they placed me. It flashed upon me suddenly; they were going to shoot me!
In all three directions not a human being was in sight. The only sign of life was smoke from the chimney of a datchya, a rambling wooden house a quarter of a mile up the side road. The two soldiers were walking out into the road. Desperately I ran after them.
“But comrades! See! Here is the seal of the Military Revolutionary Committee!”
They stared stupidly at my pass, then at each other.
“It is different from the others,” said one, sullenly. “We cannot read, brother.”
I took him by the arm. “Come!” I said. “Let’s go to that house. Some one there can surely read.” They hesitated. “No,” said one. The other looked me over. “Why not?” he muttered. “After all, it is a serious crime to kill an innocent man.”
We walked up to the front door of the house and knocked. A short, stout woman opened it, and shrank back in alarm, babbling, “I don’t know anything about them! I don’t know anything about them!” One of my guards held out the pass. She screamed. “Just to read it, comrade.” Hesitatingly she took the paper and read aloud, swiftly:
The bearer of this pass, John Reed, is a representative of the American Social-Democracy, an internationalist…
Out on the road again the two soldiers held another consultation. “We must take you to the Regimental Committee,” they said. In the fast-deepening twilight we trudged along the muddy road. Occasionally we met squads of soldiers, who stopped and surrounded me with looks of menace, handing my pass around and arguing violently as to whether or not I should be killed…
It was dark when we came to the barracks of the Second
