Bolshevik Rule in the Country

BORTNIKI, January 28 (February 10), 1918.
MY DEAR, DEAR CARRIE,Your good letter of October 28 came yesterday. It is so long since I had a word from you or from anyone outside of Russia.
I am so distressed that you have not heard of the very speedy receipt of the money you sent in July. I at once sent an acknowledgment to Petrograd and have written you several p.c. and letters doing the same. To-day I sent a p.c. simply saying I had received it, so perhaps the censor will pass it.
I do not know what we should have done without this help, for expenses are great, all sorts of sudden unexpected taxes, etc., and no revenue. Still, we have much to be thankful for. You remember the estate where we all went by steamer, leaving you with Norman? And the Sewines’ near us, the old Tolstoi place? In fact, every estate around us is wiped out. Horses, cattle, farm implements, fodder, provisions, furniture, china, glass, food-supplies, all divided up between the surrounding villages, which recognize no higher central power and refuse to return anything in spite of orders from county, state, and even P. Committees. Every day we expect to be turned out, but so far the villages are divided, the majority voting to let us live on but to take the farm. If they will only let us have the house and vegetable garden and a horse and cow, to have something to eat!
In O-flour can only be had occasionally for 120 roubles a pood (normal price 90 krones to 1 rouble).
Last week I had a terrible ordeal, which I think took several years off my life. I was summoned very brusquely to a council of our five villages, with all our documents regarding the sale of our woods. Fortunately Oka was here, and the two of us went. They charged me with effecting the sale after the land had been recognized as the people’s. They talked of ‘forgery,’ ‘deceit,’ bribes, etc., threatening me with dire punishment, a score of hoarse voices yelling at once, shaking their fists. A number of my ex-patients surrounded me in a close ring, and though they dared not say much, they opposed violence. I gave them the possibility of proving that we sold sleepers, telegraph-poles, wood for our railroad, at a time when not only was it legal but when the government had issued an order stating that no individual landowners could refuse to grant wood, etc., for government use. They kept us nearly two and a half hours in that awful mob, but finally we left under more friendly feelings. Only a very small portion of the material is cut and lying on the shore, but they say they will confiscate it. If so, the contractors lose what they have spent in work — about 60,000 roubles — and we the money we hoped to get, that would have insured our future during these hard times. The 10,000 we received as guaranty money, and the Committee voted last month we could have, they now demand. I don’t know how it will end. We have not dared touch that and have it intact in the bank, but probably will lose it. Also what O— took to Moscow.
I went to the city two days ago, and came back so depressed by all I saw and heard there of the hunger. We have let a soldier’s family (six little half-naked children) live here in one of our now too many empty houses. We can give them lodging and firewood, but in my own house I have to make up by night little packages of flour and smuggle to them. We are obliged to keep more people than we can afford to, as the Committee won’t let us discharge them, as they have no bread at home; and we have to pay and feed them, and they watch me as cats do a mouse [to see] that I don’t give a piece of bread to anyone, and they steal everything they can lay hands to. You cannot imagine the strain. I have a wash evenings, and change my linen and go to bed dressed, except very bad stormy nights, when I don’t fear their coming. The favorite hour for ejecting is at night.
Oka worked over his books at home, and I wondered how he could concentrate his mind under present circumstances. He received a telegram that was nine days coming from P(!), calling him immediately for his exams. They will take sLx weeks, then he graduates with his degree as lawyer and he is not twenty. How proud we should have been under other circumstances! Of course, he won’t be able to do anything in his profession, but will try to get some job. I think of writing to the U.S. Consulate, to know if they could give him work, as he could do work in several languages. In Phe is stopping with a classmate who for several years has spent Christmas and a good part of the summer holidays with us. His father owned nine large estates.
We are now having a very serious kerosene famine, and have to plan everything to do all the work by daylight. My last kerosene bottle I keep for the one reading-lamp for Peter, and to have a light if he is ill. When it is gone, one of my patients promised me a gourd if I can send by night.
