In the Social Storm: Memoirs of the Russian Revolution By Boris Yelensky Chapter 19
Chapter 19
We reached Kharkov on the morning of the second day. When all my passengers had left the coach, I approached the station officials and requested that they uncouple my coach and have it placed in a suitable spot so that I could have the literature removed. This operation was accomplished quickly and we were placed in a spot where it was easy to leave the station.
I had previously arranged with my young companion to place the literature in two piles so that we could remove the Bolshevik literature and then our own. With this job completed, I went to the railroad Cheka, presented my credentials to the Commissar and asked for workers to remove the literature from the coach. I had expected to receive the help of Red Army men but this time the Commissar sent six Cheka agents to help me. My heart kept thumping until the last sack of literature had been lifted out of the coach and placed on the wagon. When we finally got on our way I could not help exclaiming: “Cheka agents helping bring anarchist literature to Kharkov! What is the world coming to?”
When we reached our agreed-upon destination, my young comrade went on to the Nabat book store and I made my way to my office where they were expecting me. I sought to dispose of my official business as quickly as possible. When I presented my papers and credentials, I told the head Commissar that I would be in Kharkov only two or three days, after which I would be going on to Ekaterinoslav, and if he had anything to dispatch he should have it ready.
From there I drove to the hotel where I could rest a while. The journey itself had been strenuous enough but I had also been under an intense strain from the fear that we might be apprehended carrying the contraband literature. My young comrade and myself were prepared to make any sacrifice but this did not lessen our fear. As a matter of fact, almost every step we took in those days involved personal peril, though at that time we gave the matter little thought. In a way, we assumed a sportsman-like attitude of adventure to every event and danger to which we were exposed. What disturbed me most however was the possibly dire fate of the people who had helped us and who had not the slightest connection with our movement–indeed they were members of the Bolshevik party–and who might pay with their lives for their help. This thought continued to burden my conscience as I gradually lapsed into a fitful sleep.
In spite of my strained nerves, it is quite possible I might have continued sleeping until the following morning; but early in the night Comrade Goodman and several other comrades woke me–it seems they could not wait until the following morning. We set out for the bookshop where we unpacked the books and arranged them on shelves. In a short time, that half-empty store assumed the aspect of a well-furnished enterprise with a large selection of anarchist volumes.
I had instructed my young comrade to tell no one where the literature had come from or how it had arrived at the book store, for we knew that Cheka agents visited the store from time to time and it was necessary for us to be somewhat conspiratorial.
It went something like this: The hotel telephone awoke me and the supervisor informed me that a certain Comrade Joseph Goodman and a few of his friends had come to call on me and wanted to know whether I was expecting them. In a drowsy state, I replied that I was and to allow them up to my room. In a few minutes–I was not even fully dressed–the gang invaded my room. After cordial greetings, I could observe on their faces the unspoken question: Tell us pal, how did you manage to carry out such a risky job? Then Joseph Goodman turned to me and in a voice full of gratitude told me that when they had originally asked me to bring back some literature, the most they had hoped for was a load double that which I had brought before and that bringing in a whole stock like this was too great a risk. The others were equally eager to know how I had managed. I then acknowledged that Cheka agents had unwittingly helped us in both Moscow and Kharkov; and I remarked to Goodman that, after all, one only dies once. Whether the Cheka arrested us with only two or three packages or with a huge mountain of books would make little difference - the verdict would be the same.
I explained to them that when the two of us undertook to discharge this task, our primary motivation was to help these comrades in their efforts here. “What I now ask of you,” I continued, “is that all this remain a secret; for it was not only my young comrade and myself who were involved but also another person. In the second place, I need money to compensate the Gordin brothers for the books. In the third place, I added, “I am desperately hungry.”
Joseph Goodman, who usually took a dim view of celebrations, was first to opine that an achievement like this called for some celebrating. Katya Abrams, a member of the group who was staying at my hotel, proposed that we go to her home, purchase some food and beverages on the way, and stage our little party. Before long, we were all seated around a table, drinking aperitifs and eating a fairly savory supper.
When we had concluded our little fiesta, I told my comrades of my plans for the future. I explained that I would only be in Kharkov for two or three days and showed them my itinerary. I suggested that if they had any material of any kind to transmit to the groups in the cities I would be visiting, they get it ready and also if any of them desired to travel to these places they could do so, but only under the condition that they agree to act in a responsible manner, I told them I would be returning by way of Kharkov to Moscow and added that, in the event I could not visit them, they should dispatch my young comrade with the necessary funds so that we could bring them another load of literature.
