Khortiza, October 10, 1919

One could laugh if things were not so tragic. I am expected to write verses about Makhno! That is what our telephone operators want. They did not say so directly to me, but they have asked my friend whether I would be willing to do it. They have the idea that Father Makhno appears a hero to me, as he does to them. Of course, there is some selfish ambition in it; they want to present that piece of poetry to their chief and thus win his special favor.

My friend has tried to dissuade them from that idea by saying that I have only been writing in some western language.

They could not believe that a writer who speaks Russian fluently should not be able to write in the same language.

They have, however, not yet approached me with their request. I act as if I did not know a thing about their wish.

Yesterday I busied myself out-of-doors. It becomes unbearable to read or to write; the inner tension is too great. The thoughts turn about in the mind as if chased. Therefore one looks for manual work. That is as quieting as it is possible under these circumstances. This time I was about to stretch the hide of Marguerite’s dead cow over a pole and to wind it up for drying. The commander noticed my labor. And strange to say, he hurried to me, saluted and helped. I was disconcerted. I would not have expected it from these people after all we had seen. We started a peaceful conversation and he was indulgent toward my views and used the pronoun of politeness instead of that of degradation as these men all do. I received the impression that this fellow was no criminal. He told me of his previous life. He is a Cossack. During the war he had repeatedly excelled through bravery. He had been corporal and advanced to sergeant major. But in the course of time he had become aware of the great corruption of the officers and the State functionaries. After the outbreak of the revolution, he had returned home to a community on the Don river. There he had been elected president of the local soviet. He had acted upon the directions given by the central soviet and was, he believed, serving the people. After the Germans had left the Ukraine, an army had been organized under General Denikin. He sent out terrible revenge expeditions over the country. They came to his place and he was arrested, being the president of the soviet. The officers of that expedition condemned him to a punishment of eighty strokes on the naked body with steel rods. Owing to his unusually strong constitution he was able to endure this torture. But he had taken an oath to revenge that treatment. He would—now he became excited—kill every officer he ever could find.

I asked him whether he approved of burning all good and beautiful houses just for the reason that followers of the old regime might have lived in them; whether he did not consider it a foolish destruction of people’s property.

“No,” he said, “I wouldn’t call it good, but,” he added, “our people cannot be restrained.”

I can understand the psychological attitude of this man although I must, of course, condemn the principles of his actions. Were all Makhno followers like him, one could perhaps turn them to reason and good will. This man listened to my explanations. He saw, however, no possibility of successfully opposing the murderous inclinations of the Anarchists. Perhaps his feeling of revenge had not been satisfied as yet. His awful experience has evidently provoked an unusually strong reaction which he had to suppress. And that suppression explains psychologically why he had found an outlet through actions of revenge.

One can comprehend these things up to a certain point; nevertheless our situation remains wretched; aye, I should say tragic. Oh, so very tragic!