Secret Letters From a Bolshevist Prison

[THE writer of these letters, a Russian subject, belongs to an ancient noble family that emigrated in the fifteenth century from Westphalia to the Baltic province of Livonia. He studied law at the University of Dorpat, and was for nearly thirty years engaged in the banking business. He also took an active interest in the theatre and the arts, and was connected with various cultural and benevolent societies; but had never taken part in politics. He had traveled much in many countries, and was something of a collector.

In the winter of 1919, he was imprisoned at Riga, by the Bolshevist government, for no known reason. These letters, describing his experience to his sisters and to other close friends, were written secretly, in pencil, all correspondence being strictly prohibited. They were inscribed on scraps of paper, and in some cases on the bottom of earthenware pots and dishes. Many never reached their destination. When Riga was taken by the Baltic militia, on May 22, 1919, the Baron was set free.]

January 18, 1919 (afternoon).
MY DEAR,—
I have just been arrested — at two o’clock. It must be a misunderstanding. I went with three of my colleagues to be inscribed at the Professional Union of Officials for Financial Institutions, according to orders from the Deputy of the Lettish Financial Commission, to avoid a sequestration of our bank, and confiscation of valuables; also to retain appointments and lodgings for our servants and subaltern officials. Besides our ordinary passports, we were provided with certificates from the Counsel of Deputies of our bank, written according to the new rules, with red ink, and furnished with red seals. All titles or signs of nobility had to be avoided. This change in our denominations roused suspicion; and unfortunately, one of our servants, an honest Esthonian peasant, bore the same name as Mühlmann, a Jewish millionaire and usurer. A Lettish commissioner, of gigantic height and insolent expression, wearing a big purple hat, examined us, without rising or ceasing to smoke. He inquired whether we had organized the ‘White Guard,’ a Russian troop, of which we had only read in the newspapers. He would not believe that some noblemen possessed no estates, but declared that we had lived all our lives on the sweat and blood of others. Perhaps some part of the truth dawned upon them when we unanimously declared that this was not the case. They took us to the nearest police guard, where, after waiting some hours, we were all subjected to a short examination. Then they took away all our documents and conducted us to staff headquarters; the soldier who accompanied us received the order to fire in case anyone tried to escape.

We passed near the graves of several victims of the late revolution, all draped with red. We were forced to walk in the middle of the street, where we roused the curiosity of the passersby. I am at present at the principal military staff, Alexander Street, 37, and with me are about twenty-two companions, almost all Germans, among them the chief representative of the German Republic, Captain Dr. Scheubner Richter. He hopes soon to be set at liberty, and in that case I will profit by the opportunity to send you news and money, as I am afraid it will be taken from us. However, it is possible that we may meet before then. It appears to me that they have trumped up some pretext to arrest us; as I am certain of my absolute innocence, I feel sure of being soon released. You must not do anything for me, as it might involve you. Only the servants can do anything for us in these turbulent times. If the subaltern officials of our bank undertook some steps in my favor, it would certainly have some effect. I do not wish my own servant to risk anything, or expose himself by his zeal and honesty. If possible, send me all my meals; it is allowed. You know where I have hidden my valuables. I am anxious about you; send me a word if possible. If I could but spare you and know that you are in safety and that my lodging has not been pillaged !

January 19.
I am terribly anxious for you. The soldier who took away the dishes yesterday accused me of having given you a note in secret, and threatened to examine you personally. With these beastly fellows we may be prepared for anything. This torments me exceedingly. I could not sleep — not only because I lay on the floor and shared the thin coverlet with Mr. S—— R——.
My companions are simple people, kindly and inoffensive, mostly German merchants and tradesmen. A feeling of community unites us to these men, who till now did not interest us in the least. Each time that the door opens, I hope and expect a deliverance, or at least an explanation. But always in vain. We get no answers to our questions. I will try to send you the money that I still carry with me. Thanks for the food you sent. The blanket and the small pillow are not quite sufficient, but here and in our next place, which will probably be still worse, one does not like to have any good things, because of the dirt and the vermin. The sailor who tidies our apartment is insolent and provoking. The armed women, female soldiers, are still worse. I fear I shall not be able to send you this letter; but all the same, it was a comfort to write it.

