June 4, 1921—That was the last day of my life in Japan. I prayed that it would be the last day of my life here on earth, but no god, it would seem, cared to listen.
After receiving my deportation order, I was escorted by a cordon of police officers to the Hozan Maru, a large steamship bound for Vladivostok. Only two people came to see me off—one a newspaperman from the Asahi Shimbun, the other a business school instructor who occasionally served as a Russian interpreter for the Tsuruga Police Department. Sympathetic to my plight, they kindly stayed with me until my ship set sail. Whenever I tried to speak to them, they cautioned me with anxious looks, and said: “Don’t speak! The police are listening.” So I kept silent. But even in my silence, I am certain that they understood something of the infinite sorrow and indescribable loneliness that I was feeling in those moments.
I was expecting some friends from Tokyo to see me off. But nobody came.
Or nobody could.
The newspaperman and the Russian interpreter accompanied me to the steerage level, where they stowed my bags and helped me to find my cot.
Then, under the watchful gaze of my escorts, Lieutenant Akahoshi and Detective Nakayama, we returned to the deck.
But no matter how long I waited, nobody from Tokyo arrived.
A gong sounded, indicating that it was time for my companions to go. The newspaperman and the interpreter each gave me one last firm handshake in which I felt the warmth of my dear friends back in Tokyo. Then they alighted from the ship.
There was another, louder gong, and the three-thousand-ton Hozan Maru boldly made haste towards the open sea. Needless to say, I was in no mood to do the same. Not yet prepared to set out upon the open sea of life, I leaned against the cold, hard railing of the ship and continued to wait for some friend, any friend, to call out my name. But nobody was coming. Or nobody could. Or perhaps they thought that it wasn’t necessary.
I did not cry.
Japan had once seemed to me to be a faraway place. Now it was more dear to me than Russia. And I was leaving it forever, expelled without having said goodbye to those who had become more dear to me than family.
I did not cry—only my voice grew hoarse, and my throat dry, till I became dizzy and nauseous. I had one of the escorting officers take me to my cot. My head and my heart felt empty, as if I were growing more and more distant from my soul.
It was not yet five in the afternoon, but I was suffering, so I tried to sleep. Whether I fainted or not, I am not sure, but as I was beginning to lose consciousness, I distinctly remember praying that I would not wake up.
Many of the first- and second-class passengers on board were men and women who had fled to Japan from Tsarist Russia to escape the Bolsheviki. Now that the Bolsheviki had lost control of Vladivostok, they were making their triumphant return.
In the steerage, the situation was different. There, a group of over twenty laborers were returning from America to Soviet Russia, their new “land of opportunity.”
To the Japanese, the word “Soviet Russia” surely conjures up fearful images of some hellish place, or worse. But to the Russian laborer toiling in America, it represents nothing short of Paradise restored. And so tens of thousands of laborers were now throwing away everything that they had worked for in America for a chance to return home.
The laborers in the steerage were one such group. Among their party were six children and an elderly couple, the Katkovs. Naturally, the children spoke no Russian. But to my surprise, even the laborers had forgotten it. In fact, I did not come across one single person among them who could speak the language with fluency.
All of them had been born in Russia, where they had learned their love of Freedom under the oppressive Tsarist regime of Nicholas II. Unable to bear the terrible yoke of tyranny, these poor, peasant folk sought Freedom across the sea, in that strange, faraway country called America. And it was in America that they found it—but it was not free, for in America, Freedom comes at the cost of one’s heart and soul.
Once in America, those who would barter away everything became living machines. Machines operating other machines—such is the Freedom of the American business world. Meanwhile, those unwilling to sell their souls—that is, unwilling to become mere cogs in America’s inimitable society of living machines—had no other choice but to become anarchists or take up membership with the IWW.1 Hoping to disrupt the factory of American society, they shoved sticks into its gears and hurled rocks into its springs. Despising the world, and being despised in return, they came to eke out a strange existence.
These were men and women who had seen the inside of American jails more than once. Some had even done as much as five or six years. And all of them were either anarchists or card-carrying IWW members. That said, not one of them was a deportee—which perhaps explains their surprise when they saw me being brought onboard against my will. Who could he be, they must have wondered, and what on earth did he do?
