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Title: Nestor Makhno Author: Alexander Berkman Date: 1935 Language: en Topics: Russian revolution, anarchist movement, Ukraine, Nestor Makhno, Makhnovists, Alexander Berkman, memoir Source: Unpublished manuscript posted on a-infos news, accessed July 20, 2022 at https://www.ainfos.ca/04/mar/ainfos00245.html Notes: Images of the original unpublished manuscript are on the site of the International Institute for Social History at https://access.iisg.amsterdam/universalviewer/#?manifest=https://hdl.handle.net/10622/ARCH00040.221?locatt=view:manifest
In the Tenon hospital at Paris there recently died a man poor and
forsaken by almost every one of the millions that had once hailed him as
liberator and hero. His name was Nestor Makhno. Great personalities are
the cameos of life, standing out in bold relief on its canvas and giving
us a clearer understanding of the social background. History itself
often sculptures such significant figures that even the passage of time
cannot obliterate. They personify the genius of their people, and their
lives and deeds illuminate the past and cast a prophetic light on the
future. Such a figure was Nestor Makhno. True child of a revolutionary
epoch, his life and activities were imbued with the spirit of a
dominating purpose, and it is more than probable that but for him and
his insurgent army of Ukrainian peasants Soviet Russia might now be only
a memory.
It was in 1920 while traveling in Russia that I first heard of Nestor
Makhno. The stories circulated about him were so romantic, his exploits
so fantastic, and the estimates of him so contradictory that he seemed a
legendary figure. "Who is this Makhno they talk so much about?" I asked
a prominent Bolshevik. "A bandit," he replied with irritation, "a
dangerous counter-revolutionist who is giving us much trouble." "I've
heard people call him a revolutionary hero," I said. "He's a bandit," he
repeated angrily. "There is a big prize on his head and he will be shot
on sight." It was not till I came to Ukraina that Makhno began to assume
more definite form. Yet there too his personality proved elusive for a
while, and I gathered the true facts about him and his activities only
when chance threw me in contact with men that knew him at first hand. In
the pursuit of my work of collecting material on the history of the
Revolution, I called one day on the Chairman of the Communist Party in
Kharkov, as was my wont in every city I visited. The Soviet Government
had not yet firmly established its rule in Ukraina at that period, and
Kharkov resembled a military camp. It was difficult to secure admission
to Bolsheviki in high position, but my credentials from "the center," as
Moscow is called in the provinces, soon overcame all obstacles. I was in
conversation with the Secretary when a tall young man in military
uniform passed through the room. He glanced at me cursorily, looked
again and approached me. "Pardon me, tovarishch," he said, "but are you
not Berkman?" I admitted the identification. "Alexander Berkman?
Really?" And before I knew what he was about, he had thrown his arms
around me and kissed me three times in the traditional Russian fashion.
It was my old friend Leo, of America, Chief of the Commissary Department
of the Red Army stationed in Kharkov. The delicate, slender youth I had
known in new York many years before had become a strapping fellow of
assured military bearing. A deep scar on his face, evidently a sword
cut, added resolution to his appearance. "Well, I'll be damned!" he
cried, "who would have ever dreamed of meeting you here! I didn't know
you were in this country heard you were in prison. Say, there's a
thousand things I'd love to talk over with you and..." Suddenly
interrupting himself he asked "Perhaps on a secret mission?" "Not at
all," I said. "Well, then, I want you to look me up, and there's a bunch
of fellows with me who'd be wild to see you." He scribbled an address on
a slip of paper and left.
I had some difficulty in finding Leo's place. It was outside the city
limits, a small camp occupied by the officer and his family. Among those
present I recognised several men from the States; one of them, called
the Emigrant, I had known in Detroit. "You're late, old boy, not at all
American-like," Leo chided me good-naturedly. He waived my excuses
aside: "It's all right we're a bit out of the way. But it's quiet here
and we can talk!" We talked of old times, everyone eager to know what
was going on in the world and particularly in America. Russia was
blockaded, and they felt cut off from the rest of mankind. But before
long the conversation turned to the Revolution. Ukraina was still in a
state of war the Whites had started a new offensive, and fighting was
going on in different parts of the South. Leo had been active in the
Revolution from its very beginning; he had served on various fronts and
he was thoroughly conversant with the situation. "You'll find conditions
different here than in Petrograd or Moscow," he said. "There things are
more or less settled, but here we're still in the midst of revolution.