We have had four Roumanian-Austrian prisoners ever since the first year of the war, and more conscientious, devoted workmen we could not have. Now they are taken from us and replaced by good-for-nothing people who were always paupers from laziness and drink. This is a great blow to us.
Alec and I both work by turns about the place, one with Peter and one outside. Our only hope of keeping here is by running the work with our own hands. The work here is so rough and primitive that we have always superintended only; but now we must ‘till the land with our own hands ’ or have none.
We have had no word from George for long. He is where there is hot fight - ing in this awful civil war. Vera and the baby are in Kiev, where also fighting goes on. I found a Jew who goes there in February, and promises to go and see her and bring us news.
I write you very blue letters but 1 can’t, help it! I am so glad Mrs. Roper was to visit you. I want you to know her better — you two who are so near to me. I hope your boys all continue well and safe. Peter sends much love.
Lovingly,
EMMA,

BORTNIKI, February It, 1918.
MY DEAR CARRIE,
If you have read of the fall of Kiev, you can imagine how we have feared for Vera and baby. For over a month no news from her nor from George, who is somewhere there. Peter was nearly sick with the suspense when a telegram came this week, signed, ‘ George’ — ‘All alive and well.’ From the papers we know that the part of the city where Vera was is nearly destroyed. 1 went to the city yesterday to see a Jew who was going to try to get to Kiev to see his mother, and promised to hunt up Vera and give her money, but I found he had been obliged to turn back.
In OI found a reign of terror. All shops, gates, and windows of first floor closed and barricaded. At one minute the streets would be deserted and then, as from the ground, would rise bands of twenty to twenty-five soldiers armed with rifles with bayonets fixed; many with cartridges slung in several rows; some with two rifles, and many flourishing revolvers.
I went to the family who went with you to Moscow — the Tolstois, you remember. They told me that the day before an attack had been made on the church opposite old lady BallakhonofF’s. All the churches in town rang the alarm and the city rose, men and women, with anything they could lay hands on, and went to protect the church. In the battle that ensued and in which the churchmen won the day (though the priest is in prison), Mr. Tplaces the killed as from thirty to fifty and many more wounded. One man was seen to do great havoc with a board with which he smashed skulls! The night was an awful one, they say, many shops and houses rifled. One rich merchant, who would not tell where his money was, was killed and his wife went crazy. Many, we know, lost all, even rings torn from ladies’ fingers.
While I was at the T-s’ word came that the next house was being searched, and they were in a great panic as they had several thousands of roubles in their keeping for others. They had thought of a safe hidingplace, but one that needed a ladder, and the old folks could not get to it without the help of servants whom they could not trust; so I offered to do it. By putting a chair on a table and climbing on top of a high bookcase, I could reach the place; and they brought me all the small valuables. While they were gone for other things they remembered, and I was perched on that undignified place, we heard a loud ring, but we managed to finish everything before the door was opened — to a friend as it turned out.
The servants watched till the street was clear, for me to get out and go to a place I was very anxious to reach, to try and take away Vera’s furs that I had given somebody to hide. I passed safely, seeing people stopped all along with the order of ‘Hands up!’ The search was for revolvers, but mine I had left at the Ballakhonoffs’ and no one stopped me anywhere. Suddenly I heard funny little humming noises, that I never realized were balls. Then, just ahead of me, a terrific explosion, followed by shouts of ‘Come on! Forward!’ and the screams of wounded. In front of me was a battle, and looking back the street was full of fresh companies running up with bayonets held at the charge, and many firing wildly in the air, I think.
