Khortiza, October 15, 1919

Yesterday I called on our old neighbor. He is a retired teacher who, of course, does not get his pension any more, since everything is topsy-turvy. It is hard on that old man who has labored during thirty years in a toilsome position. And now he has to starve. His house is afflicted in a special manner. Although all rooms had been searched through and all furs and warm clothes had been stolen, “they” demand anew every day some treasures. His daughter had buried the family silverware in the garden. Once that was found, the Anarchists give them no rest, vexing them constantly in hopes of finding more treasures. Yesterday these brutes called together an inquisition for questioning that respectable man. Their purpose was to find out through him where rich people were living. He in all seriousness could not tell them their hiding-places. As a result they prepared to shoot him. They pushed him against the house, his face toward the wall. Then they crackled with the rifles, without, however, shooting. By bringing him into a terrible mortal fear, they expected him to be willing to “confess.”

They have not killed him, but he is nearly broken down. The old man sat there telling me of his experience. Obviously my sympathy gave him some ease of heart. But he had not yet finished his story when the house was filled anew. We had the impression that these new-comers had again something special in mind. With a peculiar curiosity they looked upon me. I noticed that they were expecting to see an enemy. I defied their inquisitive looks and was astonished that nobody asked any questions finally.

Today I learned that after my departure they had inquired urgently about me. They firmly believed that I was an army officer. The neighbor explained that I was a scholar. But they rather believed their own supposition.

Consequently, some wild looking chaps came into our house and held a trial with me. They charged me with having observed the bombardment last night; they had seen that I walked up and down before the house as if spying the locality. Likewise, they knew that I was in possession of a hidden machine gun.

In hearing such foolish pretexts I could but laugh. I made them understand that I knew very well they were looking for a pretext. And then I said, “Although I cannot get any sense out of the whole firing on the river I look for a change, no matter in whose favor. We do not even know who your adversaries are. For us, this present life has become unbearable. Can’t you realize that this slavery has at last brought us to the verge of despair?”

And then I made an appeal to the members of our household; I mean the Anarchists staying with us. They were a little embarrassed, but remained silent. It is, however, noteworthy that the inquisitors left me alone. Was that, perhaps, after all, the influence of our men who seem to have respect for a writer?