You see, victory in Russia proper was comparatively easy, but Ukraina is
not Russia. We are a country of 40 millions, of different stock, with
our own language and culture. The Revolution did not follow the same
lines here as in the North. There the Bolsheviki easily got into power
after the fall of Kerensky, but here we've had fourteen different
governments in the last two years..." "And no government at all," the
Emigrant put in. "He means Makhno," Leo explained. "You must have heard
of him, haven't you? "I have. In Moscow I was told that he is a bandit
who is to be shot on sight." "They'll have to catch him first," the
Emigrant laughed. "Oh, they told you that, did they?" Leo cried,
suddenly jumping to his feet. "You see this?" He pointed to the scar on
his face. "That's what I got for believing Makhno a bandit!" "Don't talk
in riddles," the Emigrant said. "Why don't you tell it straight you're
ashamed of it, are you?" "Yes, I'm ashamed," Leo retorted. "Ashamed of
having been such a damned fool! You see," he continued, turning to me,
"I also believed Makhno a bandit. I was in Budenny's cavalry then.
Several detachments of our 19th Division were stationed in a village in
the Gulyai-Pole district the Makhno region, you know. Well, one day we
received orders to attack a band of Greens operating in the
neighbourhood..." "But he doesn't know who the Greens are," the Emigrant
interrupted. "That's so," Leo admitted. "The Greens are bandits, so
called because their headquarters are always in the woods. Well, we
surrounded the forest and we were sure we had the entire band when we
saw clouds of dust rising from the valley. Some horsemen were
approaching there wasn't more than fifty of them. Budenny shouted
something and my company, over two hundred strong, fired a volley right
into the bunch. They had evidently not seen us and were taken by
surprise. I saw the men in the first line fall and their horses run
wild. We prepared to pursue them we were sure they'd turn and flee we
outnumbered them five to one. Well, before we knew it they had galloped
straight into us, slashing right and left with their sabres and shouting
'Liberty or death'. Their attack was so unexpected, so incredibly
reckless that our men became panicky. We fled." Leo stopped, his hand
raised to his scarred cheek as if in recollection of the pain. "We knew
no Greens could fight like that," he began again. "Budenny had lied to
us they were Makhno men." "He got a taste of Makhno without ever seeing
him," the Emigrant teased. "Served him right, too!" "They were not
bandits?" I asked. "Bandits hell!" Leo cried angrily. "Don't you believe
such rot! Makhno a bandit! He and his forces were part of the Red Army
then!" Evidently reading the amazement in my face, he added: "You have a
good deal to learn before you'll understand what has been going on
here." "He'll learn all right, don't you worry," the Emigrant commented
cheerfully; "no better school than the Revolution." "He'll never learn
it in Moscow," Leo persisted, "but if he stays long enough here, and if
you..." He hesitated a moment, looking questioningly at his friend. "Can
I tell him?" he asked. "Of course. Go right ahead," the Emigrant said.
"Well, Alexander, he can tell you things that will be eye-openers all
right. He's worked with Makhno, you know." I remembered the Emigrant as
a quiet, serious youth interested in social problems. He was of a
studious rather than military disposition, and I could not conceive of
him in the role of a bandit or dare-devil under any flag whatever. I
wondered what his "work" with the redoubtable Makhno might have been.
"Speaking of eye-openers," the Emigrant remarked genially, "how about a
drink, boys? It's fearfully hot." The home-made Russian kvass, distilled
from apples, tasted cool and refreshing. It was a typical Ukrainian
midsummer night: not a breath of air stirred; the sky, star studded,
hung low but clear, and all was quiet save for the monotonous murmur of
the spring nearby and the occasional trill of a bird in the woods. In
the distance lay the wide steppe and the voluptuous fields, majestically
silent and indifferent to human strife. We talked far into the night.
The Emigrant proved a veritable encyclopedia with a phenomenal memory
for names, dates and events. He sketched for me the story of the
Revolution since its inception with the illuminating insight into cause
and effect that marks the creative historian. He seemed familiar with
every phase of the great struggle, and he had the habit of punctuating
his story with: "It's my document Number so and so of such and such a
date signed by so and so..." He was apparently a non-partisan collector,
and when later I had opportunity to examine his historic treasure, I
found rare and valuable documents in it, proclamations and decrees
issued by Lenin and Trotsky, by the German occupational forces, by
Makhno, as well as by Denikin, Wrangel and other White generals. It was
from the Emigrant that I first heard the story of Makhno. To my
amazement I learned that far from being a bandit, as the Bolsheviki had
assured me, he was an old "political" who had been condemned to death
for revolutionary activity under the Tsarist regime. Because of his
youth the sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment, and Makhno
spent 10 years in the Butirky, the Central Prison at Moscow, where for 9
years he was kept chained hand and foot till he was liberated by the
February Revolution. The Emigrant lived in Ukraina at the time and he
met Makhno soon after the latter had returned to Gulyai-Pole, his native
village in the province of Ekaterinoslav. Makhno, then less than 30
years old, was slightly under medium height, of strong build, with
piercing steel-grey eyes and determined expression. The son of an
Ukrainian peasant, there flowed in his veins the blood of Cossack
forebears famed for their independent spirit and fighting qualities.
