Chapters 1-12

Chapter 1:  Work and Peace

            When Czar Nicholas II ascended the throne of Russia, it was a time of much hope for the Jewish people.  Stories were afloat that Nicholas was friendly to the Jews, and that this had led him to quarrel with his father, Czar Alexander III.  There was even a rumor that Nicholas intended to marry a Jewish girl.  Relief and sympathy were the least that the Jews expected.  Here would be a ruler of justice and clemency.

            History gave the lie to these hopes.  What actual happiness the Jews found under the reign of Nicholas II is known only too well to the world.  It was my lot, however, to feel, more than anyone else, the weight of his sovereign arm.  Why I should have been particularly selected for my role is one of the secrets of Providence.

            It was about a year after I had returned from my period of military service, that I married and settled down in Mezhigorye, a town about eight miles from Kiev.  I secured work at a brick-kiln which belonged to my wife’s uncle, and lived a quiet and uneventful existence. 

            Some time later I received a letter from a cousin of mine, in which he offered me the superintendentship of a brick-kiln about to be erected.  The well-known sugar-king Zaitsev had a hospital for the poor in Kiev, of which my cousin was superintendent.  In order to establish a perpetual endowment for the hospital, Zaitsev decided to build a brick-kiln, the profits of which would maintain the hospital.  My cousin himself, being entirely unacquainted with brick manufacturing, thought of me.  Kiev meant only better opportunities for me, and I therefore accepted the position.

            The factory, of which I was now the overseer, was situated on the borderline of two city districts, the Plossky and the Lukianovsky.  The Jews had the right to reside in the Plossky district.  Zaitsev’s hospital and my cousin’s residence were located within that boundary.  The factory itself was “outside the Pale,” and Jews were forbidden to live there.  It was due only to Zaitsev’s influence that I was permitted to live on this “sacred” territory.  Since he was a merchant of what was known as the “first guild,” the Russian law permitted him to have a Jewish employee.  In the population of ten thousand that lived in the vicinity of the factory, I was the only Jew.  I found no difficulty, however, even though there were about five hundred Christians employed within the factory.

            My personal contacts with people in the locality were limited.  My work was restricted to the office, where I supervised the selling and the shipping.  I never experienced any unpleasantness with the Christians of the neighborhood, with the exception of a period in 1905, during the Revolution, when a torrent of pogroms swept over every Jewish city and town.  When I was endangered, the local Orthodox priest came to my rescue; he commanded that I be guarded because I was the only Jew in the district.

            The priest’s protection during the pogroms was a reward for favors I had done him.  It had been decided to build a school for a local orphanage, of which the priest was a director.  He came to me and requested that I sell him the bricks at cheaper rates.  I took the matter up with Zaitsev, and finally secured the bricks at a very low rate.

            There was another thing for which the priest felt indebted to me.  Some distance away from our factory was one owned by a Christian, Shevchenko.  To ride to the district cemetery, one had to pass through the grounds of both factories.  When I first came to the town, the priest asked me for permission to allow the various funeral processions to trespass on the factory grounds.  I consented.  When Shevchenko was asked for the same, he refused.  The priest often used to hold it up before the Christians:  “You see, the Christian did not give permission, but the Jew did.”

            And thus I lived about fifteen years in our house on the factory grounds.  I was profiting by the privileges to be obtained in a large city.  One of my boys was attending a governmental gymnasium (college preparatory school) in Kiev; the younger ones were going to a cheder (Jewish religious school).  It was quite a distance from the factory to the city of Kiev, it is true.  But what more could one ask?  I thanked the Lord for what I had, and was satisfied with my secure and respectable position.

            Everything pointed to a peaceful future.  It seemed that I had the right to expect to end my days in contentment.  Who could have known that the “demon of destruction” was dancing behind me, jeering at all my hopes and plans?

            Then came 1911, and plunged me into a swirl of misfortune – misfortune which I shall never forget, and which broke my life for all time. 

Chapter 2:  The Murder of the Boy Yushchinsky

            Though fourteen years have passed, the old scenes stand out with remarkable vividness, as if they had been etched on my brain.  It was on the 20^th of March.  Everything was as usual.  The dawn had not yet broken when I got up and went to the office.

The window which I faced while at my desk overlooked the street.  As I looked through the window on that cold, dark morning, I saw people hurrying somewhere, all in one direction.  It was the usual thing to see individual workers coming to the factory at that time, or occasional passers-by.  But now there were large groups of people, walking rapidly, coming from various streets.  I went out to discover the cause of the commotion, and was told by one of the crowd that the body of a murdered child had been found in the vicinity.

            In a few hours the papers carried the news that in the Lukianovsky district, within a half mile of the factory, the body of a murdered boy, Andryusha Yushchinsky, had been found.  The body had first been discovered in a cave, where the murdered boy, covered with wounds, had apparently been deposited.

            That evening, one of my Christian neighbors came to visit me.  He was a member of the “Double-Headed Eagle,” a powerful Black Hundreds organization.  He told me that he read in the newspaper of his organization that the murder of Yushchinsky was not of the usual kind; that the child had been murdered by Jews for purposes of “ritual.”  The newspaper, which went by the name of the organization, was a “patriotic” one; it was devoted to the “saving of Russia from the Jews.” 

            At the time of Yushchinsky’s burial, three days after his discovery, handbills were already being circulated, calling upon Christians to exterminate the Jews, charging the Jews with having slain Yushchinsky “for the Jewish Passover.”  Vengeance was to be taken for the boy’s blood.

            This was the first attempt to direct the attention away from the real culprits, and to start the religious pot boiling in order to divert correct suspicions.

            The ordinary people, however – those who were not concerned with great plans for the salvation of Russia – were saying that the murder had been committed by a certain Vera Cheberyak or by Yushchinsky’s mother.

            Suspicion had at once attached to Yushchinsky’s mother because she had not betrayed any anxiety when her boy first disappeared, or since.  Yushchinsky disappeared on the 12^th and was found on the 20^th.  How could one explain the fact that his mother had not at once notified the police, nor shown any apparent interest in his finding, nor evidenced any grief?  The neighbors were not slow to comment on these facts.  As time went on, further suspicions were awakened.

            Andryusha Yushchinsky’s father, who had been killed in the Russo-Japanese war, had supposedly left his son five hundred rubles, which the bank held in trust for the boy, and which he could not get until he became of age.  In the meanwhile, Andryusha’s mother had found a fiancé for herself, who was dissatisfied with the prospect of not receiving any of the five hundred rubles.  This caused people to suspect Yushchinsky’s mother of complicity in the murder.

            The Cheberyak woman (in fact, the true culprit) was suspected on other grounds.  First of all, it was known that Andryusha and her own boy, Zhenya, were schoolmates of the same age – thirteen years – and that Andryusha would often stay over night at the Cheberyak house.  Also, hundreds of people came to see Yushchinsky’s body and none of them recognized him; the boy’s face was swollen out of recognition.  Vera Cheberyak recognized him at once, which fact aroused suspicion.

            Vera Cheberyak was well known around the Lukianovsky district.  Her husband, who was a clerk at the telegraph office, was seldom at home, even at night.  She was known to have dealings with a gang of thieves.  These were not ordinary breakers of the law, however.  They used to dress royally; some even appearing in officers’ uniforms.  In this gang were her brother, Singayevsky, and two other friends, Latyshev and Rudzinsky.  They would do the stealing and she would sell the loot.  The neighbors were fully aware of her nefarious activities, but no one dared to interfere.

            Cheberyak lived in a house belonging to a Christian by the name of Zakharchenko, who lived close to our factory, and who was himself a member of the Black Hundreds.  Zakharchenko often used to confide in me how happy he would be to get rid of Cheberyak.  He was afraid, however, to start trouble.  He told me several times, after the murder, that he felt certain that it had taken place in Cheberyak’s house, in that den of crime.

            Vera Cheberyak was in fact arrested for Yushchinsky’s murder.  Three days after her arrest, the Moscow police arrested three suspicious young men, and as they were found to be residents of Kiev, they were sent to that city.  Upon examination it was found that they had left Kiev on March the 12^th, that is, on the day of Yushchinsky’s disappearance, and that on the same day they had been in Vera’s house, where they had spent some time.  As a matter of fact, these were actually the three leaders of her gang, Singayevsky, Latyshev and Rudzinsky. 

            When policemen from the Lukianovsky station were brought down to identify the apprehended trio, the police were terribly frightened.  For in the arrested men they recognized the gentlemen whom they had often seen parading in officers’ uniform, and to whom they had so often extended the officers’ salute, believing them to be genuine officers.  The police had known that these gentlemen used to visit Cheberyak’s house, but they had never doubted their honesty.

