A long and desperate struggle, full of suffering and misery. Most of them have lost near and dear ones at the hands of the Whites. The three brothers of the Rada member perished in the various fights. The young wife of the student was outraged and killed by a Denikin officer, while her husband was awaiting execution. Later he succeeded in escaping from prison. He showed me her picture, standing on the desk in his room. A beautiful, radiant creature. His eyes grew moist as he narrated the sad story.
Many visitors call on the Ukrainians. There is no propusk system in the Kharitonensky, and people come and go freely. I have made interesting acquaintances, and spent many hours listening to the Ukrainian delegates exchanging experiences with their Russian friends. Some days are like a kaleidoscope of the Revolution, every turn tossing up new facets of variegated hue and brilliancy: stirring incidents of struggle and strife, stories of martyrdom and heroic exploit. They visualize the darkness of the Tsarist dungeons suddenly lit up by the flames of the February Revolution, and the glorious enthusiasm of the liberation. Surpassing joy of freedom, and then the sadness of great hopes unfulfilled, and liberty remaining an empty sound. Again the rising waves of protest; the soldiers fraternizing with the enemy; and then the great October days that sweep capitalism and the bourgeoisie out of Russia, and usher in the new world and the new Humanity.
These men fill me with wonder and admiration. Common workers and soldiers, but yesterday mute slaves, they are today the masters of their fate, the rulers of Russia. There is dignity in their bearing, self-reliance and determination—the spirit of assurance that comes with struggle and the exercise of initiative. The fires of Revolution have forged new men, new personalities.
VI
Chicherin and Karakhan
—It was 3 a.m. In the Foreign Office correspondents were about and visitors come by appointment with Chicherin. The People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs has turned night into day.
I found Chicherin at a desk in a large, cold office, an old shawl wrapped around his neck. Almost his first question was “how soon the revolution could be expected in the States.” When I replied that the American workers were still too much under the influence of the reactionary leaders, he called me pessimistic. In a revolutionary time like the present, he thought, even the Federation of Labor must quickly change to a more radical attitude. He was very hopeful of revolutionary developments in England and America in the near future.
We discussed the Industrial Workers of the World, Chicherin saying that he believed I exaggerated their importance as the only revolutionary proletarian movement in America. He considered the Communist Party in that country of far greater influence and significance. He had recently seen several American Communists, he explained, and they informed him on the labor and revolutionary situation in the States.
A clerk entered with a typed sheet. Chicherin scanned it carefully, and began making corrections. His neck shawl kept sliding down on the paper, and impatiently he would throw it back over his shoulder. He read the document again, made more corrections, and looked displeased. “Terribly confused,” he muttered irritably.
“I’ll have it retyped at once,” the clerk said, picking up the paper.
Chicherin impatiently snatched it out of his hand, and without another word his lean, bent figure disappeared through the door. I heard his short, nervous step in the corridor.
“We are used to his ways,” the clerk remarked apologetically.
“I met him on the stairs without hat or coat when I came up,” I said.
“He is all the time between the second and the fourth floor,” the clerk laughed. “He insists on taking every paper to the radio room himself.”
Chicherin returned all out of breath, and took up the conversation again. Messengers and telephone kept interrupting us, Chicherin personally answering every call. He looked worried and preoccupied, with difficulty picking up the thread of our talk.
“We must bend every effort toward recognition,” be said presently, “and especially to lift the blockade.” He hoped much in that direction from the friendly attitude of the workers abroad, and he was pleased to hear of the growing sentiment in the United States for the recall of American troops from Siberia.
“No one wants peace so much as Russia,” he said emphatically. “If the Allies would come to their senses, we would soon enter into commerce with them. We know that business in England and America is eager for such an opportunity.”
“The trouble with the Allies,” he continued, “is that they don’t want to realize that we have the country back of us. They still cling to the hope of some White general rallying the people to his banner. A vain and stupid hope, for Russia is solidly for the Soviet Government.”
I related to Chicherin the experience of the Buford deportees on the Finnish border, and repeated to him the request of a certain American correspondent I had met there to be admitted to Russia.
“He is from a bourgeois newspaper,” Chicherin remarked, recalling that the man had been refused a Soviet visa. “On what ground does he apply again?”
“He asked me to tell you that his newspaper was the first in America to take a friendly attitude to the Bolsheviki.”
Chicherin became interested, and promised to consider the application.
“I also need some ‘paper’
