We worked our way around the great circle of the Amur River and finally down into Chita. No one had heard of any Y Commission. Telegraph systems were in chaos. Should I wait or go along? I decided to go along. There were officials to see ahead, in Irkutsk, Omsk, Tomsk. We struck the shores of mighty Baikal, already freezing, to remain so till May. Around the western edge of Lake Baikal we creaked and jolted our way, our car hitched now to a train of British Tommies.
Refugees from Bolshevia were all about us, German prisoners of war, Czech soldiery, Kolchak’s White Russians. I wanted to see Kolchak personally, due to arrive in Irkutsk within the fortnight. So at last came an evening when our train approached a great Siberian city far up the northern river and I beheld its mammoth white stone passenger terminal showing across the steppes like the palace of a genii. Weaving up through the railroad yards, our tired train came at last to a halt. I got out and went toward the station, looking for the yard-master to unhook our car. The planks snapped under my boots like pistol-shots. Opening massive bronze doors, I drew back in shock.
The floor of this great inner concourse was a spread of prostrate bodies, alive but sleeping human beings, bestrewn on harsh cement. Hundreds of travelers without destinations, refugees striving to get out to Japan, peasant families with all of their worldly goods clustered about them, piteously hoping to locate lost homesites – these were packed in a chaotic mass in the only building providing shelter and warmth. On the floor at least a thousand people must have scattered in such spaces as offered. Men and women of every caste and station had sought slumber in utter fatigue and despair; it took me ten minutes to make my way across to the back. In the middle of that ordeal, I halted and looked about me. Well did I realize that exactly the same thing could happen in, say, the Union Station at Kansas City .. if the Jewish instigators of this turmoil in Siberia ever got control of my distant America.
Suddenly I was attracted by sounds of soft sobbing. I turned toward a pillar at my right.
I beheld a picture of Motherhood Incarnate. A comely young peasant wife sat on the floor with her back against that pillar. In the ample lap thus offered, I saw the heads of sleeping children – they were gathered about her in a spill of possessions, their figures positioned like a poignant human wheel. But that was not all. Against her left breast was the head of her husband – merely a lumbrous, moustached boy. Her left arm was about his shoulders as he sagged in her embrace, her right hand applied her kerchief to her eyes. The husband, like the children, was blissfully unconscious of wars and Jewish ambitions. But not so the woman. With her sleeping babies gathered about her, even the head of her man pillowed against her heart, she was awake, watching over all of them.
And she sobbed in the midnight with no one to see.
Somehow that Jewish-fanaggled war got down into my marrow with the beholding of that tableau. It was one of the most vivid fixations that I brought back from Asia. That hapless young mother had not caused the war. She asked nothing from the Schiffs, the Warburgs, the Adlers, the Samuels, . . nothing from life beyond raising her little peasant family in some sky-girt steppes hamlet. But inhumanly the Four Horsemen had ridden her country. World Jewry must be served. Almighty God had His chosen human pets that He must present with a whole earth of new Canaans. Tonight in the Irkutsk railroad station, her little family uprooted and made vagabond, she could not even tell what the coming day held for them. They had no place to go, nothing to sustain them but the bag of hard vegetables against which her shoulder rested. And when mortal weariness brought merciful unconsciousness to her babies and her man, the woman stayed awake, supplied them with the softness of her body, faced their tragedy alone with her motherhood.
And they tell us that we must love the Jews, whom I have long-since proven to my grim conviction were plotters and manipulators of all that horror that they might attain to their messianic roles as the earth’s aristocrats. Aristocrats, faugh!
How I wish that the parlor pinks, the perfumed socialists, the ministerial nincompoops, who affect to arise in Christian pulpits and talk about the “beauties of Communism” , and how God’s Chosen People have a divine commission to project such suffering for human benefaction and social progress, could have stood beside me that bitter night and heard that young wife’s sobbing.
For weeks I had ridden through such turmoil. The iron from many scenes had entered me. Indeed I had left the person who was my youthful writing self up on the summit of Asama volcano. Now this weeping young mother touched me as nothing had done to date. She was the stricken and prostrate spirit of the real Russia that was being torn asunder and slowly crucified that a race of predatory parasites might execute their murderous hatred upon the peoples of the Czar. God’s Chosen People? Do you really think they ARE? You can excuse me from such thinking. I worship the Father to whom Christ prayed in the Garden. And such a God would be more fastidious.
I walked on finally and left her behind me. I had business in Great Russia. But the memory of that tableau was a brevet as from Kismet. True, she was only one woman out of a million – out of seventy millions – who was facing liquidation because she was Christian. But for that little moment she was Motherhood Incarnate. Would that I had the talent to paint on canvas the picture that she burned on memory.
It was Edmund Burke who first uttered the assininity that one could not indict a whole people. But I demand to know what the Jewish people are doing of their own racial volition to put an end to such apostate leadership as precipitated the horrors I witnessed in Red Russia? On that basis at present I sweepingly indict the Jews of the world.
I passed on through the station. The months went by, and I passed on through Russia. But I could not forget that young mother by the pillar. I never have forgotten that young mother by the pillar.
Where is she tonight, I wonder? . . –William Dudley Pelley, from ‘Door to Revelation’
https://archive.org/details/wdp_pelley_door_to_revelation_1936/page/n94/mode/1up