            Upon the arrest of these three, the “Double-Headed Eagle” came out with loud indignation.  “What a public scandal!  Is it possible that the Jews who have murdered Yushchinsky should be allowed to get off scot-free, while such innocent persons are to be imprisoned?  Let the child be taken out of its grave; and let the world see how the body has been stabbed by the Jews.”

            The uproar of the Black Hundreds had its effect.  The boy’s body was disinterred, and the notorious Professor Sikorsky declared that it was no usual murder; that it had been committed for “religious purposes,” which “could be seen” from the stabs, and their number, “thirteen.” 

            In the beginning, it all seemed ludicrous.  Every one by this time was certain that the crime had been the work of Cheberyak’s gang, and there were sufficient proofs for that, and here were people who came with fantastic tales of “thirteen stabs” and “religious purposes.”   However, it proved to be no joke.  The Black Hundreds worked out a devilish plan against the Jews, and since the pogromists had powerful influence at the time, they proceeded energetically to realize their plan. 

Chapter 3:  My Arrest

            The case of Yushchinsky’s murder was taken over by Investigating Magistrate Fenenko.  The investigating magistrate began to visit our neighborhood frequently.  He would measure the distances from the cave where Yushchinsky’s body had been found:  to the factory, to Cheberyak’s house.  He investigated in this manner for several months.  The pogromists’ newspapers continued at their work of whitewashing the gang of thieves and throwing accusations at the Jewish people.

            Of a sudden, Russian detectives began to visit our factory.  They asked my children whether they had known the Yushchinsky boy, and whether they used to play with him.  One of the detectives occupied the house opposite ours, and watched wherever I went and whatever I did.  I was informed that the detectives, seeing that the investigation was not going well, began to give sweets to the Christian children of the neighborhood in order to make them say that Andryusha used to visit us, and that my children played with him.

            After a while, one of the detectives, Polishchuk, began to visit me rather frequently.  He once told me that there was a “feeling” that the crime had been committed on the factory premises, and furthermore that it must have been my work. 

            On the morning following Polishchuk’s declaration, a squad of about ten persons appeared at the factory in company with Fenenko, the investigating magistrate.  Fenenko appeared to be in the best of moods, as he began asking me:

            “You are the manager of this factory?”
            “Yes.”

            “Since when?”

            “For about fifteen years.”

            “Are there any other Jews here besides you?”

            “No.  I am here alone.”

            “You are a Jew, are you not?  Where do you go to pray?  Is there a synagogue here?”

            “I am a Jew.  There is no synagogue here; one can pray at home as well.”

            “Do you observe the Sabbath?”

            “The factory is kept running on Saturdays, so that I cannot leave the place.”

            Suddenly he asked me:

            “Have you a cow?  Do you sell milk?”

            “I have a cow,” was my answer.  “But I do not sell milk; we need all of it for the house.” 

            “And when a good friend of yours, let us say, comes to you, do you sell him a glass of milk?”

            “When a good friend of mine comes to me, I give him food and drink, milk also, but I never sell it.” 

            I simply could not understand the necessity of these questions about my piety and as to whether I went to synagogue.  Had the authorities become so pious that they could not tolerate my praying without the official minyan (ten worshippers) required by the Jewish law?  And what was the purpose of all those questions about the cow and the milk?

            Fenenko and his confreres seemed quite satisfied and bid me a cordial goodbye.  As they were leaving, I noticed that one of them photographed me.  Evidently, they were quite earnest about their work.

            Fenenko’s visit to the factory occurred on Thursday, the 21^st of July, 1911, on Tisha B’Av, a day of fasting for the Jews.  On this day, the Jews bewail their great misfortune, the destruction of the Temple, and their exile from the Homeland, from Zion, from which time all their sufferings in the Exile date.  Dark clouds foretold my own misfortune, but still I was totally unprepared when it came.

            The next day was Friday, July the 22^nd.  At dawn, when everybody was still fast asleep, I heard a great commotion, as if caused by a great many horsemen.  Before I had a chance to look out, I heard a loud banging on the door.  I was naturally quite alarmed.  What could have happened at this time of morning?  In all the fifteen years that I had lived at the factory, I had never heard such noise.  In the meantime, the knocking grew louder.

            My first thought was that a fire had broken out at the factory.  I rushed to the window, and although it was quite dark, I could recognize the well-known uniforms of the gendarmes.  What could the gendarmes be doing here at night?  Why all that knocking at the door?  Everything turned dark before my eyes; my head swam; I nearly swooned with fright.  The ceaseless knocking, however, made me realize that now was not the time for reflection, and I rushed to open the door.

            In swarmed a large squad of gendarmes with Colonel Kuliabko, the notorious chief of the Okhrana (secret political police) at their head.  After placing a guard at the door, Colonel Kuliabko approached me closely and asked with severity:

            “Are you Beilis?”

            “Yes.”

            “In the name of His Majesty, you are arrested.  Get dressed,” thundered his diabolical voice.

            In the meantime, my wife and children awoke, and a general wail began.  The children were frightened by the glittering uniforms and swords and were pulling with all their might for me to protect them.  The poor things did not know that their father was helpless himself, and needed protection and help from others.

            I was taken from my family.  None was permitted to come near me.  I was not allowed to say a word to my wife.  In silence, restraining my tears, I dressed myself, and – without being allowed to reassure my children or to kiss them goodbye – I was taken away by the police.

            The colonel remained in my home to conduct a search, while I was taken to the Okhrana headquarters.  On the way, we met many of the workers going toward our factory.  I felt ashamed and asked the police to walk with me on the sidewalk instead of on the street (walking on the street being the custom when police escorted arrested persons).  The police refused to grant me that favor, however.

            I was later informed that around the time of my arrest, Vera Cheberyak and her gang of thieves, and also Madam Yushchinsky, were released from jail as innocent and wrongly suspected persons. 

Chapter 4:  At the Okhrana Headquarters

            It was still quiet in the Okhrana headquarters when we arrived there.  The Russian officials did not care, as a rule, to get up too early.  The desk sergeant was busy with his books, and was issuing orders to some clerks and spies.  The latter looked at me with cunning and piercing eyes.

            I had never imagined, in the course of my peaceful work, that I should ever be arrested and have to sit in the Okhrana headquarters, watched by a deputy who would not take his eyes from me for a second.  But as the saying is, “There is no insurance against prison and death.”

            I sat there in a fever; hot and cold at the same time.  I had a fierce headache.  Presently I heard the stamping of horses’ hooves, and later the tinkling of spurs in the hall.  The door opened, and the gendarmes who had remained in my house for the search entered.  Seeing that the gendarmes were along, I felt more assured. 

            Then tea was brought in.  I was asked whether I should like something to eat, but I thanked them for their courtesy.  I could not touch the tea, though my tongue was as dry as hot sand.  I was thinking all the time:  “What is coming next?  Why am I arrested?”

            Finally Kuliabko came in.  He handed me a large sheet of paper, a questionnaire.  I was to answer the following questions:

            Who are you?

            Whence do you come?

            Who is your father?

            What is your religion?

            Do you have any relatives?

            And finally there was the question:  What do you know of Yushchinsky’s murder?

            Kuliabko left the room, telling me:  “When you have filled out the questions, ring the bell, and I shall come back.”

            When I noticed the last question, I felt “the knife at my throat.”  I at last understood what had happened.  I tried to find consolation in the form of the question:  What did I know about the murder?  If so, I was no more than a witness.

            I answered all the questions.  As for the murder, I stated that I knew nothing, except what people in the street were talking about it.  Who had perpetrated it, and the purpose, I did not know. 

            I rang the bell.  Kuliabko entered, looked over my replies, and said:  “Is that all?  Nonsense.  If you do not tell me the truth, I’ll send you up to the Petropavlovsky Fortress (a well known political prison in St. Petersburg).”  He banged the door furiously and left the room.

            About four in the afternoon, I heard the weeping of a child; it sounded like my own.  I finally recognized the voice of one of my children.  Out of sheer horror, I began to knock my head against the wall.  I knew that my boy was very timid and nervous, being especially afraid of the police.  I actually feared he might die under their hands.

            While he was crying, the door opened, and Kuliabko re-entered the room.

            “See, your boy is also telling lies…”

            “What lies?” I asked.

            “Zhenya, come in!”  He brought in Cheberyak’s boy, and turning towards me, snapped:  

            “Zhenya says that your boy used to play with Andryusha, and your boy denies it.”

            Thereupon the colonel led the boy out of the room.  A few minutes later, I heard footsteps in the hall.  I looked through the grating and saw the deputy leading my boy, eight years old.  I felt a violent tug at my heart, as I saw the deputy lock my boy in one of the cells.  I expected to be held for a few hours, to be interrogated and finally released.  I was innocent, and they were bound to see that a mistake had occurred.  Meanwhile, all my thoughts were preoccupied with my child.  Why had they brought him into this hell?

