Sergei Mamontov, Civil War: A White Army Journal
The Russian Civil War (1918–1920) is the setting here. A soldier in the White Army, Mamontov provides a unique perspective on the war in his book of memoirs. He notes: “It is often difficult to distinguish one’s feelings. Simultaneously there was fear and valor, loathing and compassion, timidity and a sense of duty, desperation and hope.” He is relentlessly truthful and markedly dispassionate in his judgments. His two-page introduction to the memoirs is as cogent a summation of the Civil War as one can find anywhere. Taken from Sergei Mamontov,
My brother and I became totally convinced of the inability of various political groups to get us south. I even doubt whether such groups existed, and if they did, whether they were not Bolshevik fronts. It was easy to fall into a trap and best to count on our own resources. Once in the hallway my brother simply said to me:
“Let’s go.”
“Let’s go. But when?”
“Now. Why put it off?”
“Good. Let’s go.”
And that was all. Mother silently packed a small suitcase for the two of us. Father saw us off at the Briansk Railway Terminal, gave us money, and blessed us. We parted forever. He died of typhus in 1920.
A railroad man put us into a freight car. The train set off southward into the unknown. The next day we arrived in Zernovo, the last town under Bolshevik
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control. Beyond lay the Ukraine, occupied by the Germans. We were lucky; there were no border guards in Zernovo. I waited at the station while my brother went to the farmer’s market. He found a peasant from the Ukraine who agreed to take us south for a hundred rubles. In the meantime he advised us to walk out of town and hide in a wheat field along a road where he would pick us up at night. That’s what we did.
When the peasant drove by at night, he was followed by a whole group of people. His feisty wife sat on the cart. On foot there were food smugglers, a family of the “bourgeoisie,” and three German prisoners-of-war. It was an irony of fate that we, Russian officers, trusted our recent enemies, the Germans, most. They were obviously fleeing from the Bolsheviks. And we spoke some German. We walked along behind the wagon for a long time. It was a moonlit night.
“This village has the first Bolshevik checkpoint.”
We made a large semi-circle around the village and marched for an hour. There was another checkpoint. We went around it as well. “This village has the third and last checkpoint. It’s the worst, because they send out patrols.”
The whole night the peasant’s wife was angry at him. She was to give up her place to the father of the family and a small child who could not walk anymore. Her husband had not bought her the promised new items of clothing. She began to carp at him in a high, angry voice. In the still of the night her voice carried far, and she could be heard by the Bolsheviks. “Shut up, you witch! You’ll get us into trouble,” said the father of the family.
“You’re the devil yourself,” screeched the peasant woman
“I’ll cut your throat if you don’t shut up.” He pulled out a penknife.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll show you. Help! Help! Murder!”
“What can I do with this crazy woman?” said the frightened peasant. “Run, quick. The Reds will come any minute. Down this road to the right, left at the gully, the second road on the right and then the border is not far.”
The Germans and the two of us began to run. Down the road to the right, to the gully, but there the road turned right and not to the left. “Let’s not get lost. Better wait.”
We went off a hundred strides from the road and lay down in the grass. Soon our peasant drove by. We waited to be sure that he wasn’t followed and started after him at some distance.
Then I made a mistake.
I stopped to relieve myself. The Germans and my brother went ahead. I was going after them at a run, when out of the wheat on both sides of the road soldiers appeared and put their bayonets against my chest.
“Stop!”
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A thought flashed through my mind: “Should I run? But my brother . . .” I stayed. Had we been together, we would have escaped. The Germans ran off. My brother stayed because of me.
The soldiers took us to the place where our whole group was being held, except for the Germans. I stood apart from my brother. There was a Bolshevik commissar, about forty soldiers and five mounted men.
“Where are you going and what is your business?”
We all said that we were going to the Ukraine for flour since there was famine in Moscow. The commissar then announced that we all could go except “you and you,” pointing to my brother and myself.
“Why are you holding us, comrade commissar, we’re all part of the same crew.”
“Is that right?” he asked the others. To our relief, they all answered “yes.”
“Nevertheless, you stay.”
The others joyfully left.
“So why are you holding us?”
“You want to know? I’ll tell you. Your mugs are White.”
Things were getting bad. He had guessed our identities. We, of course, denied everything.
“I’ll take you to headquarters. They’ll decide what to do with you.”
We had no desire to go to headquarters where we would have been shot on the spot. We weren’t searched and proceeded as a group, talking to one another. Seizing a moment my brother whispered: “The letters. Do as I do.”
We had been given letters of introduction to all sorts of White generals. What stupid carelessness. Each one of those letters was a death sentence. We had divided the letters. I had some and my brother had some.
My brother began to scratch himself which in these times was not unusual. All the trains were louse-infested. He shoved his hand into an inside pocket and I heard the sound of crumpling paper. I began to chatter away in order to deflect attention. My brother crushed the letters in his fist, put them in his mouth and began to chew, while ripping off small pieces which could be thrown away unnoticed. A large piece couldn’t be thrown away because of the brightness of the moon. It would have been noticed. He looked like a person pensively chewing a blade of grass. I kept chattering away. Finally my brother spoke—he had gotten rid of the letters.
It was my turn. I remembered that they were in my billfold. I had to open the billfold within my pocket and pull out the letters. It was high-quality paper and when I crushed the letters it seemed that the whole world could hear the crackle. At a moment when my brother had the attention of the guards I shoved the letters into my mouth.
