HOUSE OF THE DEAD.

Grey River Argus, 29 March 1922, Page 6

HOUSE OF THE DEAD.

MEMORY OF THE REVOLUTION. Tho emigres on our train hail many points of conflict. But on one point they agreed; the gravq. danger lying ahead of us in Cherm, the great penal colony of Siberia. “Fifteen thousand convicts in Clierm,” they said. “Criminals of the worst type —thugs, thieves and murderers. Tlie only way to deal witli then, is to put them in the mines and keep them there at the point of a gun. Even so it is too much liberty for them. Every week there are scores of thefts and stabbings. Now most of these devils have been turned loose, and they have turned Bolshevik. It always was" a hell-hole. What it is now God only knows. ’ ’ It was a raw bleak morning on the first of May, when we rode into Clierm (Chcrmkhovo). A curtain of dust, blown up by a wind from the north, hung over tile place. Curled up in our compartment half asleep, we woke uo to the cry; “They're coming! They’re coming!’’ We peered through the window. Far as we could see nothing was coming but swirling clouds of dust. Then through the dust we made out a glint of red, the grey of glittering steel, and vague, black masses moving forward. Behind drawn curtains, tlie emigres were frantically hiding- jewels and money, or sat paralysed witli terror. Outside, the cinders eruehod witli tlie tread of tlie hob-nailed boots, in what mood “they’’ were coming witli what lust in their blood what weapons in their hands, no one knew. We knew only that these were the dread convicts of Clierm, “murderers, thugs and thieves’’ —and they were heading for tlie parlor-cars.

From Convicts to Liberators. Slowly they lurched along, the wind filling their eyes with dust and soot, and wrestling with a huge blood-red banner they carried. Then came a lull in the wind, dropping the dust screen and bringing to view a motley crew. Their clothes were black from the mines and tied up witli strings, their faces grim and grimy. Some were oxlike hulks of men. Some were gnarled and knotted, warped by a thousand gales. Here were tlie cannibal-convicts of- Tolstov, slant-browed and brutaljawed. Here was Dostoievsky’s “House of the Dead.’’ With limping steps, cheeks slashed and eyes gouged out they came, marked by bullet, knife and mine disaster, some cursed by an evil birth. But few, if any, were weaklings. By a long, gruelling process tlie weak had been killed off. These thousands were the survivors of tens of thousands, driven out on the gray highroad of Clierm. Through sleet and snow, winter blast anil summer blaze they had staggered along. Torture-Chambers had racked their limbs. Gendarmes’ sabres had cracked their skulls. Iron fetters had cut their flesh. Cossacks’ whips had gashed their backs, and Cossacks’ hoofs had pounded them to earth. Like their bodies their souls, too, 11,nd been knouted. Like a bloodhound the law had hung on their trad, driving them into dungeons, driving them to this dismal outpost of Siberia, driving them off tlie face of the earth into its caverns, to strain like beasts, digging tlie coal in tlie dark and handing it up to those who live in tlie light. Now out of the mines they come marching up into the light. Guns in hand, flying red flags of revolt, they are loose in tlie highways, moving forward like a great herd, the incarnation of brute strength. in their patli lie tlie warm, luxurious parlor-cars another universe, a million miles removed. Now it is just a few inches away, within their grasp. Three minutes and they could leave tills train sacked from end to end as though gutted by a cyclone. How sweet for once to glut themselves. And how easy! One swift lunge forward. One furious onset. But their actions show neither haste nor frenzy. Stretching their banners on the ground, they range themselves m a crescent, massed in tlie centre, facing the train. Now we can scan those faces. Sullen, defiant, lined deep with hate, brutalised by toil. On all of them the ravages of vice and terror. in all of them an infinitude of pain and torment, the poignant sorrow of tlie world. But in tiieu- eyes is a strange light a look of exultation. Or is it tlie glitter of revenge? A blow for a blow. Tlie law lias given them a thousand blows. Is it their turn now? Will they avenge Hie long years of bittern ess? A hand touches our shoulders. We turn and look into the faces of two burly miners. They tell us they aic the Commissars of Clierm. The Comrade Convicts. At the same time they signal the, banner-bearers, and the red standaids rise up before our eyes. On one in large letters is the old familiar slogan: ‘‘Proletarians arise! \ou have nothing to lo;e but your chains.” On another: “We stretch out our hands to the miners in all lauds. Greetings to our comrades throughout the world!” “Hats oft’!” shouts the commissar. Awkwardly they bare their heads and stand, caps in hand. Then slowly be- . gins the hymn of the International:--For justice thunders condemnation, A better world’s in birth. No more tradition’s chains shall bind you; “Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! Arise, ye slaves! No more in thrall. The world shall rise on new foundat ions. You have been naught: you shall be all.” Their limbs arc numb with cold.

