THE little village of Borovoi-Mlin, in which I was born, consisted of about thirty huts—low wooden structures with slant thatched roofs. The walls, both inside and out, were plastered with mud and whitewashed. All the huts stood in a row which formed the only street in the village. A wide dusty road passed in front—the meeting place of the cackling, quacking, and barking members of the community. Farther down, the communal pasture, a long and narrow strip of land, ran along the high bank of the rivulet Okena below. In the rear were small kitchen-gardens surrounded by low wattle fences, back of which rye fields stretched as far as the eye could see.
Our hut stood at the very entrance to the village. It was old and rickety. The two little windows were low, near the ground. In the severe winter months the snow piled up high in front of them, shutting out the feeble light that penetrated the double windows. During the greater part of the year the broken panes were replaced with cardboard, as a protection against the clouds of dust which drifted into the house every time a vehicle passed. The thatch on the roof was black with age. It was broken in several places. When the rains were heavy the water leaked through and formed a puddle on the mud floor.
As in all peasant dwellings, a dark passage divided it into two parts. One was the living-room, the other served as a barn where the horses, cows, agricultural implements, and provisions were kept. The living-room was large and square. One corner was screened off by a long, red curtain. It was the parents’ bedroom. Two beds and a cradle stood there. The furniture of the rest of the room consisted of a large table and benches along the walls. Another table, much smaller in size, held a large brass samovar and a pair of silver candlesticks, the only articles of value in our home. An enormous brick stove occupied a conspicuous place in the room. Besides doing its regular service, it provided a warm bed in the cold winter nights. The children often fought for the privilege of sleeping on it. In this room I first saw the light of day in September, 1885. In this house I passed the first fourteen years of my life.
MISS SUKLOFF’S BIRTHPLACE
In this house Miss Sukloff passed the first fourteen years of her life ]
Sixteen _dessiatines_ (a little over forty-three acres) of poor soil, mostly clay, and a thatch-covered hut—this was all the property left by my grandfather to his five sons and two daughters.[1] I do not know how the heirs to this rich inheritance settled it among themselves; but in the end my father and one of my uncles remained the sole proprietors of the sixteen dessiatines, they being the eldest sons and already married. At the later division of the property eight dessiatines and the house went to my father.
Our estate, besides the land, consisted most of the time of a couple of cows, one or two horses, and a dozen or more chickens. When the crops were good, the eight dessiatines yielded grain and potatoes enough to last the whole year round. But either because of my father’s primitive methods of agriculture, or because of insufficient fertilizing, or because of droughts which are not infrequent in our parts, good crops were rather the exception than the rule. I remember a prayer which I learned when I was four years old: “O God, give us rain for the sake of the little children.” Every morning before eating our modest breakfast, we folded our hands and repeated this prayer. But God seemed cruel at times. Severe droughts burned our fields, and famine threatened the whole district. Then father drove our favorite cow to the nearest town and sold her. The same fate befell the second one, and then we were without milk.
But the cost of necessities was so high that money thus realized was not enough. Then father went to look for work, and stayed away from home the whole week. Friday evening the family eagerly awaited his return. The room assumed its holiday appearance; the table was covered with a snow-white cloth, the candles lit, and the samovar, freshly polished, shone in the corner. But father took his place without saying a word; his face did not wear his usual cheerful smile and we understood that he had not earned anything and was therefore sad. Silently we took our seats around the table, while mother served the supper. But unlike any other Saturday there was no meat....
Indeed it was absolutely necessary to earn some extra money to meet the modest expenses of our household. The few acres of land owned by a Russian peasant do not yield enough to feed a large family and pay the taxes. Our village was situated about a mile from the little town of Smorgon, where there were leather factories, tailor shops, and other enterprises. Among us a child of eight years was considered of working age and sent to work in town. He was apprenticed to a tailor or a shoemaker, and sometimes even sent to the factory. Few could afford to send their children to school. The parochial school, which was to spread knowledge among the inhabitants of four villages, could boast of but ten pupils. These were taught by the village priest, who was but little versed in educational matters. Besides, he was busy with other, more important duties, and could not devote much of his time to instructing the young. At the end of a four years’ course, therefore, they could neither read nor write. But that was amply compensated by their ability to chant psalms, which they knew by heart. Our village boys went to a Hebrew school, beginning at the age of four or five. My brother Wolf “finished” his education when he was eight years old. Girls were not taught at all. I was illiterate until the age of thirteen. But more of this later.