January 20, in the evening.
Ever since this morning there has been a rumor that we are not to be set free but to be transferred to some other place. Mr. S—— R—— was released
at four o’clock. Let us hope that he is free, indeed; we do not know if we can trust them.

Soon after, we were summoned; but not to be sent home, alas, no; but we were sent into the street and with many others led to the Central Police. It was a strange sensation to walk through the streets as a prisoner, under military escort. Our procession was not attractive — about forty gentlemen carrying linen, bedding, crockery, and bottles. It seemed to me that many looks of compassion and pity followed us.

Here we are, about fifty men, shut up in a room that is much too small, without any beds, and too few tables, chairs, and benches. Oh, what a dreadful night!

January 23.
A terrible situation. We lie on the floor day and night. Everything is lacking; several among us are ill, as is my friend and colleague, who is in delicate health. Nothing is as it should be. Heating, ventilation, closets, washtubs, and everything are dirty and nasty. New victims arrive every day. We are fifty-eight men and two women, crowded into one room. We, the political prisoners, are shut up with all kinds of criminals, cheats, and usurers. It is not possible to appeal to any judge, or to reach any friends. There is no protection whatever; it is the mob that reigns. And besides, the endless fears for our nearest, our homes, and all our possessions.

January 25.
It seems, at last, that we are to leave this hell. But where are we going? Perhaps into another prison. They say that the rules in some prisons are still more severe. Here, at least, we can from time to time see through the door the messengers who bring us things, and it is a comfort to see them, even without speaking.

11 o’clock at night.
It is worse than ever, worse than I had ever imagined. They took us into the prison for women. Bodily examination followed. We try to keep with those with whom we are acquainted. As we passed through the street, the idea came to me of trying to escape by flight. But the chance of success was too slight. Besides, where could we hide? We should endanger anyone who offered us hospitality.

January 26.
They have, after all, separated us — that is, six of us, who wished so much to remain together. A commission, composed of drunken men and women, who could not even hide their state of depravation, questioned us and examined our pockets. My companion is the son of the late Mayor of Riga, who was a man of exceptional worth and merit. His son was made to suffer by their ironical and insolent remarks. It was by a mere chance that Mr. A——, a merchant of considerable fortune, of English origin, and father of a family, shared my fate. They took everything they found in our pockets — money, watches, pencils, and, in some cases, even the rings.

What followed was horrible. They pushed both of us, with a third man, a tall hotel waiter, into a small and perfectly dark cell, containing five narrow benches to sleep on. It was already crowded with ten men — Russian soldiers and Jewish dealers. We were compelled to sit down on the damp and dirty floor, in close proximity to a stinking bucket. Fortunately for us this disgusting situation lasted only a few hours. It was past midnight; but at last our unceasing complaints and supplications, through the closed door, moved the guard to take us into another cell, meant for but one person and containing only a single bench. This cell was fourteen feet long and six feet broad; it had a window, very high up, closed by a tin shutter, so as to cut off any view. I remember having read that the shutters had been put up because the window looked out on a big public marketplace, and the visitors sometimes threw vegetables and other victuals through the window, to feed the famished prisoners. The boards of the floor were covered with vermin. Under the window stood a single table, narrow and rickety; on the floor were two buckets, one for drinking water, the other for the toilet. We were obliged to empty and refill them, and clean them twice a day. The lids were missing and were replaced by filthy rags. An iron support of the bed had been torn out of the wall — the feat of an athlete, or rather, perhaps, the result of long and persevering labor. The walls were covered with inscriptions carved with great care and in good handwriting. You can imagine how painfully impressed we were to read: ‘I have suffered here innocently for four years. All happiness gone — a broken heart.’

We have a fourth comrade, a German soldier, very dirty, of middle size and inclined to talk very big. This morning the two others were led away, and A——and I had the cell to ourselves.

