Khortiza, March 5, 1920

It is true now: for weeks there has been a rumor of a massacre in the colonist settlement about one hundred and fifty miles west of the Dnieper river.

Yes, I had the list in my hand, the list of all those who fell in that carnage. And what did I see?

I cannot grasp it as I pass over the long list of names. It becomes dark before my eyes … two hundred and fourteen men—and I know them all. It is the place where I was born and where I grew up.

My father! and brothers, you? All dead? Murdered! I want to cry out so that the earth will tremble! Henry, my brother, why you? Why did not death take me instead? You had a wife, had seven small children; you restless fighter for truth and highest ideals. And none was too high for you!

Is there no end to wickedness, no limit to atrocity?

Sophocles, you, who wrote “Antigone,” I yield the pen to you. I cannot proceed farther…

THE END