I awoke from a strange dream to find a crowd of people at my side. They were speaking about me in hushed tones.
“I’ll bet that he tried to start an anarchist club in Japan.”
“Oh, he is an agitator no doubt.”
“I imagine that he had some hand in the Revolution.”
“Well?” asked the crowd in one voice, as though they had been waiting for me to get up for some time. “Why did they deport you? You must have done something awful.”
“Actually, I didn’t do anything at all,” I answered. “It was the people who deported me who did something awful.”
Pegging me for some kind of noble troublemaker, the laborers urged me not to be so modest and tell them what had really happened.
Not knowing what to say, I began to tell them about my life in Japan—about the socialist friends I had made there and my participation at socialist meetings; about the children’s stories that I had published and the recitals of Russian folksongs that I had given; and how for all that was I deported from the country. My captive audience felt sorry for me, and their already ill-feelings towards Japan grew a hundred-fold.
At meal times the laborers spoke bitterly of the steamship company. They threw plates, spilled soup and bothered the waitstaff, who complained to the ship’s crew, saying they simply could not deal with such “radicals.” The laborers were demanding unconditional Freedom, and in their eyes, the steamship company represented Tyranny itself.
Freedom—it was all that these people spoke or dreamed about. And when the gray reality of their lives ran counter to their rose-colored dreams, they drank and sang as a form of escapism. But what exactly was this Freedom that they pursued? Not even they themselves knew for sure. To them it was perfect, shapeless, and utterly undefinable.
In the steerage, aside from the laborers, were a few Russian university students returning from Hong Kong. Supporters of the Kerensky administration, they often got into fierce arguments with the laborers. And whenever the laborers became vexed by their overly logical thinking, they would come to me to hear songs of Freedom. Although at the time I would have rather sang songs of mourning, I would nevertheless take up my balalaika and indulge them. These songs always seemed to give them courage. Then, with hearts reignited, they would drink and continue arguing with the students for hours on end.
The voyage to Vladivostok only lasted two days and one night, but that was enough time for me to befriend these hard-working men and women of the earth.
The Katkovs doted on me as if I were their child. Chizhinsky, the young and charismatic leader of the group, treated me like a brother. And the others looked up to me with an undue reverence that made me blush.
On the morning of the sixth, at about eight o’clock, somebody shouted that they could see Vladivostok, and everybody rushed out on deck to look. Some were gushing with joy while others were hanging their heads anxiously.
From the stern of the ship, the laborers gazed on Vladivostok, the birthplace of the new Russia’s sorrow and rage.
While I stood among them, my body and soul were turned eastwards, towards Japan.
Suddenly, everybody fell silent. Their silence expressed better than words the terrible unease that they were feeling. Chizhinsky held my hand. His own was as cold as ice.
“What’s wrong? Are you cold?”
“No . . . It’s just that I was hoping to see the red flag over Vladivostok.”
I felt a hot teardrop fall on my hand.
“Ah!” I started, surprised by the heat of Chizhinsky’s tears.
“Are you all right, Vasily?”
Everybody turned round and looked at me.
“No, no, it’s nothing,” I murmured, turning my face yet again eastward.
“Chizhinsky,” I said after a pause. “If the red flag is not flying over Vladivostok today, then you should work to make it so tomorrow.”
“Indeed. No matter what the Japanese or any other empire says, we will fly it.”
Chizhinsky’s grip tightened as he spoke, but his hand remained ice-cold. I felt another burning teardrop fall on my hand.
Beside me, Mikhail, an anarchist and the scion of a wealthy family of the imperial era, began to sing a revolutionary song—
Comrades, let us join
Our strong hands against tyranny
To build ourselves
A free world on earth . . .
“Careful,” I remarked. “Someone might hear you.”
“So what?” cried Mikhail, angrily. “Let them try to stop me. We anarchists are not afraid, not like these cowardly Bolsheviki here!” he added mockingly, referring to the Leninist laborers who were in our group.
There was some nervous laughter, but nobody was in the mood for humor.