Though weakened by long confinement, during which his lungs had become
affected, Makhno astonished every one by his vitality and energy. Soon
he became talked of as the leader of small insurgent bands against the
Austro-German invaders of Ukraina who had become the rulers of the
country after the Brest-Litovsk peace. It was apparently a hopeless
struggle against tremendous odds that Makhno and his handful of rebel
peasants undertook; but their extraordinary daring and fantastic
exploits quickly won for them popular admiration, and within a short
time Makhno had a considerable force generously supplied with provisions
and horses by the grateful peasantry. He waged merciless guerilla
warfare against the native masters and the foreign oppressor, and fought
every counter-revolutionary general who sought to subdue the rebellious
peasantry and take away from them the land they had expropriated from
the big landlords. Entire armies were sent to "catch and punish Makhno,"
as the phrase went, but he always proved elusive, attacking the enemy at
the most unexpected time and place and spreading terror among them.
Invariably at the head of his light cavalry, he seemed to have a charmed
life. He was reputed never to have lost a battle and never to have been
wounded, though his favorite method was a hand-to-hand fight with a
sword or saber. His fame spread far and wide, and before long the
Ukrainian peasantry grew to believe that Makhno was "immune to bullets
and safe from the sword." It was due mainly to the leadership and unique
generalship of Makhno that by the end of 1918 Ukraina was freed from the
foreign invaders. But the rebel chieftain was not content with military
victories. He undertook to put into practice the unrealised ideals of
the October Revolution and to protect his Gulyai-Pole region against
domination of any kind, political or military. He exchanged the sword
for the pen and the platform, and became the adviser and teacher of his
people. Soviets of Peasants and Workers were organized throughout
Southeastern Ukraina, differing from the Bolshevik Soviets in that they
were entirely independent of political parties or governmental
authority. Moscow looked askance at the new social experiment attempted
by Makhno. The Bolshevik press began to attack him and presently it
denounced him as an enemy of the Communist Party. The peasant movement
led by Makhno, called Makhnovshchina, was labeled as banditry and
counter-revolution. But Makhno continued his work in spite of the
Kremlin, and whenever the Revolution was in danger he hastened to the
aid of the Bolsheviki. Thus, in the fall of 1919, when Denikin had
succeeded in reaching Orel and was threatening Moscow and the very
existence of the Soviet Government, it was Makhno and his peasant army
who attacked the Tsarist General, defeated him in several important
battles, cut the Whites off [from] their base of supplies and forced
Denikin to beat a hasty retreat. Yet notwithstanding the great services
Makhno gave to the Revolution, the Bolsheviki kept denouncing him and
finally Trotsky outlawed him.
What I heard from the Emigrant and Leo greatly disconcerted me. I knew
how sincere and devoted to the Revolution my friends were both had
suffered and bled for it yet I could not, would not, credit what they
had told me. It seemed too monstrous to believe. I determined to learn
the whole truth. Perhaps it was all due to some misunderstanding
resulting from the storm and stress of the time, I thought, and may be I
could help in some way to clear up the situation. My work called me away
from Kharkov to other parts of Ukraina. The further I went South the
more conflicting and fantastic became the stories about Makhno and his
doings. I visited places his forces had occupied at one time or another
and met people in various walks of life soldiers, workers, peasants,
among them some who had fought with or against Makhno. Strange to say,
even his bitterest enemies, while denouncing him as a
counter-revolutionary and pogromshtchik (Jew baiter) could not hide
their secret admiration of the man who with a mere handful had faced
whole armies and always came out victorious. His exploits were so
unusual that even the Communists in Ukraina gave him credit for
extraordinary courage and military genius. It was a Bolshevik who
related to me how Makhno, planning to attack a town occupied by Denikin,
arranged a peasant wedding to be celebrated in the public square.