            In the evening, a Christian woman came in and said, “Your child is here, but have no fear.  I am looking after him.  I am a mother myself; I understand your suffering and sympathize with you.  Have no fears:  God saves the honest men.”

            As night came on, I remembered that this was the first Friday night in all my life that the evening was spoiled.  I thought of my usual Friday nights with the candles on the table, with the children dressed in their Sabbath best, and everybody so warm and friendly.  And now?  The house in disorder.  My poor wife alone at the cheerless table.  No light, no joy.  And all of them weeping their eyes out.  I almost forgot my own troubles, thinking of my unfortunate boy imprisoned and my mourning family.  I rang the bell, and Kuliabko came in.

            “Listen,” I said to him, “I do not care what happens to me.  The truth will out and I shall be liberated, but why keep my child a prisoner?  You are yourself a father.  My child may fall ill here, and it will be on your conscience.  Can’t you release my boy?”

            He smiled at me.  “Tell me the truth.”

            “What do you want: truth or falsehood?  Even if you would insist, I could tell no lies.  I am innocent.”

            “Nonsense, nonsense,” he motioned with his hand.  “I shall send you to prison, and then you will change your talk.”

            He went out with the usual banging of the door, and I remained alone.  All along, I expected:  another minute, just one minute, and I shall be freed.  But when I heard the clock strike midnight, I realized that I was expected to spend the night in the place.  I could not sleep.  From time to time I heard the coughing of my boy, and it made my very brain reel.

            Saturday morning, the Christian woman came in again and told me that she had slept in the same room with my child.

            About noon, I heard somebody asking my boy:  “Will you be able to get home by yourself, or shall I send a man to take you home?”

            An hour later, a deputy came into my room, and told me with a smile that he had brought the boy to the street-car, but the boy refused to board it, and ran home on foot.  With the boy freed, I felt happier.

            On Sunday I again heard children’s voices.  Those were my children; they must have been brought to the Okhrana headquarters for questioning.  I was given permission to go out into the hall for a minute to see the children and to greet them.  In a moment we were separated again. 

            Eight long days I was kept in the Okhrana jail.  None of the officials came to see me.  This increased my anxiety.  I hoped for the best, but expected the worst.  If they ask me nothing, it looks as though this will continue without end.  Why?  Why? 

            In the evening of August 3^rd, a deputy entered my room and told me to get ready to go to the investigating magistrate.  This cheered me up.  At last!  Whatever happens, at least I’ll find out just how things stand.  I dressed quickly and two deputies escorted me to the magistrate.

            During the short time I had spent in jail, I had almost forgotten what the streets looked like.  I looked at the carefree passers-by and enjoyed the freedom and light as though I had never experienced them before.  I was considerably weakened by my enforced seclusion, and found it rather hard to walk.  I asked my guard to use the street-car.

            “You are an arrested person, and you cannot travel with other people,” was the abrupt decision of one of the deputies. 

            Some of the passers-by recognized me, and I was pointed at by others. 

Chapter 5:  The Inquisition

            Exhausted by all the unwarranted insults to which I was subjected at the Okhrana headquarters, and weakened by the long march through the city under the escort of the policemen, I could hardly reach the district court.  Upon our arrival, I was brought into a large hall in which there were Fenenko, the investigating magistrate; Karbovsky, the prosecutor; and Karbovsky’s assistant, Loshkarev.

            They looked at each other significantly, as though the outcome of the meeting was a foregone conclusion.  I felt rather heavy at heart, especially when I remembered the questions put to me at the house by Fenenko.  There was a mocking tone to them.

            Ordinarily, the police who bring an arrested person to the investigating magistrate are supposed to remain on guard during the interrogation.  They are not permitted to let the prisoner out of their sight.  Here I saw something new:  my guards were told to leave the hall.  This increased my apprehension.  It seemed as though the crafty officials were up to some trick.  But I had no alternative.  Hope and despair alternated in rapid succession.  The former was inspired by the knowledge of my innocence; the latter was born of my acquaintance with Russian officialdom. 

            Soon Fenenko turned to me:  “Did you know Andryusha Yushchinsky?”

            “No,” I replied unhesitatingly.  “I work in the office of a large factory; and my daily relations are with merchants, adults and not with young children, especially children of the streets.  I might possibly have seen him at one time, but one meets quite a few people on the street.  I am certain that I could not have distinguished him from any other boy.”

            The prosecutor, Karbovsky, who had been leaning back on his chair, watching me intently, suddenly bent over the table and asked me:

            “They say there are people among you Jews who are called ‘tzadikim’ (holy men).  When one wishes to do harm to another man, you go to the ‘tzadik’ and give him a ‘pidion’ (fee) and the ‘tzadik’ uses the power of his word which is sufficient to bring misfortune upon other men.”

            The Hebrew words that he was using, “tzadik,” “pidion,” and the like, were written down in his notebook, and each time he wanted to use the word he would consult his notebook.  I answered:

            “I am sorry, but I know nothing about ‘tzadikim,’ ‘pidionot,’ or any other of these things.  I am a man entirely devoted to my business, and I don’t understand what you want of me.”

            “And what are you,” he asked, as he again consulted his notes.  “Are you a ‘Hasid’ or a ‘Misnaged?’”

            “I am a Jew,” I answered, “and have no idea of the distinction between a ‘Hasid’ and a ‘Misnaged.’”

            “What do you Jews call an ‘afikomen?’”

            “To these I have but the same answer.”

            I began to regard these men as somewhat unbalanced.  What could they possibly want?  What had Yushchinsky’s murder to do with the afikomen?  And furthermore, how did the difference between Hasidim and Misnagdim concern them?  I could only imagine that they were poking fun at me, and at some of the Hebrew ritual.

            But unfortunately, it was no matter of jest.  On the surface they were sincere.  In their heart, perhaps, was the deep conviction that Vera Cheberyak had murdered the boy.  Perhaps these questions were directed at me under orders from the powers above. 

            After the questioning, Fenenko ordered the deputies to escort me back to the Okhrana jail.  Although my hopes were again dashed, I believed that their mistake would soon be apparent to them and they would soon send me home.

            When we reached the Okhrana headquarters, I was led into a room where I found three “political” prisoners:  two Jews and one Christian.  At that period the Okhrana jail was particularly busy, for Czar Nicholas was about to come to Kiev, and it was necessary to rid the city of all “disloyal” elements.  When my fellow-prisoners discovered who I was, they began encouraging me, telling me that I would soon be released, and not to lose hope. 

            Fate seemed against me, however.  I felt more helpless than ever.  What could I, a man with no connections, do against an organized, autocratic bureaucracy?  This was not the first time that the government, through some of its agents, was attempting to instigate pogroms.  But I became reassured as I realized that they had no vestige of proof against me.

            A few days later, I was again summoned to the investigating magistrate.  These questionings invariably excited me.  On the one hand, I felt encouraged, for if they desired to question me, it was a sign that they wanted to know the truth.  On the other hand, I would become frightened of the wild questions they were in the habit of putting, questions designed to confuse and entangle me, and which had no sense or relevance in themselves.  My fears were heightened when I was told by some of my fellow-prisoners that the whole case smelled of “politics,” that its chief purpose was to harm the Jews, to incite pogroms.  The Minister of Justice himself, it seems, was interested in creating a “Jewish case” and was extending the protection of the government to the real criminals.  For some strange reason I feared Fenenko the most, although I discovered later that he was the least hostile toward me.

            When brought to the district court, I found Fenenko alone.  Again he dismissed my guard.  After being absorbed in thought for a while, he turned toward me abruptly:  “Beilis, you must understand that it is not I who am accusing you; it is the prosecutor.  It is he who has ordered your arrest.”

            “Will I be sent to prison?  Will I have to wear prison clothes?”

            “I do not know what is to happen to you.  I only want you to know that the orders are the prosecutor’s and not mine.”

            This message was anything but cheering to me.  I was thrown into a cold fever.  All was lost.  I was to be sent to prison. 

            My terror at the prospect forced me to speak:  “But may I remind you of something?  This is the first time in my life that I have had to deal with an official of your rank, but I know that it is the duty of an investigating magistrate to determine the truth, to investigate it.  When the investigating magistrate collects all the possible evidence, he makes out an indictment and turns it over to the prosecutor; and if the evidence is against the suspected person, the latter is imprisoned.  If there is insufficient evidence, the man is set free.

            “If you send me to prison now, I take it that you have found something against me.  What have I done?  For what crime have I been indicted?”