January 27. We are but two now. The soup that is brought in twice a day is simply uneatable. Soup is not the correct expression for the liquid, just filling three plates and composed of boiling water in which swim some leaves of fermented cabbage, or the skins of one or two potatoes, or a few small peas. Luckily something is sent to us every day from home. The ration of black bread is very modest, about the eighth part of a pound; but the bread is of good quality. We have no watch; we can hear no clock strike; we must follow the sun to know what time it is; but even this is hindered by the shutters. When I think of my terrible situation, a feeling of despair takes possession of me, and yet it rouses a sense of energy. I am afraid of losing my physical and spiritual powers, and I try to exercise my memory, to practise gymnastics morning and evening, to repeat verses learned as a child. I try to translate Goethe’s poems into English. It is hard to have no pencil or paper and, above all, no books. Sometimes we have been able to obtain a newspaper hidden in the baskets of food; but they are Bolshevist papers, and their contents are infamous. My companion is greatly to be pitied; he is tormented by many anxieties, self-reproaches, and fits of despair; he is hysterical and often quite apathetic. I try to divert him, to occupy our thoughts by playing various games. But it is all in vain; he is often in tears. We pass the night lying in turn on the bed, — which is nothing but a board, — or on the ground. The room is not sufficiently heated, and it is very cold. The guard does not refuse our cigarettes, or the soup that we gladly leave for him, but that makes no difference in the severe regulations, and we are completely cut off from all the world outside. The vague fear of being entirely forgotten must be conquered by good sense.

Outside the door of our cell stands the general wash-tub. There is a small hole in the door of every cell, opening on the passage, so that the guard can look in at the prisoners without their knowing it. Through this small hole we try to make conversation with those who come to wash in turn before our door. Twice a day an inspector appears, whom we are obliged to salute, standing in military fashion. This inspection is a mere farce, and it would be perfectly useless to make any complaints or requests.

January 29. This night we were surprised by receiving two new comrades: one, a young Russian officer of German origin, — a nice boy, twenty-two years old, good-looking, cheerful and amiable; not very cultivated, — a student of the Polytechnic School; the other, a Jew, age twenty-nine, sly, an atheist and a rationalist, full of irony and sarcasm. We got on very well together, as good comrades. It is easy enough to exchange ideas at a distance; but it is hard to make so small a space suffice. We have too little room, now that we are four, for sleeping, sitting, and moving about. Three of the unfortunates suffer from not being able to smoke, because the guards steal most of the cigarettes and matches sent to them; it may also be due in part to the enormously increased prices of these articles. They are thus often stolen only to be sold again, and I am glad not to be dependent on them.

It is said that misery and misfortune make people better; but was so large a number of unhappy mortals required for this? Was the whole world in need of these violent convulsions? I for my part try to make the best of my misfortunes and to take advantage of this opportunity of learning to know men of an entirely different sphere, with quite different views and opinions. It is true that my nerves are irritated, and I suffer extremely from the close proximity of perfectly strange and heterogeneous persons; but my good sense tells me that I must be grateful in spite of all. Our manners with each other are exquisitely courteous and help to tide us over many human miseries.

February 6.
The days pass, and man grows accustomed to everything. We have begged in vain for books. For some days we have been allowed to go out of doors and walk a quarter of an hour in the court; we are escorted by armed soldiers, but there are moments when we are able to speak to the occupants of other cells. Through a narrow slit between the window and the shutter we can see many other prisoners during their walk, and we are deeply moved to watch those newly arrived, as innocent and blameless as ourselves. There are some ladies among them — wives of clergymen and the Countess C——.

To-day I recognized my brother-inlaw, the husband of my sister, a gentleman seventy years old and in weak health. His crime consists in having two estates and some fortune. He is a quiet, peaceful man, not fond of society and accustomed to a certain luxury. How he must suffer! When I think of my poor sister, I could scream, and my heart is in a tremor of despair. My companion A——tries to persuade me that I am less to be pitied than he is, as I am unmarried and he is tormented by thinking of his wife and children. But who can measure the inner pangs of deepest emotion in each heart, and judge between individual sufferings?

Yet to conquer weakness, overcome despair, not give way or succumb, that is our first duty. All sublime principles, till now only known in theory, must in these days influence our lives. Not to lose reason and patience — therein lies the secret of enduring this existence.

I expect a close search of my lodging; if only they do not rob me of my property, and the valuables that have been confided to me! I have public documents of importance, and several sums destined for works of beneficence. If I could but get free!

