The Black Border
WAS a dark night; the darkness almost palpable. We were huddled together like cattle on a long, narrow Polish wagon, and we were ordered to proceed. Our driver swished the air with his whip, let out a lusty "Giddyup," and the horses started on a wild dash towards the black border between Russia and Germany, some eighty odd versts away.
The danger of the venture before us—the crossing of the frontier—brought the occupants of the wagon in immediate sympathy with each other. Men, women and children, Jews and Gentiles, representatives of all the nationalities inhabiting vast Russia, one hundred souls in all, hitherto absolute strangers, were just like one big family having one interest, one goal, the same fears, hopes, expectations. And all these men and women loomed before my eyes like so many apparitions, so many ghastly forms from a world beyond.
Now and then, as we neared a roadhouse, or a railroad crossing, we were halted by mysterious persons who scrutinized our driver, asked him several questions in a subdued voice, then ordered him, "on your way."
Thus we were driven for twenty-four hours through strange country, through Polish hamlets and villages quaint and queer. Everywhere on the highroad and in the little towns the people eyed us asquint with lurking smiles, as if to say; "We have seen your like before." But we never looked them straight in the face; we lowered our heads in shame as if guilty of an unpardonable offense. When the police saw our overcrowded vehicles approach they invariably found something more important to attract their attention. They had been paid to look the other way.
Occasionally we put up for a couple of hours at some filthy, out of the way inn, where refreshments were served us and where we could snatch a brief sleep. Suspicious characters looked after our comforts, gave us instructions, took care of our baggage and procured new teams for our further conveyance.
Finally we came to the last stop. It was the little Polish town of M——, situated very near the German frontier. There we were concealed under straw, in a garret, until the hour to cross the frontier arrived.
Our proximity in the garret tended to further strengthen our sympathies for one another. And as the weary hours dragged on, now one, now another of the group unfolded the secrets that had driven him from his native land.
My neighbor, a tall, slim Russian, dressed in peasant garb, recounted to me during the sleepless night a hideous tale of how he had killed his brother with a heavy club. And for what? On account of a guinea pig! And most remarkable! The murderer who lay so near me that I could feel his hot breath on my face, that Cain who had clubbed his brother to death, was at the moment not so terribly repulsive to me as he undoubtedly would have been under ordinary cir- cıımstances.
Perhaps his flight from justice, from home, from his Fatherland, was in itself adequate punishment for his crime. That is why perhaps the terrible offender appeared to me so helpless, so forlorn, and called forth my pity instead of my condemnation.
The hour to steal across the border finally came. It was again a black night, One by one, with cautious steps we emerged from our concealment, climbed again into the long vehicle, and started on our last lap. The road was sandy, very much so; we advanced slowly and noiselessly. It seemed that the sand had been purposely strewn there to drown the clatter of the horses hoofs and the rattle of the wheels.
Our wagon was brought to a standstill at the edge of a narrow ravine with a brook at its bottom. We alighted, and by means of a few heavy planks we spanned the gully and entered a scanty forest. Then, suddenly, as if by magic wand, a mysterious figure sprang out of the inscrutable darkness and stood before us.
"Remain perfectly quiet," he warned us in a whisper. "A soldier in a gray uniform will be here soon to take you across the border." And in the twinkling of an eye the figure vanished as mysteriously as he had come.
Still and motionless we remain standing. Even the suckling babes in their mother's arms hush as if conscious of the crucial moment. And in the oppressive silence of the night, one can only hear the rapid beating of hearts, the noise of the swift rushing waters of the brook hard by, the faint cooing of a dove somewhere in the forest.
Half an hour passes, the minutes are interminable. We grow restless, apprehensive. We wait impatiently with straining eyes and ears for a sign of our deliverer, but he is not in sight. The faintest noise from the trembling leaves sends a chill down our spines, makes us shudder.
A tardy, pale moon, lingeringly ascends the dull skies. Its light filters through the foliage and illumines the features of the immovable figures among the trees. I scan the faces about me. What a world of suffering they reflect! A nervous twitching of muscles is visible in all. Now and then an involuntary groan tears itself from some breast. I see one clasping his hands over his head in despair; I see another ringing his hands in a paroxysm of grief; I hear the convulsive sobs of still another.
A light breeze runs through the forest. The trees overhead shake and tremble—shake and tremble as if imbued with our great fear. But the soldier in gray is not yet to be seen.
Our knees begin to give way under us; a few sit down on the cold, damp grass. The subdued quietude of the forest, the people in their various poses, the pale, contemplating moon climbing upward, the falling waters in the gully, all in all is inspiring, all in all is a scene meriting the brush of the master-painter. But who among us sees or feels the poetic beauty of it?