            “Ask me no questions,” was all that Fenenko would answer.  “I have told you enough.  It is the prosecutor who accuses you, not I.” 

            I could tell from Fenenko’s manner of speaking that there was something ulterior behind the whole incident.  I was not given much time to reflect upon the matter, however, for the deputy was called in and I was taken back to the Okhrana headquarters.

            Very shortly afterward, I was called to be transferred to the prison.  I petitioned to spend the night, at least, with the Jews whose acquaintance I had made in the Okhrana jail, and the officials granted my request.

Chapter 6:  Prison

            The deputy who accompanied me to the prison permitted me to take the tram-car, but we did not go inside where the passengers were; we stood on the platform.  While riding to the prison, I met some of Zaitsev’s employees going to work, and a few of my acquaintances.  That was all I needed to complete the picture of darkness.

            During our ride, a Christian boarded the car, and upon noticing me embraced and kissed me.  It was Zakharchenko, the owner of the house where the Cheberyaks lived.  “Brother,” he said, “don’t lose spirit.  I myself am a member of the Double-Headed Eagle, but I tell you that the stones of the bridge may crumble, but the truth will out.”

            With these words, he jumped off the car.  My guard let the man go unharmed because he was then wearing the badge of the “Double Eagle,” whose owners are allowed to do pretty much as they like.  The deputy had been impressed by Zakharchenko’s speech, and treated me with some friendliness.  The bits of kindness shown me by many ordinary Russians before and during my imprisonment mitigated my bitterness towards my persecutors.

            The tramcar stopped running at the station before the prison, so we had to walk the rest of the way on foot.  Passing by a fruit-market, the deputy went to a stall and bought some pears, and offered them to me.  I could not restrain my amazement.  “I bought them for you,” he said.  “You are going to prison, and you won’t get them there.”

            As soon as I entered the prison door, and the official called out my name – “Beilis” – all the other officials came on the run to see me.  They all poked some fun at me, and devoured me with their eyes.  Then one got up the courage to come near me; he addressed me sarcastically.  “Well, here we’ll feed you matzah and blood to your heart’s content.  Go on, change your dress!”

            I was led into a small room and was given the “royal garments” – the drab prisoner’s clothes.  As I took off my boots, the blood rushed to my head, darkness swept over me, and I felt I was going to faint.  A guard came over and took off my shoes.  When I was put into the chair to have my hair cut, I was again about to faint.  The same guard came over and gave me some water.

            About noon I was brought into my residence, where I found about forty prisoners.  The door was locked.  No way out of here.  One had to hope, to hope, to steel oneself, to be as strong as the grating-bars in order to survive these foul and dark quarters. 

            I surveyed my new home and my new friends.  The walls were painted with tar.  Hardly a ray of light came through the bars.  The appalling smell of dirt and unwashed humanity was nauseating.  The crowd of prisoners was jumping around, dancing, cutting crazy pranks.  One was singing a song, the other telling smutty stories, some were wrestling and sparring.  Was I condemned to this atmosphere for a lifetime, or was this part of a horrible dream?

            “The prosecutor has ordered it, not I” – Fenenko’s words came back to me.  “It is not I that am accusing you.”

            I sat down in one of the remote corners, head bent on my prison-issued greatcoat, reflecting on my fate.  While I was thus in deep thought, the door of the big cell was opened, and a drunken voice shouted:  “Dinner.”

            When I had first come into the cell, I had noticed several pails on the floor, like those used in our bathhouses.  When the call for dinner rang out, several prisoners rushed for the pails, of which there were four or five.  There were about forty men in the room.  There was no dispute about the pails, for ten people could easily eat from the same pail.  But there were only three spoons.  Who was to eat first? 

            A free-for-all began at once.  The fierce scuffle lasted for some time, and after some had been injured and most everybody was tired, the spoons fell into the hands of the strongest and quickest.  Peace was declared and the men sat down on the floor to eat.  Each had just so many spoonfuls and then passed the spoon to the next man.  At times a man would cheat on the number of spoonfuls, and would take one or two extra spoonfuls.  Another scuffle would begin, with its accompaniment of the choicest and finest language to be found in the felons’ dictionary.

            I sat in my corner and looked with consternation upon this picture of life in prison.  When the meal was over, tea was brought in, which looked more like water.  Suddenly, one of the company came over to my corner and offered me a lump of sugar.  He did not speak, but made signs; he was mute, apparently, and seemed to be a Jew.  He drank his tea and then brought some for me in a small pitcher.  Thus elapsed the first few hours in prison.

            In the evening, a new prisoner was brought into our quarters, a Jew.  His arrival made things brighter, for now at least I had somebody to talk to.  I approached him and announced who I was.  He was greatly surprised on hearing my name.  Although he had troubles of his own, having been arrested for setting his house on fire to collect insurance, he forgot his own difficulties and concerned himself with mine.  He was a person of some influence.  His cousin was a builder-contractor in Kiev, and had good connections with the government.  The prisoner was therefore allowed to get food from the outside into prison, which food he shared with me.  In the morning, however, my friend fell ill and was taken to the hospital. 

            I may say that the room in which I was lodged was not the usual prison quarters.  It also belonged to the hospital, and one had to spend thirty days there before being taken into the “real prison.”  I was also informed that the pails from which we were eating were used as wash-pails in the laundry.

            For the first two days, I was not registered on the ration-list and received no bread.  On the third day, I was marked down as a regular boarder, and I began getting my bread ration, which was the only thing I could bear to eat.  I could not touch the soup because of the wash-pails.

            Once while we were having dinner, one of the men found a quarter of a mouse in the pail, which must have gotten there from the fine grits in the prison-stores.  The man who found it exhibited it, not so much to protest against the prison administration, as to deprive the others of their appetite and get more for himself.

            As the days passed, I found myself weakening.  I had to begin eating.  I could obtain food from home only on Sundays.  I waited for Sunday with greatest impatience.  I was also anxious to hear news of my family. 

            I shall never forget the eagerness with which I looked forward to that first Sunday.  On Saturday night, I was unable to sleep from impatience.  My back and shoulders ached from lying down, for the floor served as a bed.  I would rather have walked around, but it was forbidden.  I was lying as on a rake.

            At last, the day of happiness.  On Sunday, a package of food was brought in to me, which was supposed to last for the whole week.  When my prison comrades saw the package, they showed the greatest joy.  They tore it out of my hands in an instant, and devoured its contents in no time.  They tore at each other and at the package, each trying to get a larger share.  As they tore at each other like dogs, I was reminded that I had to face another week of fasting.  I was watched by the group, as to whether I showed any signs of displeasure.  For being displeased with comrades meant a good beating.  I had to put on a happy face, almost joy at their eating, and to say:  “Eat heartily, boys.”

            That autumn was particularly cold.  The window-panes were nearly all broken.  At night it was freezingly cold.  Things were not made any pleasanter by the wet and filthy floor and the vermin crawling all over the place.  My body was all bitten and scratched.

            A month passed, and I was transferred to other quarters, where there were also about forty prisoners, most of them prison-guests of long standing.  At this place I found three new companions, Jews, who made much over me upon hearing of my case. 

            It was on a Saturday morning that I was transferred to my new quarters.  Sunday morning I was again impatient.  When I received my package of food, the Jews advised me how to go about it so as not to be robbed.  I was to give them the package, and they would look after it; the others feared them and would not interfere.  I acted accordingly, and we spent five days together eating and drinking.  Then their court trial took place, and they were released.  They said they would get word to my wife from me.

            As long as the Jews had been with me, the Christian prisoners had not approached me.  No sooner did the Jews leave than the Christians became quite familiar, and treated me rather respectfully.  They knew of my case, and were amused by the questions that the officials had put to me.  They all predicted it would come to nothing. 

            One of these men became especially friendly, and was continuously showering me with compliments.  In the beginning I could not understand his excessive kindness, for he did not seem to be a person of natural kindness.  It was only later that I found out his game.  But the finding out cost me dearly. 

Chapter 7:  The Bloody “Analysis”

            On the next Sunday I again received a food package.  I was happy to see it – and apparently, the other prisoners were no less pleased.  One of them offered to take charge of it for “safe keeping.”  But recognizing him as one of those who could go through a package in the twinkling of an eye, I thanked him and said that I felt I could take care of it myself. 

            A little later, three new men were brought in:  a young Jew and two Christians.  The Jew confided to me that he could not eat the food, and that he had no sugar for his tea.  I offered him some challah (braided bread) and sugar, which he accepted with many thanks.

            “What are you here for?” he wanted to know. 

            I wished to avoid the usual condolences and sighings, so I told him I was there for horse stealing.  I asked him with what he was charged.  He told me that he had had five hundred rubles, with which he had paid for some purchase.  The bills were found to be counterfeit, and he was arrested.

