn't he, Marie?" I observed, the blackness +gone from my eyes.</p> + +<p>"Please answer me. What is the matter? You both look sick."</p> + +<p>"We are under arrest for espionage," Marie and I suddenly burst out in +chorus, and we both began talking as fast and as loud as we could.</p> + +<p>"That's all right. I'll fix things for you," Peter reassured us when we +stopped at last, out of breath. I suddenly wanted to hide him so they +wouldn't get him as well as ourselves. He was so self-confident. What +did <i>he</i> know of how things happened over here? He was talking and +acting like a rational human being, which was sure <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>proof he was in no +position to cope with the Russian Secret Service. I felt a frantic +desire to get him out of the room and make him promise that on no +account would he admit he knew us.</p> + +<p>"You must go at once," I whispered. "There's a spy at the door. If he +sees you, they'll arrest you, too. Please go, go at once." And I tried +to push him away.</p> + +<p>"You poor things," he said, laughing. "There's no need to be frightened +like this. Of course I won't go. Why should they arrest me?"</p> + +<p>"Why should they have arrested us? Oh, you <i>don't</i> know." My teeth were +chattering.</p> + +<p>"Now, look here," he said seriously. "You've been alone and scared, and +I'm sure you haven't eaten anything for days. Now, don't think about +this any more. I'll get you out in no time. Have you a cigarette, +anybody?"</p> + +<p>I sat back, and my body stopped shaking. Everything seemed very still. I +had the distinct thought, "What is to come, will come," and I drew a +deep breath that seemed to come from my toes. It was enough Peter was +here, after all.</p> + +<p>We talked till three in the morning. Peter had gone to Bucharest to meet +us, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>and when we didn't arrive, he took the first train to Kiev. I began +to believe in his bodily presence. Before he left to go back to his +hotel, I had regained my conviction he was a match for even the Russian +Secret Service.</p> + +<p>Can you imagine how we feel to-day? We go tottering round the room, +taking things up and putting them down again, in a nervous anxiety to +<i>do</i> something. We chirp the rag-times popular in America two years ago. +We feel as though we were just recovering from a sickness, with a +pleasant bodily weakness like a convalescent's in the springtime. Peter +brought me a bunch of red roses when he came over this morning. I am +writing this while he is seeing Mr. Douglas, the English Consul.</p> + +<p>So much love to you from</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>September.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest ones:—</i></p> + +<p>It has been three weeks since our arrest, and to-day is the first time +we have been allowed to leave the room and go outdoors. We are still +under house-arrest, but we can go out in the garden, while two soldiers +guard the entrance. Isn't it ludicrous? <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>A gendarme came last night and +announced with ponderous importance that we were to be permitted the +liberty of the garden if we gave our word of honor not to try to escape. +We signed two red-sealed documents, and so we can go into the garden +while two soldiers with bayonets look to it that we don't go any +farther.</p> + +<p>Peter had to bully me into leaving my room this afternoon. I didn't want +to get healthy. I had grown so used to the proportions of our rooms I +hated to make the effort to adjust myself to any others. But Peter came +back from his daily round of visits to the English Consul, and the Army +Headquarters, and the office of Kiev's civil governor, and produced from +his coat-pocket a rubber ball. We were to play ball out in the garden, +he said. So, after some persuasion Marie and I went out into the garden +with him. How weak I was. My legs trembled going downstairs, and I was +exhausted when I reached the benches in the garden.</p> + +<p>Janchu, seeing us, ran up joyfully and took his mother by the hand. +"This is my mother," he said in Polish, looking around proudly at the +other children who were playing there.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p><p>Every one looked at us curiously. A head appeared at every window in the +big stone apartment house. I saw the two women spies who had undressed +us. They were evidently employed as servants in some family, for one was +ironing and the other fixing a roast for the oven. They, too, looked out +at us. I felt hot and indignant and, yes, ashamed as though I had been +guilty. I wanted to hide. I felt inadequate to life. People were too +much for me. People—people, the living and the dead. What a weight of +life! I could hardly control my tears. Weakness, I suppose, for the +soles of my feet and my fingertips hurt me as though my nerves were +bared to the touch.</p> + +<p>I looked up over the garden-wall. The tree-tops were yellow. While we +had been locked in our room, the season had changed. Autumn was upon us. +I shivered. There was a lavender mist over the city dimming the radiance +of the gold and silver church domes. How beautiful Kiev was! The +church-bells were so mellow-toned; and the children's shrill laughter +and cries as they played in the garden. But it tired me. Every +impression seemed to bruise me.</p> + +<p>Peter bought some little Polish cakes, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>and we had hot tea to cheer us +up—three and four glasses of tea.</p> + +<p>Good-night. Sometimes, when I think of you, I don't see all of you, but +instead a particular gesture, or I hear an inflection of voice that is +too familiar to be borne. Now I see mother's hands and they are +beautiful.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>September.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Dearests:—</i></p> + +<p>Every day now we go out into the garden. We play ball and play tag in +the wind to get warm.</p> + +<p>There is a private hospital at one end of our apartment house, supported +by a wealthy Polish woman. Two or three times a week she visits the +patients, young officers who go out into the garden with her and kiss +her hand and talk and flirt. She sits on a garden-bench surrounded by +her young men, a big woman in black, with a long black veil, talking +vivaciously, using her hands in quick, expressive gestures, patting +their cheeks, leaning forward to give their hands an impulsive squeeze. +When she laughs, which is often, the black line of a mustache on her +upper lip makes <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>the white of her teeth whiter still. The days when she +isn't there, the convalescents flirt with the nurses. There is nothing +horrible about this hospital. The patients are only slightly wounded, +and wear becoming bathrobes when they lounge round.</p> + +<p>The window-ledges of the rooms are gay with flowers. Almost always a +phonograph is going, "Carmen," or "Onégin," or "Pagliacci." Sometimes, +Peter and I one-step to the music on the pavement outside, and the +officers and nurses crowd to the windows and clap and cry, "Encore!" +Often, after sundown, when the children have gone indoors, and we go out +for a walk before dinner, we see a patient with a bandage around his +head, perhaps, but both arms well enough to be clasping a pretty nurse +in them. They laugh and we laugh. There is no cynicism about it. It's +bigger than that, it seems to me.</p> + +<p>Into the garden come many street musicians. They play and sing, and +showers of kopecks rain down from the windows. Two little girls came a +few days ago. They were Tziganes, barefooted, with gay petticoats and +flowered shawls and dangling earrings. Their dark hair was short and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>curly. One of the children played a <i>balalaika</i> and sang in a broken, +mournful voice that did not at all belong to her age. The other—who +wore the prettiest dress, yellow, with a green and purple shawl—danced +like a little marionette on a string, not an expression in her pointed, +brown face, but every now and then accelerating the pace of her dance, +and giving sharp, high cries. Then, suddenly, they stopped in the middle +of a measure, and held out their aprons for money. A window on the +ground floor opened and a very pretty woman leaned out. I have seen her +many times. She is Polish, the daughter of a concierge, and now the +mistress of a young Cossack, who is leaving shortly for the front. She +has heavy, pale-yellow hair, wound around her head in thick braids, and +she wears pearls, opaque like her skin. She beckoned the little girls +into her room. They went eagerly. Soon I heard them singing there.</p> + +<p>When we were with Dr. ——, from the Red Cross hospital this afternoon, +a soldier came up to us and saluted. He was a miserable-looking +creature, in a uniform too big for him. His face was unshaven, his beard +gray and sparse, and his eyes red <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>and blinking and full of pain. He +slouched away again in a moment, his eyes staring down at the sidewalk +under his feet.</p> + +<p>"What did he want?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"He wants brandy. He's leaving for the front to-morrow, and he asked me +to write out a doctor's prescription so he could get a little brandy. +Poor fellow. It was impossible, of course, but I'd have done it gladly. +He said he'd been wounded and discharged, and had to go back to the +front and leave his family, helpless, again. The second time must be so +much worse than the first. You know what it's like out there."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>September.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest ones:—</i></p> + +<p>At last I have heard from the letter about the Jewish detention camp. +The English Consul came to our rooms yesterday afternoon and said he was +to act as interpreter for the head of the secret police. I was to be +ready to answer his questions about eight o'clock that night. He told me +to keep my temper and say as little as possible.</p> + +<p>Shortly before eight the Consul and the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>chief came round together. We +all sat down. I was quite calm. So often I had created my own terror of +this moment that when it came I met it with relief. I even felt a sense +of superiority over the chief of the secret service. I don't know why, +I'm sure. Perhaps because I was no longer afraid of him. It was as +though I had stuck my head under a pump of ice-cold water. I felt very +clear-headed. I had a curious feeling that things were as they were and +nothing I could say could change them.</p> + +<p>"Are you a Jew?" he asked me first.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Is your mother or father Jewish?"</p> + +<p>"No. There is no Jewish blood in our family." I thought of Dad's +Quakerism and smiled. I wondered what he would have said if he had been +there.</p> + +<p>"Then why have you such sympathy for them?" He looked at me narrowly, as +though he had me <i>there</i>.</p> + +<p>"Because they are suffering."</p> + +<p>"Tck." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in the most +skeptical fashion.</p> + +<p>He took up my letter, translated into Russian, and went through it. The +whole thing was a farce. I answered the questions <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>he asked me, but they +didn't get us anywhere. Of course, everything I knew about the Jewish +detention camp I had written in my letter. All I could do was to repeat +what I had said there. And when he asked questions like, "Who said five +old men had been killed along the way?" or, "How did you know throwing +the bodies into the Dnieper had brought cholera into Kiev this summer?" +I could only reply, "I was told it." "Who told you?" "I forget."</p> + +<p>When he got up to go he said:—</p> + +<p>"This letter makes your case a very serious one. Of course, we can't +have such things as that published about us. Have you ever written +before?"</p> + +<p>I said, "No."</p> + +<p>"You aren't reporting for any journal?"</p> + +<p>I assured him it was only a letter I had written my mother and father.</p> + +<p>"It goes out of my hands to-night. I shall hand it with a report to the +Chief of the General Staff."</p> + +<p>"When shall I hear from them?"</p> + +<p>"They will let you know as soon as possible. It's unfortunate you should +have written it. Otherwise, I could have settled the matter myself. As +it is, it is a matter for the military authorities. Of course, such <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>a +letter written in the war zone, at a time like this—" He stopped +himself. "Good-night. Good-night." He clicked his heels and bowed +himself out of the room.</p> + +<p>"Ouf!" we all said.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Pierce, promise me you won't put your pen to paper again while you +are in Russia," the English Consul said, smiling.</p> + +<p>"But isn't it ridiculous—absurd—disgusting!" I said.</p> + +<p>"People are sent to Siberia for less," the Consul said. "But don't be +frightened, Mrs. Pierce. It will come out all right."</p> + +<p>"Of course. But when?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Seichas</i>," he replied, smiling.</p> + +<p>"<i>Seichas.</i>" How I hate the expression. "Peter, you'd better cable for +some more money. Heaven knows when we'll get out now," I said.</p> + +<p>Peter sends love too. We are hungry for news from you, and we picture +greedily the piles of letters we shall find waiting for us in Bulgaria. +I try not to be anxious about you—But I wake up at night and this +silence of months is like a dead weight on my heart.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>September.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Dear ones:—</i></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Olga? You are sick," I said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p><p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>There are placards in all the banks, offering to give people the value +of their jewels and silverware.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>his</i> +things fall into the Germans' hands. How strange it looked—the feverish +haste with which the house was being emptied!</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And all night long high-powered automobiles rush up the hill to the +General Headquarters, bearing dispatches from the front.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p><p>You seem far away to-night. Only I love you. I can't love you enough.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darlingest Mother and Dad:—</i></p> + +<p>This afternoon I went up to the English Consulate with Sasha. As we +turned the corner we saw a long gray procession of carts crawling down +the hill toward us. I stopped and watched them pass me, one after the +other, crowded over to the side of the road by the usual traffic of a +busy street. Peasants walked by the horses' heads, men in dusty +sheepskin coats, or women muffled up somehow, their hands hidden in the +bosoms of their waists for warmth. They stared ahead with a curious, +blind look in their eyes, as though they did not realize the noise and +movement of the city life about them. How strange it was, the passing of +this silent peasant procession by the side of the clanging trains and +gray war automobiles!</p> + +<p>"Who are these people?" I asked Sasha.</p> + +<p>"They must be the fugitives," she replied. "Every day they come in +increasing numbers. I have heard the Kiev authorities are trying to turn +them aside and make <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>them go round the outskirts; for what can a city do +with whole provinces of homeless and hungry peasants?"</p> + +<p>"You mean they are the refugees who have been driven out of their homes +by the enemy?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes. By the Germans and Austrians."</p> + +<p>The carts jolted slowly down the hill, the brakes grinding against the +wheels, the little rough-coated horses holding back in the shafts. +Sometimes, where there should have been two horses, there was only one. +The others evidently had been sold or else died on the way. Only one +small horse to drag a heavy double cart crowded with people and +furnishings. One little horse looked about to drop. His sides were +heaving painfully and his eyes were glazed. "Why don't they stop and +rest," I thought. "Why does that man keep on? His horse will die, and +then what will he do?"</p> + +<p>"What do they do when their horses give out?" I asked Sasha.</p> + +<p>"What can they do?" she replied. "What did they do when they were forced +to leave their farms and lands? They bear it. The Russian people have a +great capacity for suffering. Think of it—what this <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>means +now—hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people made homeless and sent +wandering over the face of the earth. Think of the separations—the +families broken up—the bewilderment. A month ago, perhaps, they had +their houses and lands and food to eat. They were muzhiks. And now they +are wandering, homeless, like Tziganes. Ah, the Russian people were born +into a heritage of suffering, and to us all the future is hidden."</p> + +<p>I kept my eyes on the endless procession. Some of the carts were open +farm wagons, piled with hay, and hung with strange assortments of +household utensils. Frying-pans and kettles were strung along the sides, +enameled ones, sometimes, that showed a former prosperity. Inside were +piles of mattresses and chairs; perhaps a black stovepipe stuck out +through the slatted sides of the cart. The women and children huddled +together in the midst of their household goods, wrapped up in the extra +petticoats and waists and shawls they had brought along—anything for +warmth. The children were pale and pinched, and some of them had their +eyes closed as though they were sick. If they looked at you, it was +without any curiosity <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>or eagerness. How pitiful the indifference of the +children was!</p> + +<p>Sometimes the carts were covered with faded cloth stretched over rounded +frameworks like gypsy-wagons. There, the old <i>babas</i> sat on the front +seats, eyes like black shoe-buttons, with their lives almost finished. +They seemed the least affected by the misery and change. They occupied +the most comfortable places, and held the bright-colored ikons in their +arms—the most precious possession of a Russian home. Perhaps a dog was +tied under the wagon, or a young colt trotted along by its mother's +side.</p> + +<p>It was as though there had been a great fire, and every one had caught +up what he could to save from destruction: homes broken into little bits +to be put together again in a strange land.</p> + +<p>An open cart broke down in front of us. The woman got out to help her +husband. She had a round, pock-marked face, as expressionless as wood. +She wore a bright shawl over her hair, and a long sheepskin coat, with +the sleeves and pockets beautifully embroidered in colors. It was dirty, +now, but indicated she had been well-to-do once. She limped badly.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p><p>"Good-evening," I said.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening, excellency," she replied civilly.</p> + +<p>"Are you hurt?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"My feet are blistered from the walking," she replied. "I take turns +with my husband."</p> + +<p>"Where are you from?"</p> + +<p>"Rovno."</p> + +<p>"How long have you been on the way?"</p> + +<p>"Many weeks. Who knows how long?"</p> + +<p>"And where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"Where the others go. Somewhere into the interior."</p> + +<p>The procession had not halted, but, turning out for the broken-down +cart, continued uninterruptedly down the hill. Every now and then the +peasant looked up anxiously.</p> + +<p>"We must hurry. We mustn't be left behind," he muttered.</p> + +<p>"What do you eat?" I asked the woman.</p> + +<p>"What we can find. Sometimes we get food at the relief stations, or we +get it along the way."</p> + +<p>"Do the villages you pass through help you?" I persisted.</p> + +<p>"They do what they can. But there are so many of us."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p><p>"Can't you find cabbages and potatoes in the fields?" I asked.</p> + +<p>The woman looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and did not reply.</p> + +<p>"Why do you want to know these things?" she asked, after a silence. +"What business is it of yours?"</p> + +<p>"I want to help you."</p> + +<p>"Help us." She shook her head. "But I'll tell you," she said. "I did +take some potatoes once. It was before the cold weather. I dug them out +of a field we passed through after dark. No one saw me. My children were +crying with hunger and I had nothing to give them. So I dug up a handful +of potatoes in the dark. But God saw me and punished me. I cooked the +potatoes over a fire by the roadside, but He kept the heat from reaching +the inside of the potatoes. Two of my children sickened and died from +eating them. It was God's punishment. We buried them along the road. My +husband made the crosses out of wood and carved their names on them. +They lie way behind us now—unsung. But perhaps those who pass along the +road and see the crosses will offer up a prayer."</p> + +<p>"I will burn candles for them," I said. "What were their names?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p><p>"Sonia and Peter Kolpakova, your excellency. You are good. God bless +you!" And she kissed my hands.</p> + +<p>I looked at the three children who were left. They sat in the cart +silently, surrounded by the incongruous collection of pots and pans, and +leaning against a painted chest. The chest was covered with dust, but +you could still see a bunch of bright-painted flowers behind the +children's heads.</p> + +<p>"Poor little things," I said. "Are they cold?"</p> + +<p>"It's hard on the children," the mother replied stolidly. "They can't +stand it as we can. We are used to trouble. We know what life is. But +the children—they are sick most of the time. They have no strength +left. What can we do for them? We have no medicines. Have you any +medicines?" she asked, with a sudden, hopeful glint in her dull, +wide-set eyes. "No?" Her face regained its impassivity.</p> + +<p>Her husband straightened himself, grunting. He had finished tying the +broken wheel together with rope.</p> + +<p>"Come, we must be moving. Hurry, or we'll be left behind," he said, +going to the little horse's head.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p><p>The woman climbed back into the cart and took the youngest child in her +arms. A feeble wail came from the dull-colored bundle. Her husband +turned the horse into the procession again.</p> + +<p>Still the carts were coming over the hill, gray and dusty, with the +peasants and their wives walking beside the horses' heads. What a river +of suffering! What a smell came from it! And automobiles and tramways +rushed by.</p> + +<p>Is this the twentieth century?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I delayed mailing my last letter, so I shall tell you about another +glimpse I've had of the refugees. Yesterday, as we sat drinking tea, we +heard the rumble and creak of heavy wagons outside the <i>pension</i>. The +noise reached us distinctly in spite of the windows being hermetically +sealed with putty for the winter. At first we thought it was the regular +train of carts that climb Institutska Oulitza every evening at six +o'clock carrying provisions to the barracks. But the rumble and creak +persisted so long that I went to the window at last to see why there +were so many more carts than usual.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p><p>There was a procession of carts, but instead of going up the hill in the +direction of the barracks, it was descending the hill, and instead of +soldiers in clumsy uniforms, peasants in bell-shaped sheepskin coats +walked by their horses' heads, snapping the long lash whips they carried +in their hands. I recognized the covered gypsy wagons and the open carts +with their bulky loads. It was too dark to see distinctly, but I knew +they were refugees by the strings of kettles along the sides of the +carts, which caught the electric light in coppery flashes. And in the +open wagons I could see the pale disks of faces. As I watched, the +procession came to a stand-still and the drivers collected in little +groups under the white globes of the street lamps. I went outdoors and +crossed the street to them.</p> + +<p>I approached a group of three men.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening," I said.</p> + +<p>"Good-evening, Panna," they replied.</p> + +<p>"Have you come far?"</p> + +<p>"Far? I should say we've been two months on the road," replied the +best-dressed man of the three. He had fur cuffs and collar on his long +sheepskin coat, and his boots were strong and well made.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p><p>"Can you tell me where we can get some tobacco?" he asked.</p> + +<p>I directed him down the street a little way. He took a piece of silver +from a leather purse he wore round his neck, and gave it to one of his +companions, who left on the errand. The other man went round to the tail +of the cart and took down two bags of grain for the horses' supper.</p> + +<p>"Good horses you have there," I said, to say something.</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed; the best horses a man ever had; less good ones would have +died on the road long ago. I bought them for fifty roubles apiece, and I +wouldn't take two hundred and fifty for them to-day. But, then, they're +all I have left of back there." He spoke in a quiet voice, scratching +his stubby, unshaven face, absent-mindedly.</p> + +<p>"Is he traveling with you?" I asked, pointing to the man who was +slinging the grain-bags round the horses' necks.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I picked him up along the road. His horse had died under him and +he counted himself no longer a human being. What was he, indeed, with +nothing he could call his own in the world any more? I let him come +along with me. I had extra <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>room. So I let him come along with me." His +voice had no expression in it.