The peasants in the neighboring country lived in still greater poverty than ours. Their grown sons and daughters did not go to live in town, but remained with the family; nor did they send their children to the shop; and their small parcels of land, which were taxed very heavily, could not feed so many “souls.” Close to their land was a large private estate. It covered many hundreds of dessiatines, most of which was uncultivated. The peasants were thus deprived of a chance to earn even a little money as farm hands.
One circumstance, I remember, greatly puzzled me, notwithstanding that I was very young at the time. The grazing land of our village was small, and the herd often returned home hungry. Bordering on ours was an immense pasture belonging to a priest who had long left the church and did not even live on his estate. The meadow was always guarded by a man who lived literally at our expense. He collected from us a _ruble_ for every horse or cow which strayed over on his land. If the money was not paid, he locked the beast in his barn and left it without food. Once it happened that he starved to death one of our herd. When winter came the fine grass in the priest’s meadow was covered with snow, while our barns were empty.
A dense forest surrounded the villages, but we did not have enough firewood to heat our huts. The forest belonged to the Government. The peasants had to choose between freezing and stealing wood from the forest. As a result, the jail in the near-by town was always full. Some stayed there as long as two years—all for attempting to steal a log with which to warm their cold huts.
* * * * *
When I was six years old a terrible misfortune befell our family. My mother fell down from the garret and fractured her skull. She was ill for almost a year. For four months she lay in a semi-conscious condition. She did not recognize anybody, and drove us away when we came to her bed. I don’t know what would have become of us if it had not been for our sister Revecca. She looked after us like a mother, and saw that we were fed and clothed. She was eleven then.
Mother’s illness ruined us completely. She was the only one in the family who knew how to manage things, to make ends meet, as they say. Father lacked that ability. Besides, her illness added a large item to our expense. To meet the doctor’s and druggist’s bills, the cows and horses had to be sold. Even the land was mortgaged.
It was summer, and father worked in the field. Revecca and I kept house and looked after the one-year-old baby. We got up at daybreak and worked hard the whole day. Revecca milked the cows (they were sold only towards winter), and I drove them to the pasture. I remember with what a serious face I answered my companions when they asked me to play with them:
“I have no time to play. My mamma is sick.”
One incident during my mother’s illness left an impression on my memory that remains to this day. It was the haying season. Father was in the field, mother was lying in bed, and Revecca and I were sitting on the doorstep, resting after our hard morning. A large wagon drawn by two horses suddenly came into view. We recognized it immediately, and knew that the tax collector was coming. He had a wooden leg and a long black beard, and was the terror of all the children. The periodical appearance at our village of this tax collector who was nicknamed “the one-legged devil,” was always a source of much unhappiness. He stopped in front of our house. We were terribly afraid of him, and at any other time would have run away and hid in the barn, but that happy period of our life was past. We felt a great responsibility resting upon us, so we remained. We stood up, and met the intruder bravely. “There is nobody home,” said Revecca, when the collector approached. But he paid no attention to her, and went straight into the house, making an awful noise with his wooden leg all the while. We followed him. Having examined the contents of the room, he stopped before the table on which the samovar and the candlesticks stood. We watched his movements with breathless intensity. Suddenly he knocked on the window with his cane. A young man came in, carrying a large bag. Before we could grasp the meaning of it all, our samovar, the pride and ornament of our house, had disappeared into his dirty bag. Next went the candlesticks. We were dumfounded. We stood gazing at the bag, and could not utter a word. Unable to move, we saw them turn to the door and walk out of the room. When we recovered from the shock, the rattle of the passing wagon was heard near the house. Revecca sat down near the empty table and began to cry. After a few minutes I joined her. Without a samovar and the candlesticks the room looked gloomier than ever.
