Khortiza, October 17, 1919

Autumn will soon be over; we hope that before long it will become very cold. It is true, we do not know what fuel we will have to heat the house with this winter; and yet our hope is based on the help of the frost. The idea is this: as soon as the Dnieper freezes and the ice will bear weight, then a change must come, for then either those on the other side can cross the river, or these here can force the others to retire. If the others are the Whites and they are able to repulse these Anarchists, then many of the young volunteers of these colonists will come home.

I am sure the Whites are not the ones to save Russia, and thus their rule can, at the best, be just a passing phase in the development of our country. But our feeling now is, let come whoever will, be it even the devil himself, conditions cannot be worse than they are made by these fiends. So many are saying: “Save us, frost! Dnieper, freeze!”

Alas, the thermometer goes up and consequently our hope goes down. The Dnieper still flows…

Uf, these bandits! What they force us to do! We have to get fuel for the stove. We have a hard time to find it. There is a farm about half a mile away from here. The owner left it, as he could no longer endure the oppression of these vipers. There in the back yard is some straw left. That is the place where my friend and I have to get fuel. We carry it home on our shoulders. We make big sheaves and balance them on our bent backs until we reach home. That is an awful job. The straw pile has been stirred up by men and cattle during the wet weather in search for dry food. And now the wet part is frozen. It is like a prisoner’s job at hard labor; to work with bare hands until you find some dry straw! From all sides tunnels are made into the pile. But this mining work is not done with proper system. Very often it happens that when you have worked your way through and you just start to exploit the mine, it collapses and you once more set to work with blue-red, frozen fingers. Gasping for breath we at last arrive at home, but we have to repeat this business very, very soon, because it requires huge quantities of straw to warm a house. The river docs not freeze and yet it is cold, especially at our altitude where the wind blows wildly. In the meantime, our “guests” sit near the stove and give snarling signs of dissatisfaction—they are not contented with the temperature of the rooms.— It is exasperating. Did I spend years and years of university study to heat the stove for these rude fellows? Did we not all the time believe that the ignorant masses wanted to be enlightened by us? And now we realize that they do not want our wisdom. Who is asking for wisdom? They have reached the final conclusion of all quest for truth. We, the representatives of a higher knowledge and of science, were digging like moles under the ground, did not see what was going on. O tempora! O mores! But let us at least learn one thing before we again start discussing the causes and consequences of Carthage’s destruction. We cannot understand life except by living it. Let us realize our situation this time: they are the masters, and we are the slaves. Well, we know after all, things like that happened sometimes before in history. But being refined and sensitive we feel the weight of the disgrace doubly. We become indignant, for instead of being custodians of science and wisdom, we have simply replaced horse-power in the service of debauchees. Are we not going to become rebellious? The men of Sparta, we will not imitate—they took up arms. That is poor spirit, we know. No doubt, when we prove ourselves nobler than our tormentors, we must also use nobler means than they are using.