Khortiza, October 8, 1919

Our minister went away last night. He escaped through the window. He had to make haste as our house was being filled up again with looters. The old man was wading through the mud, which was deep after many days of rain.—

I dared to appear in the street today. I saw none of the inhabitants there. There is busy traffic, however. The Anarchists are moving from one house to the other. Because the streets are deep in mud, the horsemen ride at full speed along the sidewalks, as if each were an orderly. I probably looked more like one of them than like a colonist for I was not molested. Of course, I tried to behave as they did. I looked so freely into their faces that two of them felt they ought to salute. I was clean shaven and was wearing shoes. Such evidence of prosperity is not seen today among the colonists; razors and shoes are always stolen first.—

Our neighbor W. called at our house. I had not seen him for two weeks. I hardly recognized him. His dark brown hair had turned gray in that short time.

Marguerite’s cow died yesterday. The Russian boy reported that in the stable of her brother there was a cow left. She conceived a brave idea. She dressed like a beggar’s wife and went over with a sack on her shoulder. Then she went right toward the bandit chief and talked to him like this, “Listen, you are fighting for the poor people, isn’t that true? Now, I am a poor woman and want to have a cow of my own. Let me have that one here.”

“Hey you,” he replied, “The cow has to stay with us, but you can come to milk. For doing that you may take some milk along; enough for your children.”

Marguerite figured well. She knew that the cow as well as the man the next day might have disappeared to somewhere; so she went, entered the stable and led her off.

As they called her back she firmly and courageously went on, saying at the same time, “I take her home and will milk her there; you will have your milk wherever you stay.”

They laughed, “Well, a real devil of a girl.” They respected that “impudent theft,” as they thought it to be. They surely did not guess that she was saving her brother’s own cow.—

Afternoon. I have seen my charges at their hiding place in the cellar of the Normal School. They have not yet been discovered, but we all realize how bad a place it is to stay in. The day after our escape I tried, together with one of the girls, to reach their abandoned home in order to get some of the most needed things; but we did not find anything which would have been of value to them. No blankets, no clothes at all.

Today they told me that their house has been burned. Sorrowful and discouraged they bow their heads. Without shelter whatsoever. The winter is coming. It is cold already. Their father is no more. That is the fate of so many! Who wonders that such unhappy people would rather die than live?

The fight on the Dnieper river is still going on. Those on the other side cannot cross; neither can they on this slope. The Anarchists prepare for staying here. They even use telephones. Our house is a center. Eight men are assigned to serve here. You cannot get any sense out of their talking because they use a special code.

My friend told me that these men had inquired about me. My appearance was strange to them. I am wearing a felt hat, and am clothed in a way foreigners are.

My friend told them that I was a writer.

“Oh, I know, a poet,” the commander explained to the others with emphasis.

Since then they meet me with a certain respect. Who would ever have suspected that they would esteem a poet? Curiously enough, these telephone men pretend to be educated, since they are able to read and to write.

They seemingly realize that they cannot impress us by brutal treatment, therefore they make efforts to be considered educated. Perhaps I can make use of such a situation.