            Once, on the “promenade,” one of the prisoners called to me:  “Beilis.”  The young Jew turned around in amazement.  “You are Beilis?  Why didn’t you tell me at first?  Why did you conceal your name?  I am happy to be in the same cell with you.  Do not grieve – God will help you.”

            The time was approaching when the prisoners were to make an “analysis” of me.  At first I didn’t know what that meant in the thieves’ lingo.  But I soon found out.

            When a group of prisoners is implicated in the same case, the necessity arises for agreeing on what they are all to say at trial, so that they may not become confused.  If there is a stranger in the cell, he may overhear their consultations and inform on them.  He is therefore subjected to an analysis – he gets a preliminary beating.  If he doesn’t report that, they feel safe to speak freely in his presence.

            I began to understand the reason for the friendliness of the Christian prisoners.  They had assumed this attitude in order to get close to me, pick a quarrel, and perform the “analysis.”  It seemed, however, that not all were bent on the analysis.  None wanted to be the provocateur, the bully.  The peasant who was angry at my refusal to make him the guardian of my package undertook that mission.  He also “had it in” for the Jews because it was a Jew who had accused him of theft.  I knew that this particular prisoner was out to get me, but I was helpless.

            It happened thus.  I could not wear my own shoes and had to wear the prison sabots with their nails in them.  From constant walking around to distract my thoughts, my feet were sorely hurt by the nails, and were bleeding.  Once, having tired of walking, I sat down on a chair.  The peasant came running and asked me to let him sit down on the chair.  Before I could answer, he hit me so that the blood started running.  All were watching me to see how I would react.  Seeing the blood, they were somewhat frightened and brought me some water to wash it. 

            When I refused to take the water, one of them shouted:  “Stab him!  Do away with him.  You can see:  he is going to squeal.”

            The young Jew came over to me and begged me, “Be reasonable.  Wash the blood off.  You will be transferred to another room.  I shall have to remain here, and they’ll take their vengeance on me.  If you wash yourself, they’ll become amenable.  You had better do it.”

            I did as I was asked.  I had consideration for the young man and washed myself.  Whereupon all the Christians turned upon the peasant and commenced to give him a beating.  “Jews,” they said, “must be tested in another way.”

            In the morning, I was on the “promenade.”  With me were the peasant who had hit me and another Christian.  The prison guard saw my swollen eye and asked me who had done it.  Before I had time to answer, the other Christian pointed at the peasant.  The guard promptly grabbed hold of the peasant’s collar and conducted us to the prison office.  On the way to the office, we had to pass by several guards.  Each of them questioned us, and upon being told, gave a hearty blow to the peasant.  The last guard we met, when informed of the culprit, got hold of the peasant and threw him down a flight of steps.  I feared he would have his head broken.

            In the office, he was asked by one of the officials:  “Why did you hit Beilis?”

            His answer was:  “I asked him as a comrade to let me sit on his chair.  He did not let me, so I hit him.”

            “Is he your comrade?” asked the official severely. 

            “Well, he takes our children and drinks their blood.  Will he lord it over us here?”

            “Have you yourself seen him kill children?” asked the official.

            “No, but so I am told.”

            “Well, then, take this and this” – and the official gave the peasant a good beating.  

Chapter 8:  The Spies

            I was transferred to another room, for it was impossible to remain with my peasant friend.  In this room there were only twelve men, for the most part petty officials, policemen and such-like, who had committed minor offences.  Among them was one Kozachenko, who was friendly to me.  The others seemed to be suspicious of me.

            A few days later, I was summoned into the hall by the warden, who came to ask me whether I was being treated in my new quarters as badly as in the previous ones.  When I told him it was better here, he left.  In my new quarters, I noticed that the guard would take letters from the prisoners to deliver them outside, and would bring replies, all for a few kopeks.

            In the meantime I had no news of my family.  Being friendly with Kozachenko, I told him I should like to send a note to my family.  I wrote a letter and took the precaution to leave no empty space, so as not to let anybody else add to my words.  In the letter, I asked about the welfare of my wife and family and wanted to know the reason for their silence and inactivity.  Why were they not doing something?  I was innocent, but it seemed that no one was taking any interest in me.  I wrote that I did not know if I could stand further imprisonment.  I also mentioned that the bearer of the letter was to be paid fifty kopeks and to be given an answer.

            I gave my letter to the guard and he later brought me an answer.  I read it, then carefully tore it up.  A few days later, the guard asked me whether I should like to send another letter.  I told him I would not. 

            Kozachenko’s trial was to take place shortly.  He came to me once and told me:  “Listen to me, Beilis.  The whole world knows you are innocent.  When I am released, I’ll do what I can for you.  I have enough information from the prisoners here who know who the real murderers are.”

            He went to his trial and was acquitted.  He returned to prison for the night.  In the morning, when he was to leave, I gave him a letter for my wife.  I wrote her that the bearer would give her news of me.

            This happened on Wednesday.  On Friday evening, I was summoned to the prison office.  I had a pang of foreboding in my heart.  In the office I was met by two officials, the inspector and another one. 

            The inspector asked me:  “You wrote letters to your family?”

            At first I did not know what to say.  All my suspicions fell upon Kozachenko.  I decided that he must have been the one who turned the letter over to the officials in order to get into their good graces.  I did not suspect the guard of treachery, the less so in view of the fact that he had brought back an answer.  Therefore, I didn’t want to get him into trouble.  I told the inspector:  “I sent a letter with Kozachenko.”

            In reply, he read me the two letters, including the one I had sent through the guard.  It was clear that the whole thing was a trap, set by the guard from the very beginning, to get my letters in order to deliver them to the officials.  I was told to go back to prison.

            About two hours later, on Friday night when all good Jews were sitting down to cheerful tables and singing Sabbath songs, the door of our room opened and I was told with severity:  “Take your things and come with me.”

            I took my belongings and was brought into a small room – cold to the freezing point.  I looked around:  the room was empty.  I implored the guard to give me at least a mattress. 

            “Tomorrow,” was his answer.  “It does not matter.  You will die overnight.”  He locked the door.

            I sat down on the cold and wet floor and trembled from cold.  With unspeakable suffering, I awaited the coming of the morning.  The thought of the letters would not leave my head.  I feared that since the letters had fallen into the hands of the officials, they might also have arrested my wife. 

            In the morning I received a visit from the deputy warden.  I pleaded with him to do one of two things:  either order the stove to be heated so that the room would be warm, or else have me shot and put an end to my tortures.

            His answer was:  “I cannot do anything myself.  I’ll ask for instructions.  Wait an hour.”  He returned in an hour and had me transferred to a small but warm room.

            I waited for Sunday.  Sunday came, no one arrived, and no package of food was received.  I felt certain my poor family had also been arrested.  Was it possible, however, that none was left free to take care of me?

            I heard children’s voices from the prison yard, and it seemed to me they were the voices of my children.  I thought that they and my wife had been thrown into jail.

            On Monday, the warden himself appeared.  I inquired:  Why had not I received anything on Sunday?  Was it because of the letters?

            His answer was:  “For the letters, you got ‘strict confinement.’  Such practices are forbidden.  As to the package of food, it is not our fault; something must have happened at your home.  I shall find out.”

            I took the opportunity to ask him to have another man put into my room; a decent person, for one might go mad from lonesomeness and solitude.  He promised to grant my request and departed.

            An hour later, two young men were brought into my cell.  Each had chains on both hands and feet.  Both looked savage enough.  They must have been murderers.  I would gladly have foregone the pleasure of their company.  I had to conceal my sentiments and put on a pleasant face, however.  It could not be helped.

            Another few days passed.  One morning, I was given a letter from my wife.  She wrote that she was not doing well, could not come herself, and was therefore sending money.  I felt cheered up – thank God they were all home.  But why am I imprisoned?  What would they do with me?  How long will my unjust, undeserved tortures last?  When will there be an end to my misfortunes?

            These questions oppressed my brain.  I was walking around day after day as one out of his senses.  I kept thinking:  is there no man to take up my cause?  Is there nothing being done to get me freed? 

Chapter 9:  The First Indictment

            On a day in January, 1912, I was summoned to the district court to get my indictment.  My joy was boundless.  Come what might, I would at least know where I stood.

            I was escorted to the district court.  There I found my wife and brother, whom I had not seen for a long time.  We could not talk to each other, however. 

            In the morning before going to court, I had received a letter from my wife and brother, telling me that I should announce in court that I had retained as my lawyers Messrs. Gruzenberg, Grigorovich-Barsky, and Margolin.

