The Daily Worker Newspaper, July 5, 1924, Page 9

MARIE ARY was ‘the tar darling-pet of our colony in Siberia. Our party of exiles, about one hun- dred of us, among whom there were Jews, Russians, Letts, Poles, Armen- ians and Grousinians from Caucasia, had no other name for her but “sis- ter,” and Marie called every one of us “brother.” In her presence we never called each other “comrade”; that sounded too formal, every-day like and dry. She never said “you” to any of us, and to address her as “you” meant to cause her mortification; so we were all on terms of “thou” with her, all members of one big family. She abhorred formalities and insisted that there is none among revolution- ists. For, were we not all brothers and sisters, workers for one sacred Cause? Was there any tie in the wide world that could create a strong- er sense of kindship between man and man than that of our common exile? She was a strange, charming figure, our Marie. She was hardly beautiful, but her pale, Madonna-face, with its small, slightly tilted nose, her hair drawn back above a high, smooth forehead, her deep black eyes full of tenderness and courage, and the faint smile that never deserted her lips, all breathed of inner nobility. She was of medium height, that at times we feared lest she might snap in two, and was always dressed in the same garb —a dark skirt and a boyish embroid- ered blouse that buttoned slantwise from collar to waist-line, *’. * # : I had first heard of Marie during my stay in the Petrograd “Peresil- naya” prison. It was a cold Thurs- day dawn in the December of 1907. The day before a report had gone round the cells that all the Socialist members of the Second Duma, who were sentenced to hard labor in the mines of Siberia were to be brought to our jail. We began feverishly to prepare to welcome our comrades. The entire prison was awake all night, and as sitting-up.at night was pro- hibited, we lay stretched out on our cots and whispered away the impati- ent hours. It was one of those nights that one never forgets. The deadly stillness of the jail seemed to be brok- en only by the monotonous, heavy tread of the sentries; yet the great prison was wide-awake, and her soul fluttered and buzzed with suppressed emotion; shattered, melancholy mur- murings drifted across the cells, fill- ing our ears with sorrow and our hearts with aching. There were about twenty men in our cell, all politicals, and among these only three Jews, two besides myself, one a Social Revolutionist from Odessa, and the other a Social Democrat from Ekegerinoslav. The rest were all Russians, among them a few students from the Petrograd Uni- versity, some mechanics from the re- nowned Putiloy steel works, all of them Social Democrats, and a man about fifty, a wealthy landowner from the nobility of the province of Cos- troma,'who did not belong to any party, but was more inclined toward the Social Revolutionists. This landed proprietor was a rare speciman of human kindness, and was being exiled to the province of Archangelsk for the mere offense of having divided up the greater part of his inherited lands among the peasants. His name was Pcholin, and he was taking his so- journ in prigon quite naturally. He would always say: feel that I am alive. Now, at last, I am in the right company!” We all treated him like a dear old father, and I became deeply attached to him. Pcholin, to my surprise took a part- icular interest in the Jewish problem, and I used to talk to him for hours of the life of the Jews in Russia, their literature and history. For this they dubbed me in our cell the “learned Hebrew.” My other two Jewish com- rades did not have the least concep- tion of Jewish life and conditions; like many other Jews in the Revolu- tion they were completely assimilated intellectually by the predominating environment of Russian life and cul- ture. Our friend Pcholin regarded _ them with amazement and even some “Now at last, Ij- scorn, Once I recall we had a heated discussion over the question of nation- alism during which the Social Demo- crat from Ekaterinoslav savagely at- tacked our “Bund,” the militant or- ganization of Jewish workers, and Pcholin, good, old soul that he was, completely lost his temper and cried out: “You are a traitor, I don’t want to know you.” All the Russians in our cell, particularly the workers from the steel foundry, sided with him, and it took several days before complete good feeling was again restored in our compartment. That wakeful night, when we wait- ed for the Socialist deputies of the Second Duma, we all devoted to quiet reminiscences. Each told of his life and work in the revolutionary move- ment, and Pcholin among others: re- counted some intimate pages of his own life’ We learned that his grand- mother was a wonderful Jewish wo- man, who filled the old manor-house with legends of herself, and that these traditions emplanted in him a deep re- gard for the Jews, ich took on strength and light from the informa- tion I supplied about the life of the nation. Our feelings on this subject were so intensified in our cell that night that even the Ekaterinoslav So- cial-Democrat admitted that he was conscious of being a Jew, at which Pcholin was so gratified that he con- stantly slapped him on the shoulder, saying:—“Now, I love you!” With the break of dawn-we all felt exhausted, and tho no one thought of the morning. The prison falls into silence again, except for the tender, girlish voice which only grows more melancholy until little by little it dies out. The long expected party has ar- rived. .They are with the men of the “Katorga” in their cell. We are all shaking with emotion, and strain our eyesight thru the tiny door-window, to get a passing look at them. But all we can see is the coarse figures of the guards with guns in hand, and soon the news is brought to us that we have to pay for our singing With our daily allowance of exercise in the pri- son yard. Only after we were seated in the prisoners’ car which took us to the Far North, did we learn that our song-bird was Marie Karchenko, and that she was shot at thru the window by the guard. Fortunately he missed her, and instead she was placed in a\solitary cell for five days. Even tho none of the inmates of our cell ever saw her her singing lodged so deeply in our memories that we thought of her as a divine being, and all yearned for at least a look at the brave songstress. Old Pcholin be- eame quite melancholy after. that morning and wandered around lifeless and meditative. He talked much less than usual, and it was quite apparent that Marie’s singing had awakened in his soul a spring of new feelings from which he could not free himself. 