Mexborough & Swinton Times – Saturday 4 November 1922
Among the Bolsheviks
Conisborough brothers in Russia
Some Entertaining Experiences
the following interesting and amusing account of life in Russia is extracted from letters which have been received by Mr J.P. Brocklesby, J.P.of Conisbrough, from his sons Harold and Herbert, who are in Russia engaged in relief work.
Travelling in Russia
“Travelling in Russia,” write Mr Herbert Brocklesby, “is not conducive to either much reading or much letter writing. The halts are generally at least ¼ of an hour and sometimes stretched to 6 hours. Our average speed will be from 18 to 20 miles an hour. Travelling like this is not half bad. A plank bed, with a good mattress and plenty of blankets, keep me comfortable enough at night. A plank table, a samovar, Primus stove, plenty of pots and pans, and they fiddle (cheap).”
“I am thinking of writing a thesis of ‘the use and abuse of sour milk.’ Oh yes, I ought to get my doctor’s degree in the faculty of cooking, for original research work.” Mr Brocklesby dwelt with the enthusiasm of invention in the manufacture of batter and the manifold variations of omelette.
The Intelligentsia and False Communism
The most notable thing about the 26th was that this was the day which I first visited a certain house in Pochtovia (Post Office Street), where Robin Lamson, a very fine young American (one who shared Bert’s birthday), has been in the habit of visiting.
The most interesting inhabitant of this house is a young lady of about 18, and I’m not quite sure whether she is vivacious with lapses of the sort of wistful sadness, or sad with an occasional bursts of vivacity. Her father is a Russian priest at the village some little way from Buzuluk; in other words, she is a member of that pitiful and proud little sect in Russia, the intelligentsia.
All these people have suffered shock through the revolution, the aristocracy got a shot which drove them out of the country, and so remove them from the meeting of social tension. The intelligentsia mostly, partly, have remained and must live out the rest of their days (if Communism lives in Russia – which I think will be a good thing for humanity) in a constant atmosphere of antagonism.
Imagine how this feeling of antagonism is intensified in the case of a young girl, who, being the daughter of a respected and maybe beloved religious teacher, is now a citizen of a state which deliberately tries to discredit the beloved region of Russia.
“I have been in prison five times,” the young girl says with a defiant ring in her voice, but I’m not ashamed, I count it as an honour to be put in prison by these people.”
“I, too, and been in prison,” says Bert, “for three years.”
“Yes,” she replied, “and in one night I have gone through more than you suffered in your whole three years.” And she tell simply and openly of one night, when she was arrested and had to fight until morning against the brutal attempts of the local head of the militia to degrade her.
The security of the Tsarist days is gone, and she cannot see that through the travail of today may rise and warm son of true communism which shall shine in all wish to serve their full fellowmen, rather than themselves. I could write sheets against communism I find in Russia, they are really so few communists, and I could write much against the system which exploits selfishness and calls itself capitalism, but any break towards new ideals fulfils the law of progress, and Russia may one day be called the Pioneer of all nations.