Khortiza, October 3, 1919

We are all irretrievably lost. All streets are filled with men. The stream of the Makhno-Anarchists is flooding back. They are driven back over the bridge on our side. Who drives them? What power? Nobody knows. But the wrath of the repulsed Anarchists is without measure. Again we are held accountable here, in the village of these Dutch farmers.

And what prospects! They do not want to merely go through the village as they did before, they intend to stay here now. All houses are occupied by these fighters. The armed men swarm like bees around the houses.

We stood outside our door looking over the fence upon the yards beneath us. All at once there was a cracking noise behind us. The border fence came down. A horseman forced his animal through the narrow gate and demolished the corner poles. Then he took his knout and lashed the poor animal, and pulled the bit bridles as if he would saw through the mouth.

“Hand me your clothes!” he cried wildly.

The attempts of my friend to refuse did not succeed. He persisted in his demand and got the last extra pair of trousers.

At the same time we hear below the crash of broken window panes, the banging of smashed doors, shrill whistles. Horses neigh and groan, cows bellow, furious men ride through orchards breaking down trees and fences; they are calling, insulting, cursing, swearing.

Each house owner becomes enslaved to these severe masters. They hold wild orgies of feasting, with roaring and scornful laughter.

They order, “Host, get feed ready for our horses! Get hay and oats at any cost! It is no excuse that you have not any left!” Thus the colonist is forced to steal. Of course, no one objects when his neighbor takes from him, knowing that he is compelled to do what he does.

The women are cooking and baking for the guests. Cows are being butchered and rich roast meats are served. That is the life our new rulers lead!