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I left Kyiv on May 1, which is Labor Day in the European countries. The streets bathed in sunshine were crowded with workers, students, and intellectuals, with a sprinkle of curious idlers. Above the crowds fluttered red flags, and the crowds were shouting and lustily singing revolutionary songs. It was such a glorious day that even the policemen and gendarmes became mollified and did not interfere. There were clashes in the suburbs, but along the way to the depot on the main thoroughfare the multi-colored crowds were gay and undisturbed. The balconies, adorned with bright rugs and flowers, were full of spectators who were shouting, singing, and throwing flowers into the crowds. It was a heartwarming scene, and it pained me immensely to leave this beautiful city. The fact that I had to leave my wife, who was now with child, and my young son, worried me a great deal.
It was in very low spirits that I arrived early the next morning in Petrograd (as it was called then) greeted by a dense fog and a drizzling cold rain. Luckily my old friend, Gerstein, having been notified of my arrival, met me at the depot, took me to his apartment and, with his innate optimism and exuberant spirits, relieved my anxiety. Later in the day, he took me for a tour of the city. It was a very big, impressive city and, by comparison, Kyiv looked like a small provincial town. The main street, the Nevsky Prospect, is broad, straight like an arrow, and extends from the depot to the shores of the Neva River for about five miles.
Facing the depot is the statue of Alexander III, father of the unlamented late Tsar Nicholas, on horseback. With his deep-set eyes, narrow forehead, and dark complexion, he looked more like a Mongolian than a Russian. Many a passerby would look at the statue and murmur, “What a beautiful horse…,” withholding comment on the Tsar for fear of being arrested.
After the revolution came, the most gratifying spectacle, although on the rough side, was the dismounting of the Tsar from his pedestal and the dragging of it in the mud, accompanied by the choice abusive words in which the Russian lexicon is so rich.
The same fate befell other monuments of the monarchy with the exception of the statue of Peter the Great on the bank of the Neva. In his full normal height of six feet four inches, he sits on a magnificent horse placed on an enormous rock. In its crude form, the rock weighed more than 300 tons, and it was carried from Finland through forests and marshes for about 100 miles by sheer manpower pushing and pulling it. It is estimated that more than 20,000 men perished in performing this Herculean task, life always having been cheap in Russia. The polished rock is encircled by a snake on the head of which the hind legs of the horse are resting, a symbol of the Tsar crushing the hydra of revolution.
Among the most interesting buildings are the magnificent palace of the dowager queen mother of Nicholas, the Kazan cathedral, built in the Byzantine style, famous for its enormous space and the golden double throne studded with diamonds, the seats of the Czar and the Czarina, who worshipped there on solemn occasions.
A little off the street on a large plaza, one can see the Winter Palace with its 300 odd rooms and numerous halls. Connected with the palace is the Hermitage, an art gallery, which is second to none in Europe.
The banks of the Neva River are fortified with granite devised to stem the overflow of the river, and on these banks are the palaces of the Romanovs and the nobility. Because of the periodic inundations, despite the granite bars, a number of canals were dug; and they crisscross the city in all directions, which necessitated the construction of solid and draw bridges. Among them is the beautiful Trinity Bridge. Close to it is the Peter and Paul Fortress, the impregnable prison for political criminals. In this section of the city is also the so-called Field of Mars where the revolution was fought and hundreds of unnamed revolutionaries are buried. Facing the Mars Field is the magnificent palace of the ballerina, Kalesinsky, the mistress of the late Tsar. The palace later became the headquarters of the Bolsheviks before they overthrew the Kerensky regime. The center of the city is very impressive, and the banks of the Neva River with its palaces, monuments, and gardens are very beautiful. The great Pushkin immortalized the beauty of it in one of his best-known poems, which opens with the words, “I love you, the creation of Peter, its orderly stern view. I love the majestic flow of the Neva and its granite banks.”
But away from the center, most of the streets are narrow, the buildings are of brick and drab colors. The light does not penetrate there even on sunny days, which are rare, and the suburbs are mostly slums of the worst kind. I hated the city all the years I lived there.
A few days after my arrival, Gerstein, with whom I lived, was arrested, and I was confronted with two problems: to find a place to live and a place to work in my professional capacity. The first problem was solved by a happy encounter with a friend of my student days who lived now in Petrograd and volunteered to make a place for me in his house. The question of establishing myself in medical practice was more complicated. Because of the immense influx of people from all parts of the country and the mobilization of doctors, it was easy to establish myself in practice as an independent. There was, however, the question of location. I had to wait until I learned more about the city and the possibilities it offered.
Meanwhile, my eye caught an ad in the paper of a former classmate and a Jew to boot, who operated a big clinic in the central part of the city and was looking for doctors of different specialties. I went to see him rather reluctantly because he did not enjoy a good reputation. As an extern, he managed to get his graduation certificates by substituting another man who took his examination under his name. At least, that was the general opinion of all who knew him and knew how ignorant he was. As a medical student, he was rarely seen attending lectures or working in the laboratories. How he managed to get his doctor's degree was a mystery. He was, or pretended to be, very cordial, took me to dinner at his richly furnished apartment, and the next day I went to work at his clinic. It impressed me at once as a fake. The clinic was shabby, and it was crowded with patients.
The doctors were few, and the “superintendent” was by all appearances an ignorant and rascally man. It was at that time that Ehrlich discovered a remedy for the treatment of syphilis by an arsenical known at that time as 606 which was soon discarded or rather improved upon because of its high toxicity. It was my first assignment to administer this remedy to a waiting patient. It was a complicated and unsafe procedure, and I had no former experience in this field. The “superintendent” noticed my hesitation and, winking at me, remarked, “The solution is perfectly safe, cheap, and its administration pays well.” I refused to administer it, suspecting that it contained nothing but yellow-colored water, and left in disgust.
I found work in a suburban labor union clinic operated by a few doctors of high repute. However, the distance was great and the pay meager. By that time, I had already explored the possibilities offered for individual practice, and I opened an office of my own in a suburb called the New Village.
It was a very peculiar suburb. One part of it was situated near one of the biggest industrial plants and, therefore, it was populated predominantly by workers with a sprinkling of small tradesmen and minor officials. The other part, situated at the bank of the Neva, was settled mostly by gypsies and foreigners who kept “open houses” where drinks were served, music played, and girls were amusing the patrons by singing, dancing, and otherwise. One of such places operated by some foreigners of undecided nationality was called Villa Rhoda. It was a very beautiful, elaborate place frequented by the nobility and the Romanov family. It was also the favorite haunt of Rasputin. A patient of mine, a waiter in the place, told me about the orgies that took place there and a great deal about Rasputin. Once after he imbibed a great number of drinks, he became more boastful than usual about his influence at the court and proclaimed that if he whistled, Sasha--a pet name for the Czarina Alexandra--would come there barefooted. At this point, Count Usupov, who later assassinated Rasputin, hit him over the head with a bottle. He was bleeding profusely but did not stop drinking.
I had a chance to observe for myself what was going on in these places although it was not the aristocratic Villa Rhoda. One evening, a shiny beautiful automobile--a rarity in Russia at that time--stopped at my place, and a uniformed chauffeur handed me an engraved card which bore the legend: “Kamenherr Count Dolgoroky, Captain of the Winter Palace Guards, requests you to see a patient.” It was flattering but at the same time disturbing. I certainly could not refuse. The automobile stopped at the door of a dimly lighted house. Inside there was a big table loaded with all kinds of drinks, and around it half a dozen men were sitting with women at their side (and not all on the side, either). They were humming some oriental tune to the accompaniment of guitars played by a gypsy orchestra of four sitting on mats on the floor. The patient was the hostess who was suffering from nothing more serious than inebriation.
I examined the patient, administered a sedative, and was invited to the table for a drink. The drinking followed a certain routine. All present would take the drink and toast everyone in turn, then start again in the same order. I looked at this ceremony with some apprehension lest I get drunk, but luckily the Count apparently had had enough. After I was toasted, he thanked me, pressed into my hand some rubles, and added, “Count on me, please, if in need of protection.” At the time of the Bolshevik Revolution, I read in the paper that the palace guards offered resistance and were exterminated to the last man. However, during the civil war, Count Dolgoroky was mentioned repeatedly as lieutenant to Boris Savinkov, former revolutionary, terrorist par excellence, and minister of war under Kerensky, who was fighting the Bolsheviks in the Ukraine mostly by exterminating the Jews in a series of bloody pogroms.
I found the practice of medicine in the village profitable and easy--at least not so burdensome as the practice among the Jews. In contrast to the volatile Jews, the Russians were by nature phlegmatic and fatalistic. They called me in serious cases only, and night calls were very rare. No matter how grave the situation was, they did not show much alarm. The religious people would dismiss it with, “It is the will of God.” The majority would merely limit themselves to the all-prevailing, “Nichevo” (no matter). Once, a woman brought to my office a baby in extremis with nothing to be done to save or even prolong its life. “I know,” she said hastily, “that the condition is hopeless, but I will need a death certificate to avoid red tape.”
The baby died the same day. Once, there was also a very comical incident. An old woman came to see me and asked for a death certificate for herself. “But, 'Babushka (literally it denotes a grandmother, but it applies only in conversation to any old woman)',” I remonstrated. “You are alive. What do you need a death certificate for?” “To save trouble for my children in case I die suddenly,” came the unexpected answer. Months later, I saw her in the street carrying a sack of potatoes.
I could have been well satisfied with my position if it were not for the fact that I still did not have a place for the family. In desperation, I wrote to my wife to come anyway. She could go to the hospital and wait for the birth of the child who was due to come shortly, and my son would stay with some friends. However, by a lucky “accident,” I was able to obtain an apartment from a woman dentist. A few days after my wife's arrival, she gave birth to a healthy beautiful baby girl named Elyena. As a baby, she used to cry a great deal because, as we found out a little too late, the nursemaid was pinching and abusing her. With the dismissal of the evil maid, she quieted down, and she was gay, affectionate, and a delight to us for all years to come. The boy, Alexander, now aged six, was making rapid progress in his mental development. He also revealed an aptitude toward music and was taking piano lessons. We were a happy family but greatly disturbed because of the conditions prevailing in the country.