cialist, made their guesses, and tens or hundreds of thousands more or less seemed to make no difference.
That was in Russia. Nor was it better in Western Europe. Of course the West took it in a systematic way; Austria-Hungary has so many inhabitants, there is such and such a percentage of the Czechoslovaks, Austrian prisoners in Russia were so many, therefore at least so many prisoners were Czechoslovaks, of those so many prisoners entered the Army, and therefore there are tens or hundreds of thousands, divisions or army corps of Czechoslovaks, or whatever the particular result of the calculation was. In truth nobody knew how many of us there were, and Paris estimated our numbers at 20 regiments.
When I returned to Russia I was ashamed of my ignorance on such an important matter and hurried to the particular office where one could find the true figures.
The brother to whom I put the question looked at me, half closed his eyes, smiled, then looked at the ceiling, nodded his head, scratched him self behind the ear and finally said briefly: “That’s a military secret.”
“At least approximately, quite confidentially”, I pressed him. “I cannot tell you to save my life. Na zdar.” I saluted and marched out.
But finally I got it. A short time ago I was on the Samara front and got a ride to Ufa in the car with Uncle from America, Miller.[1] He was taking cigarettes and other trifles to the boys at the front. The news of his coming spread more rapidly than if it had been sent by wireless. At every station the boys turned up to ask for cigarettes.
“Where is your requisition?” asked uncle of the boys. “I can hand out cigarettes only on proper requisition, 60 to a man, not a single one more.”
“We haven’t got a requisition, but we will bring it right away”, was the answer returned by every applicant, and in a minute they were back in the car with a document. Uncle Miller examined it seriously, shook his head at it and sighed, but in the end went with the boys to the freight car and in a moment our ruffians with a smile as big as a plate dragged out from the car boxes of cigarettes, biscuits, etc.
This accidental experience suggested the thought that Uncles from America are not officials and that they have no secrets before the boys. So I tackled him directly. “Listen here, uncle, how many of us are there, according to your requisitions?”
Uncle Miller turned slowly to me; he is never in a hurry,—puffed at his pipe at least three times and then said in all apparent sincerity: “I don’t want to swear to it, but according to requisitions the first division alone has 110,000 men.”
So I got my figures and the military secret was now in my keeping. But on second thought the figures did not look good to me. Either Uncle Miller fooled me, or the boys got the best of him.
A Call on Masaryk
In the Lidové Noviny a journalist tells of the visit paid by Prague editors and correspondents to President Masaryk shortly after his installation at the Hradčany Castle.
It is not exactly stage fright, for these journalists are no cub reporters. But a peculiar atmosphere seems to prevail and bring closer together men who generally are far from agreement. Mr. Vrany of the Večer and Mr. Stivín of the Právo Lidu converse amicably so that one can hardly believe that tomorrow their papers will be calling each other names. Mr. Nepilý of the Czechoslovak Press Bureau counts those present: there is one man missing—Mr. Cejnek of the Union who is the oldest and can afford to come last. But we have with us our Benjamin, Dr. Novák of the Christian Socialist Lid, youngest of the dailies and the youngest of the editors. Finally Mr. Cejnek turned up in a ceremonial frock coat and with his hair bartered and right after him rushed in chief of the Press Bureau Hajšman. “Well, are we all here? We had better go.”
In the waiting room we put on our coats; the at tendants are very respectful. Somehow it reminds me of the respect with which the old Cretans used to treat the maidens dressed in white, destined for Minotaur’s meal. We go down the steps, across the castle courtyard and up the steps again. We land on the second story in the ante-room of the President’s provisional quarters. Again attendants and again respectful treatment, but this time not as if we were intended for sacrifice, but as if we were highly honored men. Dr. J. J. Svátek of the official Pražské Noviny appoints himself master of ceremonies; he considers himself qualified for this duty, both by being editor of the official publication and by his high-life appearance—monocle, English speaking and a beard à la Henri IV. We enter in excellent order. A large work room, three windows through which one looks down on Prague, at the middle window a big flat-top desk, in the corner an oval table, a couch and chairs—and everywhere books and documents. Between the win-
- ↑ The man referred to is the Rev. Kenneth D. Miller, formerly in charge of the John Hus Presbyterian Settlement House in New York; he has been working for more than a year with the Czechoslovak forces in Russia as Y. M.C.A. secretary.
