Khortiza, October 27, 1919

We all have our own peculiar fate. There hardly can be found another family, it seems to me, which has had to endure so many tragic blows as the family W.

I learned to know those people during the first enslavement. Their house is not far from ours, so one can go over without passing through the street. After I had been there once they asked me to call often. I understand that. Every one of us feels the need of looking into the face of somebody who is not an Anarchist. We all wish to confess our troubles freely to a sympathetic friend, to make a clear confession of suppressed ideas. I became the confessor of the family W. They are sensitive people and that is the reason why they suffer mentally more than many others, especially the father. Every time, when I call in for a moment, it seems to me, that I notice a few more lines on his face, which tells of his sorrow and grief. It must pain him to keep silent when insolent invaders make his home theirs and force the legal owner to content himself with two small rooms for the whole family; when rough fellows empty the wardrobes and chests and drawers, when thieves eager for plunder search their pockets for watches, purses, and knives, or when they pull the wedding rings off their fingers; yes, he must remain quiet even when the honor of his daughters is endangered. Of course, when the situation became so serious that they tried to lead away his eldest girl, who is beautiful, he indeed could not silence himself any longer. Then he spoke, although not in the way his inner excitement would dictate. To the extent of his whole will power, he restrained himself and spoke in a quiet tone with those ravishers. He tried to persuade them that his daughter was sick and must be put to bed. He had to hide her because he knew that she would be lost if they should find her. Having saved her once, he had no assurance whatsoever that all danger was over. It is there as long as these Anarchists stay in our town. Apparently there is no tendency to leave as yet. The inner tension of expecting them from one time to another is consuming his very heart. He is too alarmed to sleep, and if sometimes he succeeds in quieting his nerves and falls asleep, which is the only comfort in these troubled times, there surely will be a night visit from these hyenas. It is useless to oppose them, he must let them in. Then anew the heart contracts convulsively as if in danger of being taken by eagle’s claws. And so, shivering with cold and excitement, he sees these vagabonds invade his family sanctuary and profanely turn bedding upside down, rummaging in all ends and all corners. At the same time they treat the inmates of the house like enemies on whom they must take revenge. And such visits, some nights, are repeated more than once.

This man suffers from his fate more because of the weakness of his nerves. Not long ago a projectile fell down very close to their house, and the explosion caused the breaking of many windowpanes, which upset him very much.

Mr. W. tells me about his sorrows and these confidences are perhaps his salvation. It means a relief to him when someone listens with understanding.

The only way out of our situation in Russia seems to be emigration. We talk much of countries with settled conditions and a better social order and better educated citizens. It sounds like soothing music to many when I speak of my experiences in foreign countries. Then they forget for a moment their sorrows. Because I know this, I direct conversation very often to this theme. So I did many times with my restless neighbor. But each time when I came in again I found him in despair. He cannot hope any more for a good outcome, for a better future. And he is not the only one of that kind. Not being able to hope any more is the most terrible catastrophe which can occur to men.

Fate has no pity on us. Yesterday I called again on W. and found the whole family in deepest distress. A letter was handed to me. It was written by a relative of theirs and had been forwarded secretly to them. It read, “We are writing this in confusion and with hearts petrified by fear. They came to us, too. You know whom we mean. They undressed us, taking from us our clothes, except the underwear, and started their gruesome, cruel play with us.. They shot through both hands of our father and forced him to sit down with them at the table and drink liquor. They wanted him to touch glasses together. Father looked upon us with a look which reflected deepest-despair and cut deeply into our souls. We shall never forget it. We stood there in utter distress and suffered their derision.

But that was not enough. They went upstairs and dealt cuts at brother John’s face with notched sabers. Then they tried to cut his arms from his body. He fled, and later we found his body lying in a heap of chaff. They, whom we cannot name because words would be insufficient to describe them, they evidently have delighted in increasing his pain by throwing chaff into his wounds. He never will be able to tell us.

Our youngest brother had the idea of frightening them by fearless energetic encounter, but he paid for it with his life; they shot and cut him down. Our nephew, Francis, was beaten with knouts and blunt objects until he broke down and will never awake again. Henry and his wife, seizing their child, tried to escape; but we found them later in the garden, dead. We, too, are wounded, my left ear is half off; I have deep gashes on the forehead, and I have my hand in dressing. An old shirt which I found I used for bandages. Of course, we had to abandon our house and are staying in hiding with friends in the neighboring village. We will not give any names because we are not sure whether or not this letter will reach you. They tell us that our house has been burnt down since. We heard also dreadful stories about your place. We wonder whether you are still alive.”

Then with a little different handwriting there were added these words, “If our God has not forsaken us yet and if we should meet again in this life, let us join hands and, without looking back, leave the land of our affront.”

I dropped the sheet upon the table and looked up. Despair! What should I say to them? Words seemed inadequate confronting such heavy blows; would one protest with words against such elementary phenomena as lightning and thunderbolt? Silently I gripped their hands and left the house. And today I am not able to think of anything else but of the unspeakable tragedy of that family.

I understand that these people, although deeply religious, despairingly cry out: “Is there a living God?”

Verily, those who never experienced what we are going through now, never will comprehend how we suffer. Never! It is impossible!