Fighting Without a War: An Account of Military Intervention in North Russia

by Ralph Albertson

There can be no more hospitable people anywhere in the world than these Russian people are. Their doors are never closed against strangers, and with unfailing courtesy they offer the best they have. I have traveled nearly a thousand versts by sled over this northern country and stopped every six hours at a private house for a samovar and perhaps a bed. To have the best the house afforded given me once or twice and pay refused would not have impressed me so much, but to have uniform hospitality extended me as though it were my right and to have this done without consciousness of virtue made me feel that the world's championship in hospitality abides with the people of this bleak and inhospitable country.

The women work in the fields with the men.
Russians love their homes and their villages devotedly.

They get their living from the soil in a very short season, and this is possible only because the summer day is twenty-four hours long. This means that in the short growing season the crops grow very rapidly, and it also means that all the work has to be done in that limited time. If the crops grow twenty-four or twenty-two or twenty hours, then the peasant must work the harder. The wife and mother and children must also work. Most of the farm work is done by each family for itself, but some of it is done by the whole village co-operatively. I spent a half-day working in a hayfield with peasants from Konetsgory who were eight versts from home. There were seventy-five of them, men, women, and children, and they stayed in that field five days and nights until the great stacks were finished. The hay was community property to which each family had a right in proportion to the number in the family. I noticed that they ate by families while at this work, the food being strictly private property. And I saw Mrs. "Smith" give Mrs. "Jones" some of her fresh cake, and other little private property courtesies. I asked if the families at Konetsgory not represented by workers in the field would have a right to any of the hay. Of course they would, because they were doing other work as directed by the staroster.

The staroster is a public official chosen by a meeting of the peasants whose duty it is to assess labor for any public or co-operative purpose. His assessments are compulsory upon men, women, children, and horses. With most of the men in the army, as is now and has been the case for so long, his chief labor resource of course is women. When there are exceptions to his authority such as doctors and school teachers, these persons do not count in the distributions of the co-operative products.

In all distributions of land and products now women are counted. This is a result of the revolution and has been brought about not because it was legislated but as a spontaneous product of the common sense of right. When Russia does have an election, as we must hope some day she will, these peasant people all assume as a matter of course that women will vote.

Americans do not need to be told how backward Russia is in the matter of machinery and especially agricultural machinery. But I gave myself a surprise one day by going to every house in a small village and finding in every house but one a one-horse cast-steel modern plow. I found also some very good harrows and a few hand-wheel sewing machines, but practically nothing else that could be called modern. I have since seen two mowing machines and one hay-rake. The absence of machinery here is practically as universal as it has been represented. There is no prejudice against it and the people are not ignorant of it. They want it, and they have plenty of money to buy it with, but it is not here to buy, and the money has uncertain value.

There is so much printed matter in America proving eighty-five per cent illiteracy among the Russian people that I approach this subject timidly. I cannot find the eighty-five per cent. I have yet to find one child ten years of age who cannot read and write, and the subject is of such interest to me that I always inquired about it. I found some old peasants who could not and some who could but sensitively would not write their names for me. I had Russian soldiers line up by hundreds to sign their names in a register and not a man would fail to write his own. I had peasants tell me that they knew how to read and write when they were children but had forgotten it since. I have no statistics on the subject, but it would be interesting to have the statisticians go up the Dvina River looking for the eighty-five per cent. In almost every village the best house is the schoolhouse. When it is not the best it is still a very good house. Among hundreds of villages there is not one of twenty houses or more that does not maintain a school eight months of the year.

Russia has but one church. I met a few dissentients—evangelicals and atheists—but the dissent is not organized and there is very little propaganda of reform. The Bolsheviki at first prohibited the church as an evil thing. Many of the un-Bolshevik Russians have dropped the church as a useless thing. But nobody seems to have undertaken to reform the church. And yet one of the greatest reforms in ecclesiastical history is taking place. In a moment and without warning the physical and militant props dropped out from under this institution and it had to stand alone or sink. Some of it did sink. Some of it was scuttled by the Bolsheviki. Then came the aftermath—the afterthought of the people. They missed something. They had not entirely outgrown the church. They had hated its arrogance and exactions, but they still believed what it had taught them and felt its spell. Now that they were free from it they voluntarily returned to it. But it is with a new attitude. These Russians go to church now looking for something that they hardly find. And the priest's only resources now are spiritual—superstition, art, inspiration, service, truth—perhaps he will make use of all in the struggle for existence.

I was interested in the attitude of the peasants toward their priest in a large village that we were about to evacuate. The Bolsheviki would be there shortly after we should leave, and as they were reputed frequently to shoot priests the military had arranged to take him with us. He had received for his worldly needs a house to live in, the use of some land which he and his wife had cultivated as peasants do, a certain amount of money, and certain ecclesiastical emoluments. When the committee of peasants came to settle with him they said: "You are favored above the rest of us. You are taken to a place of safety while we are left to the cruelty of the Bolsheviki. The first thing they will do will be to demand much food from us. After that they may kill us. So you must help with the food. You may take with you only eight bags of flour. You may not sell your hay. You may sell your cow, but not the yearling." There was no appeal, as this had all been decided upon by vote, in a meeting. They took no money from him, nor gold, as they are told the Bolsheviki do not consider gold has any particular value. They were careful to see that he left everything pertaining to the church.