■ - — — But their hearts are on fire. Harsh and rugged faces are touched with a sunrise glow. Dull eyes grow bright. Defiant ones grow soft. In them lies the transfiguring vision of the toileis of all nations bound together in one big fraternity—The^lnternational. ‘‘.Long live the International! Long live the American workers!” they shout. Then opening their ranks they thrust forward one of their number. II • is of giant stature, a veritable Jean Valjcan of a man, with a Jean Valjean of a heart. “In the name of the miners of Cherm,” he says, “we greet the comrades on this train! In the old days how different it was! Day after day, trains rolh'd through here, but we dared not come near them. Some of us did wrong, we know. But many of u> were brutally wronged. Had there been justice, some of us would be on this train and some on this train would be in the mines. “But most of the passengers didn’t know there were any mines. In their warm beds, they didn’t know that way • down below were thousands of moles, digging coal to put heat in the cars and steam in the engine. They didn’t know that hundreds of us were starved to death or killed by falling rock. If they did know, they didn’t care. To them we were dregs and outcasts. To them we were nothing at all. For Freedom. . “Now we are everything! We have joined the International. We full in today with the armies of labour in all lands. We are in the vanguard of them all. We, who were slaves, have been made freest of all. “Not our freedom alone we want, comrades, but freedom for the workers throughout the world. Unless they, too, are free, we cannot keep the freedom we have to own the. mines and run them ourselves. “/Already the greedy hands of the Imperialists of the world are reaching out across the seas. Only the hands of the workers of the world can tear those clutches from our throats.” The range and insight of the man’s mind was amazing. So amazed was ' my companion, Kuntz, that his own | speech in reply faltered. My hold on Russian quite collapsed. Our part in this affair, we felt, was wan and pallid. But these miners did not feel so. They came into the breach with a cheer for the International, and another for the International Orchestra. The “Orchestra” comprised four violins played by four prisoners of war: a Czech, a Hungarian, a German and an Austrian. Captured on the eastern ! front, from camp to camp they ha i been relayed along to these convictI mines in Siberia. Thousands of mil'?-’ I from home! Still farther in race ami j breeding from these Russian masses ■ drawn from the soil. But caste and creed ami race had fallen before the I Revolution. To their convict miner i comrades here in this dark hole thev played as in happier days they might • have played at a music festival under 1 the garden lights of Berlin or Buda--1 pest. The flaming passion in their veins j crept into the strings of their violins j and out into the heart-strings of their i hearers. The whole conclave—minors, musicians and visitors, Teutons, Slavs and I Americans —became one. All barrier? | were down as the commissars came , ! press-ing up to greet us. One huge I hulking fellow, with firsts like pile-driv- . i ers, took our hands into his. Twice • he tried to speak and twice he choked. ■ I Unable to put his sentiments of brother i I hood into words he put it into a sud- > I den terrific grip of his hands. 1 can . ■ feel that grip yet. Our love-feast at last was broken ■ ' in iiDOii by the clanging of the signal j bell. One more round of hand clasps ! and wo climbed aboard the train ys the orchestra caught up the refrain: — It is the. final conflict Let each stand in his place; The Internationale — Shall be the human race. There was no grace or outward splendour in this meeting. It was a revelation of the drive of the Revolution. Even into this sub-cellar of civilisation it, had penetrated—into theje regions of the damned it had come like a trumpet blast, bringing down the ivalls of ilieir charnel-house. Out of it they had rushed, not with bloodshot eves, slavering mouths and daggers drawn, but crying for truth and justice, with songs of solidarity upon their lips, and on their banners the watchwords of a new world. The Emigres Unmoved. All this was lost upon the emigres. Not one ray of wonder did they let penetrate the armour -of their classinterest. Their former fears gave way to sneers:- — 4 “There is Bolshevism for you! It makes statesmen out of gaol-birds. Great sight, isn’t it? Convicts parad- - ing the streets instead of digging in the mines. That’s what we get out of Revolution. ’ ’ We pointed to other things that came out of Revolution —order, restraint and good-will. But the emigres could not see. They would not. see. “That is for the moment,” they laughed. “When the excitement, is over they’ll go back to stealing, drinking and killing.” To these emigres it was at best a passing ecstacy that would disappear with our disappearing train.

Leaning out from the car steps w*' waved farewell to the hundreds of huge grimy hands waving farewell to us. Our eyes clung to the scene. In the l:;st, glimpse we saw the men of Cherm with heads still bared to th? cutting wind, the rhythmic rise and fall ox the arms of “eJan Valjean,” the red banner with “Greetings to our Comrades throughout the World,” ami a score of hands still stretched out towards the train. Then the scene faded away in the dust and distance. Two Years Later. Two years later Jo Redding came

back to America after working in I Cherm and watching the Revolution working there. He reports its permanent effects. Thefts and murders were 1 reduced to zero. Snarling animals became men. Though just released from irons, they put themselves under the iron discipline of the Soviet armies. Men who had so many wrongs of their own to brood over, now assumed the, wrongs of the world. They had vast programmes to release their energies upon, vast visions to light their minds. | To the rich and the privileged, to those who sit on roof-gardens or ride j in parlour-cars, the Revolution, is AntiChrist. But, to the despised and disinherited, the Revolution is like the Messiah “coming to proclaim release, of the captives and to set at liberty them that arc bruised.” No longer can Dostoievsky’s convict mutter, “We arc not alive, though we are living. Wo are not in our graves, though we are dead.” In the House of the Dead, Revolution is Resurrection.—By Albeit Rhys Williams in “Liberator.”