Sovietskie Barishnee

Out of Russia, weird and mystic land, whose soul is steeped in the mysterious, the fire of whose eyes is sometimes fanatical, and whose life breath has been impregnated with flesh-creeping legends, comes a story, intrinsically Russian in its bizarre setting.

The occasion was a solemn celebration of the Fifth Anniversary Congress of the Woman's Department of the Communist Party, and the place was the Russian Free Opera House in Moscow. Here were assembled the Sovietskie Barishnee,—Soviet Ladies, blondes and brunettes, matrons and bob-headed girls, Soviet wives and Soviet employees, humble peasants pressed in typical clothing, Girl Communists (Woman's Legion of Russia) dressed in high boots, short black leather skirts, black leather tunics, red handkerchiefs tucked effectively into breast pockets, and little toques decorated with red rosettes, Here and there in this poppy-field of color were boys belonging to the Communist Youths' Organization.

On the stage, which was bedecked with the red trappings of Communism admixed with a strange assortment of banners, sat a select committee of Soviet Grand Dames, and among them, the Priest Bukharin. There was Klara Zetkin, whose kindly face is but a mask that hides the "fierce revolutionary spirit that burns deep down in her soul"; Mme. Kollontai, attractive wife of a handsome sailor, a fervent but impractical feminist, but with an intelligence that has won her the place of Soviet Ambassador; Lenin's sister "taller than he," with angular features and the "prim air of a typical 'schoolmarm' "; Mme. Muralov, wife of War Lord Trotzky's right-hand man.

Suddenly there was a hush, someone was speaking from the stage; yet another speaker fired the air with words of Communism. Then, up spoke Bukharin, aflame with the fire of a new Russia, and announced that a humble working family by the name of Aneyniev, had received permission from the Woman's Communist Department to hold a first public civil christening of their little daughter before the Congress.

As Mme. Aneyniev came on the stage, holding her baby in her arms and accompanied by her husband, the atmosphere became charged with electrical emotion and the heart of every little Soviet flapper beat a rapid tattoo against her agitated bosom. The baby, "a little doll-like creature," nestling in her mother's arms, was dressed in white, except for a fringe of red roses sewn around her bonnet.