The Daily Worker Newspaper, March 26, 1927, Page 6

The “Red” Hater INCE the war ended, November the eleventh has been a memorable day for Sam. He made it an irrevocable habit to don his soldier’s uniform each year on that date in order to commemorate with a shadow of his/former self a lost cause. Today was that anniversary and he prearranged to sleep somewhat later than usual. Immediately upon arising he made an effort to collect his sleep thoughts; after doing so, he walked to a corner of the room where a battered trunk stood. There was something about it that brought back old memories. He opened the lid, and withdrew from the bottom his uniform which he keeps carefully preserved from year to year. Without further ado he stepped back to his bed and began dressing. It was still dark in his searcely furnished room and he interrupted his routine by drawing up the shade, allowing.a thin streak of light to penetrate. Thoughts flickered through his head; they. were brief reminiscences of other days; troublesome thoughts at that, which however, did not disturb his mental balance. A vague semblance of a smile, or it may have been a sneer contorting the corners of his mouth. A half hour later he finished dressing. He then looked at himself, as best he could without the aid of a mirror. First his eyes glanced at his shoes, then shifted to his body. The look in his eyes be- trayed that he was displeased. His uniform, creased from lying untouched did not fit as well as it. once did. The jacket hung loosely on his shrunken frame, as though it suddenly grew several sizes too large. And his stained trousers bore evitlence of long usage. On his left breast pocket hung two medals, one of which he won for bravery, and the other he picked up in a pawnbroker’s for fifty cents. Then exchanging a soiled handkerchief for a clean one he drew dewn the shade and walked out of the room. He paused on the steps of his house, before he decided to walk down Houston Street. At the corner he bought a copy of his favorite tabloid and stepped into a coffee pot. He ate a scant break- fast, reading the paper, while his fingers kept. dip- ping a cruller into a cup of coffee. Regaining the street, he buttoned his jacket and shivered. It was a cool autumn day and he felt chilled without the protection of a topcoat. Out on the street cries cf hallelujah once again welcomed Armistice Day. Laughs and smiles, inter- mingled with enigmatic howls of delight sounded everywhere. It is on this day that people pin pa- triotic emblems’ in their coat lapels, and large and small flags wave silent communications. Also on this day fresh wreaths of flowers are placed on weed covered graves. , All these things have a meaning, more than that, a purpose. There is something about this day which brings to life long-buried corpses that smell of a dead lust. These corpses infuse the air with an artificial spirit of patriotism, which people seem to enjoy inhaling. “It intoxicates them like a sweet drug, which feels good before it bites into their system and kills, i Sam turned up Second Avenue. He was thinking, not of-the puerilities of life, but of events that make history. Of wars and of great deeds ran his thoughts. Today is his holiday. The only day in the year he does not open his newsstand. To do so would have been tantamount to a gross sacrilege. This day he reserved for a solemn rite. Later in the day he planned to attend the reunion dinner given each year for disabled war veterans. That was hours. later, meantime to while away the time he joined the carnivalic processions on the avenues. He bought a small flag which he stuck into one of his buttonholes. Past gaudily decorated windows behind which lay an assortment of mef- chandise. And past grinning: civilizees, whose faces seemed saturated with tranquility, he walked. Up the avenue, and down, not only on this street but everywhere pedestrians turned out. There was something of paganism about their motions which Sam disliked. The smiling faces that swarmed about, to him desecrated the solemnity of Armistice Day. This day was too sacred to Sam for mere triviajitics. .He unwillingly: recalled that on a similar date some years ago something within him ceased to exist. It was his manhood. That which he now keeps in constant remembrance. He shrunk way from curious glances, obviously n : vous, and ill at ease. His eyes gazed at a flag played behind a window pane. The stars and me unfokled a half forgotten: meumgR which he ‘did not stop to read. It was a different Sam we marched 1 Ba ibe to war ten years ago. And he was conscious of “the change. The right side of his face was fright- fully disfigured. He spent a year th the hospital waiting for the skin, grafted in