I was stirred to the depths of my being, too profoundly for words. Presently I became aware of people nudging me and whispering, “Speak, Berkman, speak! Answer him!” I had become absorbed in my emotion and did not listen to the man on the platform. I looked up. Bianki was speaking, the young Russian of Italian descent. I stood aghast as his words slowly carried comprehension to my mind. “We Anarchists,” he was saying, “are willing to work with the Bolsheviki if they will treat us right. But I warn you that we won’t stand for suppression. If you attempt it, it will mean war between us.”
I jumped on the platform. “Let not this great hour be debased by unworthy thoughts,” I cried. “From now on we are all one—one in the sacred work of the Revolution, one in its defense, one in our common aim for the freedom and welfare of the people. Socialists or Anarchists—our theoretical differences are left behind. We are all revolutionists now, and shoulder to shoulder we’ll stand, together to fight and to work for the liberating Revolution. Comrades, heroes of the great revolutionary struggles of Russia, in the name of the American deportees I greet you. In their name I say to you: We’ve come to learn, not to teach. To learn and to help!”
The deportees applauded, other speeches followed, and soon the unpleasant Bianki incident was forgotten. Amid great enthusiasm the meeting closed late in the evening, the whole audience joining in the singing of “The Internationale.”
On the way to the station, where a train was waiting to take us to Petrograd, a large box of American crackers fell off the sleigh. The accompanying soldiers hungrily pounced upon it, but when told that the provisions were for the children of Petrograd, they immediately returned the box to us. “Quite right,” they said, “the little ones need it most.”
Another ovation awaited us in Petrograd, followed by a demonstration to the Tauride Palace and a large meeting. Then we marched to the Smolny, where the deportees were quartered for the night.
III
In Petrograd
—The bright winter sun shines upon the broad white bosom of the Neva. Stately buildings on either side of the river, with the Admiralty rearing its slender peak on high, foppishly graceful. Majestic edifices as far as the eye can reach, the Winter Palace towering in their midst in cold tranquillity. The brass rider on the trembling steed is poised on the rough Finnish rock,1 about to leap over the tall spire of the Petropavlovskaya guarding the city of his dream.
Familiar sight of my youth passed in the Tsar’s capital. But gone are the gilded glory of the past, the royal splendor, the gay banquets of nobles, and the iron columns of the slavish military marching to the thunder of drums. The hand of Revolution has turned the city of luxurious idleness into the home of labor. The spirit of revolt has changed even the names of the streets. The Nevsky, immortalized by Gogol, Pushkin, and Dostoyevsky, has become the Prospect of October 25th; the square in front of the Winter Palace is now named in honor of Uritsky; the Kamenovstrovsky is called the Red Dawn. At the Duma the heroic bust of Lassale faces the passersby as the symbol of the New Day; on the Konoguardeisky Boulevard stands the statue of Volodarsky, arm outstretched, addressing the people.
Almost every street reminds me of the past struggles. There, in front of the Winter Palace, stood the priest Gapon in the midst of the thousands that had come to beg the “Little Father” for mercy and bread. The square ran crimson with the blood of the workers on that fateful January day in 1905. Out of their graves, a year later, rose the first Revolution, and again the cries of the oppressed were drowned by the crack of artillery. A reign of terror followed, and many perished on the scaffold and in the prisons. But again and again rose the specter of revolt, and at last Tsarism gave way, powerless to defend itself, forsaken by all, regretted by none. Then came the great October Revolution and the triumph of the people—and Petrograd ever in the first line of battle.
The city looks deserted. Its population, nearly 3,000,000 in 1917, is now reduced to 500,000. War and pestilence have almost decimated Petrograd. In the fights against Kaledin, Denikin, Kolchak, and other White forces, the workers of the Red City lost heavily. Its best proletarian element died for the Revolution.
The streets are empty; the people are in the factories, at work. On the corner the young woman militsioner, rifle in hand, walks to and fro, stamping with her booted feet on the ground to keep warm. Now and then a solitary figure passes, all wrapped up and bent, dragging a heavy load on a sleigh.
The stores are closed, their shutters on. The signs still hang in their accustomed places—painted fruit and vegetables advertising the wares no more to be found within. Doors and windows are locked and barred, and everything is silent about.
The famous Apraksin Dvor is no more. All the wealth of the country, bought or stolen, used to be paraded there to tempt the passerby. Highborn barinya and chambermaid, good-natured blond peasant and sullen Tartar, absentminded student and crafty thief, mingled here in the free democracy of the marketplace. All things were to be had in the Dvor; human bodies were bought and sold, and souls bartered for money.
It is all changed now. At the entrance of the Labor Temple flames the legend: “Who does not work shall not eat.”
In the public stolovaya (dining room) vegetable soup and kasha (gruel) are served. The diners bring with