In the fall father called a doctor from Vilna, a large city sixty miles away from the village. His visit cost us fifty rubles. This doctor, however, really helped our mother, who began to recover slowly.
* * * * *
When my mother recovered from her illness, Revecca was sent to work in a tailor’s shop in town, and I became the chief help in the house. In the long winter nights I plucked feathers for pillows which were to form a part of Revecca’s dowry; she was then in her thirteenth year.
THE VILLAGE OF BOROVOI-MLIN AS IT LOOKS NOW
Miss Sukloff was born here ]
Thus two years passed. Our poverty at that time was indescribable. All the earnings went to pay debts and the interest on the mortgage. To earn a little money, mother decided to sell vegetables at the town market. Every morning she went to town and returned home in the evening. I took charge of the house and looked after the eleven-months-old baby-boy.
One event which set me thinking about conditions in general was the death of my aunt, a young married woman of thirty-four. It was harvest time, and my aunt went to a near-by village to hire some farm hands. She started out before sunset. Hours passed, it grew late, and she did not return. About midnight the horse came back with an empty wagon. We raised an alarm, went to the village, but the peasants there who all knew my aunt well, maintained that she had not been to their village that day. At last, after a whole night’s search, she was found buried, yet still alive, in a pit near the road. Her face was unrecognizable. Her whole body was bruised and bore traces of violence. The police arrived and began an investigation. Our yard was crowded with peasants, young and old, from the neighboring villages. Each one of them was led to the bed on which my aunt lay with an unspeakable expression on her mutilated face. She could not speak, but her eyes were full of suffering and mute reproach. Each time a peasant approached the bed she shook her head gravely. The ordeal lasted two days. All that time my aunt tried to say something, but all of our efforts to understand her were futile. The police lost all idea of discovering the author of the horrible crime. My aunt was sinking fast, and the doctor could not hold out any hope. Suddenly she clearly uttered the word _bartchuk_[2] and died. Bartchuk! The peasants passed the word along, and made the sign of the cross. They knew who committed the crime.
A short distance from the village where my aunt had gone was a landowner’s estate. The proprietor had a son who spent his summers in the country. He was the curse of the neighborhood. The peasants hid their daughters whenever he appeared in the village, but he managed to insult them with impunity. He it was whom my aunt named as her assailant. He was arrested. All the peasants testified against him. And yet after three months he was freed. The landowner had bribed the investigating magistrate, and the affair was hushed up.
As I have said before, I was not sent to school. When I reached my eleventh year, my mother found a place for me in a grocery store in town. The store was so small that if two customers happened in at the same time one had to wait outside, where the greatest part of the goods was laid out. I performed a great many duties. I carried the goods in and out, swept the store, delivered purchases, and ran similar errands. My salary was fifteen rubles for the winter. There I made my first acquaintance with figures and learned addition and subtraction. My position as a clerk required some little knowledge of arithmetic. At first my mistress taught me. After this my brother Wolf instructed me in this science, which was one of his strong points.
But months passed, and I did not show any promise of becoming an efficient grocery clerk. My mistress was very much dissatisfied with me. She often reproached me for my inability to meet customers in the approved fashion, and called me a “rustic.” I did not know what was wanted of me, and that worried me terribly. But I took great pride in the fact that I was a clerk and earning money.
Every evening I went home to sleep. There was a tavern in town where the workmen from our village gathered, usually at about nine o’clock. I always found there company to go home with. One evening my mistress kept me very late. When I came to the tavern, all my village folk had gone. I thought for a while, and decided to go home alone. It was in December. The night was still and cold, and the fields were covered with dazzling-white snow. The road to our village shone like silver. I stepped into the road, and ran. I did not stop until I came to our house, although I was not a bit afraid. After that I always walked home alone, without even so much as looking into the tavern.
Before the Easter holiday my mistress discharged me. She had found another girl, who could approach customers in the right way. It was a terrible disappointment to me, but my mother tried to console me. “Don’t worry. I shall apprentice you to a tailor next fall, like Revecca. That’s settled,” she concluded.