February 8.
To-day the Jew who had been detained with us was set at liberty. He, as well as the young officer, had been interrogated several times, and I always had the impression that their affairs stood well. B—— will come to you, but I intrust him with nothing written; it is too dangerous. The sending, the expedition, and the receipt of letters from prison are all equally threatened with sudden pain of death. You know where I have hidden my money; take it and procure what is wanted for me. It is very painful ever to be receiving and to have nothing to give in return. I am not used to it. The food here is such that you can neither live nor die by it; according to the opinion of doctors imprisoned with us, the rations do not contain even the fourth part of what is absolutely required to live on. A strong, healthy man may stand such fasting for a time, but in case of illness the body has no strength to resist, and death ensues. You understand. For heaven’s sake, send me eatables, as many as possible, for a part is always stolen. I implore you not to forget yourself; take everything and provide for the servants, who have proved their faithfulness in these disastrous times.

One day the guards refused to do their duty, because they had been accused of theft; and during twenty-four hours we got nothing, and were obliged to eat the disgusting soups. Now it is arranged. We give receipts for the food delivered to us. And yet the other day, when a prisoner refused to give the receipt because he discovered that a portion of his provisions had been stolen, he was threatened with never being allowed to have anything more. I am very anxious about you.

February 10.
Yesterday there was a great change. A——and I were transferred to a big cell containing twenty-two men; eight among them have passed through the university or an academy and seem well informed. Finding myself among so many gentlemen of respectable position and superior education, I thought of the words of Count Leo Tolstoi, the celebrated Russian philosopher: ‘In Russia there is but one place worthy of honest men — prison.’

We can have books now; there is a small library here, containing some good books — classics even; most of them have been given. Lately the number of volumes has greatly increased by frequent confiscations of books sent to the prisoners. There are only Russian, German, and Lettish books; no French or English ones. The French books sent to me have been confiscated; I have not even seen them. We play various games. For playing chess we have ourselves made the figures from cigarettes and matches. The chessboard is rudely sketched on a bench. The cell is extremely close and confined; the air is bad; there are lots of vermin, especially millions of bugs; but the company is of a superior order and well educated and informed. Man is a strange creature. I parted with a certain feeling of regret from the small cell where I spent two never-to-beforgotten weeks of terrible suffering, and now I am quickly growing accustomed to my new environment. Every morning and evening a Lutheran clergyman, imprisoned with us, celebrates a short service, with a prayer and reading from Holy Scripture. All listen devoutly, even the Jews. Feeling his own weakness, man seeks support in One mightier than himself. This is probably the origin of all religion.

In the evenings we have short unpretentious discourses. I have given several accounts of my travels. I spoke about the position of women in the East, and related some episodes of Russian history. A very well-informed First Commissioner of Woods and Forests spoke about his studies, and told us some of his adventures in Russia during the war. Food for our minds is not wanting; but alas! we suffer most dreadfully from hunger.

February 15.
Two of my colleagues, who were imprisoned at the same time as myself, told me that they had been interrogated. It had been most painful, for the most harmless occurrence was twisted to appear like treason, according to the ideas now uppermost. The judge was so uneducated that he was not able to write the report; the accused had to do it for him. But he seemed good-natured, and told them that they had every reason to be satisfied with the long duration of their trial, because, according to the new arrangement, the personnel of the tribunal was changed every month; the first set had been cruel and bloodthirsty in the highest degree, and quite unreasonable, like wild beasts, issuing nothing but deathwarrants. By degrees it seemed that more reason prevailed. The longer the trial lasted, the greater the chance of just and reasonable results.

I was glad very to hear this, and I shall not make use of the permission given to ask for a speedier judgment.

I am tormented by scruples whether I am to confess the truth, that I have been part of the civil militia for defending the town, and likewise a member of a harmless organization quite independent of politics, solely aiming to keep peace and order in the town, and prevent crime. But according to the logic of the present day, these are offenses deserving the death penalty. If I avow it, I risk my life; if not, and I am tried and convicted of the fact, I incur the penalty of death.