The following morning, when I arrived at the bookstore, I encountered several more comrades, including Yoshke Meyers, a returnee from Philadelphia who was extremely active in the Nabat group. He looked like a high school boy, but actually was a husband and the father of two children. Comrade Ivan Apolon used to upbraid him mercilessly for the way he treated his family. Comrade Benjamin Epstein was also there, better known under the nickname Naumke (the white one). He was among the activists in Krinky as well as in Bialystok. We became close friends, since my wife, Bessie, also came from Krinky and I myself was well acquainted with a number of comrades in both cities. I shall have more to relate later about Naumke.
Comrade David Kogan, nicknamed “The Little Christosik,” was inclined toward anarcho-syndicalism. He was of a serious turn of mind, and when he saw the vast propaganda effort conducted by the Nabat group in Kharkov, he volunteered his assistance.
In addition to a group of American-Jewish “returnees” who were preparing to travel to Poland and from there back to the States, I also met two other emigres from America, Adolf and Jenny. I actually met a number of other comrades for the first time there but my acquaintance with them was brief and the lapse of a half century has banished their names from my mind.
I departed that night by train from Kharkov, accompanied by five young comrades whose intent was to ride up to a certain station where they hoped they could make contact with Nestor Makhno’s partisan band and lend whatever help they could. We were scheduled to arrive at this station quite early in the morning so we went to sleep as soon as our train had pulled out of Kharkov–all but me. My mind was still busy trying to analyze the makeup of the Kharkov group and sort out all the various comrades I had met.
Among the substantial Nabat group were several comrades I had already formed an attachment towards. As for Ivan Apolon, I was seeing him for the second time, and the same was true of some of the other comrades.
Ivan Apolon was a giant of a man, with a gentle smile constantly playing about his face and reflecting his kindly nature. His closest companion was Abram Christos, a rather nervous type, almost totally devoid of the magnetic power which Ivan possessed. As if to compensate for this, Abram’s wife, Katya, was generous to a fault, with a genial smile always on her attractive face. She contrasted sharply with her husband in her general attitude and in her approach to the other comrades and this fact created a bond of genuine friendship between us.
Vanya Tarasyuk-Karas, while a totally different man physically, was much the same type of personality as Ivan Apolon and ever since our first encounter, we had been drawn closer to each other. Needless to say, Joseph Goodman and I had become intimate friends and devoted comrades. Of all six, only Abram Christos was an exception–his rather neurotic nature made him somewhat difficult to get along with.
I finally fell into a sleep so deep that I failed to hear the train grind to a halt at one of the stations. The reason for the stop was that a rumor had reached the Bolsheviks that detachments of Makhno’s partisans were close by. This was good news for the five young comrades who were seeking just such an encounter.
I find I have forgotten to mention Comrade Alexey. Every coach on the trains in Russia in those days had a special attendant who spent his entire time there. It is his task to keep the car clean and warm, to fetch hot water for tea and generally to act as overseer of the coach–a position similar to that of porter on trains in the United States. From the first day that Alexey took charge of my coach, he sensed that we were not regular officials, but it was some time before I was able to persuade him that there was nothing wrong with him drinking tea or sharing a meal with us. I had to keep assuring him that, as long as he was traveling in my company, he was on a basis of equality with all of us. At first, I detected an expression of doubt on his face as to my sanity, but I finally overcame this with the aid of a little brochure I kept in my compartment.
It is my personal opinion that, of all the prolific writings of Abba Gordin, there was a single pamphlet which possessed real propaganda value. It was titled How a Peasant Entered the Anarchist Kingdom. On those days when I was absent from the car, Alexey would avidly read this brochure, to such an extent that he must have known it by heart.
When we departed from Kharkov, I noticed that the brochure was so placed that it could be readily seen. Suddenly, Alexey rushed into my compartment and confessed that, while I had been gone, since he didn’t have much to do, he had picked up the brochure and read it. He followed up this confession with a barrage of questions: What is anarchism? Where does one find the “Kingdom of Anarchism,” — or is it merely a fantasy? I explained to him that the pamphlet was written in the form of a fantasy, but that the conditions depicted there could become a reality in the life of society; a world free of hunger and want with all human beings enjoying equal status. Alexey was so deeply impressed that later, when we returned to Moscow, he asked me to procure a dozen copies of the pamphlet so that he could distribute them in his village. Unexpectedly, our movement had won a new disciple.
When we reached Ekaterinoslav I immediately discharged my official obligations by turning over to the chairman of the Soviet several packs of literature. I also informed him that I would remain for a day in his city and that, if he desired to send anything to Moscow, to have it brought to me at the station. I then went in search of our comrades, who were rather few in number. Ekaterinoslav was in the very center of Nestor Makhno’s sphere of military operation and the authorities kept a watchful eye on our comrades in the city, but I succeeded in spending one evening with a small group of young comrades.