Masquerading as merry-makers, Makhno's men distributed generous portions
of vodka among the soldiers of the garrison. At the height of the
drunken orgy Makhno suddenly appeared at the head of a small band of
horsemen. Overwhelmed by the unexpected and savage attack the entire
garrison, a thousand strong, capitulated without a fight. Makhno had the
reputation of frequently resorting to similar strategy, as when he took
the city of Ekaterinoslav where Petlura had concentrated a large
contingent of his army. Protected by the river Dniepr, all the
approaches strongly guarded, the Whites seemed safe from attack. But
nothing could dissuade the reckless leader of the povstantsy, as the
insurgent peasants were called, from his determination to take
Ekaterinoslav. Singly and by twos inoffensive looking peasants began
gathering in Nizhne-Dneprovsk, a village on the opposite side of the
river. Then one morning at dawn the men, carrying large packs of
provisions, filled the train connecting the village with the city.
Straight into the railroad station the train steamed, and suddenly there
poured from it a thousand men armed with machine guns. A desperate
battle took place in the very heart of the city, and in the evening
Ekaterinoslav was in the hands of Makhno. The nearer I came to the
Makhno region the more I was struck by the reverence with which the
peasants spoke of Makhno. Once, while talking to an old mouzhik, a
veritable patriarch with long white beard, I was surprised by him taking
off his peasant cap with a reverential gesture when Makhno's name was
mentioned. "A good, great man," he said, "may the Lord preserve him.
It's two years now since he was here, but I can see him before me now as
he stood on a bench in the square and talked to us. We are dark people
and we could never make out those Bolsheviks orating to us. But he spoke
our own tongue, and his speech was simple. 'Brothers', he said, 'I've
come to help you. We've driven the landlord and his soldiers away and
now you are free. Divide the land among yourself, justly and like
brothers, and work for the good of everyone'. A good, holy man," he
concluded earnestly. He stepped to the icon hanging in the corner of the
hut, bowed and crossed himself, and then turned to me in all majesty of
pious conviction. "Pugatchev's prophesy has come true, God be thanked!"
he exclaimed. "One hundred and fifty years ago, as the great rebel lay
on the rack, he said to Tsarina Ekaterina, 'I've only frightened you,
but before long there will come an iron broom that will sweep all you
tyrants off our holy Russian earth'. That broom is here it's BATKO
Makhno!" "Batko?" I wondered. "Yes, Batko Makhno. He is not our
commander, not our general he's our friend, our 'Little Father', our
beloved Batko, the most honored title we could give him. I paid dearly
for it, but he deserves the name." I looked at him questioningly. "Last
year Shurko came here, Denikin's bloody general," he continued. "He gave
back our land to the old masters, took everything away from us and
forced our young men into his army. We resisted. Ivan, my oldest boy,
was taken out and shot; many others, too. We sent word to Makhno. He
came only with a few hundred and Shurko had 3,000 men in the village. We
felt we were doomed. But that same night Makhno cut his way through the
enemy outposts, attacked the Whites and then rode into the very center
of our village. We all rushed to his aid with pick and axe and by dawn
we had driven Shurko and his cut-throats out of the village, Makhno
pursuing them across the river." He paused for a moment, then said
solemnly: "My son, it was a miracle. In the morning peasants from the
whole district gathered in our square. Old Vassily, my neighbor, was
their spokesman. 'Little Father', he said to Makhno, 'you are our
liberator. Henceforth you will be our Batko, and we swear to follow you
unto death!'" The old man's voice trembled. "I lost my other boy that
night," he said brokenly, "but that is how Makhno became our Batko."
Some time later I visited Kiev. One evening, as I was about to retire,
there came a knock at my door. I wondered who the late comer might be.
Severe fighting was going on in the environs and the city was under
martial law. Being out after dark was forbidden under pain of death
except by special permission of the military authorities. Perhaps the
Ccheka, the dreaded secret police, I thought. They always operated at
night and a call from them in those days boded no good. But my relations
with the Bolsheviki were still of the friendliest. An arrest was hardly
probable. I opened the door cautiously. The hallway was dark and
deserted, but suddenly a small figure stepped out from a niche in the
wall. It was a woman, apparently a peasant, with a basket on her arm. A
large shawl, covering her head and wrapped high above her neck, almost
completely hid her features. "I want to see you," she said. She spoke
Russian with a touch of the Ukrainian accent. I led her to a chair. She
took off her shawl and to my astonishment I beheld a young woman of
striking beauty. "I am Galina, Makhno's wife," she said in a low mellow
voice. "I bring you a message from him." The very mention of that name,
under the circumstances, was fraught with danger. It suddenly came to me
that it was probably Makhno who at the very moment was fighting the
Bolsheviki. The rumble of artillery could be heard in the distance.
