Beneath the surface of the daily life man’s primitive passions, unleashed, hold almost free sway. Ethical values are dissolved, the gloss of civilization rubbed off. There remains only the unadorned instinct of self-preservation and the ever-present dread of tomorrow. The victory of the Whites or the investing of a city by them involves savage reprisals, pogroms against Jews, death for Communists, prison and torture for those suspected of sympathizing with the latter. The advent of the Bolsheviki signifies indiscriminate Red terror. Either is disastrous; it has happened many times, and the people live in perpetual fear of its repetition. Internecine strife has marched through the Ukraine like a veritable man-eater, devouring, devastating, and leaving ruin, despair, and horror in its wake. Stories of White and Red atrocities are on everybody’s lips, accounts of personal experiences harrowing in their recital of fiendish murder and rapine, of inhuman cruelty and unspeakable outrages.
XXII
First Days in Kharkov
The work of collecting material is divided among the members of our Expedition according to fitness and inclination. By general consent, and to his own great satisfaction, the only Communist among us, a very intelligent and idealistic youth, is assigned to visit Party headquarters. Besides my general duties as Chairman, my domain includes labor unions, revolutionary organizations, and semi-legal or “underground” bodies.
In the Soviet institutions, as among the people at large, an intensely nationalistic, even chauvinistic spirit is felt. To the natives the Ukraine is the only true and real Russia; its culture, language, and customs superior to those of the North. They dislike the “Russian” and resent the domination of Moscow. Antagonism to the Bolsheviki is general, the hatred of the Cheka universal. Even the Communists are incensed over the arbitrary methods of the Center, and demand greater independence and self-determination. But the policy of the Kremlin is to put its own men at the head of Ukrainian institutions, and frequently a whole trainload of Moscow Bolsheviki, including clerks and typists, are dispatched to the South to take charge of a certain department or bureau. The imported officials, unfamiliar with the conditions and psychology of the country, often even ignorant of its language, apply Moscow methods and force Moscow views upon the population with the result of alienating even the friendly disposed elements.
A July day, with the Southern sun steadily pouring down heat, and the stone pavement seeming to melt beneath my feet. The streets are crowded with people in variegated attire, the play of color pleasing to the eye. The Ukrainians are better clad and nourished than the people in Petrograd or Moscow. The, women are strikingly beautiful, with expressive dark eyes and oval faces, olive skinned. The men are less prepossessing, often low-browed and coarse-featured, the trace of the Mongol evident. Most of the girls, comely and buxom, are short-skirted and barelegged; others, well shod but stockingless, present an incongruous sight. Some wear lapti, a rough wooden sandal that clatters noisily on the pavement. Almost everyone is chewing the popular semetchki, dried sunflower seeds, deftly ejecting the shell, and covering the filthy sidewalks with a sheet of whitish gray.
On the corner two boys in worn student uniforms vociferously call the attention of the passersby to hot pirozhki, the Russian doughy cake filled with meat or cabbage. A bevy of young girls, almost children, faces powdered, lips crimson, approach the venders.
“What costs the pleasure?” inquires one in a thin, high-pitched voice.
“Fifty roubles.”
“Oh, you little speculator,” the girl teases. “Make it cheaper for me, won’t you, dear one?” she coaxes, pressing closer to the boy.
Three sailors approach, whistling the popular Stenka Razin tune. “What beauties!” one comments, unceremoniously embracing the girl nearest him.
“Hey, lasses, come with us,” another commands. “Don’t be hanging around those speculators.”
With ribald laughter the girls join them. Arm in arm they march down the street.
“Damn those Sovietsky cavaliers,” one of the students rages. “Hot pirozhki, hot! Buying, who’s buying, tovarishi!”
With considerable difficulty I find the home of Nadya, the Left Social Revolutionist, for whom I have a message from her friends in Moscow. My knock is answered by an old lady with kindly face and snow-white hair. “My daughter is at work,” she says, suspiciously scrutinizing me. “May I know what you wish?”
Reassured by my explanation, she bids me enter, but her manner continues guarded. It requires some time before she is convinced of my good intentions, and then she begins to unburden her heart. She owned the house in which she now occupies one room together with her daughter, the rest having been requisitioned by the Soviet Housing Committee. “It is enough for our modest needs,” the old lady says resignedly, her glance passing over the small chamber containing a single bed, a kitchen table, and several wooden chairs. “I have only Nadya now,” she adds, a tremor in her voice.
“I thank God I have her,” she continues after a while. “Oh, the terrible times we have lived through. You will surely not believe it—I’m not fifty yet.” She passes her delicate, thin hand over her white hair. “I don’t know how it is where you come from, but here life is a koshmar.30 I have grown used to hunger and cold, but the constant fear for the safety of my child makes life a torture. But it is a sin to complain,” she crosses herself devoutly. “Blessed be the