The following day we left for Elisavetgrad, where again I discharged my official functions and went to look for our local group, which boasted considerable strength. One of its members was Vishnevsky, a returnee from Chicago; another was the younger brother of the chief editor of the Moscow Izvestia, Steklov by name. Still another was a younger brother of Zinoviev. The latter two young comrades were both highly competent and gifted and for a brief period of time they published the Yelisavetski Nabat. We talked until late that night and the following morning the entire group paid me a visit in my coach, where we spent several pleasant hours until departure time. When we said our goodbyes, none of us realized that, before long, Vishnevsky, as well as the brothers of Steklov and Zinoviev, would be slain in a pogrom perpetrated by Grigoriev, who had formerly been with the Red Army and then vainly sought to join forces with Makhno’s partisans.
The following morning I arrived in the ancient Ukrainian city of Poltava, where it took me only a couple of hours to fulfill my official duties, after which I made my usual search for anarchist comrades, finally locating several of them at an anarchist club. For the most part they were quite young and engaged in the responsible task of disseminating the Kharkov edition of Nabat and also of arranging periodic meetings and open forum discussions. In Poltava there was also a small group of anarcho-syndicalists, fewer in number than in Kharkov. About two years later, the Poltava and Kharkov groups suffered a fiasco with an “expropriation”–but more of this later.
Regarding Poltava; it was about two years later, whiIe traveling by train, that I chanced to meet a young man who, in the course of our
conversation, dropped an English word. When I asked if he spoke English, he replied that he did and had in fact been born in the United States. I answered in English that I was an emigre also, from Chicago and before long we had become close friends. I learned that he was living not far from Poltava, where his father had organized several communist “free cornmunes” among the peasants and that, notwithstanding the occasional raids perpetrated by the pogrom-makers, his father had achieved remarkable success with the peasants. The young man was at that time on his way to Moscow to try to obtain machines for their agricultural projects and to plead for some respite from the local bureaucrats. I took down the address and promised to visit that interesting venture, where a single individual had managed to build a series of colonies. However my hopes were frustrated as the expanding civil war began to destroy everything of value which the revolution had created.
From Poltava I moved on to Kiev, the metropolis of the Ukraine, and one of Russia’s most glamorous cities. At that time it was the capital of the Ukrainian Bolshevik government, headed by Rakovsky. As in the other cities on my itinerary, I fulfilled my official functions, but here I was informed that I would have several passengers accompanying me on my ride to Odessa.
In Kiev there was a Nabat group, one of whose active memnbers was the gifted writer and agitator, Aron Baron, as well as his dynamic wife, Fanny; both of thern close friends and comrades frcm the United States. Also affiliated with this group were the two Ovrutsky sisters, emigres from France (only the elder one succeeded in getting out of Russia), and also the widow of the deceased Gomrade P. Gdaalych, Sonia. Aside from this group, there were also in Kiev two distinguished comrades, Drucker and Andrey Andreyev, both of whom were earnest and dedicated co-workers of the anarcho-individualist orientation. They frequently collaborated with the Nabat group, and we spent two days together in Kiev, after which I set out on the last leg of my journey, toward the city of Odessa.
When I departed, my coach was overcrowded with passengers, including several of our comrades, among them Aron Baron. Trouble could always be anticipated on the stretch of track from Kiev to Odessa, since numerous partisan groups of various ideological colorings operated in that area and in addition, the route was not at all direct. The train wound, zig-zagged and detoured so that it took twice the normal time to reach our destination. Here I shall pause to relate one incident which almost cost Baron his liberty and his life.
Alone with me in the coach, Comrade Baron remarked that, in his judgment we did not make sufficient use of the English language and proposed that we engage in a dialogue on the theme of the Soviet regime. He suggested that I take the affirmative side and he the negative. It was not long before we almost imperceptibly glided into a heated debate which lasted more than a day, both of us taking time off only for eating and sleeping. In the course of that trip, I saw nothing that aroused my suspicions against the fellow passengers in our car. It was only when I returned to Moscow that it came out. I was inormed that Karochan wanted to see me at a certain hour. I was at a loss to understand what he wanted with me, since the previous day I had seen him and turned over to him the parcels sent to him personally.
When I arrived at his office at the appointed hour, I detected a curious expression on his secretary’s face. He informed Karochan of my arrival and the latter bade me enter his private office. There was another man present. Karochan was very courteous and formal and bade me sit down at his table. After I had done so, I recognized the other man as one of the passengers who had been with us from Kiev to Odessa. Karochan asked me if I knew the man and I replied that I thought he was one of the passengers who had been in my coach from Kiev to Odessa. Karochan replied that I was correct and that this passenger was a high official in the Ukrainian government who had come with a complaint against me.