place of the flesh torn off by an exploding sheli, to heal. It did, but the sears remained, turning after awhile to a purple hue. When he saw himself in the mirror for the first time he grew violent, and shattered the looking glass with his fist. Since then he had a dread for mirrors, never keeping one in the house. He left the base hospital emaciated, and broken in health. For a long time he brooded, before be- coming reconciled with life, but on a different basis. Sam was no longer the same person. His real self died on the battlefield. What now walked in his stead, was in reality nothing more than a mere mechanism of 2 man, This persen, who doctors pre- dicted would someday become insane, suffered from a mania which let itself loose in a deep rooted hate for “reds,” as he termed all the opposers to this sys- tem. This hate was the one tie that bound him to life. It became an obsession with him that gnawed steadily at his vitals. He saw in that hate his own disillusion, and the more bitter he felt against society the stronger became his aversion for radicals _who Sam felt profaned his heroie sacriflee, Sam still believed in democracy. That for which he enlisted lived in his thoughts after everything else died. His distorted face was a constant reminder of what he gave for it. Yet he felt a strange heroism in that. He talked himself into believing for humanity. It was the with which people spoke of it now that That too he blamed on the “reds.” that he did something mockery embittered him. EDITOR’S NOTES. e (Continued from Page One) - situation has become extremely difficult, almost critical, as far as the miners are concerned, as a result of Lewis’ policy to negotiate district agree- ments, The mine workers* union is in danger. The situa- tion has been made incomparably more dangerous by the policy of district negotiations and by the obstinate refusal of the Lewis machine to mobilize the miners, organized and unorganized, for a strike to enforce the demands of the workers upon the mine owners. What is going to become of the miners and their union? The Ball of “Save the Miners’ Union” issued by the progressives and left wingers in the United. Mine Workers’ of America is rally- ing the rank and file of the organization around a program of action which represents the only solu- tion to the present crisis in which the union finds itself. But the policies of the Lewis machine are of such a menacing nature.that immediate organized action by the progressives and left wing in the union becomes imperative. * * wat are the American trade unions doing to help the miners to save their union? This question, too, must be raised in evéry labor Union in the country. Is it still necessary te prove that the fate of the American trade union movement is inseparably bound up with the fate of the miners’ union? Is it really still necessary to argue the point that the miners’ union constitutes the most important, basic and vital link in the chain of organizations that make wp the American trade union movement? ~The fact is obyious that a further weakening of the miners” union which is today in a critical situation due mainly to the policies of, the Lewis machine, would do terrific damage to the working class of this-country as a whole and would seriously weaken the entire labor movement. The program advocated and fought for by the progressives and. left wing in the United Mine Workers of America is supported by a majority in the union. While Lewis was suc- cessful in stealing the elections from the progressive left wing block and in railroading his reactionary policies through the packed convention which he dominated, he t+ obliterate the fact that the majority of the and file of the union are with the progressives and left wing. It is the program of this bloc, which if put into effect will save the union. Hence, it.is the duty of every honest trade unionist and every progressive trade union organizatian to assist the miners by all means possible in their present struggles, SPARTACUS By LEON ZINC It does not matter much ° That Spartacus is slain, For Spartacus is such 7 That he must rise again. ving oa ieee By ALEX JACKINSON Bastards he ealled them. That was his favorite adjective which he used without discrimination. With the passing years he grew lonelier and suf- fered more from melancholia. He would often sink to an abyss of despair from where he saw no es- cape but suicide. To ward off depressive attacks he built a world of fantasy in which he secluded himself more and more. It was only in his dream world that he was free from torment and weakness. There he let his imagination play tag with reality. One by one his friends terminated their relations with him, Somehow he was