The Daily Worker Newspaper, March 27, 1926, Page 9

“In the Dungeon” Dedicated to Naftoli Botvin. MEN One, three, ten, fifty— Every day in this little cell! Cell! A cave on top of, earth, made of stone by men— Black damp stone that always spits with narrow streams of water From top to bottom, like blood of prisoners From head to tiptoe of their feet. Why so, walls? You walls have blood? You walls have tears? The guards beat you too With rubber pipes? They sting you too with needles? To cry, to squeal? You have secrets? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha— . Secrets about the revolution— And you squealed? Now you are crying, now you are crying! How many were hung after you squealed? Did you think of them, eh? Why don’t you answer? Speak! Speak! You see me. Why don’t I speak? I lost here one eye and five teeth, and got three wounds in my chest. Four big hungry rats were put into my cell to make me speak-— One word. I was silent. I even didn’t cry. See my bandaged head; I fell asleep, and rats began to bite. And that black hungry cat, too, was brought in here And cat with rats fought for my head. I didn’t speak. ‘ But you spoke, I see, you spoke! And for your cowardice, more victims will be tortured and shot. Tortured! Tortured! You know how? Polish cultured men always fought for independence And every naive fool helped them in their fight for liberty—. To torture others. Torture—others! A big sack, the length of men; They put you naked in the sack, put cats in the sack And then with sticks they hit the cats to craze the Oh! Till they runjand jump in the sack. i % ‘sims Where? ~*~ 2m : At you! They stick their nails thru your flesh to the bones, Pull them out and stick them in again— Five mad cats with twenty feet, sharp nails into your body! They stick them in and pull them out till they get blind With the blood of the victim’s body. Man and sack lie deadly bitten till a doctor full of culture Of Europe and of Poland says, : “Five minutes’ rest, two buckets of cold water And five other cats will make him squeal.” But I didn’t; no, I didn’t. Only you squealed, did you? Did you? Speak! ; Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Hey Guards! All guards, come in! Bring your hungry rats, bring your mad cats in sacks With sticks and rubber. pipes. i And let them cut and tear my flesh, And I will laugh; For rebels do not feel when a great ideal is at stake. Sonia! SONIA! You here too! Did you speak? No, you didn’t speak; you are strong. Phe first time I looked into your eyes, I knew you would not How many? Who can count them, there are so many thousands Count them, Sonia, count them! Heads, heads, and souls that speak with their eyes, See them moving? Men, women, they want to push the walls apart, . : These iron wills with iron bars, watched by guards, » With faces red like flame, yellow teeth, and rubber pipes in their hands, ‘To beat, to torture, that one might tell where his friends are hidden. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I didn’t speak! . No rebel speaks his secrets. Two, five, twenty-five, fifty! Guards ‘with rubber pipes, guns, faces red like fire, Drunken faces, teeth—yellow tiger fangs, find taae Gow hove. Go qaention oh the Seaets-cf yous Wat Who sent you here? Ha ha ha ha ha ba ha ha! many of you A Cowards! By Bonchi Friedman J—One, with chains on hands and feet, with iron jacket, And you—fifty, fifty cowards— Yor two dollars a day to torture men. But you cannot make me speak. Walls would speak, not I. ’ Walls, walls! These walls are built of men, martyrs, Killed here when you wanted then to speak and they were silent. Men, women, with proud heads, with souls that could em- brace the world, Whom you brutes killed—killed for two dollars a day. Speak, walls, speak your names! You walls are not made of brick, You are human bodies, with a name for every brick; Every brick a man, a rebel, killed by men For two dollars a day! Here they are! “Names, names of comrades! But I can’t read them— That damned constant night! Hey, guards, bring some light in here. I have to read e names of friends. Whom you, with rubber pipes, hungry rats and cats Have killed here. Ha ha ha ha ha! Marinsky, Stanesloof, Rimsky! More light—let me read them all— How many? Ten hundred, thousands—men and women Who fought for the freedom of the earth. ° Voices! Voices! Voices here too! Breaking thru the walls. Coming from afar— Outside of the prison, .. Don’t speak, don’t speak, one while only! Multitudes will wreck these walls; children; masters, % Bish § 7 igh te Gir? # Again shadows, Rats eating Wronsky’s marrow. Ah, she is groaning; . But Sonia did not speak, I'll swallow it! But I would not speak. By MICHAEL GOLD. HE Passaic strike has given some of us more joy than nearly any other event that has taken place in American history. It ig the first strike in which news- paper reporters and photographers were beaten up by the police, What a howl they set up. I went out to them, and almost, but not quite, wept when I heard their stories. Innocent Walls of blood and stones of martyrs. Listen to those sounds; sounds of multitudes of men, women, Multitudes, multitudes with distorted faces, With shining faces murmuring, roaring, storming castles of And fortresses of dark dungeons. Hey guards, chiefs, priests, cultured doctors, prepare your necks! See there, that. is the border to the other country; There they always sing the “Brotherhood of Man.” They come with banners red like blood; They come to make you speak for your crimes. | Lee ae o3i == eS And walls stained with marrow of Wronsky’s head, Smashed yesterday after his confession to the priest. And you are here—guard! With yellow teeth like fangs Again to torture me for sixteen france a day. Hey, you cultured doctors, Sonia is dying, Whom you and the priest yesterday seduced! And I will kill that hungry rat— ~ And choke with it. Ha Ha Ha Ha! Polish Free Republic! Ha Ha Ha Ha! Oh, the Poor Passaic Reporters in protest. They have in fact, libeHed strike leaders, or like Mr, Leary of the New York World, have often -wov- eu vile innuendoes to sabotage the strike. Now their own ox is gored, and they feel indignant. I hope the po- lice go on slugging them—it will make them understand the class struggle a little. It may make them lose a little that camaraderie with police that average American reporter is full so that he regards himself most the time as @ sort of unofficial de tive. Maybe, someday, if there are enuf such sluggings, the reporters may even form a union. There ig a strong axie 3 ‘Jone in England which has a closed shop, and gets higher wages for its writers despite the bad economic de- pression there, than do American reporters. But there will have to be years of heavy slugging, I guess, and more bad hours than even now, lower wages and dismissals, and amalgamations of newspapers by millionaire owners,