The summer passed. When it began to grow cold my mother took me to town, and I entered upon my new career as a tailor’s apprentice. The shop had no particular attraction for me. I was used to the free, pure air of the fields. The severest frosts and storms could not keep us children in the house. We never took cold, although not dressed according to the season. And here I had to sit the whole day in a close, ill-smelling room. At times my duties kept me there till midnight. My master did not even think of teaching me to sew. Most of the time I was busy with his two little children, whom the mistress always left in my care.
I was apprenticed for two years. It was agreed that I was to be allowed to go home for the field-work season. The understanding was that I should work one year without pay, and get twenty-five rubles for the second year. But fate played me one of her tricks. Toward the end of the second year, when I constantly thought of and counted the money I was to get, unexpected events occurred, and I never saw my hard-earned twenty-five rubles.
* * * * *
In the spring of 1898 the workmen of Vilna were striking for a ten-hour work-day. The “Bund,” a secret organization of working-men which was formed shortly before, conducted the strike. It published an “illegal” pamphlet, entitled “Eight-hour Day” and distributed it in all the cities and towns round about. One of these pamphlets found its way into our shop.
The workmen at our shop discussed it in undertones. A secret meeting of several shops took place, where it was decided to declare a strike before Easter, demanding a ten-hour day. I was not taken into the secret, either because I was too young, or because they did not consider me a real shop worker, as I passed the summers in the village. But I succeeded, without much difficulty, in finding out all their schemes. With extreme impatience I waited for the strike. Returning home after work, I related to my girl-friends all the great things that were expected in town. At last the appointed day arrived, and the working-men of Smorgon struck. I, too, refused to work, much to the surprise of our shop people.
The strike lasted only several hours. The employers wisely decided to yield, as it was a week before Easter, the busiest season of the year. They conceded all the workers’ demands. But after Easter they were all discharged, and had to return to work on the old terms. I, however, was not taken back. This circumstance created quite an impression among the working-men, who regarded me as a sufferer. When I think of it now and to what it subsequently led, I am deeply grateful to fate, although it is true that, from that time, I became a source of worry and torture to our family. My brothers and sisters were married, had children, and were happy in their own way, while I spent my young years in Russian and Siberian prisons. But to return to Smorgon.
The working-men, disappointed at the unsuccessful strike, began to look for new means of reducing the hours of labor. They organized secret educational circles, where they read about the lives of working-men in foreign countries and their struggles for rights and liberty. I was admitted to one of these circles.
One day the daughter of the rabbi from Smorgon called at our house. The rabbi, it must be explained, was considered a rich man and of aristocratic lineage. His children received their education in Vilna, and were known in the village as “free-thinkers.” Naturally, the daughter’s visit to our humble dwelling aroused the curiosity of our village inhabitants; the windows of our house were immediately beleaguered by a crowd of inquisitive folk; the neighbors suddenly missed various kitchen utensils and came to us to borrow, stopping for a while to have a good look at the rabbi’s daughter whose hair was short and who wore _pince-nez_. Her name was Hannah. When the neighbors were busy discussing her appearance, she whispered to me:
“Come to our house next Saturday after dinner. Don’t tell anybody about it.”
Impatiently I waited for Saturday to come. “What will I see there?” I kept asking myself, and my imagination drew fantastic pictures, one more beautiful than the other. At last the much-desired day arrived. With my shoes thrown over my shoulder, I set out at a rapid pace. When I neared the town, I put on my shoes, without stockings, and continued at a slower gait. To my great shame I must confess that when I approached the rabbi’s massive dwelling, my heart began to beat violently and my courage left me. And the pictures in which I saw myself as the heroine of the day vanished. My friend Hannah, who must have been waiting for me, saw me through the window. She came out and conducted me into a poorly-lighted room, where several girls were already assembled. The window blinds were lowered and the door locked. The room became still darker.
“Sisters,” began Hannah, “the first thing you must know is that you must not tell anybody what is going on here.”