All the doors and gates being locked, a young boy and I pressed ourselves into a doorway and waited for some minutes till it quieted down. A bomb had been thrown or dropped, wounding many, but I did not see anyone who seemed dead. A peasant, who was just ahead of me, evidently got a good share of the fragments of the bomb in his head and neck, and his ear was hanging down on his shoulder. I could not do anything to stop the bleeding, my handkerchief being too short. He was put in a sleigh, but the cabby in a panic ran off and the poor fellow lay screaming horridly alone. I begged a soldier who stood there to take him to the hospital, and he did so. I saw five taken to the hospital of those who were near me, and don’t know how many more there were. When we came home, two sleighs of peasants ahead of us had wounded in them, one a girl of eight or so.
I had to skirt more than half of the town to get back to the Ballakhonoffs’ to my horse. Street after street I would try, and find firing. What worries me most is being deaf in one ear, and I can never tell the direction from which sounds come; so, often I would turn to the right to avoid firing that I thought was at the left, only to run into trouble.
After many adventures, I got safely back and told my man, whom I found in great anxiety, to harness and we would leave, though my horse had not had his full rest; but I found the town too hot. We were both glad when we found ourselves safe on the lake, out of reach of the balls. I found it easier to go toward danger than turn and run. I hated the chilly, creeping feeling in the back when I thought they were behind me.
We have been trying to find a couple of rooms to take refuge in if turned out from here, but I really think we are better off here.
We live on from day to day; one day brighter, one so charged with electricity that it seems as if the storm must burst.
I asked for permission to kill a pig, as we had no meat; and the Committee answered that we could do so, but must pay 140 roubles a pood for the meat to the Committee. We answered that we could not afford to eat meat at such a price, and preferred going without it.
Alec is here on three months’ sick leave, a private now. Has had no pay since December. He works all day with the people on the farm, for he cannot get anything to do. Oka is in P—— having his final exams, and then his education is finished. Twelve is the highest mark, and so far he has three twelves and three elevens, and only four exams remain. If he cannot get anything to do and the war stops, he will come home and we will try to get a peasant’s share. That is as much as we can plough ourselves (no hired help will be allowed from the spring), and we may be able to get enough to eat that way. The trouble is seeds. There won’t be any potatoes left to set out, nor oats nor rye. We are eating them all up. We are just at the end of our potatoes and sour cabbage. We cat bread, half oats and half rye, and serve it out by weight, giving each one rations for two days, and our rations are too meagre for working-people. Everyone we see is changed. Insufficient food is telling, even where there is not actual starvation. Bread is exactly fifty times the normal price, and it is only by great good luck, going by night, that people can buy any. Soldiers can get flour somehow, but on no account could we get any, and unless a miracle happens, I do not see how we are to avoid death by starvation in our government.
I am sending this via England, to our dear friends, the Alexanders, to read, asking them to send to you. So few letters get through and I have so little time for writing and so little nerve for it, that I must economize, and they are so anxious for news of us. I get almost no letters. One from you written in October came, a card from Katie, and one from Mrs. Roper, that, is all. No word from the Alexanders, and I know they write.
Peter keeps up wonderfully but sleeps badly, and I see is more apathetic. Still, his mind is quite clear and he has a sounder view of all that is happening than anyone I talk with. He and Alec join in much love to you and yours. Lovingly,
EMMA.

BORTNIKI, May 8, 1918.
MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,We seem cut off from all communication with the outside world. I have had no letters since last fall, and I doubt if mine get through, though I keep on writing. There is so little time for writing, that I am going to send this to England and then to America, to Mrs. Roper. If you can, please let Mrs. Bowen and Mrs. Patterson read it — if ever you receive it, Mollie dear.
We are still with a roof over our heads, though it is no longer ours, and bread to eat, — three quarters of a pound a day, — milk, and we havesome salt, meat yet. So we are better off than any of our family and friends, many of whom have been turned out with only what they could carry, and some killed. Last winter was one long nightmare, when for months I never dared undress nights. I would take my evening bath, change, and then dress to go to bed.
