However much the rest of Petrograd talked that night, there was one spot in the storm-tossed city where no words were wasted. This was the office of the Voina Revoliutsiony Komitiet (Military Revolutionary Committee), sprung suddenly and quietly into an existence shrouded in deep mystery. Alex Gomberg, Russian product of New York’s East Side, with an American habit of providing against emergencies, suggested that it would be useless to attempt to get through the Bolshevik lines without a pass from this committee. Gomberg, odd little bundle of materialism and idealism, who had a deep love for the country of his adoption which his scoffing cynicism could not hide, never lost a chance to do a good turn to America or Americans. Though he could not resist the home call of revolution, he said he would rather be a messenger-boy in New York than President of Russia. As a friend of Trotzky, known to the members of the all-powerful committee, he undertook to arrange the necessary permits. He led the way down the dimly lighted corridor to the farther end. A young fair-haired boy met us in an outer office, took our names and request, and disappeared into the next room, shutting the door behind him. We stared curiously after him. Beyond that door were the men who were directing the siege and capture of Petrograd--directing it so efficiently that in the days that followed, the enemies of the Bolsheviki insisted the committee was composed of Germans, because Russians were incapable of such perfect organization. When the inside door opened again the fair-haired boy reappeared with the passes in his hand. Mine was typewritten on a bit of paper torn from a scratch-pad, numbered “Five,” and stated simply: “The Military Revolutionary Committee of the Council of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Deputies allows Miss Bessie Beatty free passage all over the city.” That scrap of paper was to prove the open sesame to many closed doors before the gray dawn of morning. It bore the blue seal of the committee, the only signature capable of commanding the slightest sign of respect from a Russian bayonet that night. The Smolney Institute is excellently located to provide seclusion for a young women’s seminary, but in the middle of a cold night it seemed a long dark way from anywhere. Walking down the stairs, we speculated upon the improbability of finding an _izvostchik_ abroad at such an hour. Down in the courtyard a huge motor-truck was cranking up for departure. Its only occupants were three sailors, a young Cossack soldier with a cape of shaggy black fur that hung to his heels, and a Red Guardsman. We hailed them, and Mr. Gomberg shouted a request to be taken to town. It was drowned by the sound of the engine. He repeated it in louder tones. The sailor looked dubiously at me and at Louise Bryant, the other woman member of the party. “It’s a dangerous trip,” he said. “We are going out to distribute proclamations, and we are almost certain to be shot at.”