Grumbling, each Red Guard produced
his dirty _bumaga_ (paper). All were alike except mine, which had
been issued by the Revolutionary Staff at Smolny. The sentries
declared that I must go with them. The Red Guards objected
strenuously, but the sailor who had spoken first insisted. "This
comrade we know to be a true comrade," he said. "But there are
orders of the Committee, and these orders must be obeyed. That is
revolutionary discipline...."
In order not to make any trouble, I got down from the truck, and
watched it disappear careening down the road, all the company waving
farewell. The soldiers consulted in low tones for a moment, and then
led me to a wall, against which they placed me. It flashed upon me
suddenly; they were going to shoot me!
In all three directions not a human being was in sight. The only
sign of life was smoke from the chimney of a _datchya,_ a rambling
wooden house a quarter of a mile up the side road. The two soldiers
were walking out into the road. Desperately I ran after them.
"But comrades! See! Here is the seal of the Military Revolutionary
Committee!"
They stared stupidly at my pass, then at each other.
"It is different from the others," said one, sullenly. "We cannot
read, brother."
I took him by the arm. "Come!" I said. "Let's go to that house. Some
one there can surely read." They hesitated. "No," said one. The
other looked me over.
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