The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1924-07-05
MARY was the darling-pet Of our
-lVL colony in Siberia.

IVA CoAOny IN siberia.
Our party of exiles, about one hun
dred Of us, among whom there were
Jews, Russians, Let's, Poles, Armen-
ians and Grousinians from Caucasia,
had no other name for her but isis
ter" and Marie called every one Of
us brother" In her presence we
never called each other "comrade";
that sounded too formal, everyday
like and dry. She never said 'you" to
any of US, and to address her as you"
meant to cause her modification; so
we were all ON terms Of thou" with
her, all members of one big family.
She abhorred formalities and insisted
that there is none among revolution
lists. For, were we not all brothers
and sisters, workers for one sacred
Cause? Was there any tie in the
wide world that could create a strong
er sense of kindship between man and
man than that of our common exile?
She was strange, charming figure,
our Marie. She was hardly beautiful,
but her pale, Madonna-face, with it's
small, slightly tilted nose, her hair
drawn back above high, smooth
forehead, her deep black eyes full of
tenderness and courage, and the faint
smile that never deserted her lips, all
breathed of inner nobility. She was
of medium height, that at times we
feared lest she might snap in two, and
was always dressed in the same garb
"a dark skirt and a boyish embroid-
cred blouse that buttoned slantwise
from collar to waist-line.
l had first heard of Marie during
my stay in the Petrograd "Peresil-
maya" prison. 1t was a cold Thurs
day dawn in the December of 1907.
The day before a report had gone
round the cells that all the Socialist
members of the Second Duma, who
were sentenced to hard labor in the
mines of Siberia were to be brought
to our Jail. We began feverishly to
prepare to welcome our comrades.
The entire prison was awake all night,
and as sitting-up at night was pro-
hibited, we lay stretched out on our
cots and whispered away the impati-
ent hours. 1t was one of those nights
that one never forgets. The deadly
stiffness Of the Jail seemed to be brok-
en- only by the monotonous, heavy
tread of the sentries; yet the great
prison was wide-awake, and her soul
fIuttered and buzzed with suppressed
emotion; shattered, melancholy muir
murings drifted across the cells, fill
ing our ears with sorrow and our
hearts with aching.
There were about twenty men in
our cell, all politicals, and among
these only three Jews, two besides
myself, one a Social Revolutionist
from Odessa, and the other Social
Democrat from Ekaterinoslav. The
rest were all Russians, among them a
few students from the Petrograd Uni
versity, some mechanics from the re-
nowned Putilov steel works, all of
them Social Democrats, and a man
about fifty, wealthy landowner from
the nobility of the province of Cos
troma, who did not belong to any
party, but was more inclined toward
the Social Revolutionists. This landed
proprietor was a rare speciman of
human kindness, and was being exiled
to the province Of Archangelsk for
the mere offense of having divided up
the greater part of his inherited lands
among the peasants. His name was
Pcholin, and he was taking his So
journ in prison quite naturally. He
would always say: Nov at last,
feel that am alive. Now, at last, l
am in the right company" We all
treated him like dear old father,
and became deeply attached to him.
Pcholin, to my surprise took part
ocular interest in the Jewish problem,
and l used to talk to him for hours
of the life of the Jews in Russia, their