“The fact is,” the Pessimist persisted, “that the Communists and the Makhnovtsi are doing their best to exterminate each other. Both sides are guilty of the greatest brutalities and atrocities. It seems to me Makhno has no object save Bolshevik-killing.”
“You are pitifully blind,” retorted Yasha, an Anarchist holding a high position in a Soviet institution, “if you can’t see the great revolutionary meaning of the Makhnovstchina. It is the most significant expression of the whole Revolution. The Communist Party is only a political body, attempting—successfully indeed—to create a new master class over the producers, a Socialist rulership. But the Makhno movement is the expression of the toilers themselves. It’s the first great mass movement that by its own efforts seeks to free itself from government and establish economic self-determination. In that sense it is thoroughly Anarchistic.”
“But Anarchism cannot be established by military force,” I remarked.
“Of course not,” Yossif admitted. “Nor does Nestor pretend to do so. ‘I’m just clearing the field,’—that’s what he always tells the comrades visiting him. ‘I’m driving out the rulers, White and Red,’ he says, ‘and it’s up to you to take advantage of the opportunity. Agitate, propagate your ideals. Help to release and to apply the creative forces of the Revolution.’ That is Nestor’s view of the situation.”
“It is a great mistake that most of our people stay away from Makhno,” Yasha declared. “They remain in Moscow or Petrograd, and what are they accomplishing? They can do nothing but fill Bolshevik prisons. With the povstantsi we have an exceptional chance of popularizing our views and helping the people to build a new life.”
“As for myself,” announced Yossif, “I am convinced that the Revolution is dead in Russia. The only place where it still lives is the Ukraine. Here it holds out a rich promise to us,” he added confidently. “What we should do is to join Nestor, all of us who want to be active.
“I disagree,” the Pessimist objected.
“He always disagrees when there is work to be done,” Yossif retorted with the inimitable smile that took the sting out of even his sharpest words. “But you, friends”—he faced the others—“you must clearly realize this: October, like February, was but one of the phases in the process of social regeneration. In October the Communist Party exploited the situation to further its own aims. But that stage has by no means exhausted the possibilities of the Revolution. Its fountain head contains springs that continue to flow to the height of their source, seeking the realization of their great historic mission, the emancipation of the toilers. The Bolsheviki, become static, must give place to new creative forces.”
Later in the evening Yossif took me aside. “Sasha,” he spoke solemnly, “you see how radically we differ in our estimate of the Makhno movement. It is necessary you should learn the situation for yourself.” He looked at me significantly.
“I should like to meet Makhno,” I said.
His face lit up with joy. “Just as I have hoped,” he replied. “Listen, dear friend, I have talked the matter over with Nestor—and, by the way, he is not far from here just now. He wants to, see you; you and Emma, he said. Of course, you can’t go to him,” Yossif smiled at the question he read in my eyes, “but Nestor will arrange to take any place where your Museum car may happen to be on a date agreed upon. To secure you against Bolshevik persecution, he will capture the whole Expedition—you understand, don’t you?”
Affectionately placing his arm about me, he drew me aside to explain the details of the plan.
XXVI
Prison and Concentration Camp
A nauseating stench assails us as we enter the compulsory labor camp at Kharkov. The courtyard is filled with men and boys, incredibly emaciated, mere shadows of humans. Their faces yellow and eyes distended, bodies ragged, and barefoot, they forcibly remind me of starving pariahs in famine-stricken India.
“The sewer is being repaired,” the official accompanying us explains. Only a few prisoners are at work; the others stand about apathetically, or sprawl on the ground as if too weak for exertion.
“Our worst scourge is disease,” the guide remarks. “The men are undernourished and lack resistance. We have no medicine and we are short of physicians.”
Some of the prisoners surround our party, apparently taking us for officials. “Tovarishi,” a young man appeals to us, “when will the Commission decide upon my case?”
“Visitors,” the guide informs him laconically.
“We can’t live on the pyock. The bread ration has been cut again. No medicine is given out,” several complain.
The guards motion them aside.
The large male dormitory is appallingly crowded. The whole floor space is taken up by cots and benches, set so closely together it is difficult for us to pass. The prisoners cluster in the corners; some, naked to the hips, are engaged in picking lice off their garments; others sit listlessly, gazing vacantly about them. The air is foul, suffocating.
From the adjoining female ward come quarreling voices. As we enter a girl cries hysterically: “Don’t dare call me a speculator! It’s my last things I was selling.” She is young and still beautiful, her torn blouse exposing delicate, well-formed shoulders. Her eyes burn feverishly, and she breaks into a hacking cough.
“God may know who you be,” a peasant woman retorts. “But just think of me, with three little ones at home.” Catching sight of our group, she rises heavily from the bench, stretching her hand out pleadingly: “Dear ones, let me go home. My poor children will die without me.”
The women beset us. The rations are bad and insufficient, they declare. Only a quarter of a pound of bread is given them and a plate of thin soup
