statement that great plans were made for my
comfort and everything done to convince me
that, as we say in East London, “ everything
in the garden's lovely ” in Russia.
I stayed only a short time in Petrograd, meeting Zinovieff and a dozen other friends. I must tell of one first-class banquet I enjoyed. The occasion was my last night in Russia. An anarchist comrade who is helping Bill Shatoff in the work of organising the railways had just brought 45 trucks loaded with food into Petrograd. He asked me to supper, as he said, “ to have a really nice meal.” Well, I arrived at the appointed time and found my meal was to consist of some bacon, butter, white bread and tea. This was the luxurious meal in my honour, and it was a luxurious meal for anyone in Russia, and enjoyed by us all, and the story of it is written down here to give the lie to the statement that commissars and their friends live on the fat of the land. Neither of these friends had seen such bacon, butter and cheese for months. I had—but even so, the white bread and boiled bacon was more delicious than anything I had tasted for over a month. I went around Petrograd, looked at the churches, open spaces, most of all at the people, found the streets and everywhere else cleaner than in Moscow.
We left Petrograd at nine in the morning, reached the border at about 10.30, and found