</p> + +<p>"But haven't you a family?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"I have three children," he replied.</p> + +<p>"It must be hard to take care of children at such a time as this."</p> + +<p>"God knows it is," he replied. There was a sudden desperate note in his +voice. "It's a woman's business. But my wife died on the way. A month +and a half ago—soon after we started. It seems soon, now, but we'd been +long enough on the road to kill her with the jolting and misery of it."</p> + +<p>"Was she sick?"</p> + +<p>"She died in childbirth. There was no one to take care of her, and +nothing for her to eat. I made a fire, and she lay on the ground. All +night she moaned. She died toward morning. The baby only lived a few +hours. It was better it should die. What was ahead of it but suffering? +It was a boy, and my wife and I had always wanted a boy. But I wouldn't +have minded so much if the little wife had lived. It's hard without +her."</p> + +<p>The man returned with the tobacco and the three peasants lighted +cigarettes. All was quiet. I heard nothing but the champing <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>of the +horses as they munched the grain and the whistling of the wind through +the poplars in the convent garden.</p> + +<p>"Kiev is a big city—a holy city, I've heard. Many from our town have +made a pilgrimage here," the rich peasant observed.</p> + +<p>For the moment I'd forgotten where I was. Now I heard the city noises; +the footsteps grinding on pavements; the whistle and grinding of trains. +And the lights from the city reddened the mists that rose from the +Dnieper.</p> + +<p>The carts in front began to move on.</p> + +<p>"Where are we going?"—"What are the orders?"—"Is there a relief +station here?" every one cried at once.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye. A good journey," I cried.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>The men stepped out into the road again. I watched cart after cart pass +me. The women looked straight out between the horses' ears, and showed +no curiosity or wonderment at being in a big city for the first time in +their lives. Strange sights and faces had no significance for them any +more.</p> + +<p>I ducked under a horse's nose and went indoors again.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p><p>There is something shameful in our security. We have shelter and bread. +We can only feel life indirectly, after all. We are always muffled up by +things. And America. A pathologic fear clutches me, for how will it all +end?</p> + +<p>My love to you every minute.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Dearests:—</i></p> + +<p>There seems no beginning or end to my stay here. How strange it is to +look back to July and remember the long, hot days and the languorous +nights when, in spite of the war, people walked in the gardens and +listened to the music and drank punch out of tea-cups, pretending it was +tea. The still, starlit nights of July.</p> + +<p>I remember a dinner Princess P—— gave at Koupietsky Park a few nights +after my arrival in Russia. Everything was so new to me. Our table was +set out on the terrace, overlooking the Dnieper, with the music and stir +of people in the distance. An irresponsible joy filled my heart as I +looked down at the black, winding river with its shadowy banks and the +fantastic shimmer of lights on the water. The city <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>lights crowded down +to the very water's edge; then the drifting red and green lights of +steamers and ferry-boats moving on the black, magic stream, and beyond, +the flat plain, silent and mysterious, with, over the horizon rim, the +thunder and clang of war. But war was far away those first days I was in +Russia. I hardly thought of it.</p> + +<p>The dome and square walls of a monastery were momentarily whitened by a +wheeling searchlight, and high up against the dusky, starlit sky was +printed a shining gold cross. Women's dresses glimmered in the darkness +like gray, widespread wings of moths, and laughter came from the curve +of the terrace overlooking the monastery garden.</p> + +<p>"My child, there are tears in your eyes; how pretty!" the Princess +cried, taking my hand in hers and stroking it with her small, cold +fingers.</p> + +<p>There were other Americans present beside myself, and I knew the +Princess loved one of them. It was to make him jealous, I knew, that she +held my hand in hers throughout dinner. She, herself, hardly ate +anything, only smoked one cigarette after another. There were all <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>sorts +of <i>zakouski</i>, stuffed tomatoes and cucumbers and queer little fishes in +oil, and pickled sturgeon and mushrooms, and salads and caviar, and +there was <i>kvass</i> to drink,—deep red,—and a champagne cup served in a +teapot, and cigarettes all through the meal.</p> + +<p>The Princess was middle-aged and wanted to appear youthful; so she dyed +her hair blue-black which was harsh for her pointed face, and wore +costly, too elaborate clothes from Paris. But her body showed delicately +round under the laces and chiffons, and she was quick and light in her +gestures like a bird. Her husband, who had been twice her age, had died, +leaving her large estates and much money. Now she moved about Russia +with a maid and a wee little dog and numberless trunks, frivolously +seeking her pleasure. Her eyes were black and glittering, and her mouth +red and thin and flexible. She had caressing, spoiled ways with every +one from the American whom she called "Meester" to her chow dog, and all +she asked from any one was amusement.</p> + +<p>"I like Americans," she said with shameless flattery. "So much I like +them. The women—<i>and</i> the men. I shall go to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>New York after the war, +and you will show me your famous cabarets, and—what do you call it?" +She appealed to "Meester."</p> + +<p>"Broadway—good old Broadway," he replied indulgently.</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes. B-r-r-oadway. And I will dance all night. I dance +magnificently. Is it not so, Meester? Yes, I will go to New York and +become just like an American."</p> + +<p>After dinner we went to a wrestling-match, and "Meester" took the +Princess, radiant and vivacious and paying all the bills, back to the +Continental.</p> + +<p>Since July war has come nearer Kiev. The hospitals are full of maimed +and wounded soldiers who fought to defend Russia. They made a bulwark of +their breasts. It was as though one single giant breast, hundreds of +versts broad, thrust itself between the Germans and home.</p> + +<p>And it is winter now. The days are short with an icy, gray mist from the +Dnieper, and flurries of snow. There is a shortage of coal, and we sit +shivering in our apartment. We drag the covers off the beds and wrap +ourselves up in them while we read books from the circulating library or +play three-handed bridge. The wind rattles the windows and streaks the +panes with snow <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>and rain. But however dirty they get, they must remain +unwashed till spring; for they are sealed for the winter with putty, and +you can open only one small pane at the top. The apartment is darker +than ever. Not once does the sun shine into our rooms. We see the +sunlight in the street, but the dark shadow of the building lengthens +minute by minute, stretching itself across the street and reaching up +over the convent wall like the smothering black hand of a giant, till +only the tips of the cypresses and poplars in the gardens are red in the +late sunlight.</p> + +<p>At tea-time we go to "François's" or to some other little sweet-shop, in +order to get warm. There, we drink glass after glass of weak tea and eat +little Polish cakes, and look over the English and French periodicals.</p> + +<p>It is dark when we go out into the street again, and the air is frosty. +The officers wear short gray coats, braided and lined with fur, and fur +caps. The women are muffled in seal and sable, which make the skin look +clear and white and their eyes brilliant. Even the peasants wear +sheepskin coats, bell-shaped and richly embroidered. Marie has winter +clothes, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>but the warmest thing I possess is my traveling suit I wore +here in June, which has been getting thinner and thinner ever since. My +feet, in low summer pumps, are swollen and burning with chilblains. I +must get some high shoes when our next money comes. You see, that is the +trouble. We are promised our passports from day to day, and, expecting +to go at any time, we try to get along with what money we have, and wait +to buy clothes till we get back to Bucharest. But our passports are not +given us and our money gets low. We are waiting for money now, and, of +course, a cold snap has set in just when we can't possibly buy anything. +Peter's summer suit hangs on him in folds. The heaviest iron couldn't +crease it into even temporary shape. When we went to the cinematograph +last night he wore Marie's black fur coat to keep from freezing.</p> + +<p>"Look at that man," we heard a woman say in the street. "He's wearing a +woman's coat!"</p> + +<p>Yes, we go from café to cinematograph and try and keep warm.</p> + +<p>I've never liked moving pictures before. Here they are presented +differently than in America. Some of the plays I've seen <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>have the +naïveté and simplicity of a confession. Others interpret abnormal, +psychopathic characters whose feelings and thoughts are expressed by the +actors with a fine and vivid realism. There is the exultation of life, +and the despair, the aggression and apathy, the frivolity and the +revolt. The action is taken slowly. There are no stars. You look at the +screen as though you were looking at life itself. And the films don't +always have happy endings, because life isn't always kind. It often +seems senseless and cruel and crushes men's spirits. I wish we could +have these films in America instead of the jig-saw puzzles I've seen.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There is a gypsy who sells fruit at the corner of Institutska Oulitza, a +woman so enormous that she resembles a towering mountain, and her +customers look, beside her, like tiny Russian toys. Every one looks at +her curiously, and I have seen several gentlemen in fur pelisses, with +gold-headed canes, stop and speak to her. In the morning she wheels up +her cart by the curbing and polishes the pears and apples with the end +of her shawl till they shine. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>Then she piles them up in red and yellow +pyramids and waits for customers, her hands on her hips. Everything +about her is crude and flaming and inextinguishable like life itself. +Her scarlet skirt lights up the whole street. It floats about her, and +when she bends over to serve a customer, you can see the edges of green +and yellow and pink and brown petticoats underneath as her overskirt +tilts up. The lines of her body are brutal and compact. Her dark, +mulberry-colored shawl is stretched tightly across her full bosom. Her +eyebrows meet over her nose in a heavy, broad line like a smudge of +charcoal, and her nose is spongy, and her lips swollen and red from +taking snuff. She holds her black and silver snuff-box in her hand or +hides it away in a pocket in her voluminous skirt when she serves some +one. Her fingers are covered with rings and she wears yellow hoops in +her ears. I am repulsed as well as attracted. She is like a bold, +upright stroke of life, and then I see her crafty eyes and notice how, +in spite of her size, when she moves it is with the softness and +flexibility of a huge cat.</p> + +<p>Peter went to Petrograd to-day and he will stay there till he gets our +passports. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>He would have gone a month ago, but first came the panic +from the German advance, and then the railways were used only for +military purposes. Now, Marie and I are alone, waiting for a telegram +from him.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>To-day, the chief of the secret service came and told us all political +prisoners were to be sent on to Siberia. He told us to make a small +bundle of necessary things and be ready to leave at any time. With Peter +in Petrograd! I asked him where we were going and he shrugged his +shoulders. I went to Mr. Douglas, who has wired Peter. Also, he is going +to see the chief and try and keep in touch with us. We won't leave till +the last moment. But already many of the hospitals have been moved, and +certain prisoners. I suppose I must destroy these letters to you. But I +will wait till the last moment. I want so much for you to get them and +know what has happened, because I shan't see you, to tell you with my +voice, for over a year still. I have written so fully for that reason.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>A few days later.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We are still here, and there is more hope in the situation. There is a +persistent report <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>in the papers, and it is repeated in the streets and +houses, that the Germans have been stopped by Riga and Dvinsk. Large +bodies of troops are moved through Kiev, day and night, for the front. +Regular train service is suspended by this movement of troops.</p> + +<p>Huge vans pass through the city, carrying aeroplanes to the aviation +field outside the barracks. Once we saw a wrecked one being sent to be +repaired. A troop of small boys followed it, looking curiously at the +broad, broken wings and the tangle of steel framework.</p> + +<p>Guns are arriving, too. We see them being carted through the streets. +And early this morning we heard cannon. Our first thought was of the +Germans, and we lay in bed, stiff with fright. Later, we heard they were +the new cannon being tried out before being sent to the front. They say +that fresh ammunition has been received from Japan and America. All +trains are held up to let these trainloads of guns and cannon and +ammunition go tearing over the rails to the front to save Russia. And +just in time. I see the open cars packed and covered and guarded by +soldiers. I lie in bed and hear the whistle <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>and shriek of the trains in +the night, and I imagine row upon row of long iron-throated cannon +staring up at the stars.</p> + +<p>The Czar has arrived in Kiev for a conference at Headquarters. He came +during the night, and no one knows when he will leave. There was no +demonstration, and the police break up any groups of more than three +persons in the streets.</p> + +<p>A dozen or so Japanese officers passed through Kiev, too. They were +bound for the front, escorting their guns and ammunition. How curious +they looked beside the big, naïve Russians. They were like porcelain +figurines with impenetrable, yellow faces, mask-like, and tiny hands and +feet. What a finished product they appear, and yet they go to the front +and observe the latest methods of warfare and multiply their merchant +marine while the rest of the world is spending itself.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I went to a military hospital to-day. It was up on a hill, a huge place, +formerly a school, I think, with a broad piazza where the convalescents +walked in their gray bathrobes. Inside were rows and rows of cots, and +on every cot a wounded man. It <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>appeared that a fresh batch had arrived +from the front, and the doctors were just finishing with them. There was +a foul smell of blood and sweat and anæsthetics, and the light came +dismally through the dirty window-panes, showing dimly the rows and rows +of pale, weary faces on the thin pillows. Sometimes the gray blankets +came up to the chin, and the man looked dead already, he was so +dreadfully still, with his closed eyes and waxlike face. Another moaned +continuously, moving his head from side to side—"Oh, oh—Oh, oh." His +eyes were open, and hard and bright with fever. Several had their heads +wound with strips of bandages. You would hardly have known they were +human. Two or three were blind, with the bandage only round their eyes, +and it was strange to see the expression their hands took on—workmen's +hands with stubby fingers, now white and helpless-looking, and picking +at the cover aimlessly.</p> + +<p>A nurse told me how an officer who had been blinded and was about to be +discharged and sent home, had committed suicide the other day. In some +way one of his men, who had been wounded in the arm, had been able to +smuggle in a revolver <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>to him. The officer killed himself in the middle +of the night.</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose he knew whether it was day or night, and took a chance +that no one was looking," I said.</p> + +<p>"I think he knew it was night," she replied. "He could tell by the +others' breathing. I was night nurse. He was dead before I reached him. +The soldier gave himself up of his own accord. He will be +court-martialed, of course, though every one knows he did the best +thing. He said to us, 'He was my captain. He ordered me to get the +revolver, and I only obeyed orders. I would do it again.' We had a hard +time the rest of the night to quiet the men."</p> + +<p>In a small room to one side were six men gone mad. They were quite +harmless and lay quietly in bed. Besides having their reason smashed to +bits by the horrors at the front, they were badly wounded. I was ashamed +to stand there looking at them. What was I? Suddenly, one of them, a +young boy surely not more than twenty-one or twenty-two, caught sight of +us, and he fixed his eyes upon us in a curious, concentrated way as if +to assure himself we were real. And then, all at once, abject <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>terror +leapt into his eyes. His mouth opened and the cords of his neck stood +out. He threw both arms before his face as if to ward off somebody or +something. He began to scream out quick, unintelligible words in a +high-pitched, staccato voice. I looked fearfully at the others to see if +his terror would be communicated to them. But they were apparently +oblivious of each other, wrapped up in their separate lives and +experiences. One middle-aged man, with a rough, reddish beard, was +smiling mildly and smoothing the sheet as though it had been somebody's +hair. We left the room, leaving the nurse to calm the screaming man. I +thought of the terrors and fears and memories in that room: the snatches +of memories pieced together that made up the actual lives, now, of those +broken men in there.</p> + +<p>"Are they—do they suffer?" I asked the doctor.</p> + +<p>"No. They don't seem to realize that they are wounded and suffer the way +normal people would with their wounds. The only thing is, they all have +moments of terror, when it's all we can do to quiet them. They think the +wall of the room is the enemy moving down on them. I <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>guess they went +through hell all right, there at the front!"</p> + +<p>"Will they get better?"</p> + +<p>"We can't tell. We have a specialist studying just such cases. These men +seem pretty well smashed, to me."</p> + +<p>In one corner lay a young man propped up with pillows. A nurse was +holding his hand. His eyes were looking at her so trustfully. He hardly +seemed to be breathing and his face was bloodless—even his lips were +dead white. And as I looked, he gave a little sigh, and his eyes closed +and his body sagged among the pillows. The nurse bent over him and then +straightened herself. Quickly she arranged a screen round the bed. When +she walked away, I could see she was crying uncontrollably.</p> + +<p>"Is he—?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He's dead," the doctor replied. "He's been dying for a week. He +was terribly wounded in the stomach, and there was nothing we could do +for him. It was a repulsive case to care for, but Sister Mary had full +charge of it. She sat with him for hours at a time. In the beginning, to +encourage him, she bought a pair of boots he was to wear when he got +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>well. For days, now, he's been out of his head and fancied she was his +mother."</p> + +<p>And life presses as close to death as that—while I was looking at him, +he had died. I just managed to reach the door before I fainted.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Governor of Kiev has been removed. He was too cautious. It was a bad +example!</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Darling ones:—</i></p> + +<p>There is the most careful avoidance of any official responsibility here +in trying to find out where our passports are, and who is to return +them. We have already unraveled yards of red tape, and still there is no +end. Of course, ever since Peter came he has followed a schedule of +visits—one day to the English Consul; another day to the secret police, +then to the Military Governor, the Civil Governor, the Chief of Staff, +and back, in desperation, to the English Consul. There is an American +Vice-Consul here, but he is wholly ineffectual, since he has not yet +been officially received. His principal duty consists in distributing +relief to the Polish refugees. Mr. Douglas, the English Consul, is our +one hope, and he is untiring in his efforts to help us. If we ever get +out, it will be due to him. The English Government is behind its +representatives here in a way that the American State Department is not. +Partly, I suppose, this is because <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>America has no treaty with Russia, +on account of the Jew clause. At any rate, you might just as well be a +Fiji Islander as an American, for all the consideration you get from +officialdom.</p> + +<p>Did I write you about the naturalized American Jew in the detention +camp? He had come back to Galicia in the summer of 1914 to see his +sister married. After the outbreak of the war, he was refused permission +to leave the country, and when the wholesale clean-up started, he was +deported with the others. The day I visited the detention camp he had +just arrived, and, knowing we were Americans, he tried to secure our +aid. He had managed to keep his American passport, and brought it out to +us to prove his naturalization and to strengthen his demand to be set +free as an American citizen. The overseer, hearing his excited voice and +seeing us examine a large sheet of paper, came up. He looked like a +butcher, in his dirty-white linen coat, his legs planted apart, his +hands fingering his short whip. The way in which he joined our group and +made himself one with us, without so much as by your leave, was +disturbing. The cool self-assurance of even a petty Russian <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>official is +sinister. They are straw men to your reason, but hard facts if you bump +up against them. Our curiosity flagged, conscious as we were all the +time of his unblinking ferret-eyes on us, and we showed a certain +alacrity to return the passport to its rightful owner. When we were +handing it back to the Jew, the overseer thrust out his hand and said, +"Let me see it."</p> + +<p>There was nothing for the Jew to do but hand it over. The overseer could +not read a word of English, of course, but from the big red American +seal he could recognize it as an official document.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, he tore it in halves, and as the Jew tried to grab it out of +his hands, he cuffed the Jew down, and continued deliberately to tear it +into tiny bits.</p> + +<p>"I am an American and that is my passport," the Jew cried.</p> + +<p>"That's what I think of an American passport," the overseer replied, +looking us over with incredible impudence as he walked away.</p> + +<p>The rest of Russian officialdom must regard American rights in much the +same way, since it is four months now that we have been detained.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p><p>I went to the headquarters of the secret police the other day with Mr. +Douglas. It is located in the opposite end of the town, down a quiet +side street—an unobtrusive, one-storied brown house that gives the +impression of trying to hide itself from people's notice. It is reached +by a narrow, stone-flagged path, crowded in between two houses which +block its view from the street. There are four windows in a row on the +front façade, all with the curtains drawn. These four blind windows add +to the secretive appearance. Over the front steps the yellowing leaves +of a lime tree rustled in the wind and detached themselves one by one.</p> + +<p>We rang the bell. While we waited, I was conscious of being watched, +and, glancing up quickly, I saw the curtain at one of the windows fall +back into place. The door opened a crack, and a white face with a long, +thin nose, and horn-rimmed spectacles with smoky glass to hide the eyes, +peered out at us furtively. Mr. Douglas handed the spy his card and the +door was shut softly in our faces.</p> + +<p>In about three minutes the door was opened again, and a gendarme in +uniform ushered us into a long room thick with <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>stale tobacco-smoke. He +gave me a chair, and while we waited I looked about at the walls with +the brightly colored portraits of the Czar and the Czarina and the royal +family, and the ikon in one corner. "Give up all hope all ye who enter +here."</p> + +<p>The room was silent except for the scratch of pens on paper. The +secret-service spies sat at long tables, writing laboriously, and +smoking. They all wore civilian clothes, and I recognized most of them. +I had passed them on the street or sat beside them in restaurants, and +three had come with the chief to arrest us. I wondered what they were +writing. Some one was being betrayed or ruined. That was how they lived. +I looked for the mark of their calling on them, but at first they +appeared an ordinary crowd, pale, with a thick, unhealthy pallor, as +though from an indoor life. Their suits were poor enough,—worn +threadbare,—and their fingernails were dirty. Furtively they glanced up +at me and examined me curiously, and then gave quick, frightened looks +on either side to see if their comrades had observed their interest in +me. What a mediocre, shabby crowd, with their low foreheads and +dead-white skin and dirty linen, and, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>yes, the stamp on them that made +them infamous! It was as though their profession affected them the way +that living in a close, dark room would, stupefying and making them +bestial.