“Are you not afraid to talk so freely?” I warned him.
“Oh, who cares!” he laughed. “Let ’em shoot me. Am I a dog to wear a muzzle on my snout?”
IV
Three days later Prelide notified me at Sebezh of the arrival of a new group of emigrants. Hoping they might be the long expected political deportees from America, I hastened to the border. To our great disappointment the men proved to be war prisoners returning from England. There were 108 in the group, captured the previous year in the Archangel district and still clad in their Red Guard uniforms. Among them were also five Russian workers, who had for years resided in England and who were now deported under the Alien Act. They were in civilian attire, and Prehde immediately decided that they were “suspicious,” and ordered them arrested as British spies. The deportees took the matter lightly, not realizing that it might mean a perfunctory field court-martial and immediate execution.
I had become friendly with Prehde, and grown to like his simplicity and sincerity. Entirely unsophisticated, he knows no consideration save his duty to the Revolution; his treatment of alleged counterrevolutionaries is no more severe than his personal asceticism. The taking of human life he considers a personal tragedy, a harsh ordeal his conscience is subjected to by revolutionary exigency. “It would be treachery to evade it,” he had said to me.
I decided to appeal to him in behalf of the arrested civilians. They should be informed of the suspicion against them, I urged, and be given an opportunity to clear themselves. Prehde consented to let me talk with the men and promised to be guided by my impressions.
“Just walk a bit with them and examine them,” he directed.
“Out here in the open?” I asked in surprise.
“Certainly. If they attempt to run, they are guilty. I’m a dead shot.”
Half an hour’s conversation with the “suspects” convinced me of their inoffensiveness. One of them, a half-witted young fellow, was deported from England as a public nuisance; another for refusing to pay his wife alimony; the third had been convicted of operating a gambling resort, and two were radical workingmen arrested at a Bolshevik meeting in Edinburgh. Prehde agreed to put them in my care till I returned to Petrograd, where they could be further examined and proper disposition made of them.
From the British officers accompanying the war prisoners I learned that no politicals had been deported from the United States since the Buford group. The Major in charge of the convoy is American born; his assistant, a lieutenant, a Russian Jew from Petrograd. Both asserted that Europe is tired of war, and they spoke sympathetically of the Soviet Republic. “It ought to be given a fair chance,” the Major said.
I wired to Chicherin about the arrival of the second group and the certainty that no American deportees are en route. At the same time I informed him that I would use Sanitary Train 81, the only one remaining on the border, to take the men to Petrograd.
By long distance telephone and by telegram came Chicherin’s order to “wait till the Foreign Office learns the date of arrival of the American emigrants.” We had already spent over a week on the border, and our provisions were running low, Petrograd having supplied us with only three days’ rations. What was to be done with over a hundred men, some of them ill? Feeling certain that Chicherin was misinformed about the “American emigrants,” I decided to ignore directions from “the center” and return to Petrograd.
But the local officials resented such defiance of authority and refused to act, and we were compelled to remain. Two more days passed, the famished war prisoners grew threatening, and at last the authorities consented to permit our train to depart.
Returning with Karus and Ethel that evening from the village to make final preparations for leaving, we were surprised not to find our train at the station. For hours we searched in every direction till a passing soldier informed us that heavy firing had been heard on the border, and as a precaution our white-painted train was moved out of range.
The night was pitch black. Leaving Ethel on the station platform I walked along the railroad track till I stumbled against a wall of cars. Someone hailed me and I recognized the voice of Karus. He lit his portable lamp and we tried to enter a car, but the doors were locked and sealed. Suddenly we felt the air hissing, and bullets began to pelt about us. “They are shooting at my light,” Karus cried, throwing his lamp down. We slowly followed the tracks till we came to a car emitting sounds of snoring, and we entered.
The smell of unclean human bodies hung heavily in the heated air, assailing us with suffocating force. We felt our way in the darkness along the aisle between double rows of booted feet when a gruff voice shouted:
“Dezhurney,17 who’s there?”
From one of the benches a soldier rose, fully clad and with gun in hand.
“Who goes there?” he challenged sleepily.
“How dare you let anyone into this car, you scoundrel, you!” another shouted.
“They just came in, tovarish.”
“You’re a liar, you’ve been sleeping on duty.” A string of curses poured forth upon the soldier, involving his mother and her alleged lovers in the picturesque vocabulary of the Russian oath.
The cursing