"Makhno here?" I cried. Warningly she put her finger to her lips. "He's
not very far off," she said. "But how could you run such danger?" I
asked in alarm. "You know what it means." "I do," she replied quietly.
"But Nestor has been waiting for you he hoped you would find a way to
come. He is very anxious you should know what is going on." "And for
that you risked your life?" "Perhaps you do not realise how important it
is. Nestor wants you to know that he is your comrade, your true
comrade," she emphasised. "I don't approve of his fighting the
Bolsheviki," I said. "You still believe in them?" she asked, and in her
tone there was a touch of bitter sadness. "I disagree with them in many
things," I replied, "but they are beset by enemies on every side and I
think everyone to whom the Revolution is dear must help them defend
it..." "It's Makhno who is defending the Revolution," she interrupted
heatedly. "By fighting the Bolsheviki?" "As long as the Bolsheviki
fought for the Revolution, Makhno was with them," she said gravely. "He
and our povstantsy were part of the Red Army. We fought Hetman
Skoropadsky, Petlura, Grigoriev, Denikin and every other White enemy.
When the Bolsheviki were in trouble they always appealed to Nestor for
help, and he never failed to respond. But as soon as the danger was
over, Moscow turned against us. They denounced us as bandits and
counter-revolutionists, they put a price on Nestor's head and even tried
to murder him..." "But that's incredible," I cried; "I can't believe
that Lenin or Trotsky..." "Nestor knew it would be hard for you to
believe such treachery on the part of the old revolutionists," she
retorted. "I have brought documents to convince you." "But what have
they got against Makhno?" I demanded. "There must be some very good
reasons..." "Very good reasons," she replied. "That is just what Nestor
sent me to explain to you." With clear, bold strokes she sketched for me
the story of Makhno and the movement he headed. He had organized
communes in the Gulyai-Pole district, and a large part of Ukraina,
covering hundreds of miles, with millions of population, live a free
life and refused to submit to the domination of any political party. The
Bolsheviki sought to impose their authority on the peasantry, but the
latter ignored them. Finally Moscow decided to liquidate Makhno, and
Trotsky issued an order suppressing the Revolutionary Military Soviet of
the Makhno region and outlawing all its members. "Here," she said,
handing me a document, "you can read it for yourself." It was a general
order of the Revolutionary Military Soviet of the Republic, dated June
4, 1919, and marked Number 1824. It read in part: "The Soviet session
called by the Executive Committee of Gulyai-Pole and the Staff of the
Makhno Brigade for June 15th is hereby prohibited and will not be
permitted to take place under any circumstances. Participation in it
will be regarded as treason to the Soviet Republic and will be dealt
with accordingly...... The present order goes into effect at once, by
telegraph. TROTSKY Chairman, Revolutionary Military Soviet of the
Republic VATSETIS Commander-in-Chief ARALOV Member, Revolutionary
Military Soviet of the Republic KOSHKAREV Regional Military Commander,
Kharkov."
"It was a declaration of war against us," Galina continued. "At the same
time Trotsky gave secret orders for the capture of Nestor, his entire
staff and all the members of our Cultural Department..." "Cultural
Department?" "Yes, of course. We have a special bureau in our army which
issues papers, pamphlets and leaflets to explain our ideas and aims to
the people. You know the Emigrant? Well, he works with me there, and he
is a most valuable man, too," she smiled brightly. "We have won over the
greater part of Grigoriev's army by our propaganda. Nestor is very
anxious to have you see what we are doing there. But I was telling you
about Trotsky's order. Well, you know Trotsky he means what he says.
Five days later the Red forces attacked Gulyai-Pole, our headquarters.
Several members of our Soviet and of the Military Staff were captured by
a ruse and executed. Trotsky knew that at that very moment Nestor was
fighting a new Denikin offensive, but he refused to supply us with
ammunition. He declared that Makhno was a greater menace than Denikin.
And he was right," she commented bitterly, "our free ideas are more
dangerous to Moscow than the Whites." "But you said that Makhno belonged
to the Red Army?" "Yes." "Then how could Trotsky refuse him supplies?"
"He did worse than that. He removed several Red Army regiments from our
north-eastern front, and that gave Denikin's cavalry a chance to attack
Makhno's left flank. Without ammunition, our men were forced to retreat,
the first time it ever happened. And what do you think Trotsky did
then?" "What?" I asked breathlessly. "He charged us with deliberately
opening the front to Denikin!" She paused a moment to control her
emotion. "Nestor was in a terrible situation," she presently continued.