</p> + +<p>And then the chief came in, accompanied by two spies with black +portfolios under their arms. When he saw us, he grew white with anger. +He looked like a German, spurred and booted, with square head and jaw +and steel-like eyes and compressed, cruel lips. He was the only +well-dressed one in the crowd, but his livery was the same as theirs. He +was their superior, that was all, and how I loathed him!</p> + +<p>"He's angry because we were brought in here," Douglas whispered under +his breath.</p> + +<p>The chief turned his back on us.</p> + +<p>The spies scribbled away furiously, their noses close to their paper, +not daring to look up.</p> + +<p>We were taken into another room, a small back room, bare except for a +table and sofa and a tawdry ikon in the farthest corner. And there we +waited fully fifteen minutes in absolute silence. How silent that house +was, full of invisible horrors! The headquarters of the secret +police—why shouldn't it be terrifying when you <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>think of the men and +women who have been brought here in secret, and their existence suddenly +snapped off: secret arrest, secret trial, or no trial at all, and then a +secret sending-off up north, out of the reach of the world! What strange +abortions of life this Government brings forth! Is it curious that +thinking men and women, who have lived apparently well-regulated lives, +suddenly throw bombs at a minister in a railway station, or at an +official as he drives to the palace in dress uniform, with jeweled +decorations on his breast? I ran my hand over the faded sofa-covering, +wondering who had sat there before me.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the chief came into the room, closing the door carefully behind +him. He was quite calm again.</p> + +<p>"What do you want?" He looked at Douglas.</p> + +<p>Douglas explained how anxious we were to get out of Russia, how we had +insufficient money for cold weather, how my husband's business called +for his immediate presence, and so forth, all of which we had gone over +at least three times a week since my arrest, and all of which was a +matter of complete indifference to the secret police. They had failed to +find any <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>proof of espionage, which was their charge against us, and my +letter, their only evidence, had been passed on and was snarled up +somewhere in official red-tape. Now they washed their hands of me.</p> + +<p>"We can do nothing. It is out of our hands." He was extremely courteous, +speaking German for my benefit. "It is unfortunate that Frau Pierce +should have written the letter. I was obliged to send it on to the +General Staff. You should have a reply soon."</p> + +<p>There was nothing more to be said. Douglas was conciliatory, almost +ingratiating. My nerves gave way.</p> + +<p>"A reply soon!" I burst out. "I'm sick of waiting. If we have the +liberty of the city, surely there can't be anything very serious against +us. It's an outrage keeping our passports. I'm an American and I demand +them." I was almost crying.</p> + +<p>"You must demand them through your Ambassador, meine Frau."</p> + +<p>I knew that he knew we had been telegraphing him since our arrest and my +impotence made me speechless with rage. Douglas took advantage of my +condition to beat a hasty retreat.</p> + +<p>As we were going through the doorway, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>the chief said carelessly, "By +the way, how did you happen to find this house?"</p> + +<p>"I have been here before," Douglas replied.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. I was only curious."</p> + +<p>I could feel the spies' eyes on my back as we went down the path.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Pierce—Mrs. Pierce, you must not lose your temper that way."</p> + +<p>"I don't care!" I cried. "I had no way to express what I felt."</p> + +<p>"I know," Douglas agreed thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>We hailed a droshky and got in.</p> + +<p>"I have a friend—a Pole," said Douglas. "For no reason except that he +was a Pole, they made a <i>revision</i> at his house, and among other things +took away every calling card they found. They made a <i>revision</i> then on +each one of those people whose names they found. Though they found +nothing incriminating in his possession, they make him report every day +at the police headquarters. A year ago he was a giant in strength. Now +he is a sick man. The uselessness of it. Nothing was found against him, +and yet he is followed and watched. What are they driving at? They are +wearing him to the bone with their persecution." He shrugged his +shoulders <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>and laughed suddenly. "Come, Mrs. Pierce, you can do nothing +against them. But let me tell you what I will give you. It is a German +helmet that a friend of mine brought from the Riga front. You can put it +in your room and blow beans at it!"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>October.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Passports—passports, who's got the passports?" It's like a game—or +<i>la recherche de l'absolu</i>. And it isn't as though you could hop into a +cab and make the round of visits on the General Staff, Civil Governor, +and the rest, all in one day, or even all in a week. Nothing so +efficient and simple as that. What is an official without an anteroom? +As well imagine a soldier without a uniform. And the importance of the +official is instantly seen by the crowd waiting on him. Soldiers and +Jews and patient, unobtrusive women in black wait at police +headquarters; generals and ladies of quality crowd the anteroom of the +General Staff. For days the faces vary only slightly when you enter and +take your accustomed place. Patient, dull faces that light with +momentary expectation on the opening of a door, and relapse into +depression and tragic immobility <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>when the aide walks through the +anteroom without admitting any one to the inner office.</p> + +<p>I gained admittance to the Military Governor the other day. He is the +successor of that over-cautious governor who moved all his household +goods during the German advance, and was then relieved of office. His +palace, set back from the street behind a tall iron fence, is guarded by +soldiers with bayonets, and secret-service men. I laughed, recognizing +my old friends the spies.</p> + +<p>Upstairs, the Governor was just saying good-bye to Bobrinsky, former +Governor of Galicia, and we stood to one side as they came out of an +inner office, bowing and making compliments to each other. Gold braid +and decorations! These days the military have their innings, to be sure! +I wonder how many stupid years of barrack-life go to make up one of +these men? Or perhaps so much gold braid is paid for in other ways.</p> + +<p>The Governor was an old man, carefully preserved. His uniform was +padded, but his legs, thin and insecure, gave him away, and his standing +collar, though it came up to his ears, failed to hide his scrawny neck +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>where the flesh was caving in. He wore his gray beard trimmed to a +point, and inside his beaklike nose was a quantity of grayish-yellow +hair which made a very disagreeable impression on me. All the time I was +speaking he examined his nails. When he raised his eyes finally, to +reply, I noticed how lifeless and indifferent they were, and glazed by +age. I could see the bones of his face move under the skin as he talked, +especially two little round bones, like balls, close to his ears.</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to do with the case. It has been referred to the General +Staff, I believe. You will have to wait for the course of events."</p> + +<p>He turned his back, went over to the window, and began to play with a +curtain-tassel. An aide bowed me to the door.</p> + +<p>Outside, the anteroom was crowded with supplicants. It was his reception +hour. The murmur of whispered conversations stopped when we appeared. +Every one rose, pressing forward to reach the aide. Some held out soiled +bits of paper; others talked in loud, explanatory voices, as though +hoping by sheer noise to pierce the crust of official attention. But the +aide took no more notice than if they had been <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>crowding sheep. He +pushed through them and escorted me to the head of the staircase. Down I +went, boiling with rage.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>Dearest Mother and Dad:—</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I am just back from the General Staff, where the mysterious rotation of +the official wheel landed me unexpectedly into the very sanctum +sanctorum of the Chief of the Staff, and to see him I had to wait only +five hours with Mr. Douglas in the anteroom! Mr. Douglas has just left +me to go to his club, exhausted, ready to devour pounds of Moscow +sausages, so he said.</p> + +<p>The anteroom of the General Staff was as Russian as Russian can be. I +suppose I shall never forget the dingy room, with its brown painted +walls and the benches and chairs ranged along the four sides of the +room, and the orderlies bringing in glasses of tea, and the waiting +people who were not ashamed to be unhappy. In the beginning Mr. Douglas +and I tried to talk, but after an hour or so we relapsed into silence. I +looked up at the large oil paintings of deceased generals which hung +about the room. At first, they all looked fat and stupid and alike in +the huge, ornate gilt <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>frames. But after much study they began to take +on differences—slight differences which it seemed that the painters had +caught in spite of themselves, but which made human beings of even +generals.</p> + +<p>There was one portrait that I remember, in the corner, a general in the +uniform of the Crimean War. He looked out at you with green eyes, like a +cat's. The more I looked at him, the more he resembled a cat, with his +flat, broad head and slightly almond eyes and long mustache. His cheek +bones were high and his jaw square and cruel. He settled into his +coat-collar the way a cat shortens its neck when it purrs. He, too, was +purring, from gratification, perhaps, at having his portrait painted; +but, wholly untrustworthy himself, he distrusted the world and held +himself ready to strike.</p> + +<p>Another portrait was of a man who might have been of peasant origin. An +inky black beard hid the lower part of his face, but his nose was blunt +and pugnacious, and his eyes were like black shoe-buttons sewn close +together. He stuck out his stomach importantly, and the care with which +his uniform and decorations were painted strengthened the impression +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>that he had made his career himself and set the highest value on the +insignia that stood for his accomplishment.</p> + +<p>Well, I made up characters to fit the portraits, and the time went on. +There were three entrances to the room, through which aides and +orderlies were constantly appearing and disappearing. The room filled up +with people and smelt of oiled leather and smoke. The women did not move +from their chairs, but the men got up and stood about, talking in +groups. I began to feel that I had known these captains and majors and +lieutenants all my life. They looked at me curiously, and if they knew +Mr. Douglas they asked to be presented to me.</p> + +<p>"How do you like Russia?"</p> + +<p>They spoke French. I looked at Mr. Douglas and smiled.</p> + +<p>"Very much."</p> + +<p>They were pleased.</p> + +<p>"Ah, you do? That is good. Russia is a wonderful country and its +resources are endless. But it is war-time. You should see Russia in +peace-time. There is no country in the world where one amuses one's self +so well as in Russia. But first we must beat the Germans."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p><p>They all begin that way, and then branch out into their particular line +of conversation.</p> + +<p>There was a woman near me, her mourning veil thrown back, disclosing a +death-like face. Her features were pinched, and her pale lips were +pressed tightly together in suffering. She had been waiting surely three +hours since sending in her card, and all that time she had scarcely +moved. Sometimes I forgot her, and then my eyes would fall on her and I +wondered how I could see anybody else in the room. In comparison to her +all the others seemed fussy or melodramatic or false in some way. +Suffering was condensed in her. It flowed through her body. It settled +in the shadows of her face and clothed her in black. Her gloved hands +pressed each other. Her eyes stared in front of her, full of pain like a +hurt beast's. She sat as though carved in stone, dark against the +window, the lines of her body rigid and clear-cut like a statue's.</p> + +<p>At last an aide came toward her, spruce and alert, holding a paper in +his hand. She rose at his approach, leaning on the back of her chair, +her body bent forward tensely. He spoke to her in a low voice, +consulting the slip of paper in his hand. All at once <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>she straightened +herself, and a burning expression came into her face. One hand went to +her heart, exactly as though a bullet had pierced her breast. Then she +gave a sharp cry, and hurling her pocketbook across the room with all +her strength, she rushed outside.</p> + +<p>Every one dodged as though the pocketbook had been aimed at him. A young +second lieutenant picked it from the floor and stood twisting it in his +hands, not knowing what to do with it. People looked uneasy and ashamed +as though a door had been suddenly opened on a terrible secret thing +that was customarily locked up in a closet. But the uncomfortable +feeling soon passed, and they began to talk about the strange woman and +to gossip and play and amuse themselves with her sorrow. A crowd +collected about the aide, who grew more and more voluble and important +each time he repeated his explanation of the incident.</p> + +<p>Shortly afterward, Mr. Douglas and I were admitted to the Chief of +Staff. The walls of his office were covered with large maps, with tiny +flags marking the battlefronts, and he sat at a large table occupying +the center of the room.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p><p>When we entered, he rose and bowed, and after waving me to a chair, +reseated himself. He was rather like a university professor, courteous, +with a slightly ironical twist to his very red lips. His pale face was +narrow and long, with a pointed black beard, and a forehead broad and +high and white. While he listened or talked, he nervously drew +arabesques on a pad of paper on the table.</p> + +<p>"I have your petition, but since I have just been appointed here, I am +not very familiar with routine matters." Here he smiled slightly. "Yours +is a routine matter, I should say. How long have you waited for an +answer—four months? We'll see what can be done. I have sent to the +files and I should have a report in a few minutes."</p> + +<p>An aide brought in a collection of telegrams and papers, and the chief +glanced through them. Then he looked at me searchingly and suddenly +smiled again.</p> + +<p>"From your appearance I should never imagine you were as dangerous as +these papers state. Are you an American?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," I replied; "and I assure you that I am dangerous only in the +official mind. I have no importance except what they give me."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p><p>"Mrs. Pierce is an American and unused to Russian ways," Mr. Douglas +said apologetically.</p> + +<p>"Well, your case has been referred to General Ivanoff, and I will wire +him again at once. If you come back next Thursday I will give you a +definite answer."</p> + +<p>We went out. It was a gray winter day, with a cold wind from the river, +but I felt glowing and stimulated and alive, seeing the future +crystallize and grow definite again. You can't imagine the wearing +depression of months of uncertainty.</p> + +<p>"That Chief of Staff is the first human official I've met," I said to +Mr. Douglas.</p> + +<p>"Give him time, give him time," Douglas replied. "Didn't you hear him +say he was new to the job?"</p> + +<p>I write such long letters and all about <i>things</i>. But I want you to see +with me so we may share our lives in spite of distance. Armfuls of love +to you, my dearest ones, from</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><span class="smcap">Ruth.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i30"><i>November.</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Dowager Empress came to Kiev to-day to visit a convent that she has +under her protection. The Christiatick was very <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>animated, with curious +crowds lining the sidewalks and fierce-looking gendarmes who snapped +their whips and made a great fuss about keeping the people in order. The +trams were stopped and officials rushed up and down the Christiatick in +huge gray automobiles. It was bitterly cold, and the waiting people grew +restless. At last a feeble cheer started up the street and swept down +the lines as a big car came tearing down the middle of the street. I +caught a glimpse of an elderly woman in black—that was all.</p> + +<p>I went home. All the way up the hill I walked beside a "crocodile." How +pathetic those convent children are in their funny little round hats, +all so much too small, and their maroon-colored dresses with the +shoulder-capes to hide any suggestion of sex. Their noses were pinched +and their lips were blue from waiting in the cold to see their +"protector." They were at the age "between hay and grass," +narrow-chested, and long-legged like colts. They climbed the hill +stiffly two by two, their eyes looking meekly at the ground. Three +sisters kept them in line.</p> + +<p>At home I found a summons from the police to appear with Marie at the +local <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>police bureau to-morrow at nine, to receive our passports. I +telegraphed Peter through Mr. Douglas. Now that our affair is settled, I +feel no emotion—neither relief nor joy.</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">The Riverside Press</p> +<p class="center">CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS</p> +<p class="center">U. S. A.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</h3> + +<p>1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetter's errors and to make the +use of hyphenated words consistent; otherwise, the transcriber has made a diligent +effort to be true to the original text.</p> + +<p>2. For ease of navigation, the transcriber has added a Table of Contents that did +not appear in the original book.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Trapped in 'Black Russia', by Ruth Pierce + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAPPED IN 'BLACK RUSSIA' *** + +***** This file should be named 24981-h.htm or 24981-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/9/8/24981/ + +Produced by D. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Trapped in 'Black Russia' + Letters June-November 1915 + +Author: Ruth Pierce + +Release Date: April 3, 2008 [EBook #24981] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAPPED IN 'BLACK RUSSIA' *** + + + + +Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + TRAPPED IN + "BLACK RUSSIA" + + _Letters_ + + JUNE-NOVEMBER 1915 + + BY RUTH PIERCE + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + 1918 + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY + + COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY RUTH PHINNEY PIERCE + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _Published February 1918_ + + + + +TRAPPED IN "BLACK RUSSIA" + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + 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 _opera-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 vises 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 _etapes_--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. + +Good-bye for now. Armfuls of love from + + RUTH. + + + _July 5, 1915._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +We have been in Kiev several days. Our passports have been handed in to +the police station to be viseed and put in order for our return trip to +Bucharest. They say a human being in Russia is made of body and +passport. + +Kiev is full of color. It is framed in green trees that hide the +ugliness of modern buildings and seem to lift the gold and silver domes +of the churches up into the air. And how many churches there are! Kiev +is in truth a holy city. Late afternoon, when the sun shines through the +dust of the day and envelops the city in golden powder; when the gold +and silver domes of the churches float up over the tree-tops like +unsubstantial, gleaming bubbles, and the bells fill the air with lovely, +mellow sounds,--then I can truly say I have felt more deeply religious +than ever before in my life. Yet, suddenly, I see the woman who climbs +Institutska Oulitza every evening on her knees. She is dressed in black, +and deeply veiled, and every evening she climbs the hill on her knees. +At first I thought she was a cripple, but, on arriving at the top of the +hill, she rose to her feet and walked away. + +"What is she doing?" I asked Marie. + +"Oh, a penance, probably, that the Church has imposed on her." + +And then the churches and their domes grow almost hateful to me. I think +of the Russian peasants with their foreheads in the dust, and the +greasy, long-haired priests I see on the streets. + +Yet I don't know--perhaps the priests don't really matter. After all, +there must be something in the people's hearts--a belief--an idealism--a +faith in God that keeps them loving Russia, dreaming for her, and able +to dream again after they've seen their dreams trampled on. No, the +priests and their autocracy don't matter. The people believe, and that's +the important thing. + +We went out yesterday afternoon to the Lavra--the stronghold of Black +Russia. It is a monastery on the edge of the town, overlooking the +Dnieper and flanked with battlemented walls to withstand the attacks of +the infidels in olden times. From all over Russia and the Balkans +pilgrims go there to visit the catacombs, where many church saints are +buried, their bodies miraculously preserved under red and gold +clothes--so the priests say. + +The road leading to it passed the barracks, where we saw young recruits +drilling. They were learning to walk, and their arms swung stiffly and +self-consciously, and their legs bent at the knees and straightened +again like the wooden legs of mechanical toys. As they marched, they +sang wonderful Russian soldier songs. They appeared to be about +twenty-three or twenty-four, as though they had got their growth, and +were tall and broad-shouldered--not at all like the batch of Austrian +prisoners we passed a few minutes later, and who looked like pathetic, +bewildered children, beardless for the most part, and in uniforms too +large for them. They shuffled along in a cloud of gray dust under a +metallic sun. Some were slightly wounded in the head or arm, and were +supported by their comrades. As I passed, I encountered certain +eyes--frank, gray eyes that reminded me of Morris. The long, white, +dusty road became tragic to me, with the prisoners in their worn blue +uniforms, and those who were about to die, singing in the distance. + +We met bullock-carts crawling into town, coming from distant villages, +with fresh vegetables for the markets. The peasants walked by the oxen, +prodding them with short sticks. There seem to be so many men here of +military age, yet not in the army. It isn't like other countries, where +every one but the Jews is in uniform. Russia has so many men. They say +five million more could easily be raised if they had the officers and +ammunition. + +We reached a high plaster wall, with little booths built under its +shadows, where pilgrims bought souvenirs of the Lavra--gaudy ikons, +colored handkerchiefs and shawls, beads and baskets. + +A group of pilgrims entered the gate in front of us, all from the same +village, evidently, for the women's dresses resembled each other's in +cut and embroidery, and a few of the younger women's were even dyed the +same color, as often happens in wool of the same shearing. In spite of +the heat, the men wore sheepskin coats and fur caps, and the women's +skirts were thick with petticoats. Some of the women led children by the +hand; others carried babies in their arms, poor little mites, with faces +covered with sores, and eyes red and blinking as though they were going +blind. They all bent and kissed the hand of the priest who sold candles +under the covered arched gateway, and then they passed into the open +square surrounded by the monastery walls. There was a sort of garden +here; all the grass worn off by the countless pilgrims who had visited +the shrine, but with trees in whose shade the peasants rested when their +sins had been forgiven. Some lay curled up on the ground, fast asleep; +others sat with their legs spread comfortably apart, eating bread and +meat; and others drank thirstily from the well, or let the water run +over their tired feet. + +Facing us was the church with its gold domes blindingly bright against +the blue sky. We followed the pilgrims and entered the chapel, where +everything suddenly grew hushed and dark, with a strange odor--a mixture +of thick, sweet incense and melting candle grease, and smelly, +perspiring peasants. + +The pilgrims bought candles and lighted them, and knelt on the flagging +before the altar. Behind an elaborate railing the lustrous jewels and +gold of the vessels and crucifixes glowed richly in the dim light. +Priests in gorgeous vestments were going through some church ceremony. +Their deep chanting filled the church. They