            I was handed the indictment.  When I realized its contents, I was stunned.  I was not charged overtly with “ritual murder.”  I was nevertheless accused of having murdered Yushchinsky or having been accomplice to his murder with others.  I was charged in accordance with the statute dealing with premeditated murder, the death of the victim having been caused by bodily tortures inflicted upon it, or the victim having been subjected before murder to cruel torment.  In case of conviction, the statute called for 15-20 years katorga (imprisonment with hard labor).

            Of course, had the investigation been carried on along the lines of an ordinary criminal case, the indictment would have been only a sort of personal frame-up, a personal libel.  Since, however, the investigation and the whole case in general had been undertaken with the intention of turning it into a ritual murder case, the whole case became a frame-up on the entire Jewish people. 

            I was amazed at Fenenko.  He told me he was not indicting me, and yet he composed the indictment.  As I was later informed, he had intended at first to quash it, since there was no proof whatever against me.  That is what he himself said – but the chief prosecutor in Kiev, Chaplinsky, together with the notorious Zamyslovsky and the whole band of Black Hundreds, compelled Fenenko to formulate the indictment.  It should be borne in mind that Fenenko did not even intend to arrest me.  All that was done by Chaplinsky. 

            Nevertheless, the higher authorities were far from being satisfied with the indictment.  Its premises were weak at their foundation.  In addition to that, the authorities actually wanted the case to have a ritual character.  The prosecutor, Chaplinsky, exercised all his efforts to have it inserted into the indictment that Yushchinsky had been murdered for “religious purposes.”  I was told that Fenenko had been summoned several times before the Minister of Justice in St. Petersburg.  Fenenko, however, would not be budged and won that particular point. 

            I was led back to my dark and dingy prison.  About that time, I began to feel my feet swelling – they were being covered with sores.  Since my shoes had no soles, the walking on the snow and ice caused me intense suffering.  Hence the swelling and sores.  The pain was almost unbearable.  The skin burst and blood was oozing through.  But I did not find much sympathy for my sufferings on the part of those around me.

            One morning I asked the doctor to be brought in to examine me.  I was in agony.  The officials were merciful enough and sent me a surgeon’s aide.  The surgeon’s aide looked at the sores and said that I was to be transferred to the hospital. 

            Later, a guard came in and shouted:  “Hurry up, let’s go!”  I could not move, however; my feet were so swollen that I could not stand up.  He did not want to listen to any reason and kept shouting, “Move on!”  Finally, one of the prisoners who happened to be in the hall brought some rags and wrapped them around my knees.  And in this manner, crawling on my knees over the snow and ice, I dragged myself to the prison hospital.

            In the hospital I encountered another surgeon’s aide, who had lived on Yurkovskaya Street, not far from our factory.  When he recognized me, he became pale, and trembled from pity and amazement.  He ordered at once that I be undressed and given a warm bath.  I was afterwards given clean linen and put into a warm, clean bed.  This produced such a beneficial effect that I slept uninterruptedly for thirty-six hours.  I could not bring myself to part with the bed. 

            After the good rest I had, an operation was performed upon me.  My friend the surgeon’s aide was not present – I was operated upon by the physician.  When he commenced to open the sores, the pain made me wince and scream.  The doctor smiled and observed, “Well, Beilis, now you know for yourself how it feels to be cut up.  You know how Andryusha felt when you were stabbing him and drawing his blood – all for the sake of your religion.”  You can imagine how cheerful I felt at this raillery of the doctor.  He kept on cutting leisurely, and I had to bite my lips not to let myself scream. 

            After the operation, I was carried by two prisoners back to my bed.  I lay there for three days.  In all decency, I should have stayed there for a longer period of time, but the doctor was not inclined to make it easy on me.  I was put in my usual raiment and was sent back to prison. 

            I did not find my former companions in my room.  Since the solitude was weighing heavily upon me, I again asked for company.  A second prisoner was brought in.  I feared at first that he was another of the Kozachenko band, i.e. a spy.  He proved, however, to be a very honest peasant.

            My new companion was an inveterate smoker – but in my room, he was forbidden to smoke.  This was a great deprivation for him.  After a couple of days, he therefore asked that he be transferred to his former quarters, since he could not live without smoking.  The warden granted his request, and he was about to go back.  However, when the guard came for him, he hesitated and said, “No, I have pity on this Jew; he is a very honest fellow.  He likes my company, and I will stay with him.”  And so he did.  He stayed with me for two weeks and was subsequently released from prison.  Before the parting, he embraced me and wept.  “I know,” said he, “that you are suffering unjustly.  Trust in God, He will help you.  You will be released.  The Jews are an honest people.”

            I was left alone, a prey to heavy thoughts that were obsessing me to the point of melancholy.   

Chapter 10:  The First Visit of My Lawyers

            Eight months had elapsed since the ominous morning when I was first put behind the iron bars.  Eight dark months had rolled away, and the end of my sufferings was not yet in view.  Besides that, I did not know whether anything was being done on my behalf in the outside world.  Who was planning to intercede for me, to defend me? 

            One dreary day, the door of my cell suddenly opened and a distinguished gentleman of Jewish appearance entered, introducing himself as Mr. Gruzenberg, one of my attorneys.  Hitherto, he had been unable to see me because the indictment had not been issued.  Now, however, with the indictment completed, he was able to come and visit his client as frequently as desired. 

            Gruzenberg’s appearance made a strong impression on me.  He tried to cheer me up.  “Be strong.  I come to you in the name of the Jewish people.  You must forgive us since you are compelled to suffer for all of us.  I am telling you I should consider myself happy to exchange your prisoner’s clothes with you and to let you go free.”

            “I have one request to make, Mr. Gruzenberg,” was my reply.  “A man must know his situation.  Tell me please, how my case stands.  I shall not lose courage even if things go rather unfavorably.  However, I cannot live in this state of uncertainty.  Tell me the truth.”

            “You are right,” he said, “you ought to know all, but none of us is able to gauge the situation with precision.  I had a similar case with Blondes (also accused of ritual murder) in Vilna.  You can’t tell how the thing will turn out.”  I told him what Fenenko had said to me during one of my interviews with him, quoting a Russian proverb:  “When the corn is milled, we will have some very fine flour.” 

            “Well, well,” said Gruzenberg, shaking his head, “we may have muka” (a play on words, muka meaning both flour and trouble).   Before leaving, he cheered me up by saying that I was to be defended by the best lawyers in Russia:  Zarudny, Maklakov, Grigorovich-Barsky, and others; and that I should soon be visited by each of them.

            Gruzenberg’s visit was a great relief for me.  My faith grew stronger in my eventual release, though no false hopes were held out for me by my lawyers.  I was cheered by the very fact that there were people taking my interests to heart, that I was not forgotten, and that the greatest legal lights of Russia were eager to defend me. 

            Mr. Grigorovich-Barsky was the next lawyer to visit me.  I inquired, “Would it not be the thing to have me taken out on bail, or to appeal to the Czar himself for mercy?” 

            He smiled and shook his head.  “Do you know that the Czar has recently visited Kiev?”

            “Yes,” I said, “the newly arrested prisoners told me about it.  I have also heard that the chief of the Okhrana, Kuliabko, who had originally arrested me, came to grief over the Czar’s visit since he proved unable to prevent the assassination of Prime Minister Stolypin in the Czar’s very presence.”

            “It is so,” confirmed Grigorovich-Barsky, “so now you know that the Czar was in Kiev.  I was in the Government’s service at the time as an assistant prosecuting attorney.  I was a member of the deputation selected to welcome the Czar.  One of my colleagues was with me.  We were present when the chief prosecutor of Kiev, Chaplinsky, was introduced to the Czar.  Chaplinsky told the Czar:  ‘Your Majesty, I am happy to inform you that the real culprit in Yushchinsky’s murder has been discovered.  That is, Beilis, a Zhid.’  Upon hearing that, the Czar bared his head and made the sign of the cross as an expression of his thanks to God.  Now, I ask you, Beilis, to whom will you appeal for mercy, to the man who thanks God that a Zhid is suspected of the murder?”

            I was nearly stunned with amazement.  Mr. Barsky was silent for a while.  I could hardly recover my senses from the unexpected story of Mr. Barsky about the Czar.  I knew that Nicholas was not a friend of the Jews, but that he should openly exhibit so intense an interest and pleasure in the persecution of a Jew, and that before a gathering of his officials, was beyond my imagination.  “I’ll tell you another thing,” said Mr. Grigorovich-Barsky, in that friendly and winning way he had with him.  “When the Czar was in Kiev he was expected one day to visit a certain place.  A great gathering was waiting for him, and the crowd made one feel quite uncomfortable, though strict order was maintained.  I was there with a friend to see the procession.  A certain colonel passed by and pushed a Jew, calling him ‘Zhid.’[1]  I and my friend were in civilian dress at the time.  The Jew, pushed by the colonel, was of fine appearance, behaved very well, and in no way deserved the insult.  I turned to the colonel.  ‘Why were you so rude?’  His answer was, ‘You Zhid defender!’  We had a heated argument and I eventually brought the colonel before a judge, who gave him eight days in prison, well deserved for his rudeness.  All these unpleasant incidents brought me to the decision to resign my position with the government.  I gave up my assistant prosecutor post and became a private lawyer.”