"He realised the sinister conspiracy against him, but he refused to turn
his arms against the Bolsheviki. The cause of the Revolution was too
dear to him. He decided to resign his command in the Red Army and he
notified Moscow about it. He issued a call to the povstantsy to keep on
fighting the Whites and then he withdrew." "Entirely?" "You must have
heard what happened. The Red Army kept retreating before Denikin. The
latter reached Orel and was threatening Moscow. The Bolsheviki were in a
panic. It meant the defeat of the Revolution and the return of Tsarism.
Then Nestor threw himself into the breach again. He collected his forces
and gave battle to Denikin. He attacked his flank and cut him off his
artillery base. Denikin turned back, and Nestor drove him toward the Don
River. It was the end of Denikin." "Surely the Bolsheviki must have
appreciated Makhno's help," I said. "You don't know them yet," she
retorted impatiently. "When they didn't need him any more they outlawed
him again, just as they had done when he saved them from the Ataman."
"What Ataman?" "Ataman Grigoriev, a Tsarist officer who had gone over to
the Bolsheviki." She picked up the bundle of documents and handed me a
paper. It was a Bolshevik telegram, dated May 12, 1919, and addressed to
"Gulyai-Pole, Batko Makhno, wherever found." It was signed by the
Commander-in-Chief of the Southern Red Army who informed Makhno that
"Ataman Grigoriev betrayed the front and turned his arms against the
Soviets." The telegram urged the povstantsy leader "immediately to issue
proclamations against the traitor and suppress the mutiny." "It did not
take Nestor long to liquidate the Ataman," Galina continued. "Grigoriev
had a strong army, but it consisted mostly of peasants drafted against
their will. Nestor wanted to avoid shedding their blood. He directed our
Cultural Department to publish a proclamation, accusing the Ataman of
counter-revolution. Then he called a meeting of several detachments of
Grigoriev's force. The Ataman was invited to deny the charges against
him, and he came with his whole staff. Nestor publicly charged him with
treason to the Revolution. Grigoriev grew furious and drew his gun. I
saw him point at Nestor who stood with his back to the Ataman, facing
the audience." She stopped, turning pale at the recollection. "Did he
shoot?" I asked anxiously. "He was shot himself and more than half of
his army went over to us." "But Moscow did not give up its plan of
destroying Nestor," she began again after a while. "When the country was
cleared of the counter-revolutionary generals, Trotsky ordered Makhno
into the Polish campaign. It was contrary to our military agreement
which provided that the Makhno army should be kept on the anti-Denikin
front. Nestor realised that it was a scheme to eliminate him from
Ukraina and destroy the povstantsy movement. He protested against the
order and Trotsky outlawed him again. Moscow declared war on us and sent
a whole army into our region. The Red commanders avoided open battle
with us, but they trained their artillery on our unprotected villages
and shot the peasants by the thousands. We had to resort to guerilla
tactics again, as in the days of Skoropadsky and the German invader."
I felt overwhelmed. I could not believe that Lenin and Trotsky, who had
from their youth devoted their lives to the cause of the people, could
be guilty of treachery to the Revolution, as Galina charged. Yet there
were the facts and documents, and they corroborated everything that Leo
and the Emigrant had told me. "Galina," I said, "I know Lenin and
Trotsky personally. May be something could be done to straighten things
out an understanding be brought about..."She looked at me skeptically.
"You mean well, Comrade Alexander, but it is out of the question. It's
too late for that." "I wish I could talk it over with Makhno himself," I
pursued, "though I know it's impossible..." "Perhaps not so impossible
as you think," she said earnestly. "It's what I've come to see you
about. Nestor is planning to meet you..." "But my work is official my
movements are known...""If the mountain can't come to the prophet, you
understand?" she smiled brightly.
Makhno's plan was very simple, she explained. He was aware that the
least attempt on my part to reach him would have the most serious
consequences and might even prove fatal to me. He therefore proposed to
capture the train on which I would be traveling to my next destination.
He would take me "prisoner of war" and later give me safe conduct to
Bolshevik territory. Such a manoeuvre would clear me of suspicion of
deliberate dealing with the prescribed "bandit." It was a bold and
daring plan, but I had heard enough of Makhno's exploits not to doubt
his ability to carry it out. "What do you say, comrade?" Galina asked.
"On one condition," I replied, "there must be no bloodshed." "Agreed,"
she said eagerly.