knelt and rose, and finally, +by a mechanical contrivance, something was raised in an inner shrine, +and a priest took off a cloth of crimson and gold, and uncovered a +wonderful gold cup encrusted with jewels. I leaned against a pillar, +watching the kneeling peasants, and over their bent backs the mystery +and richness of the altar glowing with jewels and only half disclosed by +the tiny pointed candle flames flickering in the darkness. The Lavra is +one of the two richest monasteries in Russia. Its wealth is fathomless. +It has lent emperors treasure with which to fight the infidels, and on +returning from holy wars the emperors have brought it back to the church +increased a hundred fold by royal gifts of jewels and loot. + +We went out into the blinding sunlight again, and down a long flight of +cloister steps to the catacombs. + +A priest was selling bottles of a white liquid. + +"What is it?" Marie asked. + +"Holy water," the priest replied. "It is not for your kind." But he took +the kopecks of an old peasant woman. "Rub it on your joints and it will +cure their stiffness," he said to her, with a cynical smile. + +Three fat priests sat at the entrance of the catacombs, selling +different-sized candles. The very poor peasants, who came barefooted, +could only afford the very thin tapers, while the rich villagers, with +heavy, well-made boots and much embroidery on their clothes, bought +candles as thick as a man's thumb, and sometimes two or three at a time, +which they held lighted between their fingers. + +A short, fat priest, his face dripping with perspiration, led us through +the catacombs. He would wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the sleeve +of his dirty gown, and point to the saints' tombs with the big iron key +he carried. I was pressed close to him by the crowd of peasants behind. +The smell of his greasy body and the powder of dandruff from his long +hair on the shoulders of his gown, the malicious way he looked at me as +though to say, "You and I know that what I'm saying is rot, but it must +be said to them"--it was indescribably disgusting. + +We wound through narrow, dungeon-like passages with the cold, damp smell +of an unused cellar. Now and then, through barred windows in the stone +walls, I caught glimpses of tall forms lying in a row, covered with +dingy red and gold cloths. + +"Here lie nine brothers who lived for twenty years in this cell. Their +only food was bread and water three times a week. As you see, they had +no room to stand upright in, and were always pressed close to each +other." + +The peasants peered through the bars wonderingly. + +We passed a body stretched out on a stone ledge. + +"This holy saint cured the blind," the priest continued in a sing-song +voice. "He lived in a cell too small to lie down in. For twenty-two +years he never opened his mouth. His body, like the bodies of all the +holy saints in these catacombs, is preserved without a sign of decay +under this cloth." A peasant woman lifted her little boy up to kiss the +edge of the dirty red pall. The pale flame of her candle flickered and +the melted wax dripped on to the cloth. The woman wiped it off quickly, +and glanced in a frightened way at the priest. But he turned away +indifferently and went on. + +We saw the bust of a man buried to his arm-pits in the floor. I would +have stumbled over him, but the priest caught my arm. + +"This is a holy saint, who, for twenty-five years, stood as you see him, +buried in the earth to above his waist. He never spoke and only ate +bread and water twice a week." + +I looked at the peasants. Their faces were scared and white. A few hung +back with a morbid curiosity. + +"Come, come," the priest called impatiently. "Keep together. Some get +lost here and never get out again." + +I had heard of three pretty peasant girls who had mysteriously +disappeared in the catacombs. + +"Ouf!" The priest unlocked an iron door and we came squinting out into +the daylight again. He held the door open and mopped his face as we +filed past him, snuffing our candles. The pilgrims kept theirs. + +Outside, some of the peasants clustered about the priest and asked him +questions. As I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw the circle of +round, inquiring faces with their look of unbounded confidence. + +We went around back of the monastery to an open plateau overlooking the +Dnieper. The river curved like a blue ribbon, and we could see the three +pontoon bridges for "military reasons." On the low bank opposite were +the soldiers' white tents laid out in regular squares. A ferry-boat was +carrying some soldiers across the river. The sun flashed on the +sentries' bayonets along the bank. + +I heard the whine of a hand-organ. An armless beggar was turning the +crank of an organ with his bare feet. The plateau was fairly alive with +beggars, hopping about in the dust like fleas. Some were armless; others +legless. They swung along at our heels on long, muscular arms, with +leather on the palms of their hands, or dragged distorted, paralyzed +bodies that tried to stand upright by our sides. + +In the white, hot sunlight squatted an old man with a white, pointed +beard so long that it lay out on the dust in front of him. In his arms +he held a book done up in red cloth. He was blind. If you put a coin in +a tin cup he wore round his neck, he would undo his book and open it, +and by divine inspiration read the holy words of the page in front of +him. + +A row of seven blind women lined the exit. They began to whine as we +approached, and stretched out their hands gropingly. The eyes of one +woman had completely disappeared as though they had been knotted up and +pulled back into her head. Another's bulged like a dead fish's, with +that dull, bluish look in them. Another's lids were closed and crusted +with sores, flies continuously creeping over them, but apparently she +was indifferent. The seven blind women sat in rags and filth. Shall I +ever forget them in the burning sunlight, with their terrible eyes and +greedy fingers and the whine of their voices merging into the tune of +the hand-organ? + +When we left the monastery, a group of wounded soldiers were just +entering. With them was a woman in a man's uniform. Her hair was curly +and short, and her chin pointed. Her feet looked ridiculously small in +the heavy, high, soldier's boots, and in spite of a strut her knees +knocked together in an unmistakably feminine manner. But the men treated +her quite as one of themselves. One soldier, who had had his leg cut off +up to the thigh, supported himself by her shoulder. I have seen several +women soldiers in Kiev, and they say there are many in the Russian army. + +It is strange, seeing these things without Peter. I expect to go back to +Bucharest with Marie and Janchu within a week. There Peter will meet +us. I wish he were here now. + +So much love, my dearests, every day and every night from + + RUTH. + + + _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. + + RUTH. + + + _July 25, 1915._ + +The Tchedesky Pension is full of Poles--refugees from Poland and the +wooded Russian provinces. + +Pan Tchedesky himself was formerly an enormously wealthy landowner near +Kiev. He loves to tell how he drove through town behind six white +horses. Gambling ruined him, and to pay his debts he sold one acre after +another to the Jews, who cut down the timber and ruined the land. Of +course, where there are no trees the rainfall is scarce. The crops dried +up, and finally Pan Tchedesky and his wife and children were forced into +the city. There remained enough of his former property to start a +_pension_. The rooms are full of the remains of his splendor--heavy gilt +mirrors, thick, flowered carpets, a Louis XVI set in the drawing-room, +upholstered in faded blue brocade. + +Pan Tchedesky is a memorial of his own life; a relic suggesting an +earlier opulence. He is big-framed, but his flesh is shrunken, as though +the wind of conceit were oozing out of him day by day. His cheeks and +stomach hang flabbily. His blond mustache is getting thin and discloses +his full, sensual lips. His hands are thick and soft, always stained +with nicotine. He lives in constant terror of his wife, and all the +pockets of his coats are burned full of holes from his hiding his +cigarettes in them when he thinks he hears his wife coming. I have never +seen her, but she is the invisible force that keeps the _pension_ +running, and controls her husband by her knowledge of his past failures. + +"My wife is an executive woman--very executive," he says, shaking his +head sorrowfully. + +The bills are made out by her. Occasionally he intercepts the maid +carrying her back the money, and extracts enough to pay a small per cent +of his I O U's, which allows him to continue gambling with his guests. +His moist, soft fingers tremble as he holds the cards, and he infuriates +every one by his erratic bidding. + +A guest slams his hand down on the table and calls Tchedesky a name. + +Tchedesky's whitish, livid cheeks shake, and his lips open uncertainly. +But he must be discreet. He does not dare offend his guests, for he +wants to play with them again, and he must not let his wife know that he +is gambling. So he begs pardon in a whisper. + +There is a pretty maid in the _pension_ called Antosha. She has light, +frowzy hair, and a round, full figure. The other maids are jealous of +her. When she dresses up to wait on the table at dinner at three +o'clock, she wears a cheap pink silk waist and long gilt earrings, and +two or three little rings with blue and red stones. Her wages are +fifteen roubles a month. One day I saw Tchedesky kissing her on the +neck. Very white and shaken, he came to me afterwards and begged me to +say nothing about it to any one. + +He has terrible scenes with his wife, who is hysterical and grows rigid. +He stays up with her all night and uses it as an excuse to get a +morphine injection for his own nervousness next day. He is quite +courteous and frankly loves women and food and money. I feel as though, +if I poked my finger into him, he would burst like a rotten potato. + +There is the Morowski family from near Cracow. Pan Morowski's brother is +in the Austrian Chamber of Deputies, but he and his family are Russian +subjects. They have been here in Kiev for some months now. For seven +days he and his eldest daughter remained while the Russians and +Austrians fought for their farm. The rest of the family had been sent +into Kiev, but these two had hoped that by staying they might preserve +their farm from being plundered and burned. The Austrians had sacked +their neighbors' houses. The Austrian officers' wives had followed in +the wake of the army and had taken the linen from the closets, and the +ball-gowns, and the silver--even the pictures off the walls. + +Lovely weather it was. The girl said you would hardly realize there was +war, sometimes. The gardener would go out and straighten the trampled +flowers. The carts of wounded would pass regularly, stopping +occasionally for water or tea. They would say the fighting had passed +on. And then, suddenly, the crack and boom would approach again, shaking +the house walls--the little uncurling puffs of smoke against the blue +sky--the gray-blue uniformed Austrians hurrying past in retreat. No +carts of wounded any more. There was too much hurry to bother about the +wounded. + +Russians in possession again, and Russian instead of Austrian officers +quartered at their house. How much more polite the Russians were--so +much more gallant and kind-hearted! They didn't treat you as though you +were a servant--"Do this. Do that." They brought some of their wounded +to the farm, and Miss Morowski helped nurse them. + +But at last the father and daughter had been obliged to leave with the +Russians. How furious the Russians had been--so depressed and +discouraged when the order came to retreat. There had been no fighting +round there for several days, and suddenly the news came that the whole +army was retreating. Why? They said there was no ammunition. So the +father and daughter left their property in the care of the gardener and +his wife, who were too old to move. How terrible it had been to abandon +this ground that so many Russians had died to win! No ammunition. +Waste--mismanagement--graft. + +Those in Petrograd should think more of their country and less of their +own pockets. The unquestioning courage of the simple Russian soldiers! +Every one ready to die--and yet nothing to back them up. It was +disheartening. + +"The Russians gave us a place in a cart, and we left in utter +confusion--soldiers, motor-cars, cattle, wounded, with the Austrian +cannon rumbling behind us." + +"Were you frightened?" I asked. We were speaking French together. + +"Not so frightened as sad. I was leaving my home. All my life I had +spent there excepting for a few weeks in the winter when mother used to +take us to Cracow for the balls. I hated to leave my beautiful party +dresses hanging up in the closets. I know some Austrian woman will wear +them. And I can't bear to think of our house burned! We have had such +jolly times there, hunting and riding and visiting the neighbors. You +don't know life on a Polish estate, do you? I can tell you there is +nothing so charming in the world." + +Pan Morowski is a handsome, full-blooded man, and plays bridge all day +either in the _pension_ drawing-room or at the club. + +His wife is small and nervous, and you can see that her main object in +life is to marry off her daughters well. She has three daughters, +pretty, fresh girls, who are fond of reading, and perfectly willing to +read only what their brothers permit them. Every day I run across one or +two of them in the circulating library in the town, and always try to +get them to take out a forbidden book. They are convinced that Bourget +has sounded the depths of feminine psychology. "Isn't it mean!" they +cry. "If only our brothers would let us read more of his wonderful +books!" + +Sometimes, in the evening, we sit out on the balcony, and the Morowski +boys come in to talk to us. + +"Aren't you ashamed to treat your sisters in this Oriental way?" I ask. + +"The less they know till after they've married, the better for them. A +young girl should be pure in every thought." And then they begin to make +love to us. + +There are two brothers who have taken refuge in the Tchedesky _pension_, +with a collection of servants. Their house was burned under their eyes, +and their property is now in the Austrians' hands. The eldest brother, +Count S----, is very handsome and aristocratic, with a cherished gray +mustache carefully twisted upward, and soft, brown eyes, which he uses +with advantage. Evidently the Romantic poets influenced his youth, and +he has found the melancholy Byronic traditions the most effective for +his ends, since he continues the attitude. + +"He is very sad," his brother whispers a dozen times a day. "Of course +his experiences these past months have been frightful for one of his +nature. I am not so sensitive. But _he_ has always been this way. +Sometimes I'm afraid. Our other brother died insane." + +Count S---- affects to believe that the Germans can do anything. + +"They are devils! What can we do against them?" he cries at dinner, +combing his mustache with the little tortoise-shell comb he carries in +his vest. + +He never forgets his soda tablets after eating. + +His younger brother is round and red-faced, with twinkly blue eyes. He +limps, and follows his elder brother round like a faithful dog. The +slightest thing amuses him. Indeed, he laughs at nothing at all. He kept +the books on his brother's estates and he brought them with him in his +flight. They are his pride and joy. Sometimes he brings them into the +drawing-room after supper, with photographs of the property. There are +pictures of boar hunts, and huntsmen on horseback, with wolf-hounds in +the snow, and the tenants merry-making and the house and different +sections of the property, and the horses and dogs and cattle. I look at +them night after night. They love to live over again their life in +telling me about it. + +Among the servants with the S---- brothers is an old woman, a kindly, +slack one, who rarely goes out, but observes the passing life from her +windows. She wears a short, loose wrapper and petticoat, and scuffs +about in list slippers. + +Then there is a young girl with shy eyes and quiet, womanlike actions. +We often see her peeking through a crack in the door when Janchu is +naughty. + +And then there is Sigmund, a sly, goody-goody child of six or seven, +whom the old woman treats like a son, and whom the eldest S---- brother +has adopted as his heir. He plays with Janchu. The brothers adore him +and take him to Koupietsky Park, and watch him when he plays in the +_pension_ garden. We have heard that he is Count S----'s illegitimate +child, and that the old woman is his mother. It seems quite probable +when you think of the life on a big Polish estate--the loneliness, etc. +These three people live together in one room. The samovar is always +boiling and some one is always drinking tea there. The brothers share an +adjoining room, but they are usually with those in there, who constitute +all that remains of their former habits. + +Pan A---- lives in the _pension_, too. I am told that he is typical of a +certain kind of Pole. He is a turfman, with carefully brushed +side-whiskers dyed coal-black, and hawk-like eyes. He wears check suits, +and cravats with a little diamond horse-pin. His legs are bowed like a +jockey's. He was the overseer of a big Polish estate and has made a +fortune by cards and horses. His stable is famous. He has raced from +Petrograd to London. Now, of course, his horses have been requisitioned, +and he lives by his cards. Cards are a serious business to him. He will +not play in a room where he is apt to be interrupted. Occasionally, his +wife, a hard-faced woman with tight lips, comes to the _pension_, +between the visits she makes to friends in the country. Pan A---- pays +no attention to her except to treat her with an exaggerated politeness +at table; and she, on her side, concentrates on the young men in the +_pension_. After dinner he always hands her a cigarette first, out of +his massive gold case, encrusted with arms and monograms and jewels. + +"It's curious, is it not?" he says, handing me the case. "My friends +have put on their arms and monograms and mounted the jewels as +souvenirs." + +Generally, he goes to the Cafe Francois with a tall blonde woman, the +wife of an Austrian. Her husband and son are fighting in the Austrian +army, but she came to Kiev with the Russian General who occupied her +town. Now her protector is at the front, and she goes about with A----. + +A---- is cynical. Women and horses and cards make up his life. In a +conversation he feels his audience as if it were a new horse he is +learning to ride. He goes as near the danger line as he dares. He has no +breeding, and spends his money extravagantly. + +K----, the last comer at the _pension_, is a journalist. He has no race +or polish, and the rest rather despise him for having none of their +landed traditions. He is lean and brown, with a razor-like jaw and a +twisted, sardonic expression to his lips. His face is cruel. At Warsaw, +where he was working, he was thrown into prison time after time on +account of the radical, revolutionary character of his articles. He is +well known for the strong, intellectual quality of his work. The +reactionaries fear him. The slipshod Russian way of handling things gets +on his nerves. His eyes get like steel when he talks about it. Russia's +corruption and the German advance--ammunition willfully miscarried--guns +sent to the front without ammunition, and ammunition sent that doesn't +fit; and the soldiers obliged to fight with their naked fists! + +He has sent me Chamberlin's "Genesis of the Fourteenth Century." We +discuss it after dinner. It's interesting, though Chamberlin sets forth +an idea he tries to prove at all costs. Read it, if you haven't already. + +How terribly I miss you. Why do I write of Pan Tchedesky and the +Morowskis when I only want to be telling you how I love you and miss +you? But it is almost unbearable to write you a love-letter. So many +miles are between us and so many months still separate us. Over a year +more to be lived through. No. I must keep to decaying Polish gentlemen +and exiled noblemen and trust you to know that every word in this letter +is a love-word to you, telling you I hold you so close to me that you +are one with me in everything I think or do. + + + _July 27, 1915._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +It is very hot, and food is unappetizing. The drinking-water must be +boiled, and inevitably we drink it lukewarm. It never has time to cool. +There is fruit sold on the street, but we are warned against it on +account of cholera. There is already cholera and typhus reported in the +city. So we thick vegetable soup with sour cream, fried bread with +chopped meat inside, cheese noodles with sour cream, etc., all Polish +cooking. And we drink _kvass_. + +"What do you think of Bulgaria, now?" Count S---- asks me gloomily, +after dinner. + +"I still think she will go with Russia," I reply. "In every Bulgarian +house I've ever been in there is the picture of the Czar liberator. A +Bulgarian regards a Russian as of his own blood. Bulgaria gave Russia +her alphabet, and the languages are much the same: only the Russian is +richer in words and expressions. Why, there is a Bulgarian, General +Dimitrief, holding a high command in the Russian army. When I left +Bulgaria there was no talk of her going with Germany. 'We will never go +with Germany,' I've heard over and over." + +"But there is a strong German party?" + +"Yes, and they're being paid well. If England and the Entente only took +the trouble to understand the Balkans. Germany has sent her ablest men +to Sofia with unlimited credit. The English representatives offend by +their snobbery." + +"Do you think they'll go in at all?" S---- persists. + +"Probably they'll be forced in, in the end. But the people don't want to +abandon their neutrality. They're making money. They're recouping after +the Balkan wars. Bulgaria has had nothing but wars and crises for the +last five years." + +"They say there are already German officers in the Bulgarian army." + +"I don't believe it's so. The Bulgarians are very independent. If they +went in I think they would command their own army." + +"But this war is not conducted along Balkan war lines," K---- said +amusedly. + +"No," I agreed. "You know more about the situation now than I do. I +can't even read a newspaper. All I know is the spirit of Bulgaria when I +left." + +"Isn't Bulgaria's Government autocratic enough to declare war without +consulting the people?" K---- continued. + +"Perhaps--unfortunately. The Bulgarians say, 'We have a wonderful +constitution, if the Czar would only use it.'" + +"The papers to-day already speak of Bulgaria's treason and ingratitude," +K---- observed. + +I was angry. "In Bulgaria, some think Russia doesn't want them to go in +on the Entente side. They think Russia wants to make a Russian lake out +of the Black Sea, and a Russian province out of Bulgaria. They say +Russia is the obstacle to their having joined the Entente months ago." + +"She will go with Germany," Count S---- insisted fatalistically. +"Everything is going Germany's way." + +"No--no--no!" I cried. + +"Of course she will go where she sees her advantage," said K----. + +"All she wants is to fight for Macedonia before the close of the war. +Certainly, it isn't too much to ask if she allows the English and +Russians to cross her territory to get at Turkey. The war will be +shortened by months if she goes in with the Entente, and Turkey in +Europe will be finished." + +I know you'll laugh, Dad, and think my pretentions to a political +opinion presumptuous. My hope is that I'll know more when I'm older! + +Love to you all. Think of me, won't you? Don't let _miles_ make any +difference. + + RUTH. + + + + +II + + + _July 30._ + +It is confirmed that Warsaw has fallen! Every one is very much +depressed. What can stop the Germans? Some one speaks of the forts of +Vilna and Grodno, which are supposed to be impregnable. But what about +the forts on the Western front? What do forts amount to nowadays? The +strongest walls are razed by the Germans' big guns! + +"The Germans do just as they like--nothing can stop them. In the +beginning the Kaiser said he would sleep at Warsaw," Count S---- says +gloomily. + +"And he said he would dine in Paris," some one else remarks. + +It is funny how much pleasure Count S---- takes in every foot of land +the Germans capture. When he talks about the war, he seems to take a +perverse pleasure in accenting their inexhaustible munitions and men and +the perfection of their whole military organization. "We have men, but +we are children." At every German victory he shakes his head. "I told +you so." "I've said from the first--" "There is no limit to what these +_cochons_ can do." He seems glad to see his prophecies come true; +probably, because he has seen his own security destroyed, he feels the +safety of the whole world shaken. A hundred times he has said: "There +isn't a foot of ground that belongs to me any more. For a man of my age +it is a terrible thing to see your life-work wiped out all of a sudden." +Only a world destruction could come up to his expectations now. + +After dinner, in the drawing-room, we spoke about the fall of Warsaw. +What would the Germans do to the city? Some spoke of German +frightfulness in Belgium. Pan K---- thinks Warsaw will be treated +leniently, as Germany wishes to enlist the German sympathizers. Still, +most of the Poles in the _pension_ are horrorstricken. They see the +Germans marching through the streets, and they see the flames and +shuddering civilians. I can see the Germans' spiked helmets in the room. + +"The English must start an offensive. England lets France and Russia +bleed to death before she sheds her own blood." There is much talk of +England's selfishness. + +Something is wrong somewhere. Every one seems skeptical about the Duma. + +I wish I could read the Russian newspapers. + +I feel as though I were watching a fire--a neighbor's house burning +down. I am excited and curious. Suddenly, I wonder how far the flames +are going to spread, and I feel panicstricken. Good-night, dear ones. +You in New England seem so far away from this European fire. + + RUTH. + + + _July 30, 1915._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +To-day I