Feeding the Hungry, P. C. Hiebert, 1929

here in Halbstadt. At head- quarters, where I presented myself, they said, “He has been taken to the 22nd Division.” This group was one of the worst ones, and was stationed in the Mennonite villages between Ohrloff and Landskrone, about twenty or thirty miles from Halbstadt. As we were under martial law, and on that account had to be inside after sundown, we could attempt no more that day. This much was decided: I was to follow after Brother Kratz as far as possible, and to attempt to bring him back to Halbstadt. I consented to do so, but to be frank, with anxiety and fear in my heart, also on my own account. That same evening I secured all of the necessary passes. The next morning my driver and [| started on our way. We could not appear as “Bourgeoise (intelligentsia),” so we put on our poorest clothing. Our appearance reminded one of a beggar’s outfit of former days, when beggars still came among us. After going hither and thither, we had the good fortune to find traces of Kratz. Between hope and fear we went on until my way was barred with threats of death. I had to retreat. Brother Kratz was last seen in Fuerstenwerder, together with other political prisoners. As was related to me, he was quite decently treated, be- cause he was an American. His “convoy” had given him a place on a large ladder-wagon full of straw, somewhat separate from the rest, who were full of lice. It was cold. Fortunately, a friend, who still had two overcoats, had given him one of them. (Kratz’s winter clothing had been left in Sevastopol.) So Brother Kratz was taken away into a wild, blood- thirsty world, which he could not understand, which con- sidered the life of any one who did not go with it as useless and dangerous, and to be treated accordingly. Here I want to relate briefly my last conversation with the head officer of the “‘Checka”’ (the Soviet secret PERSONAL REMINISCENCES 351 police—the dread of the land) concerning Brother Kratz. I entered the room of the Checka. Behind a table sat a young Jew, hardly twenty years old, fumbling numerous arrest and death warrants. For what he saw was terror and what he wrote was blood. Beside the officer sat a woman, on whose face was written vice and cruelty. By the stove sat two armed Red soldiers. The officer asked me harshly about my business. I stated it briefly. At once he ordered the door to be guarded, asked me to come nearer, and began a severe cross-examination. Among other things he asked me, ‘““What have you in common with this American, whom we know to be a spy of a bourgeoise government?” “He is no spy. I doubt if you really think that he can be one. What I have with him in common is that we were working together at a task pleasing to God— relieving the need of suffering humanity.” “You lie! We know your whole business. We shall look into this matter thoroughly. And you also shall not escape us.” “IT! We are in your hands, that I know well. But