February 19.
To-day we were again registered. I believe it was for the tenth time. They took away every scrap of paper; all pencils, which some of us had kept in secret; even bottles and glasses. They destroyed savagely the bits of paper that had served us for playing-cards, the chessboard and the rest, crushing them all on the floor. A peasant in our room has had an apoplectic stroke and is paralyzed; he is lying there without any help whatever. The prison authorities and the doctor do nothing for him, from fear of being accused of indulgence and partiality. Terror is the first and sublimest law in the Bolshevist state. Another prisoner suffers every day from epileptic fits. Out of sheer pity his comrades give him part of their food, and the sick man, who is quite out of his head, eats too much and thus aggravates his malady.

February 22.
To-day a certain number of prisoners, myself among them, were taken to the office of the prison, where a commissioner of the Republic ordered us to sign papers, informing us of what we were accused. I know now that I am a counter-revolutionary — such is the term. But what this means, of what I am accused, what I have done,

I know not; no one would tell me. The commissioner insinuated that, being a nobleman, I could not expect to be more closely interrogated or to be released. After all, a distinction is made in this supremely modern republic between one merely accused and one actually condemned.

February 27.
This morning, after a lapse of eighteen days, we were again taken into another room. It is impossible to guess the reason of these constant changes; it is most probably done only to hinder the growth of kindly relations between the prisoners and the guards. In general, inconsequence seems the principal law of our government. All is done without system, without foresight — the trial, the providing of quarters, the interrogatory, the condemnation. The total want of education among the judges is constantly causing mistakes and misunderstandings. They do not understand, for instance, what ‘nobility’ means; they will not believe that many noblemen have no estates; they know nothing of professions, societies, companies, or what is meant by a club. Intending to imprison all belonging to the upper classes at Riga, they began with the alphabet; all those whose names begin with A or B are already imprisoned. Later, they changed this system, and that is why the C’s and D’s are still at liberty.

March 9.
For a fortnight I have received nothing — neither food nor linen. I hear that a certain number of prisoners, either from Communist sympathies or to gratify the government, have petitioned that the wealthier citizens should no longer be allowed to continue the luxurious life they manage to lead even here, living as in a grand hotel, receiving roast meats, delicacies, linen, in fact, everything; while the less wealthy and the proletarians suffer from hunger. All that was sent in should be put together and equally divided among all, according to the judgment of the tribunal, who should name those who were to take part in the distribution. Thereupon the tribunal ordered all prisoners throughout the town, numbering several thousands, to be divided into two categories, proletarians and citizens (bourgeois). The latter included all the counter-revolutionaries and the politicians. The first were allowed to receive all that was sent to them three times a week; the latter only twice a month, the first and last Sundays.

I have begun to feel that my strength is diminishing. I have grown very thin; a general experience, besides the other consequences of want of nourishment: eruption of the skin, cramps in the calves, etc. But even aside from the welcome food after the insufficient and nauseous prison rations, there was in the messages from our families a communion in thought with them; we appreciated their care in the choice and preparation of the dishes, even in writing the addresses. All this had a great moral value, and is a comfort the loss of which would be most sorely felt.

These last days they took away our boots and shoes, leaving only those that were much worn; all that could still be used were confiscated and replaced by sandals made of plaited matting without soles. Luckily my boots, bought long ago at Berlin, were so much worn that they let me keep them. A doctor, who objected that he had but one pair of boots, which would be quite indispensable to him when he should again visit his patients, received the answer that, when he was shot, he would not want any boots.

March 16.
What a terrible night! At midnight we heard two autos drive up and stop at our prison. After a short time, our big dim room was suddenly lighted up, and several judges of the tribunal entered and began questioning the frightened and sleepy prisoners. The answers were written down in a small notebook, without any explanation being given us. About one o’clock some of our comrades were called —as we later heard, thirty out of our prison. It was about two o’clock when, from the little garden near the courtyard, we heard the sound of gun-shots, and at that moment we understood what was passing. Our terror grew when we heard the dreadful cries of the wounded, of those who were not fatally hurt. The impression this made on our companions was most horrible. The last few days we have had among us three young commissioners, Russian Jews, who had served under the Bolshevist government, but who were accused of having stolen part of the confiscated sums. These brutal and cynical fellows, who never ceased their arrogant, obscene remarks, uttering blasphemies and praising themselves, now revealed their cowardice and weakness. They had attacks of hysteria, a physical and psychical diarrhœa; they began to lament, to pray, and had fainting fits. What miserable creatures men are! And shall such as these be our brethren? Never!