The village next us, after breaking in and robbing us of grain and oil for 2000 roubles, voted by a large majority to turn us out and loot the place. The next village sent word to the Committee, and a party of armed men came to protect us, and seven of them slept here one night. They searched the whole estate (I think the ninth time), weighed out provisions for a week for us, and sealed up barns, etc. Then they called a meeting of our commune, which was so violent the Central Committee closed it and ordered two representatives from each of the villages in the whole parish (34 villages, 14 communes) to go there. The council sat all day and late at night and was very stormy, but our friends outnumbered the opposition and they voted to let us live here if we would work with our own hands, and give us three quarters of a pound of bread a day.
A few days later I was summoned to headquarters. Alec and I went. They were exceedingly polite and even sympathetic. It was decided that we can have three horses, four cows, and as much land as we can till without hired help. We asked for a man to help us until George comes, for we ask for his share of land, as he will come if he is alive. We have had no news of him since February 11, and have no idea where he is. This help they refused.
Two soldiers have been quartered on us for months, one with a family of six and the other of five. We are obliged to pay and feed them! One is permitted to be our herdsman. His wife milks the cows, feeds the pigs, etc. The second family helped cutting wood, etc., in the winter, but were not to help plough.
Finally one commune of three villages sent for us to their council. There we were told we had better come entirely into their commune, and not carry out any of the Committee’s orders without consulting them, adding, ‘The Committee cannot protect you from us but we can protect you against the Committee.’ So now we are between two stools, but at present are friendly with both.
My cook and my dairymaid are taken from me, so I have to cook and myself do the churning and separator work. The boys went to work ploughing, carrying out the manure to get the hot-beds started, and their work is going on fast. The peasants were so impressed by seeing that we were ready and able to do the manual work, that they called us again to a council, where they were very friendly and told us one of the soldiers might help us until George comes. One of them seized Alec’s hand, and holding it out that they might see the blisters, said, ‘Look, comrades, they work like us and I have seen how they work. Their ploughing is as good as ours, but can we do their scholar-work? ’
We have five cows and two horses that are ‘requisitioned’ but so far not taken, and they keep putting it off. I think the crisis for us is passed so far as peasant violence goes, and there is less danger now they see we are reduced to their level and eat as they do. So far we eat half-oat and half-rye flour but many have only oats. The famine is getting worse, and though no actual starvation about us, no one has enough nourishment as to quantity or quality — even the richest. A pood [36 pounds] of black flour, that used to cost 90 krones to a rouble, was sold in Othis week for 230 roubles, and just one pood! There is nothing to be had. People go hundreds of miles to bring back on their backs a pood, and in many cases are robbed on the way. Of course, all groceries we have forgotten ever existed. We roast rye for coffee, and drink it without sugar, and that I have for only three days more.
To-day is Easter and we were all given one pound of wheat flour per head by the Central Committee. It is very dark in color and mouldy as to smell, but we felt we had a big feast today. With milk, eggs, and a few raisins I had hoarded, we made an approach to Easter cakes and colored eggs.
Our worst anxiety is about George and Vera. Vera and the baby are in the Germans’ hands, we think; and as for George, we know nothing. This uncertainty is worse than anything. Alec is out of the service and at home. Oka was called to Pto graduate and get his legal degree (which now is not recognized). He went in December, was robbed on the way of his books, clothes, and part of his money. He lived with a classmate and they half starved. They used to lie in bed till noon, studying, as they felt the hunger less lying on their stomachs. In April he graduated with honors and came home as gaunt as from a siege. Both he and Alec lived mostly on horseflesh.
Now our life is a very regular one. Up at 4.30, and work without horses to 8, when they come in for rye-coffee and bread and butter. From 8 to 12 they work with horses. From 12 to 2, dinner and sleep. From 2 to 5, work with horses; [then] tea, and from 5.30 to 7 in the garden. At 7.30 supper, and they go to bed. I get to bed about 10, as Peter needs a good deal of care evenings. It is wonderful how Peter bears what he does, but he keeps up our courage. His pension is taken from us and all our silver— that beautiful Persian set! My jewelry and all our valuables that were placed for safety in Moscow are lost. But I feel worse about Vera’s silver that was left with me and we sent on our own responsibility to Moscow. It was so hard to decide what to do. We were like rats in a cage, running from one side to another. There were moments when it seemed our last day here, if not in this world, had arrived. A friendly peasant said to me the other day, ‘I doubt whether you realize how near death you were. There was a time when we thought we could not save you, though we swore we would revenge your murder.’