went to the Jewish detention camp with the wife of the French +Consul here. She called for me in her limousine. As I think of it now, +it was all so strange--the smooth-running car with two men on the box, +and ourselves in immaculate white summer dresses. The heat was intense, +but we were well protected. Through the windows we saw others sweating +and choking in the dust of the hot streets. + +"I'm afraid I've brought you here on a very hot morning," said Mme. +C---- apologetically. + +In spite of my curiosity I believe I felt a distaste of the detention +camp on such a day. A crowd is always depressing, and doubly so in the +heat. But we stopped at a door cut in a high board fence, and passed by +the sentinel into the enclosure where the Jews were penned in awaiting +the next stage of their journey. + +Hundreds of faces turned toward us; hundreds of eyes watched our +approach. There were old men with long, white, patriarchal beards +flowing over their dirty black gowns; there were younger men with peaked +black caps and long black beards; and there were women who had pushed +back their black shawls for air, and who held sore-eyed, whining babies +listlessly on their knees. Bits of old cloth stretched over poles +afforded shade to some. Others tried to get out of the burning sun by +huddling against the walls of the tenements that enclosed the yard on +three sides. The ground was baked hard as iron and rubbed smooth by the +shuffle of numberless feet. + +As we approached, the Jews rose and bowed low. Then they settled back +into their former immobility. Some stared at us vacantly; others lowered +their eyelids and rubbed their hands together softly, with a terrible +subservience. If we brushed close to one, he cringed like a dog who +fears a kick. Yellow, parchment-like faces, all with the high-bridged, +curving noses, and the black, animal-like eyes. I was as definitely +separated from them as though tangible iron bars were between us. We +seemed to be looking at each other across a great gulf. "They are human +beings," I said to myself. "I am one with them." But their isolation was +complete. I could not even begin to conceive the persecution and +suffering of ages that separated us. "All people are born free and +equal," indeed! I turned away. + +"This camp is run on communistic principles," Mme. C---- was explaining. +"The Jewish Ladies' Benevolent Society provides a certain amount of meat +and vegetables and bread, which is cooked and served by the Jews +themselves. Here is the kitchen." We spoke French among ourselves, which +seemed to put us farther away from the dumb, watchful Jews behind us. +"If it wasn't for us, they would starve. The Government allows them +eight kopecks a day. But who could live on that? Besides, most of the +Jews here pay the eight kopecks to the overseer to avoid his +displeasure. He makes a good revenue out of the blood money." + +Two rooms in one of the houses had been converted into a kitchen. A +dozen or so Jewish women were paring and cutting up potatoes and +cabbages and meat into huge soup-boilers. They were stripped to their +shirts, and their bodies were drenched with sweat. They curtsied to us +and went on preparing dinner. + +A blast of scorching heat puffed out from an open oven. Two women, with +long wooden handles pulled out big round loaves of black bread and laid +them on a shelf to cool. + +The warm fragrance of cooking attracted some white-faced Jewish +children. They edged into the kitchen and looked up at the food, their +eyes impenetrable and glittering like mica. A woman cut up some bread +and gave them each a piece, and they slunk outdoors again, sucking their +bread. + +"The food is scientifically proportioned to give the greatest possible +nutriment," Mme. C---- said. + +We went out. After the kitchen heat the air of the courtyard was cool. + +"This is the laundry. A certain number of the Jews here wash and iron +the others' clothes. They are kept as clean as possible." + +The laundry was gray with steam. A dozen or so women were bending over +wash tubs. Like the women in the kitchen, they were stripped to their +shirts. The wet cloth stuck to their sweating bodies and outlined their +ribs and the stretch of muscles as they scrubbed and wrung out the +clothes. When the water became too black, some young boys threw it out +of doors, and the women waited for the tubs to be filled again, their +red parboiled hands resting on their hips, in the way of washerwomen the +world over. + +We crossed the mud before the wash-house, on planks, and went into a +house across the courtyard. + +"This is the tailoring establishment," Mme. C---- continued. "The +tailors among them mend and cut over old clothes which we collect for +them, so that every Jew may start on the next stage of his journey in +perfectly clean and whole clothes. My husband and son complain that they +will have to stay in bed, soon, I have taken so many of their suits of +clothes.--And here are the shoemakers." + +We looked into the adjoining room, where the cobblers sat cross-legged, +sewing and patching and pegging shoes. + +"It's very hard to find the leather. But it is so important. If you +could see how they come here--their feet bleeding and swollen and their +shoes in tatters. And many of them were rich bankers and professors in +Galicia and Poland, used to their own automobiles like the rest of us. I +think I would steal leather for them." + +The workers were different from the waiting Jews in the courtyard. +Perhaps it was work that gave them importance in their own eyes, and +took away that dreadful degrading subserviency--degrading to us as much +as to themselves. The whirring noise of the sewing-machines, the click +of shears, the bent backs of the workers, and the big capable hands, +formed by the accustomed work! The trade of every man could have been +known by his hands! My heart was warm toward them. + +"It's splendid, I think," I said to Mme. C----. + +As though she guessed my thoughts, she replied, "They are grateful for +being allowed to work." + +"For being allowed to work." Those words damn much in the world. What +hindrances we erect in the way of life! + +And I looked out into the courtyard again, at the apathetic faces of +the waiting Jews. Waiting for what? The white, dead faces, with the +curved noses and hard, bright eyes, all turned toward us. Were they +submissive or expectant, or simply hating us? They say the Galician Jews +turn traitors and act as spies for the Austrians. But surely not these. +What could these broken creatures do? How near death they seemed! + +The courtyard burned like a furnace. The shade was shrinking from moment +to moment. The heat rose in blinding waves. I was sickened. The +courtyard smelled of dirt and waste and sickness. It was unreal--the +whole thing unreal: those working at usual, necessary tasks as well as +those furtive, watchful ones in the burning sunlight. Death was in them +all. + +I went out into the courtyard, walking slowly in the scorching heat. +There was no shade or coolness anywhere. My attention was drawn to a +pregnant woman who had evidently been sitting in a thin strip of shade +by the fence; but now the sun was beating down on her bare head. She sat +with her arms hanging along her sides, the palms of her hands turned +upwards. A baby hardly a year old twisted fretfully on her lap, +fumbling at her breast with a little red hand. But she looked steadily +over the baby's round head, a curiously intent expression in her dark +eyes, as though she were looking at something so far away that she must +concentrate all herself on it so as not to lose it from view. + +Near her a man leaned against the fence. He was red-headed, and his +unkempt hair and ragged beard flamed in the sun. A rope tied round his +waist kept up his loose trousers, and his shirt was open, disclosing a +hairy chest. Where his skin showed, it was unexpectedly white. He kept +plucking at his chest, smiling idiotically. + +"Is he insane?" I asked Mme. C----. + +"Yes. He's that woman's husband. He went out of his head on the road. +They say he was raging that his wife was obliged to walk in her +condition. Well, he's happier than she is, now." + +Under a canopy made from an old blue skirt lay a sick boy. His face was +like a death-mask already, the yellow skin stretched tightly over the +bones of his face, and his mouth unnaturally wide, with parched, swollen +lips. From his hollow eye-sockets his eyes looked out unwinking, as +though his lids had been cut off. He held himself halfway between a +reclining and an upright position. No normal person could hold himself +that way for long, but the sick boy kept himself motionless with +maniacal strength. The flies hung over him like a cloud of black +cinders. One of his friends attempted to keep them away with a leafy +branch which he had found, Heaven knows where! I could see no other sign +of green in the place. As we passed, I noticed the branch sweep back and +forth over the sick boy's face, touching the skin. And still the fixed +stare continued, uninterrupted--that blind gaze straight out into +emptiness. + +At the farther end, an opening between two of the tenements led into a +garden. This space, too, was crowded with waiting Jews. + +"But where do they sleep?" I asked. "Is there room for all those people +in the houses?" + +"No," Mme. C---- replied; "not when so many come through as came this +last time. But fortunately, these summer nights are fine; earlier, we +had much rain, and you can picture the suffering. Then there was no +shelter for them at all. They were simply herded into a pen, and many +died from the exposure. Now, however, we have made conditions better +for them." + +There was more reality here in the garden, where there was a suggestion +of growing grass and a thin leaf shade. The Jews lay on the ground as +though trying to get some coolness out of the earth. Up and down the +paths walked several spectacled men, who were brought up to me and +introduced as Professor So-and-So, and Doctor So-and-So. They were +constantly trying to get in touch with friends in Kiev or Moscow or +Petrograd, or colleagues in medicine or other sciences, or relatives who +could help them. They worked through the society. By the payment of +certain amounts they could bribe the overseers to let them stay on in +the Kiev detention camp, or even have the liberty of the city. One man, +a rich banker from Lvov, had been officially "sick" for several months, +but as his money had almost given out he was in danger of being sent on +to Tomsk in the near future. He lived in the hospital, where he had +better quarters and food. These professors and doctors, men of wide +learning and reputation, who are recognized as leaders in their +professions, and are constructive, valuable forces in society, were +herded together with the others, and will be allowed to disappear into +Siberia, where their minds and bodies will be wasted, their possible +future activity to count as nothing. + +A man in a soiled white coat came up, looked us over with little +blinking pig eyes, and addressed a few words to Mme. C---- in Polish. + +"That is the overseer," Professor A---- said to me in English. "He takes +every kopeck away from us. But he is no worse than the rest. All along +the way it is the same thing. One is bled to death." He shrugged +indifferently. "We most of us could have gathered together a little +money. But what will you? It was all so sudden. We had no time. Here we +are, _en tout cas_. And after all, in the end--" + +I might have been talking with the professors on the campus of their own +university. They exerted themselves to be attentive and entertaining, as +though they were our hosts. + +One doctor said to me in French, "I have seen your wonderful country. It +is amazing. I would like to see it again. I have been asked to lecture. +Perhaps, after the war--" + +He broke off abruptly. In a flash the end of his life came up to me. +His work and ambitions, and then the cleavage in his career; the sharp +division in his life; the preparation of years, and then, instead of +fulfillment, an exile to a country where life was a struggle for the +bare necessities of the body--food and shelter. I looked at his +hands--thin and white and nervous. What hideous, despairing moments he +must know! + +I asked him a question. His eyes blazed suddenly. + +"Do not speak of these things! They are not to be spoken of, much less +to _you_." He looked as though he hated me. "I beg your pardon, I am +nervous. You must excuse me." He went away hurriedly. + +"Poor chap!" Professor A---- said. "It is hard for us all in this heat. +And, yes, some of us have more imagination than others." + +A man in uniform came into the garden. He walked to a tree in the +center, and stood in the shade, a long sheet of paper in his hand. There +was a stir among the Jews. Those lying down got up and approached him. +The women, with their children, dragged themselves nearer. Every one +stopped talking. The apathy and indifference gave place to a strained +attention. There was a kind of dreadful anxiety on every face--a +tightening of the muscles round the eyes and mouths, as though the same +horrible fear fixed the same mark there. I have never seen a crowd where +personality was so stamped out by a single overmastering emotion. The +gendarme began to read in a sing-song voice. + +"What is he saying?" I whispered. + +"The names of those who are to leave this afternoon," Mme. C---- +replied. + +The garden was absolutely still except for the monotonous voice and the +breathing of the crowd. Oh, yes, and the flies. It was not that I forgot +the flies, only their buzzing was the ceaseless accompaniment to +everything that happened in the camp. + +"How horrible this is!" Mme. C---- observed. "They all know it must +come, but when it does, it is almost unbearable. It is truly a list of +death. Many of them here cannot survive another stage of the journey in +this heat. And yet they must be moved on to make place for those who are +pressing on from behind. In this very crowd were five old men who were +killed on the way here, by the soldiers, because they couldn't keep up +with the procession. How could these civilians be expected to endure +such hardships? They are townspeople, most of them having lived indoors +all their lives, like you or me." + +"Like you or me." No, no. It was unbelievable. I could not put myself in +their place. I could not imagine such insecurity--that lives could be +broken in the middle in this way. + +"How useless it all seems!" I said. + +"Useless. You think so?" Mme. C---- took me up. "Do you realize that +whole Galician towns have been moved into Siberia this summer? Part of +the way on foot, part in baggage cars, where they stifled to death in +the heat and for lack of water and food. One carload wasn't listed, or +was forgotten by some careless official, and when it was finally opened +it was a carload of rotting flesh. The bodies were thrown into the river +by the frightened official, but a soldier reported him and he was +court-martialed. One crowd of several thousand was taken to Siberia. +They reached Tomsk. Then the Government changed. What was the need to +transport these Galician Jews? the new Minister argued: a useless +expense to the Government: a waste of money and time. Let them go back +to their homes. So the Jews were taken back over the same route, many +more dying on the return journey, in the jails, and camps, and baggage +cars, or by the roadsides. They found themselves once more back in their +pillaged towns, with nothing to work with, and yet with their livelihood +to be earned somehow. They began to dig and plant and take up the +routine of their lives again. They began to look on themselves as human +again. The grind of suffering and hopelessness began to let up and they +had moments of hope. And then the reactionaries came into power with +their systematic oppression of the Jews. Back to Siberia with them! This +in midsummer heat. I saw them as they passed through Kiev for the third +time, a few weeks ago. Never shall I forget them as I saw them last. The +mark of the beast was on them. You couldn't call them living or +suffering or martyrs any more. They were beyond the point where they +prayed to die." + +The gendarme had finished his list. The tension relaxed. Some of the +Jews settled back into their former apathy; others gathered in excited +groups, pulling their beards and scratching their heads; still others +walked up and down the paths, restless, like so many caged animals. + +A man and a woman with two children approached the gendarme +deprecatingly. The man asked a question, indicating the woman and +children. The gendarme shook his head. The man persisted. The gendarme +refused again, and started to move away. The man detained him with a +hand on his arm. Another man approached. He spread out both hands, his +shoulders up to his ears. All three men spoke Polish in loud, excited +voices. + +"What are they saying?" I asked. + +"The gendarme has just read the names of the woman and children who are +to leave this afternoon. The father's name is not with theirs. +Naturally, he wants to be with his wife and children to protect and care +for them as best he can. If they are separated now, they can never find +each other again in Siberia--if they live till they get there. The third +man is alone. He is willing to give up his place to the father. But the +gendarme refuses. 'His name is written. Yours is not. It is the order,' +he says." + +The gendarme now left the garden. The woman was sobbing in her husband's +arms. He was patting her hair. The children hung at their mother's +skirt, crying and sucking their fingers. + + + _August 12, 1915._ + +_Dearest Mother and Dad:--_ + +They say there was no ammunition at the front. No shells for the +soldiers. They had nothing to do but retreat. And now? They are still +retreating, fighting with empty guns and clubs and even their naked +hands. And still, trainloads of soldiers go out of Kiev every day +without a gun in their hands. What a butchery! Can you imagine how +horrible it is to see them march through the streets, swinging their +arms and singing their stirring songs,--tall, able-bodied men,--while +the beggars, cripples from the Russo-Japanese War, stand whining at the +street corners. + +There seems to be no doubt about the enemy within the gates. How can the +soldiers give their lives so patiently and bravely for a Government +whose villainy and corruption take no account of the significance of +their sacrifices. The German influence is still strong. They say German +money bribes the Ministers at home and the generals at the front. + +There is great distrust of the Czarina and the Monk Rasputin. The latter +was a serf in Siberia, and now has a malignant, hypnotic influence in +the Russian Court. If he is refused anything, he falls on the floor in a +fit and froths at the mouth until he gets what he wants. The Court +ladies have to lick his dirty fingers clean, for he refuses to use a +finger-bowl at table. Take this for what it's worth. At any rate, there +is much talk now of the Germans working through this disreputable +creature. + +I asked a Russian if there could be a revolution. + +There seems to be no hope. Russia, apparently, lacks the cooerdination +and singleness of purpose necessary for one. And so many unseen +influences are at work. There is no agreement among the people as to +what they want. Each faction is secretly encouraged to war against the +other in order to weaken each other and blur the reason and end in the +people's minds. Besides, of course, nothing can be done as long as the +army can be used to crush any demonstration against the Government. But +if I were a Russian, all my hate would be directed against the traitors +of my country, rather than at the Germans, who, after all, are +political enemies. I would carry a gun against those who sell my country +and make capital out of her suffering. + +In every newspaper there are accounts of enormous graft by Ministers and +companies under contract to the Government for military supplies. One +case was translated to me the other day. Some men high up in the +Government took over a contract for a certain number of cavalry saddles +and bridles. They sold it to the Jews, making a tremendous rake-off. The +Jews, to get any profit, were obliged to furnish poor material. At the +trial, where some officers were testing them, the bridles broke in their +hands like paper and the saddles split into ribbons. + +Then there was a sugar factory in Kiev, whose owner wrote to the +Minister of the Interior, I think it was, and offered his factory, only +asking an estimate of the approximate amount of sugar the Government +would need turned out each day. No answer was made. The owner wrote +again. Still no answer. He went to Petrograd himself to find out why the +Department paid no attention to his letters. The Minister informed him +his letters had lacked the required war-tax stamps and had been turned +over to the proper authorities, who would speedily proceed to fine him +for his evasion of the law. + +I went up to a military hospital to-day. I wonder how I can write you +about it. The insignificance of personalities--whether any one lives or +dies seems to have no importance. Just life seems to matter any more, +and the forward movement of humanity--at least, you must believe the +movement is forward in spite of the horror of mangled bodies and +destroyed minds; otherwise, you would go mad, though you are outside of +it all. How the proportions of things are twisted after going through a +hospital. Things that counted before don't seem to count any more. You +take refuge in generalities to get out of your mind a look you have seen +in a soldier's eyes. + +It was an improvised hospital,--some building or other turned into a +place to receive the hundreds of wounded that are pouring into Kiev +every day. It was a big room, with rows and rows of beds, and in every +bed a man. One man was wounded in the back, and his breath whistled +through the open hole like steam through an escape valve. His face was +wound in white bandages. Others were there, dying from terrible stomach +wounds. One man's head moved from side to side incessantly, as though he +could never again find comfort on earth. Some moan. Others lay +absolutely motionless, their faces terrible dead-white masks. Their +bodies looked so long and thin under the sheets, with their toes turned +up. It was indescribably terrifying to think that human beings could go +through so much and continue to live. I was more frightened than ever +before in my life. The smell of blood--the closeness of the hot +sick-room--flies buzzing about. I saw brown varnish-like stains on some +of the white bandages. The indifferent, business-like attitude of the +nurses infuriated me. But, of course, they can't be any other way and +deal with it all. + +I can't write any more. But is there any excuse for this? + + RUTH. + + + _August 10, 1915._ + +Lately, our conversation at table has been suppressed by the appearance +of a young woman whom the rest suspect of being a spy. She is dark, and +never utters a word. All through dinner she keeps her eyes on her +plate. I said something in French to her the other day, but, apparently, +she did not understand. Across the table, the Morowski boys laughed at +me. I suspect that they, too, had tried to speak to her, for she is +pretty, and had been snubbed like me. I don't know how the idea of her +being a spy got round. She may have been sent here to keep her eyes on +the Polish refugees in the _pension_. Her room is in our corridor, and +this morning Marie saw, through the open door, Panna Lolla and Janchu +talking to her. It appears that Janchu had been inveigled in by bonbons, +and Panna Lolla had gone in after him. Panna Lolla said the young woman +was so lonely. She is a Pole and wants to leave Russia. She hates it +here. But she has no passport. She showed Panna Lolla an old one that +she wants to fix up for the police authorities. But she can't speak +Russian, and is very frightened. She asked Panna Lolla if she knew any +one who could write Russian. Marie forbade Panna Lolla to go near the +woman again. It is just as well, for Panna Lolla likes excitement, and +is capable of saying anything to keep it going. + + + + +III + + + _August._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +We were arrested four days ago--and you will wonder why I keep on +writing. It relieves my nerves. Ever since the _revision_ Marie and I +have gone over and over the same reasoning, trying to get at why we were +arrested. To write it all out may help the restlessness and anxiety +and--yes--the panicky fear that rises in my throat like nausea. Life is +so terribly insecure. I feel as though I had been stripped naked and +turned out into the streets, with no person or place to go to. + +It was four o'clock, and we had just finished dinner. In an hour and a +half we were leaving for Odessa. All our trunks and bags were packed, +and our traveling suits brushed and pressed. Panna Lolla was crying at +having to part from Janchu, and mending some stockings for him. He was +asleep. Marie and I were sitting in our little salon, rejoicing that we +should be in Bucharest in a few days where there was no war and we could +speak French again. War--blood-tracks on the snow, and cholera and +typhus camps under a burning sun. To shut it out for one instant and +pretend that the world was the way it used to be. What a heaven +Bucharest seemed! + +And suddenly the door of our apartment opened. Six men came into the +room, two in uniform, the other four in plain clothes. It never occurred +to me that they had anything to do with me. I thought they had mistaken +the door. I looked at Marie questioningly. There was something peculiar +about her face. + +The four plain-clothes men stood awkwardly about the door which they had +closed softly behind them. The two men with white cord loops across the +breast of their uniforms went over to the table on the right and put +down their black leather portfolios. They seemed to make themselves at +home, and it angered me. + +"What are these people doing here?" I asked Marie sharply. + +She addressed the officer in Polish, and he answered curtly. + +"It's a _revision_," she replied. + +"A what?" + +"A _revision_," she repeated. + +I remember that I consciously kept my body motionless, and said to +myself, "There is nothing surprising in this. There is nothing +surprising in this." Everything had gone dark before my eyes. My heart +seemed to stop beating. + +Marie laughed and the sound of her cracking, high-pitched laugh came to +me from far off. + +The officer said something to her, and she stopped abruptly as though +some one had clapped a hand over her mouth. + +"What did he say?" I managed to articulate. My own language seemed to +have deserted me. + +"He says it is a matter for tears, not laughter." + +Her voice was sharp and anxious. I was relieved at the spite and vanity +in his words. They made the situation more normal. I felt myself +breathing again, and my stomach began to tremble uncontrollably. + +I kept my eyes where they were, fighting for my self-control. So many +terrifying thoughts were trying to penetrate my consciousness. I tried +to shut out everything but my realization of what I was looking at. I +kept my eyes glued on the officer's boots; shiny black boots they were, +that fitted him without a crease, with spurs fastened to the heels. I +shall never forget the stiff, red striped trouser-legs and those shiny +black boots that didn't seem to belong on the body of a living man, but +on the wooden form of some dummy. + +Janchu began to cry from the bedroom, and Marie got up to go to him. +Quickly a plain-clothes man with horn-rimmed spectacles slipped in +between her and the door. The officer, who had now seated himself behind +the table, raised his hand. + +"Let no one leave the room," he said in German. + +"But my baby is crying," Marie began. + +"Let him cry!" And he busied himself pulling papers out of his +portfolio. + +Soon Janchu, seeing that no one paid any attention to him, toddled in +and climbed into Marie's lap. He sat there sucking his fingers and +looking out at the roomful of strange men. + +An army officer entered and spoke to the head of the secret service. He +wore a dazzling, gold-braided uniform, and preened himself before us, +looking at us curiously over his shoulder. When he had gone, the head +told us that we were to have a personal examination in the salon of the +_pension_. + +A secret-service man escorted each of us, and we walked down the +corridor, past the squad of soldiers with their bayonets, and into the +salon, where we were delivered into the hands of two women spies. They +undressed us, and we waited while our clothes were passed out to the +secret-service men outside. Panna Lolla tried to twist herself up in the +window curtains. Marie and I grew hysterical at her modesty, looking at +her big, knobby feet and her fiery face, with her top-knot of disheveled +red hair. We were given our clothes again, and went back to our +apartment. + +The rooms were in confusion. All our trunks and bags were emptied, one +end of the carpet rolled back, the mattresses torn from the beds. The +secret-service men were down on their knees before piles of clothes, +going over the seams, emptying the pockets, unfolding handkerchiefs, +tapping the heels of shoes; every scrap of paper was passed over to the +chief, who tucked it into his portfolio. I watched him, hating his +square, stolid body that filled out his uniform smoothly. His eyes were +long and watchful like a cat's, and his fair mustache was turned up at +the ends, German fashion; in fact, there was something very German +about his thick thighs and shaved head and official importance. As I +have learned since, he _is_ a German and the most hated man in Kiev for +his pitiless persecution of all political offenders. They say he has +sent more people to Siberia than any six of his predecessors. They also +say every hand is against him, even to the spies' in his own force. + +I trembled to spring at him and claw him and ruffle his composure some +way. Instead, I sat quietly, my hands folded, and watched the spies +ransacking our clothes. I began to feel a sharp anxiety as to what they +would find. It was all so mysterious. What were they looking for? At one +moment it was ridiculous, and I felt like laughing at the whole affair; +and then the next, the silence in which the search was conducted, the +apparent dead-seriousness of the spies' faces, the deliberation with +which the chief turned the bits of paper over in his hands and +scrutinized them and put them carefully away, struck me with a cold, +sharp apprehension. I had the sensation of being on the very edge of a +precipice. I felt as though the world were upside down and the most +innocent thing could be turned against us. Every card and photograph I +tried to catch a glimpse of before it went into the black portfolio. And +suddenly I saw the letter about the Jewish detention camp, which I had +forgotten all about. I saw the close lines of my writing, and it seemed +as though the edge of the precipice crumbled and I went shooting down. A +cold sweat broke out over me. + +"But why are we arrested?" I heard Marie ask in German. + +"Espionage," the chief answered shortly. + +"But that is ridiculous. We're American citizens." + +No reply. + +"Can we leave for Odessa to-night?" + +No reply. + +Marie stopped her questions. + +"What money have you? Come here while I count it," one of the spies said +to me. He slipped me one hundred roubles on the sly, before turning the +rest over to the chief. I held it openly in my hand, too dazed to know +what to do with it, till he whispered to me to hide it. "You may want +it, later," he said. + +"Frau Pierce will go with us," the chief said, closing his portfolio; +and I understood that the _revision_ was finished. "Frau G---- can stay +here under room-arrest, with her little boy." + +He spoke to no one in particular, but addressed the room at large, his +face impassive, and his voice without an intonation. The spies stood in +the midst of the tumbled clothes, watching us silently, ominously. +Janchu now crept up into Marie's lap again. As a matter of course, I +went into the other room and changed into my traveling suit. + +"May I take my toilet things?" I asked the chief. + +"Ja." + +"You'd better make a bundle of bedclothes," the spy who had given me the +money whispered to me. + +I rolled up two blankets and a pillow with his help. + +"I'm ready," I said. "May I send a few telegrams?" + +"Certainly, certainly." The chief's manner suddenly became extremely +courteous. + +I wrote one to our Ambassador in Petrograd, one to Mr. Vopicka in +Bucharest, one to the State Department in Washington, and one to Peter. +I wrote Peter that I was delayed a few days. I was afraid that he might +come on and be arrested, too. My hand did not tremble, though it struck +me as very queer to see the words traced out on the paper--almost +magical. My imagination was racing, and I could see myself already being +driven into one of those baggage cars bound for Tomsk. + +"Keep your mind away from what is going to happen," I said to myself. +"You will have time enough to think in prison. Things are as they are. +You are going to walk out of this room, just the way you've done a +hundred times. Are you different now from what you've always been? Keep +your mind on things you know are real." + +I tried to move accurately, as though a false move would disturb the +balance of things so that I would walk out of the room on my hands like +an acrobat. + +Suddenly, the chief, who had been talking in a corner with the other man +in uniform, wheeled about. + +"Frau Pierce may stay here under room-arrest. Good-day." + +He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. His spies clustered +about him, and they left the room. + +All at once my bones seemed to crumble and my flesh dissolve. I fell +into a chair. Marie and I looked at each other. We began to laugh. "We +mustn't get hysterical," we said, and kept on laughing. + +The room was so dark that we looked like two shadows. Panna Lolla had +come after Janchu and taken him into Count S----'s room. We imagined the +excited curiosity of the rest of the _pension_. + +"I'll wager that woman was a spy, after all." + +"But why--why should _we_ have a _revision_?" + +"Anyway, they couldn't have found much. We'll be set free in a few +days," Marie said. + +"They found my letter about the Jews," I replied. + +"What letter? Oh, my dear, what did you say?" + +"I forget. But everything I saw or heard, I think." + +We began to laugh again. + +"Will they send our telegrams?"--"Will Peter come on?"--"What shall we +do for money?" + +The room was pitch-dark except for the electric light from the street. +We heard the creak and rattle of the empty commissariat wagons returning +from the barracks. We fell silent, feeling suddenly very tired and +lethargic. + +"Where is Janchu? It's time for his supper," Marie said, without moving. + +I started out of the room to call him, and fell across a dark figure +sitting in front of the door. He grunted and pushed me back into the +room. + +"I want Janchu," I said in perfectly good English, while he closed the +door in my face. + +"There's a spy outside our door," I whispered to Marie. + +Panna Lolla came in with Janchu and turned on the light. + +"There's a man outside our door, and two secret-service men at the +_pension_ door and two soldiers downstairs," she whispered excitedly in +one breath. "No one can leave the _pension_, and they take the name and +address of every one who comes here. And that woman _was_ a spy. Antosha +saw the chief go into her room and heard them talking together. And she +left when they did." + +I lay all night, half asleep, half awake, hearing the street noises +clearly through the open windows. I cried a little from exhaustion and +nerves, and then controlled myself, for my head began to ache, and who +knew what would happen the next day? I had to keep strength to meet +something that was coming. I had no idea what it was, but the +uncertainty of the future only made it more ominous and threatening. +That letter--In the darkness I saw the chief's watchful, narrow eyes, +and the horn-rimmed spectacles of the friendly spy, and the stuffed +portfolio. + + + _Later._ + +Nothing has happened yet. We have our meals brought to us by Antosha, +who tries to comfort us with extra large pickled cucumbers and portions +of sour cream. We are allowed to send Panna Lolla downtown for +cigarettes and books from the circulating library. Thank Heaven for +books! With our nerves stretched to the snapping-point and a pinwheel of +thoughts everlastingly spinning round in our heads, I think we should go +mad except for books. It is very hot, but my body is always cool and +damp, because I can't eat much, I suppose, and lie on a _chaise longue_ +motionless all day long. I can feel myself growing weak, and there is +nothing to do but sit and wait. + +Marie and I go over and over the whole thing, and finish at the point +where we began. "But why?" We think it may be because Marie came to +Bulgaria to visit me and brought me back here, and now we want to leave +Russia together. The papers say that Bulgaria already has German +officers over her troops. But I can't believe it. She is too +independent. They say that she will certainly go with the Central +Powers. That, too, is inconceivable. Perhaps, however, if it is true, +and already known by the Russian authorities, the secret service is +suspicious of our going back there, and of Marie's intention of sailing +home from Dedeagatch, via Greece. What else could it be? How this +uncertainty maddens us! Yet we are thankful for every day that passes +and leaves us together. What will happen when they translate my letter? +_Boje moy!_ I hear a step outside the door, and my heart simply ceases +to beat. + +Pan Tchedesky to-day tiptoed into our room when the spy was having his +lunch. He whispered to us that he had seen the English Consul, Mr. +Douglas, and told him about our case. He begged us not to be +discouraged, and to eat. He said that he almost wept when he saw our +plates come back to the kitchen, untouched. How flabby and livid he +looked, his vague, blurred eyes watery with tears! Yet we could have +embraced him. He is the only person who has spoken to us. + +The sun is golden on the old convent wall across the street. The convent +is empty during the summer. Only the richest Court ladies send their +daughters there to be educated, and the Dowager Empress visits them when +she passes through Kiev. The trees in the garden are gold and green in +the late afternoon sun. A little bell tinkles musically. + +Below in the street some passing soldiers are singing. How fresh and +strong and beautiful their untrained voices are. I wonder if they are +off to the front, for each one carries a pack and a little tea-kettle +swung on his back and a wooden spoon stuck along the side of his leg in +his boot. Where will they be sent? Up north, to try and stem the German +advance? To Riga? Where? The Germans are still advancing. Something is +wrong somewhere. And still soldiers go to the front, singing. They are +thrown into the breach. I can't help but think of the fields of Russian +dead, unburied. Who has a chance to bury the dead on a retreat? There +is nothing "decent" in it. Yet they say the retreat is "orderly." I +wonder what that means? + +At night when I try to sleep, I see the map of Russia as if it was +printed on my eyeballs. It is so big and black with a thin red line of +fire eating into it. America seems millions of miles away. I wish I +could touch you just for a minute. If I could only feel your arms about +me for one moment. The only way is not to think beyond this room and +this minute. + + RUTH. + + + _August._ + +_Dearests:--_ + +Peter is here. Last night, about nine o'clock the door opened and he +rushed into the room. I got to my feet on impulse, and then tried to +brace myself and control my disordered reason, for, of course, I +believed myself delirious. He stopped by the door long enough to throw +down his suitcase, and in that instant I struggled fiercely to +disbelieve my eyes. I was fighting myself. My legs trembled. But when I +fell, his arms were around me, supporting me. + +"Is it you? Is it you?" I don't know whether I said the words out loud +or not, but I remember feeling the muscle in Peter's shoulder and +wondering if I could have gone out of my head as much as _that_. + +"What on earth has happened to you two?" he said at last. + +"Let me sit down," I said, feeling suddenly very sick and faint, and a +black spot in front of my eyes expanded all at once and shut out the +swaying room. + +"Why didn't you come to Bucharest?" he asked again. + +"How white and thin you are. Isn't he, Marie?" I observed, the blackness +gone from my eyes. + +"Please answer me. What is the matter? You both look sick." + +"We are under arrest for espionage," Marie and I suddenly burst out in +chorus, and we both began talking as fast and as loud as we could. + +"That's all right. I'll fix things for you," Peter reassured us when we +stopped at last, out of breath. I suddenly wanted to hide him so they +wouldn't get him as well as ourselves. He was so self-confident. What +did _he_ know of how things happened over here? He was talking and +acting like a rational human being, which was sure proof he was in no +position to cope with the Russian Secret Service. I felt a frantic +desire to get him out of the room and make him promise that on no +account would he admit he knew us. + +"You must go at once," I whispered. "There's a spy at the door. If he +sees you, they'll arrest you, too. Please go, go at once." And I tried +to push him away. + +"You poor things," he said, laughing. "There's no need to be frightened +like this. Of course I won't go. Why should they arrest me?" + +"Why should they have arrested us? Oh, you _don't_ know." My teeth were +chattering. + +"Now, look here," he said seriously. "You've been alone and scared, and +I'm sure you haven't eaten anything for days. Now, don't think about +this any more. I'll get you out in no time. Have you a cigarette, +anybody?" + +I sat back, and my body stopped shaking. Everything seemed very still. I +had the distinct thought, "What is to come, will come," and I drew a +deep breath that seemed to come from my toes. It was enough Peter was +here, after all. + +We talked till three in the morning. Peter had gone to Bucharest to meet +us, and when we didn't arrive, he took the first train to Kiev. I began +to believe in his bodily presence. Before he left to go back to his +hotel, I had regained my conviction he was a match for even the Russian +Secret Service. + +Can you imagine how we feel to-day? We go tottering round the room, +taking things up and putting them down again, in a nervous anxiety to +_do_ something. We chirp the rag-times popular in America two years ago. +We feel as though we were just recovering from a sickness, with a +pleasant bodily weakness like a convalescent's in the springtime. Peter +brought me a bunch of red roses when he came over this morning. I am +writing this while he is seeing Mr. Douglas, the English Consul. + +So much love to you from + + RUTH. + + + _September._ + +_Darlingest ones:--_ + +It has been three weeks since our arrest, and to-day is the first time +we have been allowed to leave the room and go outdoors. We are still +under house-arrest, but we can go out in the garden, while two soldiers +guard the entrance. Isn't it ludicrous? A gendarme came last night and +announced with ponderous importance that we were to be permitted the +liberty of the garden if we gave our word of honor not to try to escape. +We signed two red-sealed documents, and so we can go into the garden +while two soldiers with bayonets look to it that we don't go any +farther. + +Peter had to bully me into leaving my room this afternoon. I didn't want +to get healthy. I had grown so used to the proportions of our rooms I +hated to make the effort to adjust myself to any others. But Peter came +back from his daily round of visits to the English Consul, and the Army +Headquarters, and the office of Kiev's civil governor, and produced from +his coat-pocket a rubber ball. We were to play ball out in the garden, +he said. So, after some persuasion Marie and I went out into the garden +with him. How weak I was. My legs trembled going downstairs, and I was +exhausted when I reached the benches in the garden. + +Janchu, seeing us, ran up joyfully and took his mother by the hand. +"This is my mother," he said in Polish, looking around proudly at the +other children who were playing there. + +Every one looked at us curiously. A head appeared at every window in the +big stone apartment house. I saw the two women spies who had undressed +us. They were evidently employed as servants in some family, for one was +ironing and the other fixing a roast for the oven. They, too, looked out +at us. I felt hot and indignant and, yes, ashamed as though I had been +guilty. I wanted to hide. I felt inadequate to life. People were too +much for me. People--people, the living and the dead. What a weight of +life! I could hardly control my tears. Weakness, I suppose, for the +soles of my feet and my fingertips hurt me as though my nerves were +bared to the touch. + +I looked up over the garden-wall. The tree-tops were yellow. While we +had been locked in our room, the season had changed. Autumn was upon us. +I shivered. There was a lavender mist over the city dimming the radiance +of the gold and silver church domes. How beautiful Kiev was! The +church-bells were so mellow-toned; and the children's shrill laughter +and cries as they played in the garden. But it tired me. Every +impression seemed to bruise me. + +Peter bought some little Polish cakes, and we had hot tea to cheer us +up--three and four glasses of tea. + +Good-night. Sometimes, when I think of you, I don't see all of you, but +instead a particular gesture, or I hear an inflection of voice that is +too familiar to be borne. Now I see mother's hands and they are +beautiful. + + RUTH. + + + _September._ + +_Dearests:--_ + +Every day now we go out into the garden. We play ball and play tag in +the wind to get warm. + +There is a private hospital at one end of our apartment house, supported +by a wealthy Polish woman. Two or three times a week she visits the +patients, young officers who go out into the garden with her and kiss +her hand and talk and flirt. She sits on a garden-bench surrounded by +her young men, a big woman in black, with a long black veil, talking +vivaciously, using her hands in quick, expressive gestures, patting +their cheeks, leaning forward to give their hands an impulsive squeeze. +When she laughs, which is often, the black line of a mustache on her +upper lip makes the white of her teeth whiter still. The days when she +isn't there, the convalescents flirt with the nurses. There is nothing +horrible about this hospital. The patients are only slightly wounded, +and wear becoming bathrobes when they lounge round. + +The window-ledges of the rooms are gay with flowers. Almost always a +phonograph is going, "Carmen," or "Onegin," or "Pagliacci." Sometimes, +Peter and I one-step to the music on the pavement outside, and the +officers and nurses crowd to the windows and clap and cry, "Encore!" +Often, after sundown, when the children have gone indoors, and we go out +for a walk before dinner, we see a patient with a bandage around his +head, perhaps, but both arms well enough to be clasping a pretty nurse +in them. They laugh and we laugh. There is no cynicism about it. It's +bigger than that, it seems to me. + +Into the garden come many street musicians. They play and sing, and +showers of kopecks rain down from the windows. Two little girls came a +few days ago. They were Tziganes, barefooted, with gay petticoats and +flowered shawls and dangling earrings. Their dark hair was short and +curly. One of the children played a _balalaika_ and sang in a broken, +mournful voice that did not at all belong to her age. The other--who +wore the prettiest dress, yellow, with a green and purple shawl--danced +like a little marionette on a string, not an expression in her pointed, +brown face, but every now and then accelerating the pace of her dance, +and giving sharp, high cries. Then, suddenly, they stopped in the middle +of a measure, and held out their aprons for money. A window on the +ground floor opened and a very pretty woman leaned out. I have seen her +many times. She is Polish, the daughter of a concierge, and now the +mistress of a young Cossack, who is leaving shortly for the front. She +has heavy, pale-yellow hair, wound around her head in thick braids, and +she wears pearls, opaque like her skin. She beckoned the little girls +into her room. They went eagerly. Soon I heard them singing there. + +When we were with Dr. ----, from the Red Cross hospital this afternoon, +a soldier came up to us and saluted. He was a miserable-looking +creature, in a uniform too big for him. His face was unshaven, his beard +gray and sparse, and his eyes red and blinking and full of pain. He +slouched away again in a moment, his eyes staring down at the sidewalk +under his feet. + +"What did he want?" I asked. + +"He wants brandy. He's leaving for the front to-morrow, and he asked me +to write out a doctor's prescription so he could get a little brandy. +Poor fellow. It was impossible, of course, but I'd have done it gladly. +He said he'd been wounded and discharged, and had to go back to the +front and leave his family, helpless, again. The second time must be so +much worse than the first. You know what it's like out there." + + RUTH. + + + _September._ + +_Darlingest ones:--_ + +At last I have heard from the letter about the Jewish detention camp. +The English Consul came to our rooms yesterday afternoon and said he was +to act as interpreter for the head of the secret police. I was to be +ready to answer his questions about eight o'clock that night. He told me +to keep my temper and say as little as possible. + +Shortly before eight the Consul and the chief came round together. We +all sat down. I was quite calm. So often I had created my own terror of +this moment that when it came I met it with relief. I even felt a sense +of superiority over the chief of the secret service. I don't know why, +I'm sure. Perhaps because I was no longer afraid of him. It was as +though I had stuck my head under a pump of ice-cold water. I felt very +clear-headed. I had a curious feeling that things were as they were and +nothing I could say could change them. + +"Are you a Jew?" he asked me first. + +"No." + +"Is your mother or father Jewish?" + +"No. There is no Jewish blood in our family." I thought of Dad's +Quakerism and smiled. I wondered what he would have said if he had been +there. + +"Then why have you such sympathy for them?" He looked at me narrowly, as +though he had me _there_. + +"Because they are suffering." + +"Tck." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in the most +skeptical fashion. + +He took up my letter, translated into Russian, and went through it. The +whole thing was a farce. I answered the questions he asked me, but they +didn't get us anywhere. Of course, everything I knew about the Jewish +detention camp I had written in my letter. All I could do was to repeat +what I had said there. And when he asked questions like, "Who said five +old men had been killed along the way?" or, "How did you know throwing +the bodies into the Dnieper had brought cholera into Kiev this summer?" +I could only reply, "I was told it." "Who told you?" "I forget." + +When he got up to go he said:-- + +"This letter makes your case a very serious one. Of course, we can't +have such things as that published about us. Have you ever written +before?" + +I said, "No." + +"You aren't reporting for any journal?" + +I assured him it was only a letter I had written my mother and father. + +"It goes out of my hands to-night. I shall hand it with a report to the +Chief of the General Staff." + +"When shall I hear from them?" + +"They will let you know as soon as possible. It's unfortunate you should +have written it. Otherwise, I could have settled the matter myself. As +it is, it is a matter for the military authorities. Of course, such a +letter written in the war zone, at a time like this--" He stopped +himself. "Good-night. Good-night." He clicked his heels and bowed +himself out of the room. + +"Ouf!" we all said. + +"Mrs. Pierce, promise me you won't put your pen to paper again while you +are in Russia," the English Consul said, smiling. + +"But isn't it ridiculous--absurd--disgusting!" I said. + +"People are sent to Siberia for less," the Consul said. "But don't be +frightened, Mrs. Pierce. It will come out all right." + +"Of course. But when?" + +"_Seichas_," he replied, smiling. + +"_Seichas._" How I hate the expression. "Peter, you'd better cable for +some more money. Heaven knows when we'll get out now," I said. + +Peter sends love too. We are hungry for news from you, and we picture +greedily the piles of letters we shall find waiting for us in Bulgaria. +I try not to be anxious about you--But I wake up at night and this +silence of months is like a dead weight on my heart. + + RUTH. + + + + +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 crepe 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. + + RUTH. + + + _October._ + +_Darlingest Mother and Dad:--_ + +This afternoon I went up to the English Consulate with Sasha. As we +turned the corner we saw a long gray procession of carts crawling down +the hill toward us. I stopped and watched them pass me, one after the +other, crowded over to the side of the road by the usual traffic of a +busy street. Peasants walked by the horses' heads, men in dusty +sheepskin coats, or women muffled up somehow, their hands hidden in the +bosoms of their waists for warmth. They stared ahead with a curious, +blind look in their eyes, as though they did not realize the noise and +movement of the city life about them. How strange it was, the passing of +this silent peasant procession by the side of the clanging trains and +gray war automobiles! + +"Who are these people?" I asked Sasha. + +"They must be the fugitives," she replied. "Every day they come in +increasing numbers. I have heard the Kiev authorities are trying to turn +them aside and make them go round the outskirts; for what can a city do +with whole provinces of homeless and hungry peasants?" + +"You mean they are the refugees who have been driven out of their homes +by the enemy?" I asked. + +"Yes. By the Germans and Austrians." + +The carts jolted slowly down the hill, the brakes grinding against the +wheels, the little rough-coated horses holding back in the shafts. +Sometimes, where there should have been two horses, there was only one. +The others evidently had been sold or else died on the way. Only one +small horse to drag a heavy double cart crowded with people and +furnishings. One little horse looked about to drop. His sides were +heaving painfully and his eyes were glazed. "Why don't they stop and +rest," I thought. "Why does that man keep on? His horse will die, and +then what will he do?" + +"What do they do when their horses give out?" I asked Sasha. + +"What can they do?" she replied. "What did they do when they were forced +to leave their farms and lands? They bear it. The Russian people have a +great capacity for suffering. Think of it--what this means +now--hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people made homeless and sent +wandering over the face of the earth. Think of the separations--the +families broken up--the bewilderment. A month ago, perhaps, they had +their houses and lands and food to eat. They were muzhiks. And now they +are wandering, homeless, like Tziganes. Ah, the Russian people were born +into a heritage of suffering, and to us all the future is hidden." + +I kept my eyes on the endless procession. Some of the carts were open +farm wagons, piled with hay, and hung with strange assortments of +household utensils. Frying-pans and kettles were strung along the sides, +enameled ones, sometimes, that showed a former prosperity. Inside were +piles of mattresses and chairs; perhaps a black stovepipe stuck out +through the slatted sides of the cart. The women and children huddled +together in the midst of their household goods, wrapped up in the extra +petticoats and waists and shawls they had brought along--anything for +warmth. The children were pale and pinched, and some of them had their +eyes closed as though they were sick. If they looked at you, it was +without any curiosity or eagerness. How pitiful the indifference of the +children was! + +Sometimes the carts were covered with faded cloth stretched over rounded +frameworks like gypsy-wagons. There, the old _babas_ sat on the front +seats, eyes like black shoe-buttons, with their lives almost finished. +They seemed the least affected by the misery and change. They occupied +the most comfortable places, and held the bright-colored ikons in their +arms--the most precious possession of a Russian home. Perhaps a dog was +tied under the wagon, or a young colt trotted along by its mother's +side. + +It was as though there had been a great fire, and every one had caught +up what he could to save from destruction: homes broken into little bits +to be put together again in a strange land. + +An open cart broke down in front of us. The woman got out to help her +husband. She had a round, pock-marked face, as expressionless as wood. +She wore a bright shawl over her hair, and a long sheepskin coat, with +the sleeves and pockets beautifully embroidered in colors. It was dirty, +now, but indicated she had been well-to-do once. She limped badly. + +"Good-evening," I said. + +"Good-evening, excellency," she replied civilly. + +"Are you hurt?" I asked. + +"My feet are blistered from the walking," she replied. "I take turns +with my husband." + +"Where are you from?" + +"Rovno." + +"How long have you been on the way?" + +"Many weeks. Who knows how long?" + +"And where are you going?" + +"Where the others go. Somewhere into the interior." + +The procession had not halted, but, turning out for the broken-down +cart, continued uninterruptedly down the hill. Every now and then the +peasant looked up anxiously. + +"We must hurry. We mustn't be left behind," he muttered. + +"What do you eat?" I asked the woman. + +"What we can find. Sometimes we get food at the relief stations, or we +get it along the way." + +"Do the villages you pass through help you?" I persisted. + +"They do what they can. But there are so many of us." + +"Can't you find cabbages and potatoes in the fields?" I asked. + +The woman looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and did not reply. + +"Why do you want to know these things?" she asked, after a silence. +"What business is it of yours?" + +"I want to help you." + +"Help us." She shook her head. "But I'll tell you," she said. "I did +take some potatoes once. It was before the cold weather. I dug them out +of a field we passed through after dark. No one saw me. My children were +crying with hunger and I had nothing to give them. So I dug up a handful +of potatoes in the dark. But God saw me and punished me. I cooked the +potatoes over a fire by the roadside, but He kept the heat from reaching +the inside of the potatoes. Two of my children sickened and died from +eating them. It was God's punishment. We buried them along the road. My +husband made the crosses out of wood and carved their names on them. +They lie way behind us now--unsung. But perhaps those who pass along the +road and see the crosses will offer up a prayer." + +"I will burn candles for them," I said. "What were their names?" + +"Sonia and Peter Kolpakova, your excellency. You are good. God bless +you!" And she kissed my hands. + +I looked at the three children who were left. They sat in the cart +silently, surrounded by the incongruous collection of pots and pans, and +leaning against a painted chest. The chest was covered with dust, but +you could still see a bunch of bright-painted flowers behind the +children's heads. + +"Poor little things," I said. "Are they cold?" + +"It's hard on the children," the mother replied stolidly. "They can't +stand it as we can. We are used to trouble. We know what life is. But +the children--they are sick most of the time. They have no strength +left. What can we do for them? We have no medicines. Have you any +medicines?" she asked, with a sudden, hopeful glint in her dull, +wide-set eyes. "No?" Her face regained its impassivity. + +Her husband straightened himself, grunting. He had finished tying the +broken wheel together with rope. + +"Come, we must be moving. Hurry, or we'll be left behind," he said, +going to the little horse's head. + +The woman climbed back into the cart and took the youngest child in her +arms. A feeble wail came from the dull-colored bundle. Her husband +turned the horse into the procession again. + +Still the carts were coming over the hill, gray and dusty, with the +peasants and their wives walking beside the horses' heads. What a river +of suffering! What a smell came from it! And automobiles and tramways +rushed by. + +Is this the twentieth century? + + + _October._ + +I delayed mailing my last letter, so I shall tell you about another +glimpse I've had of the refugees. Yesterday, as we sat drinking tea, we +heard the rumble and creak of heavy wagons outside the _pension_. The +noise reached us distinctly in spite of the windows being hermetically +sealed with putty for the winter. At first we thought it was the regular +train of carts that climb Institutska Oulitza every evening at six +o'clock carrying provisions to the barracks. But the rumble and creak +persisted so long that I went to the window at last to see why there +were so many more carts than usual. + +There was a procession of carts, but instead of going up the hill in the +direction of the barracks, it was descending the hill, and instead of +soldiers in clumsy uniforms, peasants in bell-shaped sheepskin coats +walked by their horses' heads, snapping the long lash whips they carried +in their hands. I recognized the covered gypsy wagons and the open carts +with their bulky loads. It was too dark to see distinctly, but I knew +they were refugees by the strings of kettles along the sides of the +carts, which caught the electric light in coppery flashes. And in the +open wagons I could see the pale disks of faces. As I watched, the +procession came to a stand-still and the drivers collected in little +groups under the white globes of the street lamps. I went outdoors and +crossed the street to them. + +I approached a group of three men. + +"Good-evening," I said. + +"Good-evening, Panna," they replied. + +"Have you come far?" + +"Far? I should say we've been two months on the road," replied the +best-dressed man of the three. He had fur cuffs and collar on his long +sheepskin coat, and his boots were strong and well made. + +"Can you tell me where we can get some tobacco?" he asked. + +I directed him down the street a little way. He took a piece of silver +from a leather purse he wore round his neck, and gave it to one of his +companions, who left on the errand. The other man went round to the tail +of the cart and took down two bags of grain for the horses' supper. + +"Good horses you have there," I said, to say something. + +"Yes, indeed; the best horses a man ever had; less good ones would have +died on the road long ago. I bought them for fifty roubles apiece, and I +wouldn't take two hundred and fifty for them to-day. But, then, they're +all I have left of back there." He spoke in a quiet voice, scratching +his stubby, unshaven face, absent-mindedly. + +"Is he traveling with you?" I asked, pointing to the man who was +slinging the grain-bags round the horses' necks. + +"Yes. I picked him up along the road. His horse had died under him and +he counted himself no longer a human being. What was he, indeed, with +nothing he could call his own in the world any more? I let him come +along with me. I had extra room. So I let him come along with me." His +voice had no expression in it. + +"But haven't you a family?" I asked. + +"I have three children," he replied. + +"It must be hard to take care of children at such a time as this." + +"God knows it is," he replied. There was a sudden desperate note in his +voice. "It's a woman's business. But my wife died on the way. A month +and a half ago--soon after we started. It seems soon, now, but we'd been +long enough on the road to kill her with the jolting and misery of it." + +"Was she sick?" + +"She died in childbirth. There was no one to take care of her, and +nothing for her to eat. I made a fire, and she lay on the ground. All +night she moaned. She died toward morning. The baby only lived a few +hours. It was better it should die. What was ahead of it but suffering? +It was a boy, and my wife and I had always wanted a boy. But I wouldn't +have minded so much if the little wife had lived. It's hard without +her." + +The man returned with the tobacco and the three peasants lighted +cigarettes. All was quiet. I heard nothing but the champing of the +horses as they munched the grain and the whistling of the wind through +the poplars in the convent garden. + +"Kiev is a big city--a holy city, I've heard. Many from our town have +made a pilgrimage here," the rich peasant observed. + +For the moment I'd forgotten where I was. Now I heard the city noises; +the footsteps grinding on pavements; the whistle and grinding of trains. +And the lights from the city reddened the mists that rose from the +Dnieper. + +The carts in front began to move on. + +"Where are we going?"--"What are the orders?"--"Is there a relief +station here?" every one cried at once. + +"Good-bye. A good journey," I cried. + +"Thank you. Good-bye." + +The men stepped out into the road again. I watched cart after cart pass +me. The women looked straight out between the horses' ears, and showed +no curiosity or wonderment at being in a big city for the first time in +their lives. Strange sights and faces had no significance for them any +more. + +I ducked under a horse's nose and went indoors again. + +There is something shameful in our security. We have shelter and bread. +We can only feel life indirectly, after all. We are always muffled up by +things. And America. A pathologic fear clutches me, for how will it all +end? + +My love to you every minute. + + RUTH. + + + _October._ + +_Dearests:--_ + +There seems no beginning or end to my stay here. How strange it is to +look back to July and remember the long, hot days and the languorous +nights when, in spite of the war, people walked in the gardens and +listened to the music and drank punch out of tea-cups, pretending it was +tea. The still, starlit nights of July. + +I remember a dinner Princess P---- gave at Koupietsky Park a few nights +after my arrival in Russia. Everything was so new to me. Our table was +set out on the terrace, overlooking the Dnieper, with the music and stir +of people in the distance. An irresponsible joy filled my heart as I +looked down at the black, winding river with its shadowy banks and the +fantastic shimmer of lights on the water. The city lights crowded down +to the very water's edge; then the drifting red and green lights of +steamers and ferry-boats moving on the black, magic stream, and beyond, +the flat plain, silent and mysterious, with, over the horizon rim, the +thunder and clang of war. But war was far away those first days I was in +Russia. I hardly thought of it. + +The dome and square walls of a monastery were momentarily whitened by a +wheeling searchlight, and high up against the dusky, starlit sky was +printed a shining gold cross. Women's dresses glimmered in the darkness +like gray, widespread wings of moths, and laughter came from the curve +of the terrace overlooking the monastery garden. + +"My child, there are tears in your eyes; how pretty!" the Princess +cried, taking my hand in hers and stroking it with her small, cold +fingers. + +There were other Americans present beside myself, and I knew the +Princess loved one of them. It was to make him jealous, I knew, that she +held my hand in hers throughout dinner. She, herself, hardly ate +anything, only smoked one cigarette after another. There were all sorts +of _zakouski_, stuffed tomatoes and cucumbers and queer little fishes in +oil, and pickled sturgeon and mushrooms, and salads and caviar, and +there was _kvass_ to drink,--deep red,--and a champagne cup served in a +teapot, and cigarettes all through the meal. + +The Princess was middle-aged and wanted to appear youthful; so she dyed +her hair blue-black which was harsh for her pointed face, and wore +costly, too elaborate clothes from Paris. But her body showed delicately +round under the laces and chiffons, and she was quick and light in her +gestures like a bird. Her husband, who had been twice her age, had died, +leaving her large estates and much money. Now she moved about Russia +with a maid and a wee little dog and numberless trunks, frivolously +seeking her pleasure. Her eyes were black and glittering, and her mouth +red and thin and flexible. She had caressing, spoiled ways with every +one from the American whom she called "Meester" to her chow dog, and all +she asked from any one was amusement. + +"I like Americans," she said with shameless flattery. "So much I like +them. The women--_and_ the men. I shall go to New York after the war, +and you will show me your famous cabarets, and--what do you call it?" +She appealed to "Meester." + +"Broadway--good old Broadway," he replied indulgently. + +"Ah, yes. B-r-r-oadway. And I will dance all night. I dance +magnificently. Is it not so, Meester? Yes, I will go to New York and +become just like an American." + +After dinner we went to a wrestling-match, and "Meester" took the +Princess, radiant and vivacious and paying all the bills, back to the +Continental. + +Since July war has come nearer Kiev. The hospitals are full of maimed +and wounded soldiers who fought to defend Russia. They made a bulwark of +their breasts. It was as though one single giant breast, hundreds of +versts broad, thrust itself between the Germans and home. + +And it is winter now. The days are short with an icy, gray mist from the +Dnieper, and flurries of snow. There is a shortage of coal, and we sit +shivering in our apartment. We drag the covers off the beds and wrap +ourselves up in them while we read books from the circulating library or +play three-handed bridge. The wind rattles the windows and streaks the +panes with snow and rain. But however dirty they get, they must remain +unwashed till spring; for they are sealed for the winter with putty, and +you can open only one small pane at the top. The apartment is darker +than ever. Not once does the sun shine into our rooms. We see the +sunlight in the street, but the dark shadow of the building lengthens +minute by minute, stretching itself across the street and reaching up +over the convent wall like the smothering black hand of a giant, till +only the tips of the cypresses and poplars in the gardens are red in the +late sunlight. + +At tea-time we go to "Francois's" or to some other little sweet-shop, in +order to get warm. There, we drink glass after glass of weak tea and eat +little Polish cakes, and look over the English and French periodicals. + +It is dark when we go out into the street again, and the air is frosty. +The officers wear short gray coats, braided and lined with fur, and fur +caps. The women are muffled in seal and sable, which make the skin look +clear and white and their eyes brilliant. Even the peasants wear +sheepskin coats, bell-shaped and richly embroidered. Marie has winter +clothes, but the warmest thing I possess is my traveling suit I wore +here in June, which has been getting thinner and thinner ever since. My +feet, in low summer pumps, are swollen and burning with chilblains. I +must get some high shoes when our next money comes. You see, that is the +trouble. We are promised our passports from day to day, and, expecting +to go at any time, we try to get along with what money we have, and wait +to buy clothes till we get back to Bucharest. But our passports are not +given us and our money gets low. We are waiting for money now, and, of +course, a cold snap has set in just when we can't possibly buy anything. +Peter's summer suit hangs on him in folds. The heaviest iron couldn't +crease it into even temporary shape. When we went to the cinematograph +last night he wore Marie's black fur coat to keep from freezing. + +"Look at that man," we heard a woman say in the street. "He's wearing a +woman's coat!" + +Yes, we go from cafe to cinematograph and try and keep warm. + +I've never liked moving pictures before. Here they are presented +differently than in America. Some of the plays I've seen have the +naivete and simplicity of a confession. Others interpret abnormal, +psychopathic characters whose feelings and thoughts are expressed by the +actors with a fine and vivid realism. There is the exultation of life, +and the despair, the aggression and apathy, the frivolity and the +revolt. The action is taken slowly. There are no stars. You look at the +screen as though you were looking at life itself. And the films don't +always have happy endings, because life isn't always kind. It often +seems senseless and cruel and crushes men's spirits. I wish we could +have these films in America instead of the jig-saw puzzles I've seen. + + + _October._ + +There is a gypsy who sells fruit at the corner of Institutska Oulitza, a +woman so enormous that she resembles a towering mountain, and her +customers look, beside her, like tiny Russian toys. Every one looks at +her curiously, and I have seen several gentlemen in fur pelisses, with +gold-headed canes, stop and speak to her. In the morning she wheels up +her cart by the curbing and polishes the pears and apples with the end +of her shawl till they shine. Then she piles them up in red and yellow +pyramids and waits for customers, her hands on her hips. Everything +about her is crude and flaming and inextinguishable like life itself. +Her scarlet skirt lights up the whole street. It floats about her, and +when she bends over to serve a customer, you can see the edges of green +and yellow and pink and brown petticoats underneath as her overskirt +tilts up. The lines of her body are brutal and compact. Her dark, +mulberry-colored shawl is stretched tightly across her full bosom. Her +eyebrows meet over her nose in a heavy, broad line like a smudge of +charcoal, and her nose is spongy, and her lips swollen and red from +taking snuff. She holds her black and silver snuff-box in her hand or +hides it away in a pocket in her voluminous skirt when she serves some +one. Her fingers are covered with rings and she wears yellow hoops in +her ears. I am repulsed as well as attracted. She is like a bold, +upright stroke of life, and then I see her crafty eyes and notice how, +in spite of her size, when she moves it is with the softness and +flexibility of a huge cat. + +Peter went to Petrograd to-day and he will stay there till he gets our +passports. He would have gone a month ago, but first came the panic +from the German advance, and then the railways were used only for +military purposes. Now, Marie and I are alone, waiting for a telegram +from him. + + + + +V + + + _October._ + +To-day, the chief of the secret service came and told us all political +prisoners were to be sent on to Siberia. He told us to make a small +bundle of necessary things and be ready to leave at any time. With Peter +in Petrograd! I asked him where we were going and he shrugged his +shoulders. I went to Mr. Douglas, who has wired Peter. Also, he is going +to see the chief and try and keep in touch with us. We won't leave till +the last moment. But already many of the hospitals have been moved, and +certain prisoners. I suppose I must destroy these letters to you. But I +will wait till the last moment. I want so much for you to get them and +know what has happened, because I shan't see you, to tell you with my +voice, for over a year still. I have written so fully for that reason. + + + _A few days later._ + +We are still here, and there is more hope in the situation. There is a +persistent report in the papers, and it is repeated in the streets and +houses, that the Germans have been stopped by Riga and Dvinsk. Large +bodies of troops are moved through Kiev, day and night, for the front. +Regular train service is suspended by this movement of troops. + +Huge vans pass through the city, carrying aeroplanes to the aviation +field outside the barracks. Once we saw a wrecked one being sent to be +repaired. A troop of small boys followed it, looking curiously at the +broad, broken wings and the tangle of steel framework. + +Guns are arriving, too. We see them being carted through the streets. +And early this morning we heard cannon. Our first thought was of the +Germans, and we lay in bed, stiff with fright. Later, we heard they were +the new cannon being tried out before being sent to the front. They say +that fresh ammunition has been received from Japan and America. All +trains are held up to let these trainloads of guns and cannon and +ammunition go tearing over the rails to the front to save Russia. And +just in time. I see the open cars packed and covered and guarded by +soldiers. I lie in bed and hear the whistle and shriek of the trains in +the night, and I imagine row upon row of long iron-throated cannon +staring up at the stars. + +The Czar has arrived in Kiev for a conference at Headquarters. He came +during the night, and no one knows when he will leave. There was no +demonstration, and the police break up any groups of more than three +persons in the streets. + +A dozen or so Japanese officers passed through Kiev, too. They were +bound for the front, escorting their guns and ammunition. How curious +they looked beside the big, naive Russians. They were like porcelain +figurines with impenetrable, yellow faces, mask-like, and tiny hands and +feet. What a finished product they appear, and yet they go to the front +and observe the latest methods of warfare and multiply their merchant +marine while the rest of the world is spending itself. + + + _October._ + +I went to a military hospital to-day. It was up on a hill, a huge place, +formerly a school, I think, with a broad piazza where the convalescents +walked in their gray bathrobes. Inside were rows and rows of cots, and +on every cot a wounded man. It appeared that a fresh batch had arrived +from the front, and the doctors were just finishing with them. There was +a foul smell of blood and sweat and anaesthetics, and the light came +dismally through the dirty window-panes, showing dimly the rows and rows +of pale, weary faces on the thin pillows. Sometimes the gray blankets +came up to the chin, and the man looked dead already, he was so +dreadfully still, with his closed eyes and waxlike face. Another moaned +continuously, moving his head from side to side--"Oh, oh--Oh, oh." His +eyes were open, and hard and bright with fever. Several had their heads +wound with strips of bandages. You would hardly have known they were +human. Two or three were blind, with the bandage only round their eyes, +and it was strange to see the expression their hands took on--workmen's +hands with stubby fingers, now white and helpless-looking, and picking +at the cover aimlessly. + +A nurse told me how an officer who had been blinded and was about to be +discharged and sent home, had committed suicide the other day. In some +way one of his men, who had