﻿THE 
  FAR 
  EASTERN 
  REPUBLIC 
  

  

  585 
  

  

  of 
  the 
  car 
  windows, 
  unmindful 
  of 
  the 
  

   gibes 
  from 
  the 
  more 
  industrious 
  fellow- 
  

   passengers. 
  

  

  For 
  thousands 
  the 
  railroad 
  provides 
  the 
  

   only 
  home. 
  An 
  official 
  may 
  get 
  a 
  passen- 
  

   ger 
  coach 
  or 
  private 
  car 
  for 
  himself 
  and 
  

   his 
  family, 
  but 
  the 
  proletariat 
  — 
  men, 
  

   women, 
  and 
  children 
  — 
  are 
  herded 
  by 
  

   dozens 
  in 
  box-cars, 
  anybody 
  who 
  can 
  

   crowd 
  in 
  being 
  free 
  to 
  pick 
  out 
  a 
  corner 
  

   for 
  a 
  home 
  (see 
  illustration, 
  page 
  568). 
  

  

  In 
  Chita 
  and 
  Verkhne-Udinsk 
  hundreds 
  

   are 
  housed 
  in 
  box-car 
  cities, 
  cooking, 
  eat- 
  

   ing, 
  and 
  living 
  in 
  the 
  open 
  during 
  the 
  day 
  

   and 
  at 
  night 
  sleeping 
  on 
  rough 
  shelves 
  

   which 
  have 
  been 
  built 
  into 
  the 
  cars. 
  

  

  Some 
  are 
  on 
  the 
  move, 
  getting 
  nearer 
  

   Soviet 
  Russia 
  whenever 
  a 
  locomotive 
  can 
  

   be 
  spared 
  to 
  pull 
  their 
  trains, 
  while 
  others 
  

   have 
  been 
  waiting 
  for 
  months. 
  Included 
  

   in 
  this 
  west-bound 
  tide 
  are 
  about 
  a 
  hun- 
  

   dred 
  American 
  artisans 
  each 
  month, 
  

   bound 
  for 
  Soviet 
  Russia 
  — 
  "a 
  country 
  

   where 
  men 
  are 
  free," 
  as 
  they 
  explain. 
  

  

  East-bound 
  were 
  long 
  trains 
  carrying 
  

   20,000 
  Chinese 
  refugees 
  from 
  Ungern's 
  

   sack 
  of 
  Urga 
  in 
  Mongolia 
  — 
  wounded 
  sol- 
  

   diers, 
  merchants 
  with 
  Russian 
  wives 
  and 
  

   Eurasian 
  children, 
  coolies, 
  and 
  an 
  occa- 
  

   sional 
  European 
  — 
  being 
  transported 
  by 
  

   Soviet 
  Russia 
  back 
  to 
  China. 
  

  

  At 
  night 
  every 
  spare 
  spot 
  in 
  the 
  railroad 
  

   stations 
  — 
  tables, 
  benches, 
  the 
  tiled 
  floors, 
  

   the 
  platform 
  outside 
  when 
  the 
  weather 
  is 
  

   good 
  — 
  furnishes 
  a 
  bed. 
  Women 
  muffled 
  

   under 
  blankets 
  with 
  babies 
  and 
  children 
  ; 
  

   soldiers 
  with 
  rifles 
  and 
  mess 
  kits 
  under 
  

   their 
  arms, 
  and 
  travelers 
  with 
  their 
  stale 
  

   bread, 
  pans, 
  and 
  bundles 
  snore 
  contentedly 
  

   in 
  the 
  fetid 
  atmosphere. 
  

  

  Even 
  the 
  hotels 
  have 
  cracked 
  under 
  the 
  

   strain 
  ; 
  but 
  the 
  weary 
  host 
  that 
  sleeps 
  in 
  

   the 
  stations 
  lacks 
  the 
  few 
  kopecks 
  needed 
  

   for 
  a 
  cot 
  in 
  the 
  dilapidated, 
  dirty, 
  and 
  

   overcrowded 
  hostelries. 
  

  

  In 
  Verkhne-Udinsk 
  we 
  managed 
  to 
  get 
  

   a 
  bare 
  room 
  with 
  two 
  broken 
  iron 
  beds 
  in 
  

   the 
  only 
  hotel 
  for 
  32 
  cents 
  a 
  day, 
  the 
  Chi- 
  

   nese 
  proprietor 
  a 
  few 
  hours 
  later 
  asking 
  

   an 
  advance 
  payment 
  of 
  10 
  cents 
  to 
  buy 
  

   milk 
  and 
  medicine 
  for 
  his 
  little 
  red-haired 
  

   Russian 
  girl- 
  wife. 
  She 
  sent 
  in 
  two 
  glasses 
  

   of 
  milk 
  for 
  the 
  travelers. 
  A 
  Russian 
  be- 
  

   lieves 
  in 
  dividing 
  when 
  he 
  has 
  anything. 
  

