The Daily Worker Newspaper, August 13, 1927, Page 6

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¥ Sketches from the Class Struggle In — Other Lands The Red Flag Over the French Barracks. VERY year wken the 14th of July comes around imperialist France holds a celebration in honor of the storming of the Bastille during the French Revo- lution, but almost as much of the ancient revolutionary spirit of the day remains in these of- ficial celebrations as. in our ‘ndependence Day. Patriotic speeches by fat bourgeois deputies, ceremonies at the tomb of the “unknown soldier,” military parades to rouse enthusiasm for the next war, the bour- geoisie, grown prosperous from the profits of the last war, and already looking forward eagerly to the profits of the next, thronging the fashionable restaurants along the boulevards—and instant sup- pression and arrest for any attempt on the part of the French militants of today to give Bastille Day its true significance. In Paris, this 14th of July, the police broke up the demonstration of the military organization of veterans of the World War, headed by Henri Bar- busse. In Blois, the bourgeoisie were scandalized to discover an immense red flag floating over the bar- racks of the town when they awoke on Bastille Day. There was consternation among the officers, every soldier thought to be tainted with Communism was hauled up and cross-examined, several arrested and imprisoned, and three, whom an officer found sing- ing the International in company with civilian com- rades were held for court martial, The other soldiers in the barracks are demanding the release of their comrades. * * %* From the Days of the German Revolution. The Berlin workers recently had a grim reminder of the, days of the Noske counter revolutionary terror in 1919, when thousands of workers were executed by order of Noske, the social democratic police chief who directed the job of smashing the revolutionary movement of the masses when the reformists, the Wolls and Greene of that period, stepped in to save the rule of the bourgeoisie. In the course of excavations for a new car line in Berlin, workmen recently unearthed a number of skeletons, together with fragments of cloth and buttons from naval uniforms. ‘The presence of bullet-holes through the skulls of the skeletons taken in conjunction with that is known of the his- tory of these days, is considered clear indication that these are the vietims of one of the mass exe- cutions of revolutionary soldiers and sailors carried on by the monarchist officers, whom the workers had disarmed, and Noske and his other social demo- eratic friends had-armed again. As soon as the discovery was made public, a number of witnesses appeared, people whose fathers and brothers and sons had dissappeared during the days of the Noske terror without leaving any trace. Others who had been present at the execution, have placed themselves at the disposal of the German Communist Party, to help in getting the truth be- fore the workers of Germany. Every day men who were in the navy at that time have been coming into the offices of the Rote Fahne to describe the murder of their comrades. In 1918-1919 the sailors were one of the most revolutionary elements in Ger- many, and the special object of Noske persecutions. This latest reminder of the treachery of the Ger- man social democrats to the cause of the working class has not helped to increase the credit of social democracy with the German workers. * * * A Call to Murder. A recent issue of “Rennaisance” the counter- revolutionary Russian journal published in Paris by Peter Struve, openly glories in the assassination of Voikoy, Soviet~ambassador to Poland, and urges others to follow the example of the assassin, Ap- pealing to its readers for contributions to a fund for the family of Koverda, Voikov’s assassin, “ Ren- naisance” continues: “Let the combattants know in advance that their families will be taken care of. “Then their souls will be calmer, AND THEIR HANDS WILL BE STEADIER.” As direct call to murder, as has ever been made, is the comment of ’Humanite, organ of the Com- munist Party of France. Disorderly Conduct A Story By EDWIN ROLFE | peat like a black coffin envelops the city. People hurry in the dark, trying to get within the pin-rays of the gas-lamps that are scattered regularly thru the night: .All with stooped shoul- ders, all with drooping héad and leaden, shuffling, dragging feet. . No clear vigorous, steps can be heard. They whose feet and heads and hearts have not been deadened by long hours of daily toil, ride in taxis. : At oné corner the lamp shines down on two figures of almost the same height. _A boy and girl. Each less than twenty in years. The girl is speak- ings 3 “So IT tol’ him I ain’t gonna quit the league an’ he said from now on this -aint yer home any- more. Well Bobbie... .” “So didya apologize?” | “Apologize! Lo him? I tol’ him he could go to hell!” ; There is a moment of silence. The youth looks nervously down at his worn shoes. The girl gazes sharply at his face which is white in the unnatural lamp-light. Finally— “Kate.” penis “That means ya aint got no place to sleep tonight?” “No.” i “Got any money?” “No. The ol’ man took it all from me before he kicked me out.” Another period of silence passes. “Kate.” The girl is now drooping. “Ya know, -I wish I could take ya home with ” Then— Mes. 4.0 Her face brightens. s “But 1 sleep in the same room with the kids, Tom an’ Henny an’.. .” They begin to walk. It grows colder. She takes his arm. He pats the fingers on his coat sleeve gently and suddenly realizes that they are cold—icy cold. He rubs’ them—to try to warm them. But they remain as icy as before. Soon he feels her trembling. * , “Kate, yer shiverin’.” 