I was waiting impatiently for word from Makhno, but the days passed
without a sign from him. The city grew more peaceful, its appearance
less military: the fighting had evidently been transferred to some other
place. Before long I left Kiev, my work taking me toward Odessa. The
train was speeding me away from the povstantsy region, and I wondered
what had happened to prevent Makhno from carrying out his scheme of
"kidnapping" me. At a village station along our route I noticed people
crowding around a large poster on the wall. There was much shouting and
excitement, and I heard some one cry, "Another front, God help us!" I
hastened over. In large black type the poster announced that General
Wrangel had started an offensive against the Soviets. He was advancing
northwest from the Crimea and laying waste the country on his way.
Suddenly the words BANDIT MAKHNO caught my eye. "Turned traitor" the
poster read "fighting on the side of Wrangel." I was staggered. Could it
be true, I wondered. Was Makhno really fighting on the side of the
counter-revolution? Yet somehow it seemed incredible... Rumors of Makhno
pogroms also began to increase. We were in the zone of the former
ghetto, the old Jewish Pale, and on every hand I saw the terrible
effects of destruction and slaughter. I met Pogrom survivors, victims of
fiendish torture, mutilated almost out of human shape. Some of the
Jewish places, such as Fastov, Belo-Tserkov, Lisyanka and others, had
been pogromed repeatedly by every army that passed through them,
including Denikin, Petlura, Grigoriev and the Greens. Here and there I
came upon Jews who asserted that their villages had been attacked by
Makhno bands. Later on, in Odessa, I met representatives of various
Jewish organisations for the investigation of excesses against Jews, as
well as the secretaries of archives covering one thousand pogroms, but
not a single case could be substantiated as a Makhno pogrom. Jew baiting
by individual Makhno povstantsy there had undoubtedly been, as also by
detachments of the Red Army. But Makhno no less than the Bolsheviki was
merciless in suppressing such manifestations of racial persecution and
hatred. Makhno's determination to stamp out pogroms was well known in
South-eastern Ukraina, and I collected many of his proclamations against
Jew baiting. Moreover, I knew that a number of Jews were working with
Makhno and that several of his nearest friends and advisers were Jews.
Repeatedly I had the curious experience of people telling me of a
"Makhno pogrom," relating every detail of it and minutely describing the
Batko's appearance, only to learn upon investigation that Makhno had
never been within a hundred miles of the pogromed district. It was an
established fact that the Greens and other marauders, aware of the
terror inspired by Makhno among the enemy, often masqueraded as Makhno
men when descending upon a village. My next destination was the
Caucasus. On my way there I hoped to learn something about the real
activities of Makhno and perhaps even come in contact with his army. Our
expedition was about to leave Odessa when we were informed by the
Bolshevik military authorities that all roads eastward were cut off.
Wrangel had defeated the Soviet forces in several engagements and was
advancing toward Rostov-on-the-Don. We were compelled to change our
itinerary and proceed northward. Arriving in Moscow, I was surprised to
find the city in festive attire and the people jubilant. The walls were
covered with posters announcing the complete rout of Wrangel. Still
greater was my astonishment when I glanced at the Bolshevik newspapers.
They were full of praise for Nestor Makhno! They called him the Nemesis
of the Whites and recited how his cavalry was at that very moment
pursuing the remnants of Wrangel's army across the Crimean Peninsula.
Some time later, while walking along a crowded street in the capital, I
was hailed by a black-bearded man wearing heavy dark spectacles. "Don't
recognise me in Moscow, do you?" he said in a bantering tone that
immediately recalled to me the Emigrant. "What's happened?" I asked in
bewilderment, realising that he was in disguise. "Haven't you heard?" he
demanded. We retired to a quiet place. My Detroit friend, usually so
quiet and collected, was evidently laboring under great excitement.
"Just escaped with my life," he began abruptly. "From Kharkov. The whole
Congress arrested, several of our men executed..." "Executed? Why? What
Congress?" I cried in horror. "Don't you know? Where the devil have you
been anyhow? Why didn't you answer Makhno's wire?" I looked at him
blankly. "Oh, that's it, is it?" he broke out. "Now I understand they
didn't give you the telegram they didn't want you to serve on the
Agreement Committee. Oh, what a rotten crew!" I learned that the
Bolsheviki had appealed to Makhno for aid against Wrangel and made a
military-political agreement with him. The hounding of Makhno and his
men was to be stopped, arrested members of his organisation were to be
freed, and the Makhno region left its full autonomy. Makhno had sent me
a wire, care of Tchicherin, at the Foreign Office (where I was at the
time receiving my mail) requesting me to act as one of his
representatives on the Agreement Committee. Upon Makhno's return from
the Wrangel campaign, there took place a Congress in Kharkov, to which
delegates of Makhno and the Left wing radicals came from every part of
the country. At the first session of the Congress (on Nov. 26, 1920)
every delegate was arrested and a number of them executed. "On the same
day Makhno's headquarters at Gulyai-Pole were attacked by Soviet
artillery," the Emigrant continued. "Several companies of his cavalry,
returning from the Crimea, were treacherously surrounded by the 4th
Soviet Army and destroyed almost to a man. Semyon Karetnik, our Crimean
commander, was captured by a ruse and executed together with his Chief
of Staff and several members of the Soviet." "And Makhno?" "Shot in
battle may be dying now. Galina and some peasant friends are taking care
of him." His head sank on his chest and his shoulders twitched with
suppressed sobbing. Presently controlling himself, he rose to his feet.
