Some parts of the city bear evidence of the recent Yudenich campaign. Here and there are remnants of barricades, piles of sandbags, and artillery trained upon the railroad station. The story of that fight is still on everybody’s lips. “It was a superhuman effort,” little Vera enthusiastically related. “The enemy was five times our number and at our very gates—on Krasnaya Gorka—seven miles from the City. Men and women, even children, turned out to build barricades, carry munitions to the fighters, and prepare to defend our homes to the last hand-to-hand struggle.” Vera is only eighteen, fair and delicate as a lily, but she operated a machine gun.
“So sure were the Whites of their victory,” Vera continued, “they had already distributed the ministerial portfolios and appointed the military governor of Petrograd. Yudenich officials with their staffs were secretly in the city, waiting only for the triumphant entry of their Chief. We were in desperate straits; it seemed that all was lost. Our soldiers, reduced in numbers and exhausted, were disheartened. It was just then that Bill Shatov rushed to the scene. He gathered the little army about him, and addressed them in the name of the Revolution. His powerful voice reached the furthest lines; his passionate eloquence lit the embers of revolutionary zeal, inspiring new strength and faith.”
“Forward, boys! For the Revolution!” Shatov thundered, and like desperate furies the workers threw themselves upon the Yudenich army. The flower of the Petrograd proletariat perished in that struggle, but the Red City and the Revolution were saved.
With justified pride Shatov showed me the order of the Red Banner pinned on his breast. “For Krasnaya Gorka,” he said, with a happy smile.
He has remained the jovial good fellow I knew him in America, made riper and more earnest by his experience in the Revolution. He has held many important positions, and has won a reputation as an efficient worker and successful organizer. He has not joined the Communist Party; on many vital points, he says, he disagrees with the Bolsheviki. He has remained an Anarchist, believing in the ultimate abolition of political government as the only sure road to individual liberty and general well-being.
“Just now we are passing through the difficult stage of violent social revolution,” Shatov said. “Several fronts are to be defended, and we need a strong, well-disciplined army. There are counterrevolutionary plots to be guarded against and the Cheka must keep a watchful eye on the conspirators. Of course, the Bolsheviki have committed many errors; that’s because they are human. We live in the period of transition, of much confusion, constant danger, and anxiety. It is the hour of travail, and men are needed to help in the work of defense and reconstruction. We Anarchists should remain true to our ideals, but we should not criticize at this time. We must work and help to build.”
The Buford deportees are quartered in the Smolny. By Zorin’s invitation I am staying at the Hotel Astoria, now known as the First House of the Soviet. Zorin, who was employed in America as a millman, is now Secretary of the Petrograd Section of the Communist Party, and the editor of the Krasnaya Gazetta, the official daily of the Soviet. He impresses me as a most devoted Communist and indefatigable worker. His wife, Liza, also an American emigrant, is the typical I.W.W. Though very feminine in figure, she is rough and ready of speech, and an enthusiastic Bolshevik.
Together we visited the Smolny. Formerly the exclusive home of highborn young ladies, it is now the busy seat of the Petrograd Government. The quarters of the Third International are also located here, and the sanctum of Zinoviev, its secretary, a large chamber sumptuously furnished and decorated with potted flowers and plants. On his desk I noticed a leather portfolio of huge size, the gift of his co-workers.
In the Smolny dining room I met a number of prominent Communists and Soviet officials. Some were in military uniform, others in corduroys and black student shirts belted at the waist, the tails on the outside. All looked pale, with sunken eyes and high cheekbones, the result of systematic undernourishment, overwork, and worry.
The dinner was much superior to the meals served in the public stolovaya. “Only the ‘responsible workers,’ Communists holding important positions, dine here,” Zorin remarked. There are several gradations of pyock (rations), he explained. Soldiers and sailors receive one and a half pounds of bread per day; also sugar, salt, tobacco, and meat when possible. The factory workers get one pound, while the non-producers—most of them intelligentsia—receive half a pound and even less. There is no discrimination about this system, Zorin believes; it is just division, according to the value of one’s work.
I remember Vera’s remark. “Russia is very poor,” she said; “but whatever there is, all should share alike. That would be justice, and no one could complain.”
In the evening I attended the anniversary celebration of Alexander Herzen. For the first time I found myself within the walls of the Tsar’s Palace, whose very mention had filled me with awe in my childhood. Never had I dreamed then that the forbidden name of Herzen, the feared Nihilist and enemy of the Romanovs, would some day be glorified there.
Red flags and bunting decorated the plaform. With interest I read the inscriptions:
“Socialism is the religion of Man;
A religion not of heaven but of the earth.”
“The reign of the workers and peasants forever.”
A large crimson banner represented a bell (Kolokol), the name of the famous paper published by Herzen in exile. On its side was stamped: “1870–1920,” and beneath, the words:
“Not in vain have you died;
What you have sown
