Soon the duty of guarding us was given to the cadets of the 2nd Zhitomir School of 2nd Lieutenants. Our condition became much easier from the moral point of view. They not only watched over the prisoners, but also guarded them from the mob. And the mob, more than once, on various occasions, gathered near the guard-room and roared wildly, threatening to lynch us. In such cases the company on guard gathered hastily in a house nearly opposite us and the cadets on guard made ready their machine-guns. I recall that, calmly and clearly realising my danger, when the mob was especially stormy, I planned out my method of self-defence: a heavy water-bottle stood upon my table; with it I might hit the first man to break into my cell; his blood would infuriate and intoxicate the “comrades,” and they would kill me at once, without torturing me....
With the exception, however, of such unpleasant moments, our life in prison went on in a measured, methodical way; it was quiet and restful; after the strain of our campaigning, and in comparison with the moral suffering we had undergone, the physical inconveniences of the prison régime were mere trifles. Our life was varied by little incidents. Sometimes a Bolshevist cadet standing at the door would tell the sentry loudly, so that his words might be heard in the cell, that at their last meeting the comrades of Lyssaya Gora, having lost all patience, had finally decided to lynch us, and added that this was what we deserved. Another time, Markov, passing along the corridor, saw a cadet sentry leaning on his rifle, with the tears streaming from his eyes—he felt sorry for us. What a strange, unusual exhibition of sentiment in our savage days.
For a fortnight I did not leave my cell for exercise, not wishing to be an object of curiosity for the “comrades,” who surrounded the square before the guard-room and examined the arrested generals as if they were beasts in a menagerie. I had no communication with my neighbours, but much time for meditation and thought.
And every day as I open my window I hear from the house opposite a high, tenor voice—whether of friend or foe I know not—singing:
“This is the last day that I ramble with you, my friends.”
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
In Berdichev Gaol—The Transfer of the “Berdichev Group” of Prisoners to Bykhov.
Besides Markov and me, whose share in events has been depicted in the preceding chapters, the following were cast into prison: