Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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 Well, the only thing we can do is to leave Russia,” she continued, after a pause. “Shall we leave Russia? Where shall we go?” cried the astonished Philip, almost with incredulity. “Where everybody goes; to America, the home of freeodm and liberty. » The night was dark and chilly. Neither moon nor stars were shining. The ominous silence was disturbed by the regular tramp, tramp of the sentinel, as he marched to and fro, and later, mingling with it was heard a low murmuring sound coming from afar off. The sounds gradually grew louder and louder, until the low shuffle of many feet became apparent, as in the distance an approaching mass loomed up into view. The mass gradually drew nearer and nearer, until it took on the form of a number of men, women and children, carrying large packs and bundles. They were of the poor Russian type of people, as their dress plainly showed. They were emigrants from Russia who were being smuggled across the boundary into Germany by an agency which makes a regular practice of smuggling people across for a stipulated sum, while to insure success, the agency takes care of the persons all the time until they reach their destination. The people have to be smuggled across, because the Government of Russia does not allow any persons to emigrate from the country unless they have passports. These passports are rarely given, they are often times refused for the slightest reason. The people are, therefore, compelled to sneak across the lines or starve in Russia. This crossing the border is very dangerous as there are many streams, ditches and various other obstructions, and, moreover, they usually steal across at night, as there are soldiers patroling the frontier. A man on horseback stealthily emerged from among these emigrants and, approaching the sentinel, addressed him in Russian. “You have attended to all?” “Yes. If all goes well, and, above all, no noise is made, you can be able to pass easily, was the answer. “That is well,” and the man pushed a bill into the soldier’s hand, the denomination of which it was impossible to discern, but the satisfied smile of the soldier gave warrant of a good sized bill.' When thus fully assured of the outcome of the undertaking, the man returned to the emigrants with a smile almost of glee. As he came within hearing distance of the dark mass, a well-known voice, but very low, asked, “How far are we from the German border?” “This is the last sentinel,” was the answer, “and if all goes well, we shall probably be able to get across in half an hour.” They walked along silently, springing over any ditches or other obstacles that happened to be in their way, sometimes stumbling, sometimes falling, conscious of their danger, yet unconscious of their immediate fate. 103

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?CI)t Jfaboritc ecc “Play it again, Philip.” The speaker was a short, stout middle aged Russian woman with a round face, clear cut features and dark hair. ‘It was your father’s favorite piece, and will always remind me of him. It is a sad reminder, too, of his disgraceful death --” She choked with emotion at these words, and could speak on more. The whole scene of her husband’s arrest and accusation flashed vividly across her mind. The visit of the gendarmes, the hurried accusation, her husband’s vain plea of innocence. These passed only to give place to the still more terrorizing remembrances of his execution. Their last parting, the halter around his neck and then the body hanging lifeless in the air. That terrible feeling of hopeless despair again overcame her. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly. “But father is not dead!” interrupted the stricken boy, clasping his mother’s arm in terror and alarm, as he slowly grasped the tragic fact. The boy recalled his father as he had so often seen him during the hour devoted to his music lesson. He again heard his father rebuking him kindly. “You do not put your whole spirit into your playing, Philip. Technique is not the only thing, inspiration and soul make the artist.” Philip suddenly realized how good his father had been to him, for when it is too late a person fully realizes the true value of his parents. “Yes,” she answered, in a sad voice, “he is dead. Hung for a crime which I know he would not and could not have committed. But they did not give him a chance to clear himself. They followed the usual custom in the Russian courts, a custom which has cost many an innocent person his life, and has allowed the escape of the real criminal. This custom is naturally practiced more vigorously at the present time, when the Czar is afraid to take a little exercise in the open air and each official confines himself to a safe refuge, so as to be as far away as possible from any treacherous bomb that might dare to toy with his sacred life.” “I do not see how they could have convicted him, as they had no evidence to show that he had murdered the Honorable Ivan Schershevsky, Chief of Police,” declared Philip Petrowsky, for that was the boy’s full name. “I know,” was the answer. “It was only on the testimony of that despicable man, Peter, who had been trying to injure your father for the last five or six years, because--- But you must not know that unhappy story, and she bit her lips in an agony of repression. “What will we do now, mother?” “I cannot do any work here, because the people are afraid of being suspected of conspiring with me if they should employ me, for are wc not a family of bold anarchists,” she answered ironically and again began to weep bitterly. 102

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Suddenly the cry of a child rang through the night air. They stopped and stood stock still with fear of the possible consequences. A hurried attempt was made to quiet the child, when some had recovered their fortitude, but to no avail, for the woman carrying the child had fallen and in consequence the child was seriously hurt. Then, to save himself from suspicion, even though it might serve to make matters worse for the emigrants, the sentinel, by shooting into the air, aroused the other guards. The poor people fled hither and thither in terror, dropping their packs and bundles so as not to be retarded by them. “Philip,” cried the voice we had previously heard, and which belonged to Mrs. Petrowsky, “do not allow yourself to be separated fiom me.” But too late; they had been parted by the panic-stricken crowd in the twinkling of an eye. “My God!” she cried, looking all around her. “My only son. Philip! Philip! He does not answer. Philip! Where are you? Oh, my only son is lost. My cup of sorrow is full to the brim. My husband murdered and now my son separated from me. Philip! Philip!” But she cried in vain. Philip did not answer. Suddenly she perceived that the soldiers were close upon her. She ran frantically, crying out for her son. Suddenly she felt a heavy hand laid upon her. She turned. A soldier held her tightly. She struggled and cried frantically. “Let me go. Let me go. I want my son. He is lost. Let me seek him. Oh, please let me just find him and I will return to you.” But all to no avail. The soldier did not heed her. $ Two years later, on the lower easterly end of Manhattan Island, one of the five boroughs of New York City, could be seen large numbers of people moving to and fro on both sides of one of the narrow streets. Some of the people rushed along as if their lives depended upon their completing their journey in a given time. Others walked at a more moderate pace, but seemed to have some definite destination, while still others wandered along aimlessly. Among the last class of people was a well built boy about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in poor Russian clothes, and carrying a violin case. It was our friend Philip. He sauntered along, seemingly without any definite destination, hanging his head as if in deep thought, and moving his lips, making a murmur, which, when he came nearer, could be made out to be a soliloquy. “----- Mother, I wonder where she is. I do not know where I can get any word from or about her. Those villains first deprived me of my father and now they have taken my mother. I will have to depend on myself. What can I do to at least get something to eat. “If I sell my violin, an act which will be very hard for me to do, I will then have nothing, after I have spent the little money that I can get for it.” 104