From With the Bolsheviks in Berlin by Stephen Leacock
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In another moment I found myself face to face with the chief comrade of the Bolsheviks.
He gave a sudden start as he looked at me, but instantly collected himself.
He was sitting with his big boots up on the mahogany desk, a cigar at an edgeways angle in his mouth. His hair under his sheepskin cap was shaggy, and his beard stubbly and unshaven. His dress was slovenly and there was a big knife in his belt. A revolver lay on the desk beside him.
I had never seen a Bolshevik before but I knew at sight that he must be one.
"You say you were here in Berlin once before?" he questioned, and he added before I had time to answer:
"When you speak don`t call me `Excellency` or `Sereneness` or anything of that sort; just call me `brother` or`comrade.` This is the era of freedom. You`re as good as I am, or nearly."
"Thank you," I said.
"Don`t be so damn polite," he snarled. "No good comrade ever says `thank you.` So you were here in Berlin before?"
"Yes," I answered, "I was here writing up Germany from within in the middle of the war."
"The war, the war!" he murmured, in a sort of wail or whine. "Take notice, comrade, that I weep when I speak of it. If you write anything about me be sure to say that I cried when the war was mentioned. We Germans have been so misjudged. When I think of the devastation of France and Belgium I weep."
He drew a greasy, red handkerchief from his pocket and began to sob. "To think of the loss of all those English merchant ships!"
"Oh, you needn`t worry," I said, "it`s all going to be paid for."
"Oh I hope so, I do hope so," said the Bolshevik chief.
But at this moment there was a loud knocking at the door.
The Bolshevik hastily wiped the tears from his face and put away his handkerchief.
"How do I look?" he asked anxiously. "Not humane, I hope? Not soft?"
"Oh, no," I said, "quite tough."
"That`s good," he answered. "That`s good. But am I tough ENOUGH?"
He hastily shoved his hands through his hair.
"Quick," he said, "hand me that piece of chewing tobacco. Now then. Come in!"
The door swung open.
A man in a costume much like the leader`s swaggered into the room. He had a bundle of papers in his hands, and seemed to be some sort of military secretary.
"Ha! comrade!" he said, with easy familiarity. "Here are the death warrants!"
"Death warrants!" said the Bolshevik. "Of the leaders of the late Revolution? Excellent! And a good bundle of them! One moment while I sign them."
He began rapidly signing the warrants, one after the other.
"Comrade," said the secretary in a surly tone, "you are not chewing tobacco!"
"Yes I am, yes I am," said the leader, "or, at least, I was just going to."
He bit a huge piece out of his plug, with what seemed to me an evident distaste, and began to chew furiously.