5 “That's alright Bob. It’s only the cold.” ~ “Let’s walk over to the square. We can sit down on a bench in the park.” They walk on. Their steps are quick now. They are fleeing from cold. Tke streets have emptied their human burden into the houses long ago. Vrey few lights shine thru the dirty-curtained windows. These too go out, one by one. Only the street lamps keep blinking—maliciously—in the darkness. They reach the park. Even here there is no sign of life. The bums have migrated long ago, and _ are now being slugged by the billies of cops in warmer cities. . They sit down on a bench, She wraps her coat more closely around her and Jays her head agains’ his shoulder. .He places his. arm around her and covers her cold fingers with his own searcely- war- mef hand. The chimes of a church nearby toll out the hour of twelve. From somewhere victorola-music floats down to them. ..“In the middle of the ni-i-i-ght with yo-o-o-ou. ...” Kate shivers. Bob laughs sardonieally. “They oughta add’in a warm house,” he says. Kate’s answer is an inarticulate sound stifled in her throat. “Bob, ya airit gonna stay out with me the whole night?” — “Yes, honey, I am.” .“But your folks. .. .” “The hell with ’em! They're all alike! ‘Build a wall around the bible an’ stay inside the wall,’ the-ol’ man said to me yesterday! Damn em! What good did the bible ever do them, or me,—or any- body ?” : “Don’t argue with"me, Bob. with ya.” 2 Bob laughs. “That’s all right, honey, I forgot. But listen, don’t ya think we'd be warmer if we laid down on the grass? We could cover ourselves with my overcoat. . .” - : Kate hesitates—wants to say no—but changes her mind. js : “Alright.” Slowly they arise.~ He lifts her over the iron fence that supplements the “keep-off” signs, and hurdles over after her. Arm in arm they walk over to a little island of grass surround by lew bushes clothed with threadbare leaves that somehow keep. as much cold away from the spot as Kate’s thread- bare coat keeps from her body. At last, where the grass and fallen leaves are thickest they lay down to sleep. Kate pulls her arms out of her sleeves and throws the coat around herself cape- like. Bob covers her legs with his jacket and throws the overcoat over her body and his as a blanket. The night grows colder. So cold that patrolman Reilly prefers to stay within his four by six gas-stove-warmed booth, and does not go thru the park on his hourly inspection tours. So cold that the young man and woman flesh and blood lying huddled so close on the ground feels no sensual pleasure or ecstacy in such close contact. All is stifled by the intense cold. In the morning, partolman Reilly decides that it is time for him to go his round thru the park. It is very’ early, The sun has not yet risen above the skyscrapers in the square. A sort of semi-lightness hazily illumines the park. : Patrolman Reilly dons his coat and walks out of his booth into the empty square. As he walks thru the paved lanes in the park, he lets his eyes wander freely. No use searchin.’ Nobody’d be here after a night like—He stops short. The spot of bushes with the pile of gray-black overcoat show- ing thru the thinned twigs becomes visible.’ Curious, he lifts his bulky belly over the fence and begins to approach the bushes. Maybe it’s a I don’t disagree murder ... someone’s dead body lying on the ground wrapped in black cloth... cold... visions . . . headlines . . . Patrolman Reilly Finds Murdered Girl. . . | He reaches the spot Goi thru the, bushes ‘where Bob had broken. thru the night before, he treads: heavily up to the gray-black overcoat. He sees the sleepers, close together on the ground. Patrolman Reilly is disappointed. Visions fade. He kicks Bob heavily on the shoulder. Bob awakes with a start that rouses Kate. He sees the heavy blue pants, the brass buttons. . . « “We were only sleepin’.” “Sleepin’ me eye! Git up, you two!” Kate begins to cry. Bob, seared himself, con- soles her, pats her shoulder. Patrolman Reilly marches them, disshevelled, distraught, to the police station. . . The Pomp of War --- An Incident care!” forget. A LTA ALMA AAA A a machine. flying lead! — 2 — By HENRY GEORGE WEISS. "T was early morn, and sad, forlorn we breakfasted mired in clay, . For thru the night, a ghastly sight, poor Jock had passed away ; And we munched our bread, and Dan he said, as he rinsed a mess-tin out, “Sure, Sherman was right, and a fight’s a fight—but what is it all about? That’s the thing that’s bothering a helluva lot of us! i Oh, we shed our blood and wallow in, mud, and fight, and think, and cuss! There’s Jeck gone “west,” and all the rest of the pals we loved gone too, And we bury our dead and munch our bread—and tomorrow it’s me or you! “There’s a chap who lies where the heavy flies are erawling across his face. I ran him thru—low—with a bayonet twist—so—in a very awkward place. Y’m thinking he laid without. water or shade and died by the inches there; And I didn’t care then how he died—or when—but I’m thinking now I And Bill he rolled with a shuddering hold a tailor-made cigarette, And he said with a grin that rather caved in, “There’s a sight I can’t We silenced the gun, and the crew, everyone, (the ones that lived, I mean), - Were all loaded up with an issue of Krupp—and so we brot back the And one was a kid; but I did what was bid; and when I raised my gat He only did glare with a frightened stare as J shot—Well, enough of that!” And I—-I sat, and an old gray rat peeped out from a sewer pipe. Oh, he was a fat, a jolly rat,—and I thot of the bodies ripe! I thot cf the meals on a thousand fields, I thot of the miangled dead, And I thot “Fight and rot” is the motto we've got, and we print it with

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