Since writing the above, a new decree has gone forth. Every day the panorama changes, so that what I write today may be quite changed to-morrow. Our Tver Central Committee has decided that all landowners who wish to plough are to be sent to Siberia and not be given land here unless by special vote of the commune nearest them. Ivan Kasparovich, who for years was our intendant and owns considerable land, is being sent off with a family of seven children and an old invalid mother. As to us, the question was raised, but so far the majority are for letting us live on. Their chief argument is that ‘there will be no one to care for the sick.’ Never have I had so large and so successful a practice as this winter. Medicines are very dear and rare, and our Zemstvo doctors and hospitals have no medicines. Now they are ‘nationalized,’ the peasants won’t spend money for them. I have managed to keep on hand some of the most needed drugs and, with the faith in me they have, I have made cures that amaze and frighten me, and that are not to be explained on any scientific medical ground. I think God has helped me, and it has more than once turned the tide in our favor. I have gone out nights when the boys were not at home, alone with whoever came for me, though sometimes I was not sure that there was not foul play.
I was in our coöperative shop the other day, standing in the ‘tail,’ waiting my turn, for hours, and the talk was very animated and mostly about us. The best element is understanding, too late, the immense harm done to Russia by demolishing the big estates and dairy-farms, the chief supply of gram, cattle, butter, and pigs. They have ruined us, deprived themselves of between 4000 and 5000 roubles that we spent each year in hiring help, all from our commune, to say nothing of the grain, hay, potatoes, etc., we sold. Some of the people said, ‘We understand now how wrong we were. You have been ill-treated, but we won’t let you be turned out. If we must starve, we will all starve together.’ And starve I fear many of us must. Rye flour is 230 roubles a pood, if you are lucky enough to get it.
This spring very little will be sown, as all the seeds are being eaten up, and next winter must be far worse than now. It seems as if God had forsaken Russia and there was no hope for us but to face a hungering death as bravely as we can. So far Peter has not suffered for anything. I exchanged butter and rye flour for a little sugar and rice for him, and we have eggs. We fed the pigs and chickens all winter on horseflesh, but now the warm weather has begun we cannot keep it, so they have to forage for themselves, and we are shooting all the dogs except George’s and my Daisy. I will share with them.
Mrs. Roper, please read and send this to Mrs. Clement. I long to hear from you all and have written you all many times, but doubt if you have received my letters.
All our family join in love to all.
Lovingly.

(Copy of card sent to MADAME PONAFIDINE’S sisters)
BORTNIKI, RUSSIA, June 1, 1918. MY DEAR SISTERS, - Still no letters from the outside. Here a great change has taken place in the attitude of the peasants since the approach of the Germans, and they are constantly fawning upon us, and assuring us that they never meant to touch us; ‘It was owing to outside influence, etc.’ I do not know which of their fronts shows the worst side of their character. We can get no information in regard to George’s fate. A company is formed in Moscow for getting letters through to the occupied states, and we are trying to get into communication with Vera, who is probably in Kiev. A letter costs forty roubles! Alec and Oka are hard at work, and we three are as hard-worked as any in Russia, I think. Prices are more and more exorbitant, and bread more and more scarce. Everything one needs is not to be had, or too expensive. Not a pen can we get in Ostashkov, nor any buttons. Manufactured goods, groceries, etc., have long since disappeared. My sister Jeanie (Princess S-) and family are almost starving. They live by selling in the streets newspapers and various things. No employment is given to aristocrats. Their estate is in ruins. We are better off than any of our family. Peter is as usual. We get him out on the balcony.
Love from
EMMA.