She is a typical specimen of the rebel Ukrainian, of the type molded in the crucible of hard revolutionary life. All night we talked of the burning problems of the South, of the needs of the peasantry, and the activities of the povstantsi, whose beloved and almost venerated leader is bat’ka40 Makhno, the Stenka Razin of the Revolution.
She related stories of the great devotion of the peasantry to Nestor and told interesting anecdotes of his campaigns. Once, when Makhno with a small company found himself surrounded by a large Bolshevik force, he caused a marriage to be performed in the village occupied by the enemy. Makhno’s men in borrowed holiday attire attended the celebration, their famous “sawed off” guns hidden upon their bodies. In the midst of the carousal, the Red soldiers the worse for the liquor freely supplied by the villagers, the pretended holiday makers opened fire, taking the Bolshevik garrison by surprise and putting them to flight.
The very mention of Makhno’s name, Gallina said, brings terror to the enemy and frequently whole companies of the Red Army join his forces. Commissars and Communists—identical terms to the povstantsi—find no mercy, but the common soldier is always given the choice of remaining with him or going free.
“That was the case also,” she continued in her melodious voice, “with Grigoriev’s army. You have heard of him, haven’t you, comrade? He was an officer of the Tsar, but at the outbreak of the Revolution he became a free lance. At one time he was with Petlura, then he fought him, and later he joined the Red Army. He was just a military adventurer, though not without some ability. He was very vain, loving to style himself the Ataman of Khersonstchina, because his greatest successes were in that province. Later he turned against the Bolsheviki and invited Makhno to make common cause with him. But Nestor found out that Grigoriev was planning to join Denikin; besides, he was guilty of many pogroms. The slaughter of Jews he organized in Yekaterinoslav in May of last year (1919) was especially atrocious. Makhno decided to eliminate him. He called a meeting, to which the Ataman and his men were invited. It was a large gathering at which twenty thousand peasants and povstantsi were present.41 Nestor publicly accused Grigoriev of counterrevolutionary designs, charged him with pogroms and denounced him as an enemy of the people. The Ataman and his staff were executed on the spot. Almost his whole force joined our povstantsi.”
Gallina spoke of executions in an even, ordinary tone, as of matters of common occurrence. Life in the Ukraine, among the rebel peasantry, had made constant struggle and violence the habitual tenor of her existence. Occasionally she would slightly raise her voice in indignation when reports of Jew baiting by povstantsi were mentioned. She felt deeply outraged by such base misrepresentation. These stories were deliberately spread by the Bolsheviki, she averred. No one could be more severe in punishing such excesses than Nestor. Some of his best comrades are Jews; there are a number of them in the Revolutionary Soviet and in other branches of the army. Few men are so loved and respected by the povstantsi as Yossif, the Emigrant, who is a Jew, and Makhno’s best friend.
“We are not such barbarians as we are painted,” she said with a charming smile. “But you will learn more about us when you visit us, which will not be far off, I hope.”
She listened wistfully to the news from the Western world, and plied me with questions about life in America and the attitude of its workers to Russia. The role of women on the “other side” was of intense interest to her, and she was eager to procure books dealing at length with the subject. She looked dejected on learning that almost nothing was known in the States about the Ukrainian peasant movement, but she recovered quickly, remarking: “Naturally, for we are so isolated. But some day they will know.”
The night had turned to dawn, and all too quickly the morning was breaking. It was high time for Gallina to be on her way. Regretfully she left us, expressing her confidence in our speedy meeting in the camp of Makhno. In complete self-possession she stepped out of the house, while with bated breath we accompanied her at a distance, fearful lest a chance identification result fatally for the daring girl.
XXXI
The Cheka
A pall hangs over the home of my friend Kolya, the tailor. His wife is ill, the children neglected, dirty, and hungry. The plumbing is out of order, and water must be carried from the next street, four flights up. Kolya always performed the heavy work; his absence falls heavily upon the little family.
From time to time the neighbors look in on the sick woman. “Your husband will soon return,” they assure her cheerfully, but I know that all their efforts to find him have proved fruitless. Kolya is in the Cheka.
The workers of the clothing factory where my friend is employed have of late been very discontented. Their main
