“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“All right then. You understand how this works. I ask you a series of questions and you answer. Got it? Good.” Austin was desperate for the time. He tried to look at the man’s wristwatch, but he was not wearing one. If he knew the time he could follow Julia through the hours of her day. He could tell her in his mind that he was okay. That was a light out of this trap, he’d felt. If he could only know the time he could be in sync with her, running in parallel with her life, even if, for the time being, they were separated.
“What time is it?” Austin said.
“You don’t need to know the time,” the man said. The light vanished, any frame of reference gone. Erased.
• • •
DAY 1: JANUARY 19, 1920
Q. What is your name in Russian?
A. Ustin Voronkov.
Q. In as much as you do not believe in God, will you affirm to tell the truth?
A. Yes.
Q. What is your address?
A. 116 Locust Street, Bridgeport, Connecticut.
Q. How old are you?
A. 26 years old.
Q. Where were you born?
A. Province of Kherson, Alexandriyska, Ulesd, Bokas Volost, Village of Varvarovka.
Q. Of what country are you now a subject or citizen?
A. Russian subject.
Q. Are you married or single?
A. Married.
Q. What is your wife’s name?
A. Julia.
Q. Where is your wife now?
A. She lives in Bridgeport on Locust Street.
Q. Have you any children?
A. No.
Q. When were you married?
A. There was no ceremony.
Q. In other words you were never married to this woman religiously or civilly?
A. There was no ceremony.
Q. How long have you lived with this woman?
A. About one and one half years.
Q. Why have you not married her according to the laws of this country?
A. Because we live with her family.
Q. Do you keep house?
A. No.
Q. How many rooms do you occupy?
A. One.
Q. One bed between you?
A. I occupy one room by myself.
Q. Does she sleep with you?
A. No.
Q. Why did you say that you were married?
A. Because we gave an oath together.
Q. And you state that you lived with her for about one and one half years?
A. Yes.
Q. Where does she live?
A. The same house as I live in.
Q. Does she sleep in your room?
A. No.
Q. Did she ever sleep in your room?
A. No.
Q. Did you ever have sexual intercourse with her?
A. Not officially.
Q. How long have you lived in the United States?
A. About six years.
Q. When did you arrive in the United States?
A. August 18, 1913.
Q. Do you remember the name of the boat you came on?
A. It was called Trieste, and came from Trieste to New York.
Q. In what month?
A. August 1913.
Q. Did you pay your passage?
A. Yes.
Q. Since your arrival in the United States have you ever taken any steps to become a citizen of this country?
A. I intended to take out papers, but I could not speak English at the time.
Q. Do you belong to any organizations?
A. Russian Inspectors.
Q. You mean that you are employed by the Russian Commission?
A. Yes.
Q. Where?
A. In Bridgeport.
Q. What factory?
A. Remington Arms.
Q. What is your occupation?
A. An inspector.
Q. Of what?
A. Arms.
Q. Did you have any preliminary work anywhere that fitted you for this position?
A. I am a mechanic and engineer there.
Q. Do you belong to any other organizations?
A. No.
Q. Ever belong to the Union of Russian Workers?
A. I didn’t belong.
Q. There is such an organization as the Union of Russian Workers in Bridgeport?
A. There was.
Q. There still is?
A. It seems they made it better, but the Union of Russian Workers has an automobile school in Bridgeport.
Q. What is the name of the automobile school?
A. The Russian automobile school.
Q. Was it known as the Soviet Automobile School?
A. No.
Q. We have information that this school was run and conducted under the auspices of the Union of Russian Workers. Did you know that?
