The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1933-10-26

Myra rage, autn0r OF the novel
Gathering Storm" and of the
more recent "Soviet Main Street."
has just returned from the Soviet
Union, where she was the Daily
Workers special correspondent.
TOR the first time in my life, I have
L had a vacation and been paid for
taking i'll To most Americans who
work for a living, this will sound like
Joke. 1t is plain fact.
What is more, I took it among
several hundreds Of others who like
wise drew full wages during their
months leave.
To reach the Crimea we had trav-
elled two nights and two days south
from Moscow. 1t is a magic land,
long famous for it's azure sea, sky
the color of buttercups, and noun
tsinous cliffs that lift close from the
waters edge, powerful. at rest.
Before the revolution, the Crimea
was the year-round resort and hap
py hunting ground for Russia's aris-
tocracy and millionaires. The hill
sides and shore-line are dotted with
the white stone mansions they built
for themselves. Soviet power has con-
verified this Black Sea country into a
health and recreation centre for its
stalwart builders Of the new socialist
society.
To reach Yalta, our destination, we
had to make a four-hour trip by bus
from Sebastopol, over winding noun
tain roads running along the sea-
coast.
En- Route
The machinist from the Amo Auto
Work, sitting in the bus next to me,
drew a deep breath. This is going
to be SWELL" A good shock brigader,
he had fully earned his vacation. His
companion, lula metal worker,
waxed eloquent, throwing his arm
about in wide gesture. "All this
the sea. the rest homes, the hills
oursl ours!" On my right was young
woman, a research worker from the
Department of Labor. Beyond her, q
Red Army man, and an electrician
from Kharkov, who entertained the
whole bus with tales of his last years
vacation spent in the Caucasus.
In the front seat, hugging their
bundles, sat two middle-aged women.
They were members of an Ukrainian
collective farm. Dark shawls tied
about their heads. their faces were as
tanned and wrinkled as old leather.
While everyone else exclaimed over
the scenery, jolting against one an
other as the bus rounded sharp
curves, these two sat, stolid, immo-
bile. Their red, roughened hands
crossed on their round pauncheS, they
said not one word. Merely looking.
Watching them closely, 1 caught
them giving each other discreet
nudges, gesturing with their eyes to
This or that.
At the baggage window in SebaSto-
pol these women had raised a scene
because they had to wait their turn
in line. Look here, we are Red Par
tisans and have got the right to go
first!"
About halfway to Yalta, sharp
swing over a mountain through a
natural bridge brings into view an
enormous white mansion, standing
out as II chiseled on background
of the deep marine blue of the sea.
A shout goes UP. A regular palace.
In fact, that was just what it was
built by the Gar for bis particular
pleasure Now it is a sanitorium for
i'll peasants.
Peasants In a Palace
Again we exclaimed. The two COL
lective farmers appeared totally I'M
moved. Clambering down, Juggling
their bundles, they began stalking
towards 1t, outwardly as unimpressed
as ever. But across their faces, now
hidden from us, involuntary smiles
crept like the sun over the wheat
fields. The last glimpse we caught Of
them, their heavy shoes were reso-
lutely mounting the broad marble
steps and entering like old-time mas
ters who have simply come back to
their own.