The Red Reign: The True Story of an Adventurous Year in Russia

by Kellogg Durland

I learned from others what happened outside of the rooms. The women ran to the gate with cries of “doctor.” A woman overseer opened it because, it seems, she was so bewildered she could not realize what had happened. All ran out into the corridor. There they met the prison director, who was going to our room. A comrade ran up to him and began beating his face with her fists. He was so bewildered that all he could do was to say: “I am not guilty. I gave no orders to shoot,” and went back and did not come again to our room. All the officials who came later were without him. The comrade who beat the director was taken by force to the hospital. Later she was allowed back.

Our first demand was that Semonova’s brother should know what had happened. We gave them his address, but we knew later they did not do it. We asserted that without her brother and without the court officials we would not give up the body, and we waited for the coroner and procuror. The prison inspector came, but went away soon. We were seventeen besides the dead in the room now because two from the hospital had come also. The overseers wanted to drag them back.

Imagine a large, high room, lighted by one lamp. On the cot the body with bloody head and glazed eyes covered with a sheet. Near the cot, on the floor where she had been lying, was a pool of blood. Many of us had blood on our hands and dresses. Some were annoyed by the light and the lamp was covered by a piece of dark cloth, then others were afraid of the darkness and after sitting some time in a dark corner would lose consciousness. Hysterical cries, long faintings, hallucinations—all we lived through that night....

The table was covered with bromo, Hoffman drops, ice-bags, ammonia, etc. We called the doctor every minute. We were afraid it would not end with one death only. After some hours they cleared a little room in the hospital and the weakest of us were brought there. At last, about eleven o’clock, the judge of the court and procuror came. While the judge and the doctor were examining the wound, we told the procuror that the brother had not yet been notified. “But I can do it,” he said. After the prison procuror came he said he would leave it to him and he sneaked away—because a talk with a dozen outraged and fury-like women could not have been agreeable to any one. You should have seen these “gentlemen” placed there in our cage and forced to hear epithets far from flattering which were addressed against them and the prison director. Of course any other time we would have had to pay for this, but in sight of the body which was still warm they could not bring themselves to call in the overseer and use force.

The procuror told me that all the details noted by the judge of inquiry would be handed over to the military procuror, because the murderer was a soldier. When the judge of inquiry left, the prison procuror and prison inspector remained. They told us that the body would be taken by the police to be buried. We replied that we would give it up only to her brother. We received the answer that that was impossible....

The procuror promised to influence the police to let the brother know before the burial and that the brother would be allowed to see one of us so that we might be assured that he was at the funeral. However he seemed frightened of his last promise and he said: “I will come myself to you and I will tell you about everything. You surely believe me.”

“We don’t believe you at all and we demand to see the brother.”

They were forced to consent and one of us was promised to see him.

A bier was brought. We put her on it ourselves and carried her out along the corridor. We wanted to keep her as long as possible from their unclean hands. Some one proposed to sing the funeral march, but our hearts were too heavy. Quietly, quietly we carried her through the corridor, then down-stairs, and there we put her in her coffin. There were packs of overseers in the upper and lower corridors. The scoundrels were waiting for a “disturbance.” They could not understand that that was far from our hearts. Through the open doorway we saw the police waiting for the coffin. There, too, the ugly face of the prison director hiding from us flashed by....

It was about one o’clock at night. We came back to the same room where all that remained of her was a pool of blood. We became terribly depressed as if we had behaved badly toward her to give her up without a fight. And no one will know where her grave will be, for we could not believe their promises. However, the next day one of us was called to see the brother. Expecting a lie, she asked him from where he comes, for she knew from Semonova where her birthplace was. He answered correctly. Then she told him the details of the shooting.