A. I don’t know anything about this. I think the soviets started it and then the pupils took it over for themselves.
Q. You mean the Union of Russian Workers started it?
A. No. The soviets of Bridgeport.
Q. What do you mean “the soviets” of Bridgeport? We have no “soviets” in this country.
A. It was called “soviet.”
Q. Have you an automobile?
A. No.
Q. Did you ever have an automobile?
A. No.
Q. Why were you interested in automobiles?
A. Because I was in the automobile business.
Q. Were you financially interested in the automobile business?
A. I am interested in every kind of knowledge.
DAY 2: JANUARY 20, 1920
Q. Mr. Voronkov, you have been to meetings of the Union of Russian Workers, haven’t you?
A. No. Only when they have lectures.
Q. You have been to business meetings?
A. No.
Q. How many lectures did you attend?
A. Two or three.
Q. What did they talk about?
A. About the origin of man.
Q. They talked about the government?
A. I cannot tell.
Q. They never talked about revolution?
A. I cannot know the subject.
Q. Are you an advocate for revolution?
A. I do not know.
Q. You have no respect for the laws of man?
A. I am a man. I have respect for them.
Q. Why would you live with a woman one and a half years without marrying her if you have respect for the laws of man?
A. We gave an oath together.
Q. Are you an advocate of free love?
A. Yes. We gave an oath.
Q. You say you are an advocate of free love, that is not respect for the laws of man?
A. I say, if we gave an oath—we will live together; get married.
Q. You know about the laws in regards to marriage?
A. Which ones? I would marry her by these laws at any time she demanded.
Q. Are you an anarchist?
A. No.
Q. Are you opposed to the government of the United States?
A. No.
Q. Are your organizations opposed to any organized form of government?
A. I am not opposed to government.
Q. You don’t believe in laws, do you?
A. It depends on what kind of laws.
Q. The laws of the United States.
A. I’ve lived here six or seven years.
Q. You didn’t pay much attention to the laws though?
A. If I didn’t pay attention to the laws it would be a different thing.
Q. What attention did you pay to the laws when you lived with a woman for one and one half years without being married to her?
A. We gave an oath.
Q. What have you to show for it?
A. I passed to her my property.
Q. Is this “oath” written anywhere?
A. No.
Q. Does this woman have anything to show that she has a claim on you?
A. If she won’t marry me, then I will see her corpse.
Q. What is her name?
A. Julia.
Q. And you are here saying that she is your wife?
A. Yes.
Q. Have you anything against this country?
A. No.
DAY 3: JANUARY 21, 1920
Q. You understand, Mr. Voronkov, this is a continuation of your hearing commenced on January 19th, 1920?
A. Yes. I do.
Q. Do you affirm at this time to continue to tell the truth?
A. Yes I do.
Q. Are you an anarchist?
A. No.
Q. Are you a Communist?
A. I am not an anarchist, neither am I a Communist.
Q. I show you a letter addressed to 116 Locust Street, Bridgeport, Conn., dated January 17, 1920. Did you write this letter?
A. Yes.
Q. I will mark this letter together with translation of it Exhibit (1) and introduce it as evidence in your case. I show you another letter addressed to the same party, did you write this letter?
A. Yes, I did.
Q. I will mark this letter together with a translation of it Exhibit (2) and introduce it as evidence in your case. There is a sentence in this letter that you have written to this young woman reading as follows:
“But there is possibility to come together although through difficult obstacles, so that we should care a fig for that dirty and stinking ceremony of marriage.”
A. I wrote it. I was not feeling well. I was cross when I wrote it.
Q. Then you were feeling cross because this young woman, when she found out that you’d be deported, refused to go back to Russia with you without being married?
A. I offered to marry her any way I could if I could get out of jail somehow.
Q. It goes on to say in this letter:
“But there is nothing in the world stronger than love of heart and soul for only in it there is life and happiness, and not in that dirty marriage.”
A. Yes I wrote that. What about it?
Q. It goes on to say: “If you, yes, love me, as much as I love you, then you would spit upon all these disgustful calumnies.” Did you write that?
A. Yes. I wrote that, alas. I wrote to my lover. I did not feel very well. I know that our love was broken and in that condition I wrote it. I always offered her marriage, any kind of marriage she wants. You will find it in the letters that I offered her that. But she is my wife, you ask her. We gave an oath. She is my zhena.
Q. Are you a member of the Union of Russian Workers of Bridgeport?
A. I was formerly a member.
Q. When were you a member?
A. Four or five months ago?
Q. When did you join?
A. July 15th, 1919.
Q. Are you still a member of the organization?
A. No. I did not care for them. I quit.
Q. When did you leave the organization?
A. I stayed two months and then I left it.
Q. On what points did you disagree with them?
A. Because they hold on the same level workers and engineers, that is, skilled workers—this is why I gave it up.
Q. The Union of Russian Workers is an anarchist organization, isn’t it?
A. I cannot tell you. I could not understand them.
Q. A man of your intelligence certainly knew enough to read the basic principles of an organization before he joined it.
A. I joined it because there were many Russians.
Q. Don’t you know or didn’t you read the principles of what the organization stands for?
A. No.
Q. You know that if you are found guilty of the charge or part of the charges against you that you will be deported back to Russia?
