Fiend ele residents sneak in and out by this méforbidden” road when they go shop- s fing. There is no market in Vulcan. ‘benere are no medical facilities. When sfoomeone becomes seriously ill it is al- idghost impossible to get professional owiare. The doctor must be brought in sec- etly, andnot many of them will agree to viehat. It is risky too — a train can push a tar into the river, or the car might slide eelown by itself. Since there is no school in -thVulcan, kids have to go to the neighbor- mpng town by the same forbidden path. In pivad weather the mothers keep them at thitome for several weeks out of fear. Bet- erler to let my child be ignorant but be hittlive. - ym Wereached Vulcan without any inci- heilents. I saw many wooden one-story et and low-built shacks. In front of 'ththe mayor’s house was a big boggy- erireen puddle and the American flag, its is Dn a pole. Inside I saw a portrait of the ite President Kennedy on the wall an spn and stripes all faded, crumpling - & Bible on a bedside table. . “ae The mayor’s neighbors followed us (nside his house one after another: the wiminers, young and old, their wives and hechildren, old men and women. Myra 2 alley, the community mail carrier, ersaid, “‘It is good the Soviet journalist pocame here. Nobody wants to listen to yajour complaints. You should see how the omen cry when sending their kids to paschool. Recently a girl was run over by a. jtrain on this damn road near the rails. er mother died out of shock and we could not even get a doctor here. Two nedmen Slipped off the cliff down into the yutriver and drowned. What else is going to appen to us? Whom will we have to lip bury next?” r”. “I make my way out of Vulcan to the mine and back twice a day,’’ said Linda ‘Mann, a young timber worker in the jyecoal mine. “‘Once it was raining and I ‘slipped, but luckily I got hold of a bush «jjand didn’t drown. Our river is a moun- ur tain stream. Its water is icy cold. It will freeze you to death in a moment. Now ole our mayor is trying to get us out of trou- as ite with your help. We all approve of a me) at The Bridge aid Together we went to the river bank. ind On the other side of the river, just about are 60 yards away cars and trucks were or running along an asphalt road. There vis were the same low-built shacks for the» gh poor, crowded closely together. But at — ot least people over there could live with- -. out constant fear for their kids’ safety; he could get a doctor in case of sickness; — _ sh a 2 we and there were no drownings. While those standing beside me were indeed social outcasts of the most prosperous capitalist society. There beyond the river, and here was the same land, the same social system, the same country — the United States of America. John Robinette touched my shoulder and pointed to four cement blocks by the cliff. They were the remnants of piers for the rope-foot-bridge, which stood there for half a century. The Vulcan re- sidents repaired it carefully, reinforced it with supports and fastened it with ropes and wires. But despite their ef- forts the bridge gradually fell into decay and three years ago collapsed into the Tug River. Since then the people of Vul- can have been begging the state admin- _ istration for help. Along with Robinette, another rest- less petitioner and long-time resident — William Mounts, a miner — has been struggling with the authorities for the bridge. But he can no longer go to their offices, because his arms and legs were broken in a mine cave-in. Now he limps onhis crutches to the river bank to meet avis ttt with a Soviet journalist. Ninety-four- year-old Polly Hurley, the most re- spected resident of Vulcan, has come ‘also. Her daughter Lula Tygart, an el- derly woman herself, said: ‘We actu- ally had given up all hope to get a new bridge, when Robinette complained to the Russians.” While we were talking on the bank of the river, areporter, swinging his trans- istor in the air, exclaimed: ‘Attention! The state authorities announce that they will build the bridge for Vulcan within the year.” Everybody rushed over. The repor- ter hurriedly announced that as soon as ‘the Soviet journalist arrived in Vulcan, ‘the state administration called a press conference in Charleston, the capital, - and promised to build the bridge. However, the people’s faces still re- mained gloomy. Mayor Robinette ex- plained to me: “I am sure, they just want to calm us down while you are still here. That’s not the first time they made promises. Until they really build a new bridge we have no reason to feel happy.” ; His parting words were: ‘‘Don’t forget us. Tell them in Moscow what you have seen here. Tell them that I am con- cerned about poor working people. If we . don’t make them build the bridge, we. will have to get out of here. This is our home. Here we were born, have been living our whole lives, and here we are going to die. Our old folks say: “Let them dig our graves and put us in right now.’ We haven’t got money to move and set- tle down in a new place anyway. Take Polly Hurley, for instance. She is 94. What can she do? I am saying all this to you because I am sure the working © ple in the Soviet Union will under- stand the problems of our poor miners.” Epilogue When I returned to New York, I soon learned that the West Virginia officials accused Mayor Robinette of ‘‘instigat- ing” his fellow residents. Robinette was rudely scolded by an assistant of the governor. Only two years ago during his pre-election. campaign: the governor promised to build necessary dams, . roads and bridges. He did not keep those promises, and it was an embarrassment to him to be publicly reminded of his failure. Though the governor of West. Virginia is only 41 years old, he is repu- © ted to be a man of rare ambition and the richest of the political administrators. He is a multi-millionaire. His family fortune comes to two billion. The name of the governor is John D. Rockefeller IV. Washington journalist David Hess after his visit to Vulcan told me that Metro Goldwyn Meyer has dispatched a producer, Jay Weston, to shoot a motion picture about the sensational story. However I have a feeling that the Hollywood idea did not make the West Virginia administration too happy; and more so when Mayor Robinette made known a letter sent to him by Literary Gazette. The letter said in part: “In your moment of difficulty, you ~ thought of our country and of the Soviet people. You gave due recognition to those feelings of kindness that are so characteristic of the Soviet people. We want to express our sympathy with re- gard to the problems that the residents of your town face. “The Soviet Union persistently of- fers practical steps to cut military budgets and stop the arms race for the sake of strengthening peace and mak- ing available large sums of money to secure the well-being of large numbers of people; to build roads, bridges, hospi- tals and apartment houses. For the realization of this goal the Soviet Union firmly intends to pursue a policy of im- provement of Soviet-American rela- tions because only such a policy is in the national interests of both our countries. The Soviet people have always striven for mutual understanding with the people of the United States, which is in accord with the interests of the people the world over.”’ What specific influence this letter. had I cannot say, but after it was made known, Mayor Robinette telephoned me in New York and said: “Our local au- thorities have announced that they are going to start building the bridge in a day or two. Thank Moscow greatly on behalf of our community folk. Tell them that there will -be a bridge of Soviet- American friendship across the Tug River.” Having heard of lucky Robinette, many Americans, unknown to me, started bombarding our newspaper of- fice in New York with letters complain- ing about the conditions over here. Farmers from Georgia wrote about speculator-buyers, who clean them out when buying their farm products. Na- tive American Indian chief from California asked me to help his people get back the reservation land which was ‘taken away from them. The homeless and unemployed from Chicago and Sac- ramento begged us to defend them from police brutality. Political prisoners - from Illinois called for assistance. > There is a saying: ‘‘No man is an island unto himself.’’ One can certainly feel it so here, in the United States, where one little ripple of success in an ocean of seemingly boundless human _ suffering can stir such furor and, at the same time, arouse such desperate cries for help. Transiated from the Russian by Anne Pattereon PACIFIC TRIBUNE—NOVEMBER 17, 1878—Page 7.