A large pile of the collected apparel—suits, hats, shoes, winter underwear, hosiery, etc.—lies in the center of our cabin, and the committee is distributing the things. There is much shouting, laughing, and joking. It’s our first attempt at practical communism. The crowd surrounding the committee passes upon the claims of each applicant and immediately acts upon its verdict. A vital sense of social justice is manifested.
—In Bisay Bay. Rolling badly. The sailors say last night’s storm threw us out of our course. Some ship, apparently Japanese, was signaling for help. We ourselves were in such a plight that we could not aid.
At noon the Captain sent for me. The Buford is not a modern ship—he spoke guardedly—and we are in difficult waters. Bad time of the year, too; storm season. No particular danger, but it is always well to be prepared. He would assign twelve lifeboats in my charge, and I should instruct the men what to do should the contingency arise.
I have divided the 246 male deportees into a number of groups, putting at the head of each one of the older comrades. (The three women are assigned to the sailors’ boat.) We are to have several trial alarms to teach the men how to handle the life belts, take their place in line, and get without confusion to their respective boats. The first test, this afternoon, was a bit lame. Another trial, by surprise, is to take place soon.
—Rumors that we are bound for Danzig. It is certain now we are making for the English Channel and expect to reach it tomorrow. We feel greatly relieved.
—No channel. No land. Very bad night. The old tub has been dancing up and down like a rubber shoe thrown into the ocean by vacationists at Coney Island. Been busy all night with the sick.
Everyone except Bianki and myself is keeping to his bunk. Some are seriously ill. Bianki’s nephew, the young schoolboy, has lost his hearing. John Birk is very low. Novikov, former editor of the New York Anarchist weekly, Golos Truda, hasn’t touched food for days. In Ellis Island he spent most of his time in the hospital. He refused to accept bail as long as the others arrested with him remained in prison. He consented only when almost at the point of death, and then he was dragged to the boat to be deported.
It is hard to be torn out of the soil one has rooted in for over thirty years, and to leave the labors of a lifetime behind. Yet I am glad: I face the future, not the past. Already in 1917, at the outbreak of the Revolution, I longed to go to Russia. Shatov, my close friend and comrade, was about to leave, and I hoped to join him. But the Mooney case and the needs of the antiwar movement kept me in the United States. Then came my arrest for opposing the world slaughter, and my two years’ imprisonment in Atlanta.
But soon I shall be in Russia. What joy to behold the Revolution with my own eyes, to become part of it, to aid the great people that are transforming the world!
—Pilot boat! Great rejoicing! Sent wire to our friends in New York to allay the anxiety they must feel because of our mysterious disappearance.
—We’re in the North Sea. Clear, quiet, cool. In the afternoon a bit rolling.
The singing of the boys reaches me from the deck. I hear the strong baritone of Alyosha, the zapevalo, who begins every stanza, the whole crowd joining in the chorus. Old Russian folk songs with their mournful refrain, dripping quiet resignation and the suffering of centuries. Songs palpitating with the frank hatred of the bourzhooi and the militancy of impending struggle. Church hymns with their crescendo recitative, paraphrased by revolutionary words. The soldiers and sailors stand about wrapt in the weird, heart-gripping melodies. Yesterday I heard our guard absentmindedly humming “Stenka Razin.”
We’ve gotten so friendly with our guards now that we do as we please below deck. It has become the established rule for soldiers and deportees never to appeal to the officers in the case of dispute. All such matters are referred to me, and my judgment is respected. Berkshire has repeatedly hinted his displeasure at the influence I have gained. He feels himself entirely ignored.
The sameness of the food is disgusting. The bread is stale and doughy. We have made several protests, and at last the chief steward agreed to my proposition to put two men of our group in charge of the bakery.
—At anchor in the Kiel Canal. Leaks in the boiler—repairs begun. The men are chafing—the accident may cause much delay. We’re sick of the journey. Eighteen days at sea already.
Most of the deportees left their money and effects in the United States. Many have bank deposits which they could not draw because of the suddenness of their arrest and deportation. I have prepared a list of the funds and things owned by our group. The total amounts to over $45,000. I turned the list over to Berkshire today, who promised to “attend to the matter in Washington.” But few of the boys have any hope of ever receiving their clothes or money.
—Much excitement. For two days we’ve had no fresh air. Orders are not to permit us on deck as long as we remain in German waters. They are afraid we might communicate with the outside or “jump overboard,” as Berkshire jocosely said. I told him the only place we want to jump off at is Soviet Russia.
I sent word to the Colonel that the men demand daily exercise. The atmosphere in the steerage