            Before Grigorovich-Barsky came to me, I was given a paper to sign in which I was officially informed that Shmakov, a lawyer on Yushchinsky’s side, was suing me for civil damages in the amount of seven thousand rubles.  He would thus be able to take part in the trial against me as a private prosecutor.  During Grigorovich-Barsky’s visit I asked him who that man Shmakov was.  Grigorovich-Barsky told me that Shmakov was an old man, a well-known anti-Semite, whose opinions were of little general weight.  My lawyer seemed to be rather optimistic about my case.  He told me that the greatest experts of Russia and her greatest scientists would be summoned for the trial, and that Shmakov would appear ridiculous before such a gathering.  We parted as if we were old friends. 

            After this, my lawyers visited me regularly.  Mr. Arnold Margolin used to be a frequent visitor.  Mr. Margolin was the lawyer my wife and brother had first hired to represent me, immediately upon my arrest.  He always kept in touch with my family and constantly encouraged me. 

 

Chapter 11:  A Convict with a Heart

            Being lonesome, I again asked the authorities to give me a companion.  My petition was granted, and a Pole, Pashlovski, was brought into my cell.  He had been sentenced to katorga (hard labor), and was waiting to be sent to Siberia.[2]  He was a very clever fellow, although he had murdered more than one man in his life.

            In the evening, he was called to the prison office.  I felt very uneasy about it.  I knew it was a bad omen for me, since the man, already being convicted, had very little to do with the office.  When he returned, he seemed to be in good humor.  He came over to me nearly bursting with laughter. 

            “Why are you laughing?” I asked uneasily.  “What happened in the office?”

            The prisoner answered, “I would tell you, Beilis, but you are too nervous.  If I tell you the whole story you would become excited, so it is better for you not to know.”

            I renewed my interrogation.  “I see you are a good man since you are so mindful of my health.  I thank you for that.  Had you come in without laughing, I would not have known anything, but since you are my friend, you must tell me all.  It is better to know the truth, even if it be unpleasant.”

            He thought for a while, and then with a wave of the hand, as if making up his mind, told me.  “Well, if you insist, this is what happened.  I was brought into the office.  I found quite a large gathering there.  The prosecutor, the warden, they were all in a lively confab.  On the table was a silver cigarette box.  The prosecutor offered me a cigarette.  You may imagine my amazement.  Who was I and who were they?  I, a convict, and they were treating me to cigarettes.  Apparently they wanted me to do something for them.  Well, I am nobody’s fool. 

            “The Warden began to speak in the kindest, friendliest manner, as if the matter concerned his very life.  ‘You are a Christian, one of us,’ he said, ‘and I am certain you care for our Christians, for our blood, as much as we do ourselves.’  He hesitated for a while and then continued.  ‘You are in the same cell with Beilis.  Tell me, what does he say?  Has he told you anything?’ 

            “My answer was, ‘He is bewailing his bitter misfortunes.  He complains that he is suffering unjustly, and undeservedly.’ 

            “The prosecutor joined in with a smile.  ‘We know that he says that; that is to be expected; but you are an intelligent man, you understand people.  You ought to discern the difference between his truths and his lies.  Didn’t he ever slip out with a word or something?’

            “I saw at once it was a crooked band I was dealing with, so I spoke up.  ‘Look here, gentlemen, I grew up among Jews.  At the age of six, I lost my father and mother, became a total orphan.  My relatives apprenticed me to a Jewish locksmith, and I learned the trade.  I lived for twelve years in his house.  I left it a grown man with a trade.  I was able to make money and I married.  I had friends among Jews and also among Jewish converts.  I daresay I know all the Jewish customs, and a good deal about their religious rites.  I know it from A to Z.  Small wonder, since I grew up in a Jewish house as one of them.  I know they would not eat an egg if there is a bloodclot in it.  It is tref (un-kosher) with them.  I have seen it a hundred times if once.  I have seen them salting their meat and have asked the mistress of the house why they do it.  ‘Because this drives all the blood out of the meat,’ she told me.  They do it ‘because we must eat no blood whatever.’

            “‘Now, when people come and tell me that the Jews use blood, human blood in particular; that Beilis has murdered a Christian child in order to have his blood, I who am a Christian and who believe in the Cross, I tell you that all these stories are a set of despicable lies.’”

            “When I was through with my say, they all looked at me with murder in their eyes.  They saw that they had the wrong man.  The cigarette had not bought them any cooperation from me.  Some of them lost their patience. 

            “‘Well,’ said the prosecutor, ‘be that as it may, but does he never say anything in his sleep?’  I said I never heard him talking in his sleep.  They saw they couldn’t get anything out of me, and ordered me back to the cell.  That is why I was laughing coming into the room.  I can see they have no actual proof against you, and they are looking for the ‘snows of yesteryear.’”

            They did not keep the fellow long with me.  They saw that he was too friendly towards me.  He was taken away.  Since they could not make him serve their purposes, we had to part.  I was left alone. 

            From all these incidents, the impression grew stronger with me that the government felt its case to be weak; that the indictment was feeble.  It was clear that had the Black Hundreds felt their case to be stronger, they would not have resorted to the help of spies and schemes. 

Chapter 12:  New Intrigues

            Rumors began to circulate in the prison that a certain journalist Brazul-Brushkovsky had written the prosecutor that he had information indicating that the murder of the boy Andryusha had been committed by Vera Cheberyak’s lover.  The rumors had it further that Brazul’s statement, made on the grounds of Cheberyak’s admissions, was not found to be sufficiently supported by evidence.  Not until the spring of 1912 did the private investigators discover the right trail, and Brazul-Brushkovsky, along with former chief detective Krasovsky, came out with a new statement.  The first indictment was withdrawn, and the official investigation into the murder began anew. 

            All this aroused new hopes in me.  However, they were short-lived.  In the summer a new investigating magistrate, Mashkevich, was sent down from St. Petersburg, and he thwarted any effort to charge the true criminals.

            A day or two after the incident with the katorjnik (convict at hard labor) who refused to spy on me, I was summoned to the district court.  I went there with joy.  I was pleased to be able to see the outside world again and breathe the fresh air.  This time my escort took me in the tram car.  As ill luck would have it, the car caught fire, so that we had to go on foot.  A lot of people knew that I was to be taken down to the court; some came to take a look at me, and to take my photograph.  In the hall where I was brought, I found Investigating Magistrate Mashkevich and a certain professor.

            “Look here, Beilis,” said Mashkevich, “three hairs were found on Andryusha’s trousers, so that if you do not object I would ask some of your hair to be shown to an expert.”

            I could scarcely look at the man, but I answered politely.  “If you need it, you can take it.”

            “No,” said the investigating magistrate, “you must do it yourself.”  I took the scissors from his desk, cut some hair off my head, and put them in an envelope.

            Having done so, I rather regretted my course.  Who knows what these tricksters might be up to?  They might dye the hair.  But then I thought:  let them do their worst.  The request for my hair was all that was wanted of me for the time being.  I was immediately sent back to prison.

            Three days later I was called to the prison office.  My fingerprints were wanted. 

            “Is it done in every prisoner’s case?” I inquired.

            “No,” I was told, “only to those whose indictment calls for katorga (hard labor).”

            “What is this for?” was my further inquiry.  I was told that an imprint of fingers was left on Andryusha’s belt-buckle.  My fingerprints were wanted in order to compare the two.  The fingerprint obtained, I was dispatched back to the cell.

            Around this time, I had a special visit from my family.  My wife had previously been granted permission to see me, but “to see” was about the true extent of the favor.  For we could only see each other separated by double bars, and that for no longer than five minutes.  The noise and tumult in the visiting quarters was such that we could hardly hear each other.  Nevertheless, her visits were a great joy to me.

            One day, I was told the glad news that my wife and children would be allowed to see me in the prison office.  I was immediately conducted to the office.  When I entered there, none of my family was to be seen.  I sat down to wait patiently.  I became restless, however.  I had not seen my children for a long time.  How did they look?  How much they had suffered – and all for what?  Minutes seemed longer than years.  How long was I to wait?

            Six officials sat in the office, among them Investigating Magistrate Mashkevich.  They were eyeing me keenly all the time I was sitting there.  They were exchanging remarks between themselves.