March 19.
During two successive days we were kept in doors and not allowed to take our accustomed walk, perhaps to prevent any communication with the other excited prisoners. While walking out to-day, we heard the sad news by degrees; we heard who had suffered that cruel and unmerited death. Thirty prisoners and one guard, my brotherin-law, P——, and H——were among the victims, and A——, my companion of many sad days, a Lutheran clergyman, and a Russian general of German descent, who was accused of having betrayed and sold Warsaw. When, how, and where? Vain questions! Not until now have we understood how serious and dangerous our situation is. The bodies of the thirty dead are still lying in the garden, stretched on the snow, bloody, forgotten. They can be seen from the window of cell 16.

March 20.
This night was, if possible, still worse. Yesterday evening we were transferred, and the greater part of the inhabitants of our room were taken to Number 16, from whence the windows open on the little garden, the scene of the murders. I know not from where the rumor came, and the general feeling we all had, that we should be put to death this night; each one of us believed it. We saw through the window the bloody traces of the shooting on the dirty snow. A dead body, forgotten till now, was carried off before our eyes. We saw sentinels passing our windows, besides other signs; we could not doubt that our turn was approaching and was very near. Who can tell what took place in our hearts? how can one dare to speak of it? In such moments our whole bygone life passes through our minds and consciences like lightning; all things, great and small, suddenly loom up in our memory. Where are all our hopes and plans? And the impossibility of uttering our last wishes, our last decision; of taking leave, of speaking our farewells, of saying what we have neglected to say — too late now for everything, too late! A lot of men thrown together by mere chance, and all without hope. No one spoke, not a word was said; and it was very cold; everyone lay down, and in the universal darkness covering so much misery, a voice was suddenly heard repeating slowly in trembling, solemn tones the words, ‘Our Father, which art in heaven.’ Voice after voice joined, and the words of the holy prayer sounded through the cold darkness; and after the closing ‘Amen’ a thrill passed through these poor, feeble human creatures.

But nothing happened, and the next day we learned that the tribunal had decided not to sentence us to death but to keep us as hostages, to be enabled thereby to enforce their demand against their enemies. Everything remained as it was, and a new period of our adventures began, comparatively peaceful, and of long duration. I suffer most cruelly from having no news of my own people and receiving neither food nor linen. All appeals are in vain. Several times I have asked those who bring provisions to my comrades to tell my people that I am suffering terribly from hunger and unclean linen and want of news. When may I hope for a change? I take gymnastic exercise. I walk about as much as possible and exercise my memory.

March 26.
My birthday! At last, the first parcel after four weeks and a half. I knew that I was not forgotten. A thousand thanks for the linen and food.

March 27.
For some time there have been rumors of some great change. It came this way. To-day we were summoned to collect our dirty rags, and were taken through the whole town to the governmental prison, the citadel. Here it is still more filthy, still darker, and still more insalubrious. We are under quite new rules.

April 12.
I have little to tell of the last two weeks — the same close surveillance, worse nourishment, no walking out of doors; the windows looking out on a tiny court, dismal and deserted. We are no longer obliged to clean our room, to carry wood, to heat the stoves or the like, but are ordered to do public work outside the prison. We are led along the streets to the churchyard, where we must dig graves, work with spades and hoes, etc., more than six hours running, with short intervals for eating the cold and nasty soup. My body has grown so weak that I cannot possibly stand this life.

April 19.
They constrain us to daily labor. At first we all went willingly, even with a certain gladness to be able to breathe fresh air; but now they try to cheat us and drive us, especially the noblemen and clergymen, threatening to use violence and shoot us in case of refusal. On the streets we excite the compassion of the passers-by, and in secret we are sometimes given coffee and bread. The guards permit it, as they too receive a part of these benefactions. By such means one or another is able to get into communication with his family. When will this torment be at an end?