A. Yes. I do.
Q. You said that you were a member of the Union of Russian Workers?
A. Yes.
Q. You stated also that you resigned as a member of the Union of Russian Workers?
A. Yes. I did.
Q. Can you tell me why?
A. Yes, according to my convictions as I looked at it, I did not believe in their ideas.
Q. Do you agree with government as it exists?
A. No.
Q. What is your opinion of the system of government you would like to see in existence?
A. By name of science to obtain society.
Q. Without government?
A. Yes. Without government. People would be masters of themselves.
Q. Without State?
A. Yes. I believe it should be.
Q. Supposing I would tell you that these views of yours are anarchist, would you then call yourself an anarchist?
A. No. I do not consent to have any name, but if you want to call me that—
Q. In other words you are frank in stating your opinion about society, but you do not know exactly the name for it?
A. I cannot tell what the name would be, but the form, if changed, would mean the liberation of the workers themselves by means of science and they will improve themselves and be masters of themselves.
Q. Your views of society are that there ought to be no government, a stateless form of society?
A. Yes. According to my opinion, yes. There must be no government or master who will say what must be done. Only science.
Q. These views of yours could be called anarchistic.
A. Well, my opinions are such. Let them call me an anarchist.
Q. How would this condition of affairs without government, without state be brought about?
A. By means of science you can give your affairs to the people to govern themselves.
Q. Do you believe in the use of force or violence to bring this about if necessary?
A. No. I don’t believe in force. Science is stronger than force.
Q. Do you believe that the present form of government in the United States should be overthrown?
A. Yes, very plainly, when the people will understand it can be done.
Q. How will it be done?
A. By means of science when the people will understand that they need no commander.
Q. And no laws?
A. I do not know how you can call them laws. They are just simply agreements.
Q. You know we have people in the world whom we call anarchists.
A. Yes, but I don’t know what their ideas are.
Q. They have views similar to these you have expressed here this afternoon.
A. I said I did not know their program, my opinions are just such.
Q. Would you think it fair from your expressions or views here this afternoon for us to call you an anarchist?
A. If you compare what I said with what you think anarchists are, then, okay, I consent to that.
Q. I will ask you again. Are you an anarchist?
A. It is so. I am an anarchist.
Q. Have you anything further you wish to state at this time as to why you should not be deported in conformity with the law?
A. I have nothing to say. Let them deport me. But let me take my wife.
• • •
THEY WERE MARRIED—officially—at Ellis Island. Two-sentence vows. Austin and Julia held hands solemnly speaking. The justice of the peace read in a monotone voice, all the while smoking a cigar that created a cloud of milk white around them. They would be leaving in one hour. He was taking her from everything she’d known and loved. She’d renounced her family, her country, she’d given up her U.S. citizenship. It did not matter. Then, they were not willing to be separated.
• • •
&
nbsp; THE NEWSPAPERS WERE CALLING it the Soviet Ark. The New York Times, January 1920, ran photos. A massive ship, anchored at Ellis Island on a bitter day. They stood on the pier amid the wind and ice. The sky opaque, flurries like chipped ice. The only sounds the murmur of men’s conversations, seagulls crying, the moan of the boat on the day’s hard air. The anchor cranking like a scream; the massive chain lifted out of the ocean, iron red with rust, calcified with sea salt, seaweed. Just moments before, he’d sat on the long benches of the waiting room, the very room he’d sat in only years prior eager to get beyond the bottled-glass windows whose light he knew was day in America—a country behind glass, the new country’s light. Years later he would learn that there were to have been, in total, three other major raids—the Palmer Raids, ordered by Attorney General Palmer after a lone anarchist planted a bomb at the foot of his front door. The raids would be a series of roundups of supposed anarchists or Communists, men and women deemed a threat to the American way of life, men and women who may strike again—more homemade bombs, subversive articles in newspapers, party meetings. They were plotting to take over the country. Somewhere, a man named Hoover had his name on an index card: Voronkov. Affirmed anarchist. Bail set at $10,000. Deported.
• • •
MEXICO CITY
1948
HE HAS NO REAL reason to believe that this year will be any different. But there is always a “perhaps”—a habit, like a little leap of hope. It is the second day of January. 1948. The city is nearly silent at this hour—7 A.M. He steps from sidewalk to street, tracing the outline of a small roundabout. He likes the sound of his lone footsteps at this hour, the clack and shuffle of them. The press of his leather satchel beneath his arm. Its thick hide scent mingles with his aftershave—a clean, white smell. He is wearing his best—and only—suit of charcoal gray linen, slightly frayed. But it will do, it will do he thinks. His shoes are polished too, though the several coats of polish he’d applied that morning do not conceal the scuffs or the thin, worn leather.
The Invention of Exile Page 3