The Daily Worker Newspaper, May 1, 1929, Page 7

The Daily Worker is printing “Cement” in part as an answer to the jingoistic attack upon the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics now published in “Liberty’—“The Red Napoleon”. This stupid, Red-baiting bit of propaganda, inciting a war fever against the only Workers’ and Peasants’ Republic, will be combatted by the widest possible circulation of The Daily Worker, by a big jump in the circulation of the paper during the present subscription drive. Workers! Spread the word around the shop. Distribute extra copies of the special May Day edition, and keep pushing the Daily among your fellow workers. Boost its circulation, and you help fight the attempts at war against the USSR, you help organize the unorganized, you help the striking textile, food, shoe strikers. On this revolutionary May Day, use your Daily as a battering ram. Oe ee CHAPTER I The Deserted Factory L—THE THRESHOLD OF HOME T was all as it had been at the same hour of morning, three years ago; behind the roofs and angles of the factory the sea foamed like boiling milk in the flashing sunlight. And the Bees = air, between the moun- *HE AUTHOR tains and the sea, was : fiery and lustrous as wine. The ringlets of March did not yet show on the springs of the hedges; and the blue smoke-stacks and cubes of the factory buildings, coated with con- crete, and the workers’ dwellings of the “Pleasant Colony”; the flanks of the mountains, gleaming like copper, molten in the sun and bluely transparent as ice. Three years ago—and all was as yesterday; nothing had changed. These hazy mountains: a their ravines and gullies, quarries and crags. Femeily as in his childhood. In the distance he could see, upon the lower slopes, the workings he knew so well: the conveyor-shafts standing amidst the rocks and bushes; the bridges and cranes in the narrow gorges. The factory down below—just the same: a veritable city of towers and domes and cylindrical roofs; and the same Pleasant Colony on the hillside, above the factory with its parched acacias and the little yard before each house. If you were to pass through the gap in the concrete wall which separates the factory grounds from the suburb (once there was a gate here, and now but a gap) in the second block of cottages is Gleb’s lodging. N a moment his wife, Dasha, and their daughter, Nurka, will see him; will joyfully cry out and then cling to him, quivering with happiness. Dasha was not expecting him; nor did he know how much she had undergone during the three years of his absence. In the whole Republic there was not a road, nor footpath, which had not been stained with human blood. Had Death here only gone through the street, passing by the workers’ hovels, or was his house also razed by fire and whirlwind? Gleb strode, in the wine-gold lustre, along the path on the mountain slope, through the clumps of still wintry brushwood, among the sparkling yellow flowers. It seemed to him as though the very air sang and chirruped and danced on wings of mother-of-pearl. In the square, beyond the wall, a-mob of dirty children were playing, and paunchy, snake-eyed goats roamed, nibbling at bushes or acacia shoots. Astonished roosters jerked up their red combs, crying angrily: “Who is this?” In Gleb’s heart—swollen and throbbing—he heard the mountains and quarries, the smoke-stacks and the dwellings reverberate with a deep subterranean murmur. ... The factory Diesel engine. The cable-ways. The pits. The revolving cylinders in the furnace-rooms. One could see, between the grey buildings of the works, an overhead cable-line stretching down to the sea upon triumphal concrete arches, each shaped like a gigantic “H”. The steel cables are taut as violin strings, to which cling motionless trucks; beneath them the rusty gauze of the safety-net, and below, upon the pier at the edge of the sea, stretch the wings of an electric crane. PLENDID! Once again, machines and work. Fresh work. Free work, gained in struggle, won through fire and blood. Splendid! Like giddy maidens, the goats scream and laugh with the children, The ammoniacal stench of the pig-sty. Grass and weeds besmirched by hens. What’s this? Goats, poultry and pigs? This used to be strictly forbidden. Concrete and stone. Coal and cement. Slag and soot. Filigree-towers of the electric conveyor. Smoke-stacks higher than the mountains. Net-work of cables. And, right next to it all stalls and live-stock? Damn the fellows! They had dragged the village here by the tail, and it spreads like mil- dew.. Three women were walking towards him in single file, with bundles under their arms. In front marched an old woman with the face of a witch; behind, two young ones, like tramps. One of them was fat and full-bosomed, her face wreathed con- tinually with laughter; her lips could hardly cover her teeth. The other with red eyes and red swollen eyelids, her face deep buried in her shawl. Was she ill or weeping? He immediately recognized two of them. The old woman was the wife of Loshak the mechanic; the laughing one was meee ow MAY DAY EDITION ~~ iii, Ree ee CEMENT By FEODOR GLADKOV THE FAMOUS NOVELIST OF THE SOVIET UNION; ONE OF THE OUTSTANDING REVOLUTIONARY FICTION WRITERS OF THE WORLD TODAY the wife of Gromada, another mechanic. The third was a stranger whom he had never seen before. As he approached them on the narrow pathway he stood aside in the high grass and gave them a military salute. “Good morning, Comrades!” They look at him askance as though he were a tramp and stepped past him. Only the last one, the laughing one, gave a screeching laugh like a scared hen: “Get on with you! There’s enough scamps like you about. Must one say ‘Good- day’ to everybody ?” “What’s the matter with you, wenches? nize me?” Loshak’s wife looked morosely at Gleb—just as an old witch would do—then murmured to herself in her deep voice: “Why, this is Gleb. He has risen from the dead, the rascal!” Don’t you recog- Saturdaying in the Soviet Union Soviet workers, Red Army.and Navy men participating in volun- tary “Saturdaying,” devoting a free Saturday afternoon to work for some communal project which could otherwise not be .accomplished. In “Cement,” Gladkov describes one of these “subbotniks” in graphio manner, weer And went on her way, silent and sullen. # Gromada’s wife laughed and said nothing. Only, from a way off, by the factory wall, she looked round, then stopped and screeched like a noisy magpie. “Hurry.up, man, to your wife. If you have lost her, find her. And if you find her, marry her again.” Gleb looked back at the women and did not recognize in them the friendly neighbors of old days. Most likely the women of the factory had had a hard time indeed. Here was the old fence around the little yard, fourteen feet square, with the water closet like a sentry box on the side near the street. The fence leaned a bit more from age and the north-east wind, and a greyish growth covered the pales. And when he went to open the gate, the whole structure trembled. . * * Now, in a moment Dasha would come out. How wotld she meet him after three years of separation—he who had passed through fire and death? Perhaps she thought him dead, or that he had forgotten her forever; or perhaps she had been awaiting him every day, from the very hour when he had left her alone with Nurka in this rabbit-hutch and had gone out into the night that was filled with foes. He threw his military coat upon the fence, unstrapped his haversack and laid it upon the coat. Then threw down upon it his helmet with its red winged star. For a moment he stood still, shrugged his shoulders high, swung his arms wide (one must calm oneself—bring one’s limbs to order), and wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. But he could not dry his face; one would think it was not a face but a sieve. He looked again upon the doorway of.the house, where the door ajar was creaking its riddle to him through its black chink. AN? just as he tore off his tunic, and again swung wide his arms, the door creaked loudly and— Is it Dasha, or is it not? A woman with a red kerchief about her head, in a man’s blouse, stood in the black oblong of the doorway, looking hard at him, knitting her brows. Her eyelashes quivered with amazement,-and as though she were about to scream. When she encountered Gleb’s smile, suddenly her brows lifted and the tears sparkled in her eyes. Is it Dasha, or is it not? The face, with the mole on the chin and the round nose; the sideways turn of the head when looking intently—this was she, Dasha. But everything else about her—he couldn’t quite say how—was strange, not womanly, something he had never seen before in her. “Dasha! My wