Khortiza, September 23, 1919

Here I am, back at our house. I am pretty certain that it is less turbulent up here than it is in the streets where the stream of men-at-arms is passing by all the time without interruption.

And I am still alive. I hardly believe it myself— that it has been possible to escape.

I am writing in the dark. Light would betray us. There is a temporary pause just now between the soldiers’ visits—there are pauses sometimes of half an hour until the invasions are repeated. I must utilize this time. I have to write down my heart-ache, even if it should be rather impossible to decipher it later. I like to imagine that I am telling my story to a friend who does not live through all this and whose soul is at liberty to take a portion of that heavy burden which lies almost unbearably upon me. Maybe the weight of these experiences crushes me more than it would others. I have to get rid of this burden by writing it down.

Where was I? Is it a dream that lies so heavily upon my soul? I remember well how everything came about: the daughters of one of my colleagues came asking me to stay with them at their house. The father had fled, fearing that they would attack him first of all because he was prominent in the community. He was out, and the family did not know where he was and what might have happened to him. Possibly he had fallen into the intruders’ hands.

There could not be any hesitation on my part. I went with them. The way was long. I found the conditions of this family deplorable. Their misfortune was the possession of a house more beautiful than those of the neighbors. It was, indeed, a modern two-story cottage in the style of a European suburb mansion. It attracted most of the bandits, who passed through the village by the thousands. Whole troops there were, going in and out. It was a pitiful situation for a woman alone with her three daughters, and a son of about fifteen years of age.

I am going through the rooms which a few days ago seemed to me so hospitable and habitable. The linen-press and the wardrobes are empty. The drawers of the chests are pulled out. On the floor lie the feathers poured out of the coverlets. Every draft makes them fly up and settle down on hair and clothes. A scene of mad ravages.

One time it seemed as if the last one would leave the house. We stood close together and involuntarily we joined hands. It was strengthening our courage.

But at this moment harsh calls from the yard enter the house. “Where is the house owner?”—I advance toward them. They are horsemen wanting lodging for the night. Soon afterwards the yard is filled with horsemen and carriages. There is a calling and swearing, a breaking of fences, a rattling of arms. Our nerves quiver. The family surrounds me, not knowing what to do. The daughters cling to my neck. “Help us! They come! We are done for.” That is what their lips mutter. It is from me that they want help, and for that very reason I am able to do more than I ever had expected that I could do. The thought that I must bring help, that I must find a way out of the situation, saves me from the feeling of helplessness. I believe now in myself and my ability. I master my excitement. I try to comfort them, without knowing however, how there can be any help. Resistance evidently would be as useless as Don Quixote’s fighting with the windmills.

A man can endure much more than in normal times he believed possible.

There the intruders come in again, pouring in. They are noisy and swear. “Oh to be sure!” are their triumphant outbursts, “Here we are in the house of a rich man! Where is he?”

Forcing myself to be calm, I declare, “Here lives a teacher, a man in the service of the people. He had to depart for the city on business of the school and he has not yet been able to return. I myself am sharing the house with them.”

“Tell us stories!” they cry. But their instinct drives them forward to find something to rob. Questioning would mean to lose precious time. There might come others before us, they think. So they scatter through the rooms.

“There’s a piano,” somebody exclaims. “Who plays? Come on, you girls, play for us.” The second daughter goes forward, she seems as courageous as anybody can be. I remember her now, a heroine, she braves their shamelessness and. sits down before the piano. She opens the music and plays—it is an aria of Bach. Imagine the contrast,—that lovely girl playing Bach, and, sprawled around in arm-chairs, the wild robbers with faces of savages covered with dust, looking like animals. They lean back in the chairs, stretching out their legs, crossing their arms like Napoleons. Thus they pose for a short time. Then they jump up with the so-called threefold curse, an indecent assault on the mother of God. They want a lively dance-music, a polka-mazurka! She pretends not to know dance music at all. She leaves the piano in dreadful confusion, for the sounds of music had stirred up the profoundest depths of the soul, and now threaten to loosen the tension which upholds us. But that would mean desperation.

All the rooms are full of the same kind of men. The lust for precious things possesses them without exception, and each of them wants to come before the other.

Now the daylight is gone. They demand light.

They get an oil lamp. There is a group at the sideboard, where they search for glassware in order to shatter it to pieces on the floor. An object which looks like silver disappears in a pocket or behind the shirt front. Some others search in the bookcase. They take pleasure in tearing the covers from the leaves and in tramping upon them. Someone hammers on the sewing machine. Still others are occupied in cutting out the cloth which covers the sofa stuffing. Again and again they rummage the closets, chests of drawers, and the bedding.

There is an awful tumult in the store-room and in the cellar. It is fall, and many fruits and vegetables have been canned for the winter. They taste of everything, and all that they cannot eat at once they cast out through the windows.

As we look on we hope that they may not find the one or the other jar. There are some dark corners which always come to mind in these troubled times, and there are hidden a few more or less valuable things. But there is no hope that a stone would be left unturned. At last we are not much concerned about those things any more. Our life is at stake. At such moments possessions become worthless. We know, besides, well enough, that we cannot save anything by protest.

The darkness of the night gives still more weight to the oppression of our souls. It is terrible and dismal at the same time. We turn away from the work of destruction in the house and enter the open porch before the house. No relief. There is a crying, calling, shooting, lamenting. Even the poor beasts become restless. Cows bellow, pigs grunt. Nobody has thought, in all this universal distress, to feed them. We forget about our own meals also. Would the dark night but be over at last! we sigh.

But now there come two horsemen at full gallop into the yard. Sinister fellows. One of them comes down and approaches me in a way as if he wants my head. He searches through my pockets, takes knife, watch, matches, and by all means tries to find out who I am. He sees that I am not the head of this family and demands the house-owner. We tell him he is not here yet. From the eyes of the inquisitor sparks of wrath flash. He guesses the man and his sons must be in the army of the General, their enemy. I shall pay for it. He demands that I name all men serving as volunteers in the troops of General Denikin. Even if I had wanted to satisfy him it was impossible to do so, since I had been at this place only a few weeks. I show documents of my home-place, a hundred versts toward the west from here. He believes they are forged and all that I say is subterfuge. They threaten to send me into the headquarters of Dukhonin. I understand what this cynical expression means. Dukhonin was a general in the war-army. He was hated very much by all soldiers. When revolution came they at once put him to death. Since then there was that saying of sending somebody to the headquarters of Dukhonin. It means death. They repeat the threats. I cannot name any person. At last they say, “Well then, we bring you to father Makhno. He will find out pretty soon what secrets you hide.”

At the name of Makhno we shudder. Now we know who is conducting these hordes. Makhno himself! Sometime ago he was an ally of the Bolsheviks. He then stood at this place fighting against enemies of the Bolsheviks. His people were known as especially cruel. He felt that the Bolsheviks were too tame, too humane, so he separated from them and fought against the Bolsheviks as well as against the volunteers of the White Army.

Since then he established a refuge for all criminal elements of the Ukraine. Makhno; who does not know that name! He surely has secured a place in the memory of people for generations to come. To all honest folk, he will be a terrible symbol of evil for years and years.

The time of war and revolution has led thousands of men astray and started them on the road of crime and robbery. They all hold with him as their chief. He professes to wipe out all capitalists by sword. He agrees with the Bolsheviks in condemning capitalism but finds that they spare human life —on principle—and so they are in his views too tame. His road is literally sprinkled with blood.

That is the man before whom they want to bring me. But before this plan is realized a group of about seven men enters. They again show much anger since there is nothing left to rob. Suddenly I notice that these dissolute fellows want to separate me from the women. The daughters are very nice-looking, indeed. They make all kinds of threats with their arms. They even offer me an opportunity to escape. But could I leave these ladies since their honor stood at stake? Had they not chosen me to protect them?

I made a decision within myself not to withdraw from my responsibility even at the cost of life. I again force myself to be calm and rely upon the same means which saved me a year ago when I was condemned to be shot. I experienced at that time that with highest spiritual effort I was able to disarm the malefactors.

This time I consciously take the offensive and deliver an attack with weapons of mental concentration. Suggestively I force upon them the thought: ‘You shall not kill me!’ I concentrate on the idea that it is impossible to kill me. The man who many times aimed at me with a pistol now seems to be less determined. That renders me steadfast. I realize now distinctly that the murderous lust gives way to more humane feelings. Already one, leaning upon his rifle, makes known his decision in favor of my life by saying, “Well, let’s go!” The others seem to agree, except one. He has a stronger will and unconsciously fights my suggestion by a new aggressive effort. He cocks his pistol, fixing me constantly with his eyes. I do not say a word, but I increase the tension of the thought more and more: ‘You shall not!’

At last the other men talk to him.

He does not become friendly yet, but his hand drops down and he leaves the house with the others.

He wanted to come again at four in the morning. I promised to stay here. And I kept my word. But he did not come. The night, however, was dreadful. No sleep came to our eyes, although we all had lived two days and one night in continuous agitation and scarcely had eaten anything. We, indeed, had forgotten to eat.

After the last bandits had left the house, there was a quarter of an hour without any newcomers. We were astonished. We felt somewhat relieved. We crept all together into the little room just beside the kitchen and established ourselves, lying or sitting, for a rest, always listening to sounds outdoors. It was midnight now, and silence around us. That in itself was strange enough. The excited girls always heard walking or knocking. No wonder, after all they had endured. But there was no danger now.

The robbers had gone to rest. Now they do not need to do their work in the dark. That is the change of conditions.

Toward morning we feel cool. The nerve-tension gives way. We shudder and feel terribly exhausted.

Now it is day. And nobody comes? We cannot understand the calmness. We expected storm.

At eight o’clock the first groups appear. They want something to eat. We show them that there has not been anything left by their fellows. Instead of having pity on us they curse in anger and wrath.

The little kitchen clock strikes ten o’clock. The only thing continuing its course, as days and years before.

Shrill whistles sound through the street. We rush to the window. Preparation for departure? If it were! The horsemen gather in groups. The wagons are there. It looks strange what we see. The carriages are full of stolen things. The men wear clothes which the day before hung in the wardrobes of the inhabitants of this village. Large, bright-colored tablecloths lie under the saddles. On both sides of the saddles hang puffed feather-beddings.

Some men here and there seem to be looking for a further chance to plunder and ride at full speed into the yards calling for the owner in order to get a golden wedding ring or a watch if possible. I saw one on horseback reaching into his pocket and laughingly show to another a handful of jewels.

One single face has left a sympathetic imprint on my memory. It was in the morning that a young, intelligent looking man approached our door. He seemed to be embarrassed. He asked for bread. He did not demand as the others always did. That was very strange to us. I looked into his face. He was no villain. Recognizing that, I did not hesitate to ask who they were. He became ashamed. “We are Makhno-people,” he said. “I am really ashamed to be among them.”

He confessed upon questioning that necessity had forced him to join them:—either join them or be shot. To save his life he had made this decision. Never had he thought of becoming an Anarchist.

Well, how many so-called good people would stand the test in a similar case! Are we not largely the product of circumstances? This man, I do not doubt it, would be a very respectable man in conditions of Western Europe. He was a weak character.

I know many who remain good as long as the social order remains intact, but they would weaken as soon as that order would give way to anarchy.

After we had seen the looters leave, we gathered together, wondering what the new day was to bring us. Our looks were directed toward the highway leading from the west into our valley. That was the road on which our tormentors had come the day before. We had been robbed. We hoped that all danger was past. My charges uttered a sigh of relief. We greeted the bright Sunday like new-born people. Of course, we still felt the horror in our bones. In the streets there still were to be heard, now and then, cries, whistles, and shots. Those were the last belated ones to leave. That is what we thought.

During about half an hour we felt ourselves again.

Suddenly a voice beside our window. It is the neighbor who calls: “They are coming again!—Last night there were five killed,” he adds in a lowered voice. Then he disappears again.

“Five killed?” we repeat one to another. Like a black monster winding down the road men march into the valley. With growing dismay we observe it for a long time—perhaps it only seemed long— our eyes fixed on that serpent-like stream of men in wagons and on horses. Will it never end? For hours horsemen and carriages are uninterruptedly pouring down. The measure of our sufferings is not yet full: this is the only possible conclusion.

Soon, as we look, all streets, all yards, and all houses are once more filled with these fellows.

Our house is crowded again. They are eager for plunder. But this time they cannot be satisfied, and not finding anything enrages them—we have to suffer for it. Our situation is much more precarious than it was the day before.—

At about eleven o’clock there entered three men whose looks seemed especially sinister to us. The absence of the landlord and the prosperous appearance of the house increased their rage. But strangely enough they did not curse and swear as badly as others before had done. It seems that their cursing and swearing was an outlet for their inner emotions; these sullen silent fellows are the dangerous ones.

They burst out just once or twice saying, “Here’s a nest to hatch bourgeois,” or, “That’s what they call poor!”

Now they saw the fifteen-year-old boy. Curtly one of them ordered him to enter the next room with him. The sister noticed the small dagger he was getting ready and realizing the danger for her brother, stepped forward to protect him. The murderer raised his arm and was not going to spare her either. Now I realized the situation as most dangerous, and I started to speak to him. I succeeded, but with great effort, to restrain him from murder. I used the same means as the day before—suggestion. I opposed my will to his will and thus disarmed him.

To look upon them as they left was like looking upon fleeing devils. It had been their second call, and they threatened to come back again. I could not see myself able to give further protection. The mental tension had been so strong that I felt I could not rise from the exhaustion again to the same strength as before.

The boy, faced by the immediate danger of losing his life, was trembling with fear and we hardly could quiet him.

We considered how to escape. The house was to be abandoned. There was, indeed, no use of staying. We could not save anything, so we decided to flee under cover of orchards. Each one raked together, in a hurry, a few things, and then we stole away from the house.

We had scarcely reached the first group of trees when we saw the same men coming back again. We were afraid of being seen; we felt chased by death. Hardly breathing we remained long minutes hidden behind trees or bushes until we assured ourselves that the armed men we had seen had disappeared in another yard.

At one time, however, we heard very distinctly a noise right beside us. With the blood almost frozen in our veins we stopped, looking at each other. Recalling this situation it seems to me I saw the eyes of the girls bidding farewell to this world. In anxious suspense the minute grew into eternity. So relative is our comprehension of time-measure. We have but a relative conception of the absolute.

Instead of a shot or a triumphant cry, we heard at once a low voice speaking in Dutch which we all understood, “Are you leaving too?” My charges recognized the voice. It was their neighbor.

“I have already been three hours at this hiding place,” he went on to tell us. “The people who spent the night at our home, to whom we gave to eat of the best we had, who slept in our beds, tried to kill me this morning. The shot failed. I fled to the orchard. Now I am hiding here, but I am troubled by the thought of what has become of my family. Did you see my wife and my children?” he asked anxiously.

Nobody had seen them.

“My boots,” he said, pointing to his naked feet, “I had to take off and give to them. After that they wanted my gold, supposedly hidden in the ground. That is their idea: we colonists have gold as well as money and clothing—everything in unheard of quantities,” he added bitterly.

In trying to come toward us he groaned. They had flayed his back with knouts to make him confess where he had hidden things. I turned away not to show my emotion. What do they intend to do with us? Is there any escape? I do not see any. We are to perish!

Like thieves we must steal away. For a long time we hide in a threshing place behind a straw heap until at last for a moment the yard is emptied. The mansion cuts off the view of the street. At last we enter it. There we find a widow with two almost grown-up children. Now I recognize the girl. She is my student in Normal School. I could not recognize her at first, she had changed so. In these young eyes there is a nameless sorrow. Pale and disturbed the others look, too. The imprint of their sufferings never will be erased from these faces, even when they become old. But it seems we are all predestined to an early death.

We started out, hoping finally to reach the Normal School. Just close to it lived a near relative of my exiled family. We had to cross the street somewhere. But that was the domain of the Anarchists ; yet we must dare it. And we did. Nobody spoke to us. We surely did not represent bourgeois capitalists in these clothes torn from barbed wire fences.

We enter the school building. We are in safety, for the savages are not attracted by empty schools, especially when they lie far off.

My charges decide to stay in a basement room where there is a small window with a non-transparent windowpane. There are two or three narrow benches. There they can rest. And nothing is left for me to do for them, except from time to time to look after them whenever it might be possible to steal away from my home and reach the school. I shall try to encourage them, somehow.—

I hear the sound of the midnight bell. For two hours we are left alone. But as long as they remain in town there is no guarantee of not being molested at night-time. I shall try, however, to rest a little, although none of us dares to undress.