One of the prisoners in our room,
Baron G—— V——, gives thirty-five roubles a day — about 100 francs —to a guard, and in this way exchanges daily letters with his wife. The rest of us have not the same means. She wrote to-day that my lodging has been pillaged and devastated, and that my servants can do nothing for me. Everything is enormously dear; it is painful to receive all this food, knowing that those outside the prison suffer equally from hunger, in order to be able to provide for us. My confidence in my faithful and honest servant is quite unshaken. It is possible that he can do more for me than my sisters. I have placed in his charge my lodgings and all my property, which might be used for my benefit, or sold to procure some money. But if there is nothing more left? Whoever tries to serve a counterrevolutionary risks his life.

April 23.
Sixty of us, mostly those of the higher classes, have been sent by train, in a railway car, destined for transporting cattle, to the country, and we are obliged to labor in the forest, hew down trees, saw logs, and carry them to the railway. I thus assist the Bolsheviki to rob my own nephew. My back is not strong enough to bear these exertions, and I cannot stay with the rest, as my inability increases the tasks of my companions.

During four days I exerted myself to the utmost. But I cannot go on any longer. In spite of the cold sojourn in the railway car, with thirty companions; in spite of the insufficient food, — for our appetites increased by being in the open air, — I would have preferred to remain out of doors in the first awakening of spring, rather than return to prison, with its infested atmosphere and numerous typhus patients. But it is impossible. I reported myself as being ill, and was obliged to walk twelve kilometres, carrying my parcel, and I reached Riga more dead than alive, to be shut up in my prison-cell.

April 30.
There is no such thing as medical aid. I have a rather high fever and most dreadful headaches, the forerunner of typhus. Several from our room have been taken to the hospital; but those who remain are just as ill. There is no doubt that I have an attack of typhus.

May 1.
They still keep me here. They do not trust me, and declare that the nobles dissimulate. We are devoured by millions of lice, and I have no longer energy or strength enough to fight against them; and they multiply.

May 3.
They have at last brought me to the hospital, or rather they obliged me to walk seven kilometres, with a temperature far above normal, to the hospital of the central prison. I was only allowed to place my small parcel on a car full of corpses and dying men. While walking through the town, I was often constrained to sit down for rest on doorsteps, and I arrived at last, nearly dead from exhaustion, always accompanied by a military man who could not quite hide his compassion. A German doctor is here, and I have found some pitying companions who try to help me.

May 13.
Without assistance I should not have survived. I can no longer stand on my feet, and cannot walk a step. The doctor does nothing, for fear of compromising himself. The thermometer is useless, as it is only given to us for two minutes. So I do not know my temperature; but it is very high. Almost no medicine, insufficient food; what is sent to me is stolen before it reaches me. In two days eight corpses were carried out of this room. It will soon be my turn. My sisters have spoken to the doctor and sent me some messages. Thank God, they still exist; but how?

The hour of deliverance has come, and I am still alive! After a prolonged bombardment, Riga is taken and in the hands of the Baltic militia. They have just set me free, and told me that I am at liberty to go where I like. But it seems unpardonable to carry among others the lice that cover me—those worst conveyers of contagion. I will first return home, when I have bathed and been disinfected. My trust, and my firm resolve to live, have saved me.

EPILOGUE

During Baron von Mengden’s imprisonment, his family and friends were constantly distracted by rumors that he had died in prison from the privations he had suffered; that he had been shot; and, finally, when he was released, that he was in a state of utter exhaustion and seriously ill with typhoid.

When at liberty, he could not return to his lodgings, as these had not only suffered from repeated pillaging and requisitions of provisions, clothes, linen, books, and furniture, but even more from the systematic devastation by the militia and their officers, who occupied his apartments with their wives and children. Beautiful old furniture had been taken away and sold. Drawers were rifled and everything of value stolen. Among other things, an iron casket, containing the records of various societies and foundations, valuables and family documents, had been broken with a hatchet and emptied. The Baron’s brother-in-law had been shot, his sister had died in prison, and other relations had been turned out of their homes and completely ruined by frequent and merciless requisitions. The Baron, shrunken to skin and bones, reduced to half his former weight, was literally unable to walk unaided from the prison.