Khortiza, September 21, 1919

They are here!

Who they are and for what political watchword they fight—nobody knows. All that we see is brutal madness, is robbery, killing: one colonist—I heard his name was Dyck—I saw lying dead by the side of the brook….

I hear them coming in…

Evening. I bring forth again my crumpled little note sheets. How strange it looks in my room! The doors of the cupboards are open, the drawers of my desk lie on the floor. The contents are scattered around; everything valuable was taken away. The same throughout the house. We have hardly any interest in putting things in order again.

We all are very excited. My friend, in whose house I live, forces himself to be calm. His wife does

the same, although she worries very much at having lost most of her husband’s clothing; she knows it cannot be replaced. But more valuable things are endangered. We feel and know well enough that to these men our lives seem to be of no more value than the life of a hare is to a Sunday hunter. They will not spare us. Who cares when we lose our lives…

The eldest daughter of my friend, gifted with rich fancy, evidently takes delight in the adventure, in spite of all the danger. Her fourteen years perhaps account for this.

The little eight-year-old girl is of a more serious nature, thanks to her many sicknesses. Often she looks into the faces of her parents with her deep blue eyes; she studies their expression and apparently doubts somewhat whether she is wholly safe with father and mother. Sensitively she notices the vibration of the spiritual atmosphere in the house; her fingers nervously play with the ends of her long, thick blond braids.

Grandmother obviously does not yet realize the meaning of our situation. She is angry about this impudent visit. She, always fond of order in the house, must endure to have her chest of drawers searched through where every little box had its destined place. She must look on when these intruders rummage in the drawers under the pretext of searching for hidden arms. “Stop,” she interrupts them, “I will myself open for you all the boxes and show you everything there is in them.” She cannot bear it any longer to see everything disorderly.

She is old, and her eyes are obscured. She cannot discern the wild expressions in the faces of the soldiers. Otherwise she would not have dared to cry out. Moreover, she does not fully comprehend the content of their threats since she knows but little Russian. She generally speaks a Dutch dialect. So she interferes, trying to prevent further digging by their unauthorized hands.

Oh, how such intervention irritates these bold robbers! One of them grasps his knout and is just about to strike the old woman. But the daughter and son-in-law ask pity for their mother and at the same time beg of her to let the inevitable go its way. But she replies resolutely, “He wouldn’t dare to beat me!” And again she nervously follows that rooting among the dear little things which she had gathered through so many years with great fondness. They show no reverence for them; some things they put into their pockets, others they throw out with disdain and smash them on the floor.

She tries to stop them again. This is too much for them I “Step back, old witch I” one of the bandits cries and at the same time he swings the rifle from his shoulder. He aims at her. At this moment my friend steps forward and instinctively the murderer turns to him. Maybe he thought the son was going to menace him. He entreats them for his mother-in-law. With a curse on his lips the wild man knocks the aged woman down with the rifle; she falls backward and seems to be unconscious…

Sometimes in serene weather a swarm of locusts comes down upon a grain field, and in a few hours the whole crop is annihilated. Likewise we were overtaken in the midst of a presumptive peace.

I can hardly account for what has happened today. The event is so overwhelming that the day seems endless. How far away everything that happened in the morning seems to be!

Has it really been today that my friend showed me the loveliness and grandeur of the steppe and the sunrise! We were inspired by it. And was it also today that I stood before my students in the Normal School reciting lyric poems with a mind serene and happy? Yes, it was today! This afternoon I went to see the old oak of which I had been told,—its size made it a landmark, for miles around.

It was there that we heard the first cannon shot. After the second detonation we became suspicious, and after the third we started for our home. We had strange forebodings.

On the first cross-roads we meet horsemen and cabs with three-horse-teams. All are driving toward our village at great speed. We cannot see the end of that serpent-like line because a thick cloud of dust covers the rest and makes the whole procession appear still more mysterious.

Soon after this two horsemen detach themselves from their group and dash at us. We remain motionless, we are horrified. The two horses close before us. They are held in a brutal manner. The men on their backs take the bridles very short so that the poor animals have to open their mouths and show their swollen tongues. Each man has, in spite of the warm day, a big long-haired cap on his head which sits ferociously on one side while on the other side long threatening curls are waving. Thus the dusty face appears dangerous and daring. The eyes bear witness of wild unrestraint. The bright-colored clothes deepen the effect of the savage expression of their faces. All kinds of arms make their appearance still more menacing; over the shoulder hangs the rifle, on the left flank dangles the saber, behind the belt there are some pistols. While the left hand holds the bridle the right swings a three-stripe knot whip. It whizzes down, while they are interrogating us, on the ribs and flanks of the animals. They groan in their pain; the horsemen, upon hearing that, seem to be provoked to cursing such as can be heard in Russia only. We have great difficulty in persuading them of the fact that we are teachers. It seems, however, that to be a teacher is not the greatest social crime. The colonist farmers, in their opinion, are much more guilty.

They rush away, not without threatening. We too try to find our way by hidden paths through orchards and across fences, and at last we reach our home.

The whole village is stirred up. There is about us in the atmosphere an anxiety and an alarming, threatening doom. One neighbor runs to the other telling him how much he had to suffer, believing that he surely had been treated worst.

Our house, indeed, has been troubled less than others which stand right in the main street. Ours is somewhat hidden. But how long will we be unmolested by visiting robbers? The village becomes more and more overrun by these herds. The yards are filled with wagons and horsemen. They take possession of whatever they find and of whatever they like.

Will they stay long? I see some are leaving. There is a long line on the road moving toward the village which is situated right on the bank of the Dnieper. I see that they intend to go over the bridge. There are no bridges at all downstream, and upstream only one at a distance of about a hundred miles.

—Ah! now I hear voices at our door. My friend speaks to the men. They curse angrily. He cannot resist their rough force. Hard and brutal men! By no reason approachable! They now are coming toward my door. Away with these leaves of my diary ..!