“Comrades,” I exclaimed, “you should be ashamed of yourselves. How will you behave when real tragedy strikes?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Mrs. Katkov. “You are just as pale as we are. And what’s more, your eyes are wet, and your lips are trembling . . .”
“Not because I can’t see the red flag,” I answered.
“Don’t tell me that you still long for that damned Japan!” reprimanded Chizhinsky.
I smiled weakly, but gave no answer. I did not want to admit that the more space put between me and “that damned Japan,” the more dear it became.
From the second-class deck came the cheers of Russian soldiers.
“Ah, Vladivostok has been restored! Gone is that awful red rag, and in its place flies our beloved tricolor! Hurrah!”
“Soldiers!” cried their lieutenant, “Russia shall be restored to its former glory! Let this be her first step towards true Freedom!”
“Freedom!” echoed the soldiers.
But we on the steerage deck said nothing.
“Look over yonder!” the lieutenant continued. “That there is our dear father Ataman Semyonov’s ship, where the Russian and Japanese flags fly together in a cross that will one day fly over all the nations of the world! May God protect us and our Japanese brethren as we march hand in hand into battle!” And removing his cap, he made the sign of the cross. And the other soldiers did the same. “May God protect us and our Japanese brethren as we march forward—to Moscow! To Petrograd!”
The laborers from America all hung down their heads. Chizhinsky leaned against my shoulder and wept like a child.
“Oh, Vasily,” he sobbed, “say something, won’t you? Comfort us poor laborers who have abandoned everything in America.”
His words moved me. “My brother, Chizhinsky,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Why is it that you weep? For want of a red flag? Well, there is plenty of cloth to sew one from! Mind you the red flag is not a toy. No, you can leave those for the Japanese socialists to play with. Besides, you heard what the lieutenant said about those flags and the cross that they form. Well, just as Christ was crucified on a cross for bringing new ideas into the world, so does General Semyonov and his men intend to crucify the new Russia. Ah, but the new Russia is not the Christ who was crucified, died, and was buried. No, she is the Christ reborn! And those who cannot see this are among the Pharisees. Soon the flags of General Semyonov will only fly above the graves of his followers. Do you understand me? If you want to see the red flag fly over Vladivostok, you will have to raise it with your own sweat and blood!”
“Fear not,” responded Chizhinsky, comforting me in turn. “We will.”
A short time later, a quarantine launch carrying officials from the Vladivostok government pulled up beside the Hozan Maru.
“Ready your documents and gather on the first-class deck,” shouted one of the waitstaff, and everybody began shuffling upstairs.
I was about to head up myself when Chizhinsky stopped me.
“If they lay a finger on you . . . ,” he began to say.
“Don’t worry,” I said smiling. “I’ll be all right.”
Upstairs, the immigration officer checked the tickets of the first- and second-class passengers. Then, as he was moving on to the third-class passengers, there entered a Japanese official who spoke to him about me in Russian. He spoke in such a low voice that I had some trouble making out exactly what he was saying. Only the surprised responses of the immigration officer reached my ears.
“. . . Eroshenko? . . . I see . . . Very well . . . We will have to be careful then, won’t we? . . . Don’t worry, I won’t let him out of my sight . . .”
After the Japanese officer left, the immigration officer turned to me and spoke.
“Why were you deported from Japan?” he enquired.
“Why don’t you ask my escorts?” I answered.
“I was told that you are a socialist. Are you one of the Bolsheviki?”
“I am interested in them.”
“Well, I have been told many things about you. But not to worry. Our government is not in the business of bullying people, especially the blind. So if you want to go to Soviet Russia, you may go. And if you want to stay in Vladivostok, you may stay for as long as you like.”
He let me go without charging me any duties.
When at last I disembarked from the ship, I was met by some representatives of the Vladivostok Esperanto Association.
Lieutenant Akahoshi and Detective Nakayama carried my luggage for me. “You are a free man now,” said the lieutenant, warmly. “Let us shake hands.”
So we did.
And with that I bid farewell to my beloved Japan forever.