“We are aware of the fact,” said Karochan, “that you are a devoted worker in the Foreign Commissariat, but we fail to understand why you took into your coach such a counter-revolutionary.” For a moment I was taken aback, but then I understood what was going on. He must have been referring to my discussion with Aron Baron. I played naive, and inquired who the “counter-revolutionary” might be. The third man chimed in with the explanation that they were referring to the man who had engaged in the discussion with me and who attacked the Soviet regime.
I hastened to explain that the other man in question was a personal friend of mine who showed documents from the professional bakers’ association, and who requested special permission to ride in my coach. The discussion, I explained, was merely intended to pass the time, and that our main motive was really just to practice our English. I pointed out that, in such a debate, one person takes the affirmative and therefore the other must assume the negative. Then I added, challengingly, that if this discussion struck them as counter-revolutionary I was prepared to resign from my post. I then turned to Karochan and sought his aid in effecting my resignation so that I might return to Kharkov.
Karochan arose from his chair and urged me to forget about any resignations. The other man also arose and assured me that I should drop any though of resigning, and that there was no reason fcr it. “In fact,” he added, “I now regret that I wasn’t able to take part in your discussion and thus improve my own English a bit.” Then he turned to Karochan and said: “You always keep some liquor on hand so why don’t we all have a drink and forget what happened?” Karochan, as usual, needed no coaxing at all. He took a bottle of ccgnac from his cabinet and, after each of us had treated himself to two or three glasses of the stuff, the entire incident was forgotter.
The greater part of the literature I had with me was intended for Odessa. In this huge port city there were vast possibilities for transmitting propaganda matter via Turkey to various parts of Europe. Furthermore we were expecting a blockade by the Allied Powers, and the Bolsheviks were eager to distribute their major publication, “The Third International,” in three languages. It took more than a day to get all the literature delivered which I had brought along for Odessa. When my official tasks were completed, I decided to remain in Odessa an extra two weeks, since a number of our comrades were situated there, particularly returnees from England and the United States. In addition, my sister Ethel and brother-in-law, Nymke, both from New York, were living at that time in Odessa.
Also present were Semke Friedman, Sasha Feldman, “Clara, the Black One,” Ploshe Gomberg, Shalom Schwartzberg and his wife, Slovke, and a number of other comrades whose names escape me. There was a group cf newcomers from England and others who had been there for some time. All of these constituted quite a substantial group at Passover time in 1919.
Some of the circumstances in Odessa at the time impeded our propaganda activity. To begin with, there were the Naliochikes, who specialized in expropriations, lived off the fat of the land, and pretended to be anarchists.
In addition to this group, there was another group of malcontents who operated in the suburbs and called themselves the “Moldavanka.” They had their own leader or “king,” Mishke Yapanchik. This fellow claimed to have some kind of affiliation with the anarchists and his favorite argument was: “You are against the rich and so are we; therefore, let’s confiscate their property.”
Odessa’s anarchist group was, at that time, the second largest in the Ukraine, composed mainly of political emigres from many countries. They had their own club and headquarters, where nightly a number of comrades would gather. Their activities were similar to that of other groups I had visited except that in Odessa their efforts were more extensive.
We spent a rather interesting week in Odessa and I was expecting to remain an additional week, but unexpectedly I received a cable from Moscow directing me to return there forthwith. This irked me but there was no way out. The second day after that I departed by military train, headed directly for Kiev. In that city, at the Ukrainian foreign commissariat, Rakovsky already awaited ne. That same night my coach was hitched on to the passenger train destined for Moscow. During the day, all kinds of food articles and a list of the passengers who were to accompany me were brought to my car.
Comrade Moisey had issued orders even before our arrival that my coach should be transferred immediately to the Kursk Station. On our way to the hotel, Moisey informed me that I had been designated to be the personal diplomatic courier of the Secretary of the Third International, Angelica Balabanova. These tidings were not exactly to my liking. In the first place, I did not know what my new duties would be like and in the second place, I had no desire to be connected directly with the Third International. Subsequently however, I learned that I would have the same freedom of movement as before.
When Iarrived at the hotel with Comrade Moisey, we had a drink together and partook of some of the foodstuffs I had personally brought back with me. After that, I distributed some of the provisions among the hotel employees who attended to my room, including the telephone operator. I was pleased to realize that these people would be able to enjoy several hearty meals with these foodstuffs and, furthermore this gesture of generosity enabled me to obtain certain confidential information from the telephone operators.
With this task disposed of, I treated myself to a warm bath, of which I was in urgent need after the long journey. Comrade Moisey telephoned Angelica Balabanova to inform her of my arrival, and suggested that we come over to visit her (she was staying in the same hotel). She replied that she would be pleased to acquaint herself personally with her special diplomatic courier.