Sovietskie Barishnee

Out of Russia, weird and mystic land, whose soul is steeped in the mysterious, the fire of whose eyes is sometimes fanatical, and whose life breath has been impregnated with flesh-creeping legends, comes a story, intrinsically Russian in its bizarre setting.

The occasion was a solemn celebration of the Fifth Anniversary Congress of the Woman’s Department of the Communist Party, and the place was the Russian Free Opera House in Moscow. Here were assembled the Sovietskie Barishnee,—Soviet Ladies, blondes and brunettes, matrons and bob-headed girls, Soviet wives and Soviet employees, humble peasants pressed in typical clothing, Girl Communists (Woman’s Legion of Russia) dressed in high boots, short black leather skirts, black leather tunics, red handkerchiefs tucked effectively into breast pockets, and little toques decorated with red rosettes, Here and there in this poppy-field of color were boys belonging to the Communist Youths’ Organization.

On the stage, which was bedecked with the red trappings of Communism admixed with a strange assortment of banners, sat a select committee of Soviet Grand Dames, and among them, the Priest Bukharin. There was Klara Zetkin, whose kindly face is but a mask that hides the “fierce revolutionary spirit that burns deep down in her soul”; Mme. Kollontai, attractive wife of a handsome sailor, a fervent but impractical feminist, but with an intelligence that has won her the place of Soviet Ambassador; Lenin’s sister “taller than he,” with angular features and the “prim air of a typical ‘schoolmarm’ “; Mme. Muralov, wife of War Lord Trotzky’s right-hand man.

Suddenly there was a hush, someone was speaking from the stage; yet another speaker fired the air with words of Communism. Then, up spoke Bukharin, aflame with the fire of a new Russia, and announced that a humble working family by the name of Aneyniev, had received permission from the Woman’s Communist Department to hold a first public civil christening of their little daughter before the Congress.

As Mme. Aneyniev came on the stage, holding her baby in her arms and accompanied by her husband, the atmosphere became charged with electricalemotion and the heart of every little Soviet flapper beat a rapid tattoo against her agitated bosom. The baby, “a little doll-like creature,” nestling in her mother’s arms, was dressed in white, except for a fringe of red roses sewn around her bonnet.

The silence had become almost oppressive. The mother came forward and with an agitated voice said: “My mother was horrified. She is of the old Russia; she cannot understand. Some neighbors thought it impertinent, wanting to seem important. This hurt my husband, and we almost gave up the idea entirely. Then I read the Life of Rosa Luxembourg, that brave woman who died for the workers, and I knew I was right.” Then, with greater strength, she added fervently that it had come to her that she must dedicate her “own girl child to the same life of sacrifice as Rosa Luxembourg.” She handed the baby to Klara Zetkin, who, with the child in her arms, spoke of Rosa Luxembourg* as “my martyred comrade, whose name this child will bear henceforth, that her memory may remain fresh and living among us.” Tears sprang to the eyes of many a young girl in the audience, the electric current of emotion was broken, but the interest, tempered by human feelings rising from the heart, grew even more intense.

The child was then passed to Bukharin, the so-called Archbishop of Communism. He took her tenderly but awkwardly. The mother made an instinctive step forward but her husband put out his arm to restrain her. This broke the tension and caused many a ripple of girlish giggles from the audience.

Solemnity, like the pall of night, quickly fell upon the momentary levity as the Priest held the child high in his arms, saying: “I dedicate thee, Rosa, little flower of human life, to the cause of Russian women—Rosa, sweetest of flowers; Luxembourg, honored name of a martyr—beauty and sacrifice.” As if in obedience to a magic wand the entire assembly rose, and with the passion of youth and the feeling of age the Internationale was sung—then:

From a corner of the Opera House that no one had noticed broke the strains of Schubert’s Ave Maria. The audience sank back in anticipation, the committee on the stage retired to one side, and, having sat fuming at delay in her dressing room, on came Isadora Duncan to the center of the stage where she stayed for a few moments, bent in wonder over the image of a Christ child. Behind her tripped a sweep of dancing children to join the admiration of the miracle which Isadora’sart had conjured—then the music swelled and a mystic anddramatic dance began. Among the children was noticed a little blonde eight-year-old girl, Mary Peters, daughter of Karl Peters, Chief of the Cheka,or the Robespierre of the Russian Revolution. Her little red tunicwas “like a drop of blood in the spotlight ” —a reminderof another side of Communism.

*After the revolution of November, 1918, Rosa Luxembourg, Jewish Pole, and lifelong revolutionary agitator, became an editor of Die Rote Fahne, and through that paper she was responsible with one Karl Liebknecht for the street fighting in Berlin in January, 1919. Both were imprisoned in The Hotel Eder and in transferring them to another prison the hostile crowd shot Liebknecht, brutally attacked the diminutive Rosa and finally shot her while she was insensible from the injuries she had sustained. Her body was thrown Into a canal and only recovered months later.