  

  "We've 
  had 
  Ungern 
  and 
  Semenov 
  and 
  

   now 
  we 
  have 
  the 
  tovarishchi, 
  and 
  the 
  

   good 
  Lord 
  only 
  knows 
  what 
  we'll 
  have 
  

  

  next," 
  said 
  one 
  woman. 
  "Semenov 
  gave 
  

   us 
  lots 
  of 
  beatings, 
  and 
  his 
  Cossacks 
  with 
  

   whips 
  kept 
  back 
  the 
  crowds 
  when 
  the 
  

   Americans 
  were 
  giving 
  away 
  the 
  supplies, 
  

   but 
  we 
  could 
  get 
  something 
  to 
  eat. 
  If 
  the 
  

   American 
  Red 
  Cross 
  had 
  not 
  been 
  here, 
  

   we 
  would 
  be 
  naked 
  now." 
  

  

  She 
  wore 
  a 
  Red 
  Cross 
  sleeveless 
  sweater 
  

   above 
  a 
  patched 
  skirt; 
  the 
  baby 
  had 
  a 
  

   knitted 
  cap 
  pulled 
  over 
  its 
  ears, 
  though 
  it 
  

   was 
  summer, 
  and 
  a 
  barefoot 
  boy 
  was 
  

   decked 
  out 
  in 
  a 
  pair 
  of 
  army 
  trousers 
  cut 
  

   down 
  to 
  fit 
  his 
  short 
  legs. 
  

  

  One 
  Sunday 
  the 
  children 
  from 
  all 
  the 
  

   schools 
  were 
  marshaled 
  for 
  a 
  parade. 
  

   For 
  days 
  the 
  newspapers 
  had 
  been 
  print- 
  

   ing 
  stirring 
  appeals 
  to 
  everybody 
  to 
  con- 
  

   tribute 
  a 
  mite 
  for 
  those 
  whose 
  frail 
  bodies 
  

   were 
  less 
  able 
  to 
  withstand 
  the 
  hardships 
  

   of 
  life. 
  Most 
  of 
  them 
  were 
  barefoot 
  and 
  

   bareheaded 
  and 
  there 
  were 
  none 
  of 
  the 
  

   gay, 
  fancy 
  dresses 
  which 
  once 
  were 
  the 
  

   holiday 
  garb 
  of 
  every 
  Russian 
  child. 
  It 
  

   was 
  picturesque 
  and 
  instructive, 
  but 
  

   tragic. 
  

  

  One 
  mother 
  brought 
  her 
  children, 
  a 
  red 
  

   bandana 
  handkerchief 
  around 
  her 
  head 
  

   and 
  the 
  dresses 
  of 
  the 
  three 
  little 
  girls 
  and 
  

   the 
  suit 
  of 
  the 
  boy 
  stitched 
  from 
  the 
  same 
  

   material. 
  Even 
  some 
  of 
  the 
  teachers 
  were 
  

   barefoot, 
  and 
  more 
  than 
  one 
  showed 
  bare 
  

   legs 
  above 
  a 
  pair 
  of 
  cracked 
  slippers. 
  

  

  "THE: 
  BAND 
  KEEPS 
  CHITA 
  AUVE" 
  

  

  The 
  military 
  band, 
  with 
  a 
  stirring 
  march 
  

   tune, 
  led 
  the 
  parade. 
  The 
  band 
  keeps 
  

   Chita 
  alive. 
  It 
  precedes 
  every 
  company 
  

   of 
  soldiers, 
  sturdy 
  young 
  men 
  in 
  un- 
  

   matched 
  uniforms, 
  that 
  marches 
  through 
  

   the 
  streets 
  during 
  the 
  day. 
  In 
  the 
  even- 
  

   ings 
  its 
  members 
  play 
  at 
  the 
  two 
  theaters 
  

   and 
  public 
  gardens. 
  

  

  Chita 
  even 
  has 
  a 
  circus. 
  It 
  is 
  mostly 
  

   clowns 
  with 
  racy 
  songs. 
  On 
  pleasant 
  

   evenings 
  the 
  public 
  gardens 
  are 
  filled, 
  

   though 
  5 
  cents 
  admission 
  is 
  charged. 
  

   Every 
  seat 
  in 
  the 
  theaters 
  is 
  taken. 
  Xo 
  

   one 
  attempts 
  to 
  explain 
  how 
  the 
  strangely 
  

   assorted 
  crowd 
  gets 
  the 
  price 
  of 
  admis- 
  

   sion. 
  The 
  cement-floored, 
  free, 
  outdoor 
  

   dance 
  pavilion 
  is 
  crowded 
  also. 
  Some- 
  

   times 
  there 
  is 
  grand 
  opera 
  and 
  other 
  

   weeks 
  there 
  is 
  a 
  stock 
  company 
  or 
  movies. 
  

   The 
  restaurant, 
  where 
  a 
  good 
  meal 
  costs 
  

   65 
  cents, 
  is 
  almost 
  deserted. 
  The 
  govern- 
  

   ment 
  free 
  soup 
  kitchen, 
  on 
  the 
  opposite 
  

   corner, 
  has 
  3,500 
  callers 
  every 
  noon. 
  

  

  