Arizona republican., 1917-03-30
VoLGA RIVER REFUGEES

The following vivid account of the Russian refu-
gees the lower deck of a Volga river steamer is
the pen of Arthur Ruhl, correspondent for Col
lier's Weekly in the Eastern theater of
They shunted down the gangway to the
steamboats, lower deck, where they filled the steer
age quarters, the deck space forward and aft, and
passageway round the engines. Alongside, mean
while, came the little transport which had ferred
them across the Caspian, and from its hold and
down into began to tumble their luggage. These
the things solid things that survive after
the horse is sold and the cat and dog left behind,
broken off bits of homes.
The Persian roustabous, handsome, sweating
fellows shot them down the slide regardless-a bat
tered washboard enameled kettles, chests they could
scarcely lift A clumsy peasants shovel homemade
evidently. the earth still caked it, clatered down
side. With that weapon had out
face the world
The passengers who had had nothing to do all
day kill time keep cool, looked down with
interest and certain dsapproval One lady. franker
than most said wasn't quite right for the company
to put these people the steamer. 1t made
comfortable with ones own comfort and after all
they had paid their money and a pleasure
trip. The stuff was soon aboard, however, the
steamer turned its upstream, the cool breeze
again swept the deck and the disturbing guests
forgotten for the time in the more intense preoccu
patton of dinner
1t was well along in the evening and dark when
l went below One opened a door and stepped from
the cool and playful leisure of the passenger deck
into of inferno. The air sitting with heat
and the smell of oil and unwashed humanity Electric
lamps blazed all the place, the engines Kissed
and pounded. and in this heat and noise the people,
packed that you could scarcely avoid stepping
them, trying to quiet squalling babies arrang-
ing and rearranging their wretched bundles in the
effort get something soft to lie upon achieve
little privacy. lost to everything sprawled on their
backs asleep with unconscious faces turned the
blazing lamps. A baby with ricketts, lay in little
wooden trough sort of wash dish chopping bowl.
whining and twisting. The mother frail looking
woman with sweet patient face, kept rocking the
little trough 1t no use-the baby kept on crying.
She lifted tits helpless legs dangled like sticks
and tried to it. But still it cried.
There milk for any of the Understanding
but the soggy black bread Some of them sat up,
picking at chunks of it at bits of sausage with
their little blue fingers-listessly if it only
some instructive working of their muscles
On his knees in the engine passage way old
man was praying. His eyes We're fixed the icon
the opposite wal-the icon always found even in
such public places, in your hotel ROOM in railroad
waiting rOoms-and from time TO time he crossed
himself with the Russians wide. rhythmic gesture
bowed till his forehead touched the floor. Lips
moving. eyes strainng toward the sacred image. he
seemed in trance sort of ecstasy, if he looked
clear through the incredible intoerabe present, to
paradise itself.
Others in the crowd their knees facing
the icon and bowling and crossing themselves. And
that cry of Dostoevski's Are we worth it,"
how came back to ones mind. What after ALL had
these people done
| went deck People sang the piano. chatted
in the dusk leaned the rail aft. looking down at
the figures asleep by the stern 1t was as If miles
instead of inches separated Them as if, for those
calm turned up the these people look
ing down did not exist. Body to body, as close as
they could ie they slept An old man with thin,
hawk face lay with mouth wide open; children
curled up like puppies in the of their mothers
waist, unfastened, slipped away from firm white
breast.