2. After we had arrived im the Volog- Workers’ International Relief Committee distributing food to locked-out textile workers in Dusseldorf, Germany. sleep, Our murmured conversations|da disciplinary barracks The desire of talk was gone, and as we lay stretched out came to. a halt. on the cots listening to the subdued breath of the jail, each of us wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. A strip of gray appeared thru the iron bars, we recognized the snow upon an adjacent roof; the skies gradually paled into lighter hues, and the dull silver of the morning star blending with the primrose lights of the lamps in the prison courtyard filled our cet! with fantastic shadows. The sorrows of the jail pressed heavier still upon our hearts. A chocked sigh wanders across from one of the cots. From afar, probably the other side of the building, a quiet sob reaches our room, accompanied by clanging of chains. Will the morning never come? Suddenly the heavy padlocks begin to creak, and the prison is at once filled with a great commotion. From the cells where our comrades sentenced to hard labor are confined, comes the heavy sound of iron chains. Some one calls out: “Comrades, be ready!” We hear a soft woman’s voice. She sings the familiar song of the revo- lution, another one joins her, another and another, but above all of them, her voice rises high, sweet and reson- ant. Men’s voices boom in reply, commingling with the rapid “talk” of the chains of the “Katorga” men, but that thrilling girlish voice surpasses and covers them all! Bang, bang, bang! The guards are shooting and their shots crack and reverberate in the dry, frosty air of thad come also Marie. and were waiting for the convoying parties that were to take us each to our destina- tion in Siberia, we received the news that a new party of prisoners had come from Petrograd. It was late at night, and while the rules in the bar- racks were not so rigid as in the jail, still we were not allowed to see them, not even our chief, the “starosta,” who enjoyed some privileges. On the following morning we learned that with this group of politicals The news spread a*holiday-like feeling among all of us. Pcholin at once took a new lease of life; his eyes sparkled youth- fully and he constantly smiled. The men even began to tease him: “You areinlove, old man,inlove!” Where- upon the poor fellow would turn crim- son and would try to find occupation for his eyes in a different direction. As we all liked him extremely well, we decided to elect him as “starosta,” a rank which carried with it the free- dom of going from cell to cell, and which would incidentaly give him the chance to meet Marie frequently. We carried our conspiracy thru in a neat way. It was agreed to take the pre- sent incumbent of the position into our confidence and ask him to resign, ostensibly on account of ill-health, to place in nomination along with Pcho- lin a number of candidates in order that his suspicions might not be aroused, and to elect the old man. Pcholin at first refused the honor, But we insisted and he had to become our “starosta.” His first visit, as we ex- pected, was paid to the cell occupied (OUT OF THE SHADOWS OF THE PAST ) By Schachno Epstein by Marie, and he came to us full of exultation. “She is just as I had pic- tured her in my dreams!” he whispered to me, and there seemed to be no end to his happiness. That same day we all met Marie, and thereafter she became our pet. During the hour al- lotted for walking in the yard of the barracks we would prefer to linger around the doors of her cell rather than amble around the court, and more than once we even bribed the guards when they showed irritation at our affection. The warden of the prison, a liberal-minded man, paid little attention to our irregular- ities, and we were thrice happy over it. At twilight, before lamps were lit in the cells, and while the pale north- ern skies were still shimmering thru the iron bars, Marie would sing, and her songs would bring back to us that day in Petrograd when we first heard her voice. As we listened to her, our spirits would rise, the burden fall from our hearts and we all wished that, the minutes might be prolonged into hours. Memories revived of the homes we had left behind, the faces of friends near and dear would sud- denly reappear from the shadows of bygone days, and the harsh present would be forgotten for the time in the sweetly painful recollections of the past. How grateful we were to Marie for the warm rays she was shedding into our sad lives! Finally the day came when our party had to break up. Pcholin was almost out of his mind that day. Out of our group of twenty only two went with him to Archangelsk; the others were being sent into the Far North, and among us was Marie. My heart grieved for the dear, old man; he fell in so well with all of us; Marie too had become attached to him, and now he had to part with us and go alone into the bleak unknown lands near the White Sea. Would he ever find in his lonely exile a friendly soul that would understand and love him as we had? That day Pcholin spent mostly with Marie, and when the convoy came after him he bade us farewell in a few words. His eyes were full of tears, and as he kissed each of us he would murmur: “Don’t forget old Pcholin, comrades, write!” When he reached me he said with a forced. smile: “Well, my ‘learned Hebrew,’ now we part!” He stopped suddenly with a choked voice and we fell upon each other’s neck. In those moments Pcholin became even dearer to me. I cannot forget the look in his‘ eyes when he said to me in a barely audible voice: “Please take care of Marie.” sing, but Marie’s voice was not to be heard among ours. Only after the guards were outside of the gates, a voice rang out hysterically all over the massive building of the prison: “Farewell, father, farewell, and don’t forget your daughter!” (Continued next week.) renter nen en AD Spanish Dictator Will go to Direct Moroccan Situation MADRID, Spain, July 4.—Dictator Primo de Rivera has decided to go personally to Morocco to investigate the serious situation that is develop- ing between the native tribesmen of the western zone and the Spanish troops of occupati¢g. The Spaniards are being attacked in the teritory of Teutan but the gov- ernment has announced that rein- forcements will be sent in and a puni- tive drive will be pushed against the natives. Gunboats will fire from the seaboard and from the river. The Moroccan problem is consid- ered one of the most vital facing Spain. At any rate it distracts atten- tion from the pressing situation at home. How.many of your shop-mates read THE DAILY WORKER. Get one of them to subscribe today. 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