been wounded in the arm, had been able to +smuggle in a revolver to him. The officer killed himself in the middle +of the night. + +"I don't suppose he knew whether it was day or night, and took a chance +that no one was looking," I said. + +"I think he knew it was night," she replied. "He could tell by the +others' breathing. I was night nurse. He was dead before I reached him. +The soldier gave himself up of his own accord. He will be +court-martialed, of course, though every one knows he did the best +thing. He said to us, 'He was my captain. He ordered me to get the +revolver, and I only obeyed orders. I would do it again.' We had a hard +time the rest of the night to quiet the men." + +In a small room to one side were six men gone mad. They were quite +harmless and lay quietly in bed. Besides having their reason smashed to +bits by the horrors at the front, they were badly wounded. I was ashamed +to stand there looking at them. What was I? Suddenly, one of them, a +young boy surely not more than twenty-one or twenty-two, caught sight of +us, and he fixed his eyes upon us in a curious, concentrated way as if +to assure himself we were real. And then, all at once, abject terror +leapt into his eyes. His mouth opened and the cords of his neck stood +out. He threw both arms before his face as if to ward off somebody or +something. He began to scream out quick, unintelligible words in a +high-pitched, staccato voice. I looked fearfully at the others to see if +his terror would be communicated to them. But they were apparently +oblivious of each other, wrapped up in their separate lives and +experiences. One middle-aged man, with a rough, reddish beard, was +smiling mildly and smoothing the sheet as though it had been somebody's +hair. We left the room, leaving the nurse to calm the screaming man. I +thought of the terrors and fears and memories in that room: the snatches +of memories pieced together that made up the actual lives, now, of those +broken men in there. + +"Are they--do they suffer?" I asked the doctor. + +"No. They don't seem to realize that they are wounded and suffer the way +normal people would with their wounds. The only thing is, they all have +moments of terror, when it's all we can do to quiet them. They think the +wall of the room is the enemy moving down on them. I guess they went +through hell all right, there at the front!" + +"Will they get better?" + +"We can't tell. We have a specialist studying just such cases. These men +seem pretty well smashed, to me." + +In one corner lay a young man propped up with pillows. A nurse was +holding his hand. His eyes were looking at her so trustfully. He hardly +seemed to be breathing and his face was bloodless--even his lips were +dead white. And as I looked, he gave a little sigh, and his eyes closed +and his body sagged among the pillows. The nurse bent over him and then +straightened herself. Quickly she arranged a screen round the bed. When +she walked away, I could see she was crying uncontrollably. + +"Is he--?" + +"Yes. He's dead," the doctor replied. "He's been dying for a week. He +was terribly wounded in the stomach, and there was nothing we could do +for him. It was a repulsive case to care for, but Sister Mary had full +charge of it. She sat with him for hours at a time. In the beginning, to +encourage him, she bought a pair of boots he was to wear when he got +well. For days, now, he's been out of his head and fancied she was his +mother." + +And life presses as close to death as that--while I was looking at him, +he had died. I just managed to reach the door before I fainted. + + + _October._ + +The Governor of Kiev has been removed. He was too cautious. It was a bad +example! + + + + +VI + + + _October._ + +_Darling ones:--_ + +There is the most careful avoidance of any official responsibility here +in trying to find out where our passports are, and who is to return +them. We have already unraveled yards of red tape, and still there is no +end. Of course, ever since Peter came he has followed a schedule of +visits--one day to the English Consul; another day to the secret police, +then to the Military Governor, the Civil Governor, the Chief of Staff, +and back, in desperation, to the English Consul. There is an American +Vice-Consul here, but he is wholly ineffectual, since he has not yet +been officially received. His principal duty consists in distributing +relief to the Polish refugees. Mr. Douglas, the English Consul, is our +one hope, and he is untiring in his efforts to help us. If we ever get +out, it will be due to him. The English Government is behind its +representatives here in a way that the American State Department is not. +Partly, I suppose, this is because America has no treaty with Russia, +on account of the Jew clause. At any rate, you might just as well be a +Fiji Islander as an American, for all the consideration you get from +officialdom. + +Did I write you about the naturalized American Jew in the detention +camp? He had come back to Galicia in the summer of 1914 to see his +sister married. After the outbreak of the war, he was refused permission +to leave the country, and when the wholesale clean-up started, he was +deported with the others. The day I visited the detention camp he had +just arrived, and, knowing we were Americans, he tried to secure our +aid. He had managed to keep his American passport, and brought it out to +us to prove his naturalization and to strengthen his demand to be set +free as an American citizen. The overseer, hearing his excited voice and +seeing us examine a large sheet of paper, came up. He looked like a +butcher, in his dirty-white linen coat, his legs planted apart, his +hands fingering his short whip. The way in which he joined our group and +made himself one with us, without so much as by your leave, was +disturbing. The cool self-assurance of even a petty Russian official is +sinister. They are straw men to your reason, but hard facts if you bump +up against them. Our curiosity flagged, conscious as we were all the +time of his unblinking ferret-eyes on us, and we showed a certain +alacrity to return the passport to its rightful owner. When we were +handing it back to the Jew, the overseer thrust out his hand and said, +"Let me see it." + +There was nothing for the Jew to do but hand it over. The overseer could +not read a word of English, of course, but from the big red American +seal he could recognize it as an official document. + +Suddenly, he tore it in halves, and as the Jew tried to grab it out of +his hands, he cuffed the Jew down, and continued deliberately to tear it +into tiny bits. + +"I am an American and that is my passport," the Jew cried. + +"That's what I think of an American passport," the overseer replied, +looking us over with incredible impudence as he walked away. + +The rest of Russian officialdom must regard American rights in much the +same way, since it is four months now that we have been detained. + +I went to the headquarters of the secret police the other day with Mr. +Douglas. It is located in the opposite end of the town, down a quiet +side street--an unobtrusive, one-storied brown house that gives the +impression of trying to hide itself from people's notice. It is reached +by a narrow, stone-flagged path, crowded in between two houses which +block its view from the street. There are four windows in a row on the +front facade, all with the curtains drawn. These four blind windows add +to the secretive appearance. Over the front steps the yellowing leaves +of a lime tree rustled in the wind and detached themselves one by one. + +We rang the bell. While we waited, I was conscious of being watched, +and, glancing up quickly, I saw the curtain at one of the windows fall +back into place. The door opened a crack, and a white face with a long, +thin nose, and horn-rimmed spectacles with smoky glass to hide the eyes, +peered out at us furtively. Mr. Douglas handed the spy his card and the +door was shut softly in our faces. + +In about three minutes the door was opened again, and a gendarme in +uniform ushered us into a long room thick with stale tobacco-smoke. He +gave me a chair, and while we waited I looked about at the walls with +the brightly colored portraits of the Czar and the Czarina and the royal +family, and the ikon in one corner. "Give up all hope all ye who enter +here." + +The room was silent except for the scratch of pens on paper. The +secret-service spies sat at long tables, writing laboriously, and +smoking. They all wore civilian clothes, and I recognized most of them. +I had passed them on the street or sat beside them in restaurants, and +three had come with the chief to arrest us. I wondered what they were +writing. Some one was being betrayed or ruined. That was how they lived. +I looked for the mark of their calling on them, but at first they +appeared an ordinary crowd, pale, with a thick, unhealthy pallor, as +though from an indoor life. Their suits were poor enough,--worn +threadbare,--and their fingernails were dirty. Furtively they glanced up +at me and examined me curiously, and then gave quick, frightened looks +on either side to see if their comrades had observed their interest in +me. What a mediocre, shabby crowd, with their low foreheads and +dead-white skin and dirty linen, and, yes, the stamp on them that made +them infamous! It was as though their profession affected them the way +that living in a close, dark room would, stupefying and making them +bestial. + +And then the chief came in, accompanied by two spies with black +portfolios under their arms. When he saw us, he grew white with anger. +He looked like a German, spurred and booted, with square head and jaw +and steel-like eyes and compressed, cruel lips. He was the only +well-dressed one in the crowd, but his livery was the same as theirs. He +was their superior, that was all, and how I loathed him! + +"He's angry because we were brought in here," Douglas whispered under +his breath. + +The chief turned his back on us. + +The spies scribbled away furiously, their noses close to their paper, +not daring to look up. + +We were taken into another room, a small back room, bare except for a +table and sofa and a tawdry ikon in the farthest corner. And there we +waited fully fifteen minutes in absolute silence. How silent that house +was, full of invisible horrors! The headquarters of the secret +police--why shouldn't it be terrifying when you think of the men and +women who have been brought here in secret, and their existence suddenly +snapped off: secret arrest, secret trial, or no trial at all, and then a +secret sending-off up north, out of the reach of the world! What strange +abortions of life this Government brings forth! Is it curious that +thinking men and women, who have lived apparently well-regulated lives, +suddenly throw bombs at a minister in a railway station, or at an +official as he drives to the palace in dress uniform, with jeweled +decorations on his breast? I ran my hand over the faded sofa-covering, +wondering who had sat there before me. + +Suddenly the chief came into the room, closing the door carefully behind +him. He was quite calm again. + +"What do you want?" He looked at Douglas. + +Douglas explained how anxious we were to get out of Russia, how we had +insufficient money for cold weather, how my husband's business called +for his immediate presence, and so forth, all of which we had gone over +at least three times a week since my arrest, and all of which was a +matter of complete indifference to the secret police. They had failed to +find any proof of espionage, which was their charge against us, and my +letter, their only evidence, had been passed on and was snarled up +somewhere in official red-tape. Now they washed their hands of me. + +"We can do nothing. It is out of our hands." He was extremely courteous, +speaking German for my benefit. "It is unfortunate that Frau Pierce +should have written the letter. I was obliged to send it on to the +General Staff. You should have a reply soon." + +There was nothing more to be said. Douglas was conciliatory, almost +ingratiating. My nerves gave way. + +"A reply soon!" I burst out. "I'm sick of waiting. If we have the +liberty of the city, surely there can't be anything very serious against +us. It's an outrage keeping our passports. I'm an American and I demand +them." I was almost crying. + +"You must demand them through your Ambassador, meine Frau." + +I knew that he knew we had been telegraphing him since our arrest and my +impotence made me speechless with rage. Douglas took advantage of my +condition to beat a hasty retreat. + +As we were going through the doorway, the chief said carelessly, "By +the way, how did you happen to find this house?" + +"I have been here before," Douglas replied. + +"Thank you. I was only curious." + +I could feel the spies' eyes on my back as we went down the path. + +"Mrs. Pierce--Mrs. Pierce, you must not lose your temper that way." + +"I don't care!" I cried. "I had no way to express what I felt." + +"I know," Douglas agreed thoughtfully. + +We hailed a droshky and got in. + +"I have a friend--a Pole," said Douglas. "For no reason except that he +was a Pole, they made a _revision_ at his house, and among other things +took away every calling card they found. They made a _revision_ then on +each one of those people whose names they found. Though they found +nothing incriminating in his possession, they make him report every day +at the police headquarters. A year ago he was a giant in strength. Now +he is a sick man. The uselessness of it. Nothing was found against him, +and yet he is followed and watched. What are they driving at? They are +wearing him to the bone with their persecution." He shrugged his +shoulders and laughed suddenly. "Come, Mrs. Pierce, you can do nothing +against them. But let me tell you what I will give you. It is a German +helmet that a friend of mine brought from the Riga front. You can put it +in your room and blow beans at it!" + + + _October._ + +"Passports--passports, who's got the passports?" It's like a game--or +_la recherche de l'absolu_. And it isn't as though you could hop into a +cab and make the round of visits on the General Staff, Civil Governor, +and the rest, all in one day, or even all in a week. Nothing so +efficient and simple as that. What is an official without an anteroom? +As well imagine a soldier without a uniform. And the importance of the +official is instantly seen by the crowd waiting on him. Soldiers and +Jews and patient, unobtrusive women in black wait at police +headquarters; generals and ladies of quality crowd the anteroom of the +General Staff. For days the faces vary only slightly when you enter and +take your accustomed place. Patient, dull faces that light with +momentary expectation on the opening of a door, and relapse into +depression and tragic immobility when the aide walks through the +anteroom without admitting any one to the inner office. + +I gained admittance to the Military Governor the other day. He is the +successor of that over-cautious governor who moved all his household +goods during the German advance, and was then relieved of office. His +palace, set back from the street behind a tall iron fence, is guarded by +soldiers with bayonets, and secret-service men. I laughed, recognizing +my old friends the spies. + +Upstairs, the Governor was just saying good-bye to Bobrinsky, former +Governor of Galicia, and we stood to one side as they came out of an +inner office, bowing and making compliments to each other. Gold braid +and decorations! These days the military have their innings, to be sure! +I wonder how many stupid years of barrack-life go to make up one of +these men? Or perhaps so much gold braid is paid for in other ways. + +The Governor was an old man, carefully preserved. His uniform was +padded, but his legs, thin and insecure, gave him away, and his standing +collar, though it came up to his ears, failed to hide his scrawny neck +where the flesh was caving in. He wore his gray beard trimmed to a +point, and inside his beaklike nose was a quantity of grayish-yellow +hair which made a very disagreeable impression on me. All the time I was +speaking he examined his nails. When he raised his eyes finally, to +reply, I noticed how lifeless and indifferent they were, and glazed by +age. I could see the bones of his face move under the skin as he talked, +especially two little round bones, like balls, close to his ears. + +"I have nothing to do with the case. It has been referred to the General +Staff, I believe. You will have to wait for the course of events." + +He turned his back, went over to the window, and began to play with a +curtain-tassel. An aide bowed me to the door. + +Outside, the anteroom was crowded with supplicants. It was his reception +hour. The murmur of whispered conversations stopped when we appeared. +Every one rose, pressing forward to reach the aide. Some held out soiled +bits of paper; others talked in loud, explanatory voices, as though +hoping by sheer noise to pierce the crust of official attention. But the +aide took no more notice than if they had been crowding sheep. He +pushed through them and escorted me to the head of the staircase. Down I +went, boiling with rage. + + +_Dearest Mother and Dad:--_ + +I am just back from the General Staff, where the mysterious rotation of +the official wheel landed me unexpectedly into the very sanctum +sanctorum of the Chief of the Staff, and to see him I had to wait only +five hours with Mr. Douglas in the anteroom! Mr. Douglas has just left +me to go to his club, exhausted, ready to devour pounds of Moscow +sausages, so he said. + +The anteroom of the General Staff was as Russian as Russian can be. I +suppose I shall never forget the dingy room, with its brown painted +walls and the benches and chairs ranged along the four sides of the +room, and the orderlies bringing in glasses of tea, and the waiting +people who were not ashamed to be unhappy. In the beginning Mr. Douglas +and I tried to talk, but after an hour or so we relapsed into silence. I +looked up at the large oil paintings of deceased generals which hung +about the room. At first, they all looked fat and stupid and alike in +the huge, ornate gilt frames. But after much study they began to take +on differences--slight differences which it seemed that the painters had +caught in spite of themselves, but which made human beings of even +generals. + +There was one portrait that I remember, in the corner, a general in the +uniform of the Crimean War. He looked out at you with green eyes, like a +cat's. The more I looked at him, the more he resembled a cat, with his +flat, broad head and slightly almond eyes and long mustache. His cheek +bones were high and his jaw square and cruel. He settled into his +coat-collar the way a cat shortens its neck when it purrs. He, too, was +purring, from gratification, perhaps, at having his portrait painted; +but, wholly untrustworthy himself, he distrusted the world and held +himself ready to strike. + +Another portrait was of a man who might have been of peasant origin. An +inky black beard hid the lower part of his face, but his nose was blunt +and pugnacious, and his eyes were like black shoe-buttons sewn close +together. He stuck out his stomach importantly, and the care with which +his uniform and decorations were painted strengthened the impression +that he had made his career himself and set the highest value on the +insignia that stood for his accomplishment. + +Well, I made up characters to fit the portraits, and the time went on. +There were three entrances to the room, through which aides and +orderlies were constantly appearing and disappearing. The room filled up +with people and smelt of oiled leather and smoke. The women did not move +from their chairs, but the men got up and stood about, talking in +groups. I began to feel that I had known these captains and majors and +lieutenants all my life. They looked at me curiously, and if they knew +Mr. Douglas they asked to be presented to me. + +"How do you like Russia?" + +They spoke French. I looked at Mr. Douglas and smiled. + +"Very much." + +They were pleased. + +"Ah, you do? That is good. Russia is a wonderful country and its +resources are endless. But it is war-time. You should see Russia in +peace-time. There is no country in the world where one amuses one's self +so well as in Russia. But first we must beat the Germans." + +They all begin that way, and then branch out into their particular line +of conversation. + +There was a woman near me, her mourning veil thrown back, disclosing a +death-like face. Her features were pinched, and her pale lips were +pressed tightly together in suffering. She had been waiting surely three +hours since sending in her card, and all that time she had scarcely +moved. Sometimes I forgot her, and then my eyes would fall on her and I +wondered how I could see anybody else in the room. In comparison to her +all the others seemed fussy or melodramatic or false in some way. +Suffering was condensed in her. It flowed through her body. It settled +in the shadows of her face and clothed her in black. Her gloved hands +pressed each other. Her eyes stared in front of her, full of pain like a +hurt beast's. She sat as though carved in stone, dark against the +window, the lines of her body rigid and clear-cut like a statue's. + +At last an aide came toward her, spruce and alert, holding a paper in +his hand. She rose at his approach, leaning on the back of her chair, +her body bent forward tensely. He spoke to her in a low voice, +consulting the slip of paper in his hand. All at once she straightened +herself, and a burning expression came into her face. One hand went to +her heart, exactly as though a bullet had pierced her breast. Then she +gave a sharp cry, and hurling her pocketbook across the room with all +her strength, she rushed outside. + +Every one dodged as though the pocketbook had been aimed at him. A young +second lieutenant picked it from the floor and stood twisting it in his +hands, not knowing what to do with it. People looked uneasy and ashamed +as though a door had been suddenly opened on a terrible secret thing +that was customarily locked up in a closet. But the uncomfortable +feeling soon passed, and they began to talk about the strange woman and +to gossip and play and amuse themselves with her sorrow. A crowd +collected about the aide, who grew more and more voluble and important +each time he repeated his explanation of the incident. + +Shortly afterward, Mr. Douglas and I were admitted to the Chief of +Staff. The walls of his office were covered with large maps, with tiny +flags marking the battlefronts, and he sat at a large table occupying +the center of the room. + +When we entered, he rose and bowed, and after waving me to a chair, +reseated himself. He was rather like a university professor, courteous, +with a slightly ironical twist to his very red lips. His pale face was +narrow and long, with a pointed black beard, and a forehead broad and +high and white. While he listened or talked, he nervously drew +arabesques on a pad of paper on the table. + +"I have your petition, but since I have just been appointed here, I am +not very familiar with routine matters." Here he smiled slightly. "Yours +is a routine matter, I should say. How long have you waited for an +answer--four months? We'll see what can be done. I have sent to the +files and I should have a report in a few minutes." + +An aide brought in a collection of telegrams and papers, and the chief +glanced through them. Then he looked at me searchingly and suddenly +smiled again. + +"From your appearance I should never imagine you were as dangerous as +these papers state. Are you an American?" + +"Yes," I replied; "and I assure you that I am dangerous only in the +official mind. I have no importance except what they give me." + +"Mrs. Pierce is an American and unused to Russian ways," Mr. Douglas +said apologetically. + +"Well, your case has been referred to General Ivanoff, and I will wire +him again at once. If you come back next Thursday I will give you a +definite answer." + +We went out. It was a gray winter day, with a cold wind from the river, +but I felt glowing and stimulated and alive, seeing the future +crystallize and grow definite again. You can't imagine the wearing +depression of months of uncertainty. + +"That Chief of Staff is the first human official I've met," I said to +Mr. Douglas. + +"Give him time, give him time," Douglas replied. "Didn't you hear him +say he was new to the job?" + +I write such long letters and all about _things_. But I want you to see +with me so we may share our lives in spite of distance. Armfuls of love +to you, my dearest ones, from + + RUTH. + + + _November._ + +The Dowager Empress came to Kiev to-day to visit a convent that she has +under her protection. The Christiatick was very animated, with curious +crowds lining the sidewalks and fierce-looking gendarmes who snapped +their whips and made a great fuss about keeping the people in order. The +trams were stopped and officials rushed up and down the Christiatick in +huge gray automobiles. It was bitterly cold, and the waiting people grew +restless. At last a feeble cheer started up the street and swept down +the lines as a big car came tearing down the middle of the street. I +caught a glimpse of an elderly woman in black--that was all. + +I went home. All the way up the hill I walked beside a "crocodile." How +pathetic those convent children are in their funny little round hats, +all so much too small, and their maroon-colored dresses with the +shoulder-capes to hide any suggestion of sex. Their noses were pinched +and their lips were blue from waiting in the cold to see their +"protector." They were at the age "between hay and grass," +narrow-chested, and long-legged like colts. They climbed the hill +stiffly two by two, their eyes looking meekly at the ground. Three +sisters kept them in line. + +At home I found a summons from the police to appear with Marie at the +local police bureau to-morrow at nine, to receive our passports. I +telegraphed Peter through Mr. Douglas. Now that our affair is settled, I +feel no emotion--neither relief nor joy. + + THE END + + + + + The Riverside Press + + CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS + U. S. A. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES + + +1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetter's errors and to +make the use of hyphenated words consistent; otherwise, the transcriber +has made a diligent effort to be true to the original text. + +2. 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