The tricolor flag was flying over Vladivostok. Beneath it gathered all those who were antagonistic to, or antagonized by, Soviet Russia—that is, the nobles, priests, capitalists, and the intelligentsia. It was to Vladivostok that Semyonov and Kappel had retreated after having shed much blood across Siberia, from the Urals to the Sea of Japan. And it was from Vladivostok that they were preparing to make their last stand. Having nowhere left to retreat to, the Semyonov and Kappel armies were fighting for their very survival, and willing to give their lives for the supreme leader of the antirevolutionary forces, Admiral Kolchak.
In Vladivostok, the tricolor decorated not only roofs and windows, but also hats and lapels, and was reflected in every word and action on the streets of the city. It did not matter whether one was White (anti-Soviet) or Red (pro-Soviet), one wore the tricolor flag to hide one’s true color, as it were. Should the Whites be defeated, the people of Vladivostok would probably cheer and dance about in the streets; and should the Reds be defeated, they would probably drink and be merry all the same. But such people are the by-product of a new decadence. Indeed, you would be hard pressed to find their kind elsewhere.
The city’s local Esperantists gave me a royal welcome. They had heard of me and were upset to learn that one of their own had been expelled from Japan. They promised to inform the international Esperanto community about Japan’s abuse of power.
The chairman of the association, Mr. Vonago, urged me to stay with him until the situation settled down. In order to dissuade me from moving west, he read to me articles from the Vladivostok Bulletin (a Russian-language Japanese newspaper).
Included among the headlines were:
—White Army Wins Yet Another Victory! Reds Forced to Retreat
—Khabarovsk falls! Chita Ready to Capitulate
—Lenin Assassinated! Trotsky Smuggled from Russia by Actress-Lover
—General Semyonov to March on Moscow!
For Japanese journalists in the Far East, writing such articles had become a divine mission and was looked on as an act of patriotism. But there were far more idiots writing them than there were idiots who believed them.
Desperate to break free from this tricolor town, I began packing my bags immediately. There were a ridiculous number of things to consider. Although my belongings primarily consisted of simple necessities—bread, canned goods, sugar, tea, dried salmon, matches, soap, thread, needles, and the like—I felt as if I were setting out on some perilous journey.
There was a young female student named Tosya boarding at the chairman’s house. Her native village of Povarovka was located on the Ussuri River, near the Russo-Japanese border, which I needed to cross. We quickly became friends. When she asked me to accompany her to Ussuri, I had the excuse that I needed to go. Her father was a doctor in Vladivostok, and her stepmother worked as a midwife. Neither of them opposed to her going. In fact, her stepmother promised to come to Povarovka soon after us.
On the morning of June 11, Tosya and I left Vladivostok.
Sharing the train car with us were a handful of Kappellite soldiers, two Semyonov officers, a priest and three gentlemen of the intelligentsia. Initially we all spoke of banal tricolor topics, with not a little unease; but after some time had passed, we came to know each other more on more intimate terms.
When the Semyonov officers learned that I had just arrived from Japan, they asked me to tell them what the Japanese thought of their great leader, not because they themselves wanted to know, but because they wanted others to hear. Seeing as I had lived in Japan for some time, they thought that I would offer up some fine words of praise.
However, being as I am of a nature that hates to pay compliments to soldiers, I did not at all hide my disdain for the man.
“Most Japanese think Semyonov a foolish pawn. Even the Russians there call the Ataman a traitor for taking money from Japan.”
“Hold your tongue!” shouted the officers, angrily, but the Kappellite soldiers and Tosya managed to calm them. Meanwhile, the gentlemen laughed, and the priest muttered to himself, “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly . . .”
Observing these representatives of Kappel and Semyonov closely, I found the former to be somewhat more civilized than the latter. Although I did not observe them for very long, I am sure that I would be able to distinguish them by voice alone.
One of the Semyonov officers downed two or three shots of vodka to calm his nerves.
“Goddamnit!” he started up again, slapping his thigh. “Who do you expect us to take money from? We are fighting in the Far East, are we not? Therefore we are not betraying Russia. We are trying to save her. And Japan is not using us. On the contrary, it is we who are using Japan! Ataman Semyonov will lead us to Freedom, to happiness. And those who cannot see that are our enemies. But wait—you aren’t a Bolshevik, are you?”