"I'm leaving tonight for Gulyai-Pole," he said. "It's war to the knife
now."
There began a life-and-death struggle. Rarely had a military genius been
put to a severer test than was Makhno that fateful year of 1921. With a
force of only 3,000 sabers, surrounded by a Soviet army of 150,000 men,
he and his men were apparently doomed. Yet for nine months he kept up
the unequal combat, fighting almost day and night. Again and again he
broke through the ring of death, gave battle right and left, and
continued, unconquered, to lead his handful of fighters to safety. In a
letter to a friend Nestor Makhno related the end of that heroic episode
in the history of the Makhnovshtchina: "The Bolshevik infantry was hard
on our heels, Budenny's cavalry ahead of us the situation was desperate.
But you know the quality of our fighters. We suffered great losses, but
we kept right ahead without changing the plan I had mapped out. Daily
our men demonstrated that they were indeed the army of the Revolution
and of the people. All the conditions were against us and it seemed
inevitable that our forces should soon melt away. But our great cause
held them together. In fact, we grew in numbers and equipment.
Repeatedly Bolshevik detachments refused to fight us and joined our
ranks, as did for instance the entire First Brigade of the 4th Division
of Budenny's cavalry who went over to us together with Maslak, their
commander. Daily fighting developed wonderful heroism and defiance of
death, our boys galloping straight into the enemy, crying 'Liberty or
death!'... In one such engagement I was shot off my horse. The men
thought me dead and retreated, carrying me unconscious for 12 versts.
The next day we were attacked by the 9th Cavalry Division. I lay in a
fever, too weak to mount my horse. My machine-gun men surrounded me.
'Batko', they said, 'you're needed for the cause, and we mean to die
right here to save you!' I felt some one press his lips on my cheek, and
then I was lifted up and carried away. I heard a great rattle and I knew
my gunners were sacrificing themselves for me. Not one of them remained
alive... On August 13th, with only a hundred horsemen, we fought our way
toward the Dniepr. That day I was wounded six times. A week later we
were headed off by a strong Red force, but we broke through again..."
Suffering from numerous wounds, his forces decimated by continuous
fighting, and wishing to end the bloodshed in the hopeless struggle,
Makhno decided to leave Russia. On August 28th, 1921, he crossed the
border to Rumania. The Soviet Government demanded his extradition and
made no secret of its intention to execute him. But Rumania considered
Makhno a political and as such not subject to the death penalty
according to her laws. She therefore refused Moscow's demand. After many
adventures Makhno succeeded in reaching Poland where he was arrested and
imprisoned. Later he was interned in Danzig, whence he managed to escape
to Germany. It was in Berlin that I met him, in 1922, with his faithful
companion Galina. "It's a different meeting I planned, comrade
Alexander," he greeted me with a sad smile, "but that very night I was
called a hundred miles away from Kiev. Too bad things might have been
different." I was shocked at his appearance. The storm and stress of his
year-long struggle, physical and mental suffering had reduced the
strong, stockily-built povstantsy leader to a mere shadow. His face and
body were scarred by wounds, his shattered foot made him permanently
lame. Yet his spirit remained unbroken and he still dreamed of returning
to his native land and taking up again the struggle for liberty and
social justice. Life in exile was insupportable to him; he felt torn out
by the very roots and he yearned for his beloved Ukraina. "Alexander,
let's go back to Russia," he would often say; "we are needed there." But
he realised that return was impossible. Grey and humdrum existence, want
and petty cares above all, the longing to help his people, made living a
constant torture to Makhno. He was visibly wasting away, and I feared
that his hours were numbered...
Some day history may relate the full story of the tempestuous rebel who
played such a significant part in the Russian Revolution the man of
whose powerful personality and passionate love of liberty there now
remains only a handful of ashes marked Urn Number 3934, in Pere
Lachaise. But even in death Batko Makhno remains close to his brothers
in spirit, the heroic Communards of Paris.