All were silent. Hannah took out a thin pamphlet and began to read: “Once upon a time there lived four brothers....” This pamphlet, entitled “Four Brothers,” is a forbidden publication. It tells the story of four brothers who were born and lived in a forest. They decide to travel, and start out in different directions. When they return, they recount the many acts of cruelty they have seen and met with in the world, and discuss measures to bring about justice and equality.
After the reading we went away, having arranged to meet the following Saturday. These Saturday readings opened up new worlds to me. I had never thought of large cities and how people lived in them, and my desire to learn grew with every week.
Besides reading forbidden literature, Hannah taught us history and geography; that is, she read while we sat and listened, frequently interrupting her with questions. It all was so sudden and wonderful that I made up my mind to study at any cost, that I might be able to read those wonderful books myself. I told Hannah and she undertook to teach me. Every Friday evening I walked into town, and Hannah taught me to read and write. I kept my studies secret even from my father, because among us it was considered a mortal sin to write on Friday evening. I was progressing in my studies when new developments made it necessary for me to give them up for some time.
A strike of the stocking-weavers in Vilna had been declared. Their conditions of labor and pay were such that they could not continue on the old terms. They did not earn enough for the bare necessities of life. But the employers flatly refused to grant any increase in pay. They had stocking-machines in every little town in the province, and were getting the goods made at even lower price than they had to pay to city employees. The “Bund,” the secret organization mentioned before, decided to organize a strike of all the stocking-weavers in the district. With this purpose in view a young woman agitator came to Smorgon.
One evening, when all the family were gathered round the supper table, Hannah and the new-comer called on us. My father was greatly flattered by their visit, and received them very cordially. The samovar was put up—a thing we seldom did for ourselves. Mother even procured some jelly and cake. They sat and chatted for a while. No one knew the object of their visit. When they were leaving and I showed them to the door, Hannah said to me:
“What do you think? Will it be possible to hold a secret meeting in your house? How would your parents look upon it?”
After considering for a moment I suggested that it would be better to meet in the forest. I knew all the secret paths there. They agreed. There and then, standing in the dark passage, we worked out a plan for the morrow’s meeting. We decided to meet in the morning, when the inhabitants of the village were away in the field.
On the following morning the large oak trees hid from view a few young girls who were cautiously making their way through the forest. The oldest of them, Hannah, was seventeen years of age.
The place chosen for the meeting was familiar to me. Yet a short time before I had played hide-and-seek there with my village companions. But how different it had all become!
The organizer made a speech. She spoke of the life of the stocking-weavers in Vilna. Some were starving, others had been imprisoned. Their only demand was an increase of one kopeck on a pair of stockings. But she not only pictured to us the miseries of their existence, she also spoke about the coming victory.
“There will come a day,” she said, “when there will be neither rich nor poor: all will be equal. We will make it come. Only we must unite for the struggle.”
She uttered these words with almost religious fervor. Their impression upon me was tremendous. My faith in all she said was so great that I already pictured to myself our humble village changed beyond recognition. The huts disappeared. In their places stood magnificent dwellings in which happy people lived a happy life. To make that change seemed to me a very simple thing to do.
“We must unite and take the land away from the rich proprietors,” I thought. “They hold it and do not use it, so it will be all the same to them. But we need it very badly.”
I was so absorbed in the plan of converting our village into a veritable paradise on earth that I did not hear how the girls had decided to send agitators to the cities of Slonim and Oshmiany to call a strike of the local stocking-weavers. My thoughts were interrupted by Hannah, who asked me if I wanted to go with her and help her organize a strike there. “Yes, of course,” I hastened to reply. Towards noon we dispersed, and I promised Hannah to come to her on the next day.
Hannah, evidently, did not understand what it meant to me to stop work in the middle of the week, leave my home, and go to the city. I did not even know where that city was. I had never been farther than Smorgon. But the impression made upon me by the girl’s speech was such that I did not stop to think how I would go away and what I would say to my parents.
“What does it matter!” I thought afterward. “Anyway there will soon be an end to our poverty!”
