Early one morning I was summoned to the military prison of a certain town. A note was brought to me by a smart young Cossack, who clicked his heels, saluted most deferentially, and remained at attention in the best military manner while in my room. He said the note was from the prison commandant, and when my orderly had read it, he said my presence at the prison was requested.
We drove to the prison, and informed the sentry at the gate that we wished to see the commandant. Thereupon we were ushered into a spacious corridor, crowded with prisoners.
A young man pushed his way out of the crowd and accosted me in Russian. I told him that I could not talk with him till I had seen the commandant. He then said in perfect English: “I am an American—I am going to be shot. You must save me.”
It was my business to protect Americans.
“What part of the United States are you from?” I asked.
“New York City—Grand Street.”
“Were you born in New York City?”
“No. I was born in Russia. But I am an American. You tell ’em they can’t shoot me.”
“When were you naturalized in America?”
“Well, I didn’t take out any papers. But I lived in New York nine years.”