Living My Life - Emma Goldman [297]
I went to the Foreign Office to find out whether a request from our German comrades that we be permitted to attend the Anarchist Congress had been received. I was called before Litvinov,48 who was acting in behalf of Commissar Chicherin. I had never met him before. He looked like a commis voyageur, short and fat and disgustingly content with himself. Reclining in an easy chair in his luxurious office he began to ply me with questions as to why we wanted to leave Russia, what our intentions were abroad, and where we meant to live. Had the Foreign Office not received any communication from the Berlin anarchists, I inquired. It had, he admitted, and he knew we had been invited to attend the Anarchist Congress in Berlin. That was explanation enough, I told him; I could add nothing further. “But if you are refused?” he demanded suddenly. If his Government wanted it known abroad that we were being kept prisoners in Russia, it could certainly do so, for it had the power, I replied. Litvinov peered at me steadily out of little eyes bulging from his puffy face. He made no comment, but asked whether our Berlin comrades had made sure that the German Government would admit us. Certainly the latter would not be anxious to increase the number of anarchists in its territory. It was a capitalist country and we could not expect the reception there that Soviet Russia had given us. “Yet, strange to say,” I replied, “the anarchists continue their work in most European countries, which cannot be said to be the case in Russia.” “Are you singing the praises of the bourgeois countries?” he demanded. “No, only reminding you of facts. I have been strengthened in my anarchist attitude that all governments are fundamentally alike, whatever their protestations. However, what about our passports?” He would let us know. [...]
On the twelfth day, when I had about given up hope of hearing from the Foreign Office again, Angelica telephoned to me that passports had been issued to us. I should call for them at the Foreign Office, she said, and take with me dollars or English pounds to pay for them. Cabs were a luxury when so many of our people were in dire want, but I did not have the patience to walk. I wanted to see the passports with my own eyes before I would believe that they had actually been granted. It proved true, however, really true. Sasha and I would not have to hide and cheat to leave the country. We should be able to go as we had come—in the open, even if desolate and denuded of dreams.
Our comrade A. Schapiro had applied independently and I was happy to learn that his passport was also ready and awaiting his call.
I telegraphed Sasha: “This time I win, old scout. Come back quickly.” It was probably cattish, but revenge was sweet. [...]
Passports on hand, I was now beset by other misgivings. Visas—how were they to be obtained? Our Berlin comrades notified us that they were trying their utmost to secure our admission to Germany. If we could somehow reach Latvia or Esthonia, it would be easier to get visas, they wrote.
Sasha burst into the house unannounced. He looked a fright, unshaven and apparently unwashed for days, tired and exhausted, and without the suit-case he had taken with him. “What’s this?” he demanded; “just a hoax to get me back here?” He had made all preparations, he said, to cross the border and had come to fetch me. The papers would be awaiting us in Minsk and he had given fifty dollars’ deposit on them. “Is the money to be lost?” he demanded. [...]
Triumphantly I held out the passports. He scrutinized them from every side. “Well,” he drawled, “I was sure they’d refuse. A fellow may be wrong, sometimes.”
But I could see he felt relieved that it would not have to be the Minsk route. His trip must have been ghastly. It took him a week to recuperate from it.
The Lithuanian visa was granted for two weeks. A transit through Latvia was obtained without much trouble. We could leave any day. The certainty made us feel doubly the plight of the comrades and