            Finally, my wife, the children, and my brother were brought in.  When I saw the youngest boy, four years old, I took him in my arms and began to kiss him.  A guard rushed to me and snatched the child from my arms.  It was not permitted to kiss one’s own child. 

            The child began to weep.  He was frightened by the rudeness of the guard, the presence of the officials with their shiny buttons, and most of all by my prison clothes.  I lost my self-control and commenced to shout with tears in my voice:  “What right have you to do all this?  Have you no children yourself?  Don’t you know a father’s feelings?  Are you so heartless?”

            I noticed that several of the officials turned away their faces and were wiping their eyes with their handkerchiefs.  I was permitted to take the child in my arms.  I asked my wife how things were going with her.  She answered sadly:  “Even if I have enough to live on, what good is it when you are suffering so cruelly and unjustly?”

            We thus spent a few minutes together, and then my family were told they must leave.  I remained alone.  The prosecutor Chaplinsky came over to me, offered me a cigarette, and said in a voice of feigned compassion:  “Yes, Beilis, this is how your Jewish friends are acting.  When Beilis was needed, he was given money, and was a very, very good man.  And now when he is no more needed he is completely forgotten by them.  Your poor wife is also suffering much and must be angry with the Jews.”

            Chaplinsky spoke very slowly and distinctly, and simulated a tone of friendliest sympathy.  His every word, however, was like a stab in my heart, and the cunning, malicious expression on his face added to my bitterness.  I turned to him and asked for permission to say a few words.  He encouraged me:  “Certainly – you may speak.”

            “If an atrocious villain were found capable of murdering an innocent child, all in order to incite pogroms against the Jews, how could the Jews have a part in it?  What had the Jewish people to do with it?  Let me be kept in prison.  I have patience.  The trial will show that I am innocent.”

            None of them spoke to me any more.  Chaplinsky turned away and was apparently far from being pleased with my words.  I was let out of the office.

            My imprisonment drew on, day after day, month after month.  Over a year elapsed from the dark morning of my first arrest by Colonel Kuliabko, when I had been torn away from my wife and family.  I kept on hoping for a long while:  tomorrow I shall be free.  Instead of freedom, I had to feed on hopes and expectations.

            One evening, while I was sitting in my dingy cell, alone with my meditations, I heard footsteps and several voices in the hall, and a woman’s voice said at my door:  “It would be interesting to see this rascal.”

            The door opened and four persons entered.  One of them was in a general’s uniform.  The woman looked at me and said in a horrified tone:  “What a terrible-looking creature.  How fierce he looks.”

            The general came closer to me and said:  “Beilis, you will soon be let free.”

            “On what grounds?” I asked him.

            His answer was:  “The tercentenary jubilee of the reign of the Romanov dynasty is soon to be celebrated.  There will be a manifesto pardoning all katorjniks (convicts at hard labor).”

            “That manifesto,” said I, “will be for katorjniks, not for me.  I need no manifesto, I need a fair trial.”

            “If you will be ordered to be released, you’ll have to go.”

            “No – even if you open the doors of the prison, and threaten me with shooting, I shall not leave.  I shall not go without a trial.  I am strong enough to suffer all until the trial.”

            While I was speaking, they were all standing quiet and listening with curiosity to every word of mine.  Even that finicky lady that was at first so much frightened by my appearance and thought me so cruel looking, even she approached me to have a better look at me.  When I was through, the general continued in the same vein.  “Listen to reason, Beilis.  You know very well yourself, that you are suffering unjustly.  I should probably do the same thing if I were in your place.  You were a poor man and you did what you were told.  If you tell us the truth you would be making a very fortunate move.  You would be sent abroad and would be provided for the rest of your life; your action would supply an answer to the question that is occupying the whole world at present.  However, you are persisting in hiding the truth.  With your silence you think to protect the Jewish nation, and you are only ruining yourself.  Why should you suffer for nothing?  It is up to you but to say the word and you would be a happy man for the remainder of your life.”

            I could hardly keep my self-control while the man was talking.  Every word of his was disgusting to me.  He actually thought he was showing sympathy with my situation – according to him, I had been hired by the Jews to do my piece of dirty work and now he wanted me to tell the “truth.”  He came to exercise his influence with me.  I saw that further conversation was useless.  I could hardly stand it any longer.  I gave him a short answer:  “The whole world is indeed waiting for the truth.  The trial will show the truth.”

            “Well, we shall see,” muttered the general.  Waving his hand as if giving me up for hopeless, he left my room with his escort.

            The first year of my imprisonment had drawn to its close.  My lonely prison cell was far from being comfortable – the walls were plastered with cement, and during the winter frost they always had an icy coating.  The heating was insufficient.  During the warmer days the lime on the walls would thaw and the walls would be dripping with moisture.  The dripping from the ceiling made it almost impossible for me to sleep.  I was dressed in the usual prison garb, i.e. a shirt of sack linen and a long coat of raggy cloth.  I had to wear my shirts for stretches of two and three months.  There was no lack of the usual vermin.  In the prison itself the mortality from typhoid fever was about six or seven men per day.  This was in no way surprising in view of the extraordinary filth, the disgusting food, and the unheated rooms (not infrequently during the frosts I used to find my hand frozen to the ice on the wall).  All these things made a perfect breeding ground for various epidemics.

            In addition to all these hardships, I was harried by constant searches instituted by the administration.  The door of my cell had been locked by no less than thirteen locks – that meant that each time the door was to be opened, all thirteen locks had to be shot back.  The sound of the rasping lock-springs used to set my nerves on edge.  I was obsessed with the illusion that somebody behind me was hitting me repeatedly upon the head – it was one blow after another. 

            The searches were usually performed by a squad of five under the supervision of one of the deputy wardens.  Every time they would come in, the first order for me was to undress.  Often they had to unbutton me, for my fingers were awkward because of the cold.  They were quite rude and at times tore off a number of buttons during the operation.  Some exercised their rude sense of humor.  “You liked to stab the boy Andryusha, to draw his blood.  We will do the same thing to you now” – that was the standing joke.  They would also look into my mouth lest I might have something hidden there.  They would pull my tongue out in order to see deeper and better. 

            All these tortures and insults I had to undergo six times a day.  It is hard to believe, but it is the truth.  No protests were of any avail.  Their intentions were to inflict the utmost inconvenience upon me.  They wanted me to die without resorting to actual murder.  They would not poison me outright, for that would create trouble.  I believe they wanted to drive me to suicide. 

            Cases of suicide were quite frequent in the prison.  Prisoners used to hang themselves to get rid of the persecution and torture.  The administration must have thought that I would succumb under their pressure.  A weaker vessel, in their opinion, would not be able to stand it and would take his life.  In such an eventuality, the charge of ritual murder would never be wiped off the Jewish nation. 

            My life was thus hanging on a hair.  I saw once how another prisoner was shot to death in the prison hall after some altercation with one of the guards.  This murder was easily explained away.  The guard tore one of his sleeves and reported that he shot the prisoner in self-defense.  There was no punishment, of course, for such justifiable self-defense. 

            On one of the walls of my cell there hung a set of prison rules.  One of its clauses was to the effect that a prisoner insulting a guard or being insubordinate could be murdered on the spot, and the guard was to receive a reward in the amount of three rubles.  The expression “assault” needed no special interpretation.  Nor was the term “insubordination” less inclusive.  If a guard ordered the prisoner to walk quicker or to stop and wait, and the guard was not instantly obeyed, it meant resistance and insubordination and the guard was justified in shooting the prisoner.

            Generally speaking, the life of a prisoner is hell.  A prisoner, from the very moment that the prison gates are closed behind him, is completely in the power of the administration, and his life is in constant danger. 

            Nevertheless, in spite of all the inconveniences that were heaped upon me, and all the dangers, they only served to strengthen my determination and to give me more courage to go through with this great trial.  And while I was closely watched by the administration for some excuse or pretext for doing away with me, I was always on guard not to accommodate them in the least.  In more than one case, there was actual provocation and foul play to represent my actions as insubordination and resistance.  They tried often to put me in a situation where they could use their arms.  But I was extremely careful. 

            One thing I always had before me:  the shameful charge of ritual murder must be wiped off the good name of the Jewish nation.  It was my fate, it had to be done through me, and in order to be effected, I had to remain alive.  I had to exercise every ounce of power, I had to suffer all without murmuring, but the enemies of my people would not triumph.  

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[1] The term Zhid, in Russian, is a derogatory term for “Jew.”  The non-derogatory Russian word for “Jew” is Evrei (Hebrew).  

[2] The katorga system in Czarist Russia was a precursor to the Soviet gulag.