The Daily Worker Newspaper, March 27, 1926, Page 12

“The Dawn of Tomorrow” “You Might Be President Some Day!” By Pauline Schulman. OMRADE Moissaye J. Olgin, in his articles on “Haorila and Joel,” which are being published at pres- ent in the New York Jewish Commun- ist daily paper, the Freiheit, draws a vivid pen-picture of the olden days when the Russian people were op pressed and suffered starvation. Par- ticularly is the picture colorfully im- pressive when he describes the eve of a “pogrom” in the village of K. and the defense “army” consisting of but twenty-one persons, seventeen boys, four girls, possessing in all twelve pistols. But out of these twenty-one strong, only two were able to manipu- late a pistol. This was the “army” that had to face hundreds of peasants who had been made drunk and were well, equipped with arms by the agents of the czar for the purpose of slaughter. How the little “army” succeeded against such odds, I cannot tell, but one thing I am sure of, that its mem- bers perceived the dawn of the mor- row and went to lead others in that same direction: , The result of their labors is evident today, in the new Russia. To go into details is unnecessary for the facts in the Russia of today speak for them- selves. UT here in New York! We, a com- mittee of eight, five boys and three girls, attempted to approach a shop on 37th street in order to urge the workers to join the union. Before having the opportunity to enter the shop, two of the employers, who were notified by the elevator man who brot us up, met us in the hall, one with a pistol-in his hand and the other with a club. The one with the pistol cried out, “I’ll blow your heads off, if you dare come up here again. These are the orders given me by the captain of police.” We looked at him’ and smiled. He became furious, “So you doubt me?” And a shot was fired—in the air, of course. We stood there unafraid, and when we tried to go down.-we found the elevator doors closed. The elevat- orman, to whom the order was given not to take us down, had obeyed. Then the boss with the club in his hands began thus: “You have to Stay here until the police will come and then I'll have you arrested.” I inquired on what grounds. Tho reply was, “You threatened to “enter my factory.” “We threatened to enter your fac- tory,” said I, “but you were shooting and yet it is we who will be arrested?” “Yes,” was the answer, “how do you like’ it?” One of our boys in the committee, a lad of eighteen years of age said with bitterness. “I will not go on my duties next time without some way to defend myself. Why should I stand lixe a damn foo! and humbly watch others direct their shots at me?” Listening to him I saw in my im- agination the little “army” of twenty- one, seventeen boys, four girls, de- fending themselves against pogroms, standing against hundreds and thou- sands. In comparison to the army of the bosses, consisting of hired thugs, gangsters, ex-union officials. who as- sist them directly and indirectly; the police and above all the law and the courts which protect them, we are but an army of twenty-one strong. And yet what do we find? No one else but the militant workers must win control of the labor organizations and thru them defend the workers on the industeial field. If it is really true that the police captain gives “orders” or permission to employers to shoot at those who come to speak to their fellow-workers, then it is he, the police captain, who will unintentionally contribute a great deal to recruiting new strength for the army of twenty-one strong. OT very many persons can see the dawn of tomorrow, particularly on the streets of New York, Some SI ne “gn Fred Ellis, noted proletarian cartoonist of The DAILY WORKER, just can't restrain -him- self in his delightful picture of the stupidity of the purveyors of patriotic piffle in our schools. “Be good,” the teacher advises, “believe in God, Paul Revere and fairies.” are blinded by the luminous light of Broadway. Others are unable to pen- etrate the fog that envelops them, A man of the latter type sees only one way out of the fog—by becoming a business man and by exploiting others just as he had been exploited. For people like him the way into the bus- inesg world is quite difficult. To ac- cumulate a small capital to get a start at exploiting workers in the clothing business requires hellish toil. But it is very easy for one who is without capital but who desires to enter into business—it is very easy, he thinks, to work while others are on strike, in other words to become a scab. For such work he is naturally paid better than in normal times. He also works every day until eight or nine o’clock in the evening, not to speak of Satur- days and Sundays. But by the time he has a little money saved he is a candidate for the undertaker, Such was the picture presented by Mr. U. when I observed hig face in his own place of business. We, a committee doing organization work, went up to his shop, accosted his workers, and asked them te come down and join the union. Mr, U. did not say a word. He did not attempt to speak, but was almost choked by his unspoken words. Probably he was reminded of the time he was scabbing. Mr. U.’s misty eyes surely could not see the dawn of tomorrow; he was the living picture of despair. He, who but a short while ago told his wife that he was not going to remain at the ma- chine as Joey did, because he had “brains” and consequently could be- come a successful business man, (This is what most think). Mr. U. with all his “brains” saw himself a ruined man as soon as his workers went down. His calculations were quite different: “Before the first order will be ready for shipment, I will go to the jobber for another one. The workers seeing so much work will surely work as long hours as I did when J was a worker.” Thus he visualized the pathway leading to suc- cess. What should he tell his wife now? The workers were on strike; the work was unfinished; he could not get paid for it. He would not even have the rent; all his future hopes were being shattered by those damned workers who stopped so suddenly in their work, Without them hig “brains” did not amount to anything. And not only was Mr. U. encased by the fog of yes- terday, but he was groping blindly in oe darkness of today. Of course, not e eyes of Mr. U. can detect the dawn of tomorrow, nor can the eyes of those many more like Mr, U. ° epee are many girls who flounder in the same sea of darkness, Their only salvation is the matrimonial han bor, for any other path they cannot see. In the meantime, they do not mind slaving away in factories and working behind locked doors. Factor- ies which in case of fire would surely prove altars of shameful sacrifice. For the stairs are wooden and narrow; the blaze of a match could set fire to the entire rickety structure, Yet they sit immovable, hoping that “Jim” or “John,” perhaps the slave of one of hese same establishments, will relieve them from their monotonous humdrum of a mechanical existence. The dawn of the morrow colors the horizon red. But these poor creatures are color blind, : enn