I told him the story of my going to Kislovodsk to take the cure.
“But how did you ever get to Zverevo?” he inquired.
“I had a ticket to Kislovodsk. I did not know that Zverevo was such a forbidden place. Once they sold me a ticket, I thought it all right to follow the regular route,” I answered excitedly.
“I spent a couple of hours yesterday examining your case and the documents relating to it, but I could not quite understand how you got to Zverevo,” Stepan said. “Perhaps you really did go to see Kornilov?”
“I do not deny my friendship for Kornilov,” I declared, glad at heart that Stepan had turned up in such a position of authority. “But you know that I am almost illiterate and understand no politics and do not mix with any party. I fought in the trenches for Russia and it is Mother Russia alone that interests me. All Russians are my brothers.”
Stepan answered that he knew of my ignorance of political matters. He then went out to report to the tribunal, and shortly afterwards I was called in. There were six men, all common soldiers, seated at a long table covered with a green cloth, in the middle of a large hall, richly decorated. I was asked to sit down and tell my story, and how I got into Zverevo. The six judges were all young men, not one of them over thirty.
I was about to rise from the chair to tell my story, but was very courteously asked to remain seated. I then told of my wound in the back, of the operation that I still needed for the extraction of a piece of shell, and of my consulting a Petrograd physician who had advised me to go to the Springs at Kislovodsk. I said that I had heard of the fighting between Kornilov and the Bolsheviks, at Novotcherkask, but had no idea what a civil war was like and had never thought of a front in such a struggle. I, therefore, continued my journey to Nikitino, where the Commandant had sent me on to Zverevo. Of course, I failed to mention the fact that the Commandant had sent on to Zverevo, not Botchkareva, but Smirnova, a Sister of Mercy. I concluded with the statement that as soon as I reached Zverevo I realized that I was in a dangerous situation, and had surrendered to the local authorities.
I was informed that it would take a week for my case to be cleared up and a decision reached. Instead of sending me to the Butirka, the prison in which I had spent the last two weeks, I was taken to the military guard house, opposite the Soldiers’ Section. Drunken sailors and Red Guards were usually confined there. The room in which I was put was narrow and long, the windows were large but closely grated. There were about ten prisoners in it.
“Ah, Botchkareva! Look who’s here!”
I was met with these words as soon as I crossed the threshold. They quickly turned into phrases of abuse and ridicule. I was quiet, and sought seclusion and rest in a corner, but in vain. The inmates were Bolsheviks of the lowest sort, degenerates and former criminals. I was the object of their constant ill-treatment, so that torturing me day and night became their diversion. If I tried to sleep, I soon found some one near me. When I ate or drank, the beasts assembled about me, showering insults on me and playing dirty tricks. Weeping had no effect on them. Night after night I was forced to stay awake, sometimes throwing myself upon an intruder with my teeth in an effort to drive him away. I implored the warder to give me a cell to myself.