Tosya squeezed my hand as if to tell me to keep quiet.
The priest continued to mutter to himself: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters . . .”
The gentlemen smirked to one another.
Then the officer shoved a glass into my hand.
“Drink up,” he exclaimed in a more affable voice. “To Russia!”
“Ah-hah!” he laughed, patting me on the shoulder. “So you’re a communist! No matter, no matter. Come on now, drink. Nobody is watching anyways.” And turning to the priest, he added: “How about it, Father? Care for a drink?”
Fearing that he would be labelled a communist if he did not comply, the priest downed three glasses of vodka. The Kappellite soldiers did too.
The more the priest drank, the freer his speech became, till he began to preach to us, and to me in particular, as if for his upcoming sermon in Nikolsk.
“So you think communism some perfect thing come down from heaven, eh? And Lenin, the new prophet, eh? Very well. I can certainly see why. For after the Kerensky administration fell, Petrograd was so enveloped in smoke that it seemed to be Mount Sinai itself. And Lenin appeared like the Almighty, who with thunder and lightning handed down his commandments to the Jews. Oh, but your Sinai has been replaced by a Golgotha, and your Almighty, Lenin, has revealed himself to be the devil. And now there hangs an innocent Christ from the cross on the Golgotha that you yourselves have . . .” And the priest trailed off, the image of Russia as Golgotha having brought him to the verge of tears.
“Pray, good Father, who is the Christ that Lenin has crucified?” asked one of the gentlemen from Vladivostok.
“Why, it is the Russian Church!” wailed the priest. “So we must bless Ataman Semyonov and our Japanese brethren, for sending us soldiers to deliver our innocent Christ from the hands of the infernal devil Lenin!”
I was about to respond when a man who until then had been sitting silent some seats ahead of us stood up. He wore a tricolor flag on his hat.
“What, you think that foreigners will save your Christ? Bah! Christ was his own savior, was he not? He needs no other. Indeed, your Russian Church is nothing but a den of thieves and cheats! No, it really deserves to be crucified!”
The priest looked away, drawing up his shoulders in embarrassment. I was shocked. “Ah, now we are getting somewhere!” snickered the gentlemen from Vladivostok.
“You who beg at the door of the foreigners,” the man railed on, “you are of the Pharisees! You see the blade of Cain in the olive branch of Gabriel. You make the kiss of Judas a greeting among your brothers. You are blind and deaf! You couldn’t see or hear if you wanted to. Indeed, you are of the Pharisees, I tell you! You should be on your knees, day and night, praying, ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness. For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me—’ Well? Admit it!”
The train let out a whistle and came to a stop. Then the man gathered up his things and walked briskly to the end of the car.
The gentlemen from Vladivostok burst out laughing.
Our train went as far as Evgenievka, four or five stops from Nikolsk, where the Kappellite forces were centered. From there to the Ussuri River extended a sort of neutral zone held by the Japanese interventionists.
Of course, this so-called neutral zone was filled with danger and occupied chiefly by partisans and bandits who did as they pleased, ambushing the Reds and warring with the Whites, raiding villages, and causing all sorts of trouble for the Japanese. Who knows why the Japanese even stayed—to hold back these partisans and bandits, or for some other purpose? At any rate, they were apparently suffering from a lack of manpower . . .
As there were no regular trains running from Evgenievka, we had to continue our journey by armored train, the windows of which were filled with sacks of sand and gravel. In our dusty compartment were two middle-school students. When Tosya and I entered, we all agreed to open our window, to let some light in, saying to ourselves how exciting it would be if our train were to get attacked by bandits. Ah, but neither bandits nor partisans showed up, and after five or six hours we arrived safely at Ussuri Station.
How boring!
Ussuri Station was the last stop in the Japanese-occupied neutral zone before the country at last opened up into Red territory. The waters of the Ussuri flowed busily between a world we knew well and a new world of red flags, crimson clouds, and black smoke. These were two worlds connected by a single, half-destroyed bridge. When we arrived, the Red Army was just laying down explosives to blow the bridge to smithereens. Unable to come to an agreement with the Japanese, they saw no other option. In town, a rumor was spreading about Semyonov’s army advancing on the Ussuri River.
Aside from a few cars bringing Red officers and state dignitaries back from Vladivostok, there were no trains departing from Ussuri. Ordinary travelers loitered about the station, heaping curses on the communists. Sometimes somebody would grab hold of the commissar and demand information on the next departing train. Despite being but eighteen years of age, he was full of arrogance and refused to indulge anyone.
Feeling sorry for these stranded travelers, the Japanese asked the Reds to send a train for them, but it was no use. So long as you were not a communist or a dignitary, you simply were not getting on a train. Everybody was terribly vexed.
I decided to put up at Tosya’s family home until Fate was prepared to have me move on. Tosya’s stepmother arrived a day later.
I had not been in the Russian countryside in years!
Tosya’s home had a small yard with a vegetable garden in it. Each morning we would get up to water the plants and vegetables, and when the sun was high, we would go for a swim in the Ussuri River. Later, when we were tired, we would sit in the shade of a tree and read. In the evenings, we would walk about in the garden. And at night we would sit with her stepmother by the samovar, holding debates and singing songs. You would hardly know there was a war going on. It was such a carefree life, and I had a lot of fun.
In Ussuri, I made friends with two village school teachers and the parish priest, as well as several students from the local seminary, who earned their living working just as hard as the farmers did.
The people of the village had moved to the region some decades ago, and after many trials and tribulations had carved out for themselves a fairly comfortable life. Needless to say, they all despised the communists.
I had been told many times before how the farmers hated the communists, but until then, I had never been able to understand why. That the capitalists, who had lost great sums of money and position, hated the communists was obvious. But the farmers? They had no money or position to lose. In fact, they only stood to gain from the communists. And so I assumed that their hatred was borne out of pure ignorance.
However, after arriving in Ussuri, I came see that to lose what one had earned with one’s own sweat and blood, even if it only amounted to a few dozen kopeks, was a far greater loss than to lose millions that one had earned through stock-market trading and exploitative labor. “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,” said Christ, “than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” I wonder if the farmer clinging to his meager possessions has as much difficulty? Surely, these farmers would serve whomever, be they Russian or Japanese, should they be allowed to keep their possessions for themselves.
Everybody in Ussuri tried to dissuade me from crossing into Soviet Russia. And the village life was so carefree and delightful that I actually considered staying for the rest of the summer. Tosya invited me to her parents’ apiary some twenty versts away. And the parish priest suggested that I put up for a few months at the seminary in Simakov.
But just as I was about to make my decision, there arrived from Vladivostok the party of laborers from America who had been with me on the Hozan Maru.
These laborers, who had just experienced the utter incompetence of the Merkulov administration, seemed completely changed. After having been robbed by customs officials and cheated by some rogue who claimed to be a communist official from Chita, they had become dispirited, and were understandably in a great hurry to enter Soviet Russia. Nothing could persuade them to stay a minute longer.
However, the sight of me brought a smile to their weary faces—the first smile they had worn since landing in Vladivostok—and they were desperate to get me to come with them. So I scrapped my plan to spend the summer in the country. Naturally, my new friends in Ussuri begged me to reconsider, but I had firmly made up my mind to leave.
Since the arrogant and incompetent communists were still unwilling to resume ordinary railway services, the laborers and I decided to rent a few wagons, in which we would store our luggage, and set out for Iman. Arrangements were made for myself and the Katkovs to ride in a Red Army ration car, while the rest were to follow the wagons on foot.
Finally, on the evening of June 22, I said goodbye to my friends in Ussuri, and arrived safely in Iman the next morning. When the laborers arrived at six that evening, they were tired—tired, but happy to know that they were closer to Soviet Russia, for they believed that all they needed to do was cross the border and they would find their happiness waiting for them. Not one of them suspected that our journey would end up a miserable failure.
For, you see, I was ultimately denied entry into Soviet Russia. And while the laborers crossed over in sheer ecstasy, they were soon sent off to the dark mines of the north. In the blink of an eye, our journey was over.
Harbin, China