glad when they stopped calling. He was tired of their condolences. Sam was even glad when his wife left him. We had one refuge where he was welcome; Kate’s, an Allen Street brothel. There he went often in search of something tangible, but embraced only substitutes of companionship which neither pleased nor alle- viated his unrest. Sam continued to make his way uptown. Through many strange streets he walked. And bodies of men and women continued to press about him. He grew bewildered ang self-conscious. There were too many people locking at him. He returned their stares but more often lowered his: eyelids and swore in- wardly. Fleeting ideas pressed against his head. Faces and buttocks came suddenly together and circled his thoughts in a delirious rhythm. Side- walks beeame like raging seas that rocked people about. His head swirled, his delusions were inter- rupted by incoherent soliloquies. He collided with someone. “Beg pardon,” he whispered faintly, and stepped aside. There was no escape. He sank into thought as he zigzagged tWrough the shuffling columns of people. He muttered profanities, some- times to himself and at other times aiming them at some passerby who attracted his attention. He felt lost and angry. Laughter continued to sound in his ears. His face turned crimson, and the side that was scarred a dark ‘purple. People looked at him, at his bewildered expression, at his shabby dress, and smiled. He was an apparition, reminding them of an unveality that once lived. He turned down a side street, only to find there» a repetition of what he wanted to get away from elsewhere. His fingers slipped to his hip pocket, there he felt a heavy weight press down. It was his service revolver. A vital part. of his equipment. The touch of it reassured him. He wanted to take it out and spray bullets into the laughing crowds. That would have pleased him. He smiled, for it was merely the unwinding of his distorted brain. He stepped into a cigar store, emerging severe] minutes later with a cigarette between his lips. Near one of the citz~ squares, reserveu for such occasions, a huge open air meeting was being held. Here a large crowd of workers gathered to protest against American imperialism. A solid mass of bodies circled steadily about in a continuous chain. Above the heads projected white banners inscribed in red ink “Hands Off China,” and similar inserip- tions. Into.this gathering came Sam, attracted by the huge crowd. He knew it was a protest meetin‘; of some kind. What it was he did not know until he drew closer. He read whatever placards were within his range. A woman handed him a leaflet. He saw the headline; “Fight against Wall Street Rule.” Sam did not read the contents. His glance shifted to the béttom which bore the signature of the Com- ° munist Party. He let the deaflet slip from his fingers. “Reds” he whispered to himself. That was sufficient to bring back slumbering memories of a deep rooted hate. The contact with people had a strange effeet upon him. His attention was still riveted upon the speaker who séVeral times repeated, “Lives mmst not be sacrificed again.” These words beat steady tatooes in Sam’s head. He felt himself being pressed together by other bodies. The contact crowded old hates and new desires. - Diabolic fancies unfolded in his head. He bit his lower lip and elbowed his’ way to a less crowded spot. Here he paused. He again heard a loud outburst of applause. The con- tinuous clapping and .denouncement of the existing _ order began te irritate and in turn get on his nerves. He was in complete confusion. A cold chill slowly enveloped him. His thoughts assumed gro- tesque shapes. These mental pictures alternated with reconstructed war scenes, Hé once more pic- tured himself face to face with the enemy. A new enemy this time. A deadlier one than he faced years ago. Forms of dead soldiers presented them- selves with vivid likeness. Muffled sounds" of ex: plodmg shells echoed in his ears, - Something in his head snapped. He no longer had control of his faculties. Out of his wild dream formed curious pictures, one image followed another in a conglomeration of ideas, A, cold smile settled across his face.. He saw himself waving his revolver in the air. And the crowds dessimated into swarm- in little groups, running before his: bullets. Pent up emotions kept running in all directions. He saw women crowding, pushing each other and falling dead in the streets. His face was wet with per- spiration. The gutters became a pool of blood. Sam laughed out loud. It was a wild inharmgnious _ The cigarette fell from his lips. “Bastards,” caped his mumbling lips. Those nearest to him gave a curious look and redirected their at- tention to the speaker. \