When, on my return home, mother reprimanded me for being away from the field, I answered her:
“Oh, Mamma dear, if you knew what a grand time we will soon have. There will be neither rich nor poor!”
“What nonsense are you talking?” cried my mother. “Where did you get all these stupid notions? I suppose that philosopher is teaching you all this trash.”
Mother meant Hannah. It was very painful to me that mother was so ignorant and could not understand such a simple thing, but I consoled myself with the thought that she would understand when the time came. I did not venture, however, to mention anything about going to the city.
Morning came. My parents went away. I hastily dressed myself in my best, and said to my sisters: “Tell Mamma that I went to Hannah.” And I ran out of the house, fearing that somebody might come and detain me. A conveyance was waiting in the rabbi’s yard. The old nag, urged on by a long whip in the hands of our driver, pulled at the wagon lazily, and we started.
Our wagon lurched and jolted on the rough road. Clouds of dust rose from under the horse’s hoofs. The sun was burning fiercely. I looked at the unmown fields, and a feeling of sadness filled my heart.
“How uneasy Father will feel when I shall not come to sleep,” I thought, but I did not share my thought with Hannah. I did not want to lower myself in her estimation. She evidently considered me more independent, and I derived great satisfaction from her opinion of me.
Four days we traveled thus, stopping overnight in peasant huts. About noon of the fifth day we arrived in Slonim where we stopped at an inn. Having instructed our driver to wait for us there, we went to look over the city. Our plan of action was a very simple one. We decided to look into every house through the windows, and go in wherever we saw a stocking-machine. Hannah walked on one side of the street, and I on the other. After a long search I saw a girl sitting at a machine. I went in. Women and children crowded around me and began to question me who I was and what I wanted.
“I have been sent by the secret organization, the ‘Bund,’ to organize a strike of the stocking-weavers,” I said. And I immediately began to describe that wonderful rich time which was to come soon. “There will be neither rich nor poor!” I concluded solemnly. I sincerely believed in what I was saying, and my hearers were carried away by my enthusiasm. They asked me to take off my things, and gave me to eat. Hannah also came in, having grown tired of waiting.
We sent a girl to call the other stocking-weavers. In about an hour the house was filled. I mounted a chair and, unexpectedly to myself, exhorted them to strike for the abolition of the unjust system. “Let there be neither rich nor poor! Let there be equality!” I shouted. The girls were much impressed by my speech. It was arranged to call a meeting of all the stocking-weavers in the city.
In the evening Hannah and I were conducted to the meeting-place, a large, old structure. It turned out to be a Jewish synagogue. It was in semi-darkness, and crowded with girls of all ages. Hannah explained to them the demands which they were to submit to their contractors the next morning, and I was getting ready to make a speech, when some one cried, “_Gorodovoi!_”[3] Terror seized everybody. Some one wisely put out the candles. Great confusion ensued. Pushing and jostling each other; all made for the door. Some fell. But all were silent. Only the heavy breathing of the frightened girls could be heard in the darkness. Gradually the room was cleared. Hannah took me by the arm, and we went out.
“We had better leave this city immediately,” she said to me, “otherwise we shall be arrested.”
That very evening we left for Oshmiany. This city made a great impression upon me. I had never before seen such nice houses and well-lighted streets. “This is a real paradise,” I thought to myself.
Hannah had a number of friends there and matters were arranged quickly. Soon all the stocking-weavers joined the strike. Having accomplished our purpose, Hannah and I returned to our homes. With a beating heart I approached our village. The broken panes of our cheerless hut greeted my eyes, and filled me with longing for the beautiful houses of the city.
Footnote 1:
My grandfather settled in Borovoi-Mlin, in the province of Vilna, in 1851. The Government granted certain privileges to Jewish agricultural colonists, exemption from military service for a period of twenty-five years being one of them. Military service in Russia at that time lasted twenty-five years, and the life of a soldier was terribly hard. Few ever returned to their native places. To save his sons from military duty, my grandfather decided to become a peasant.
Footnote 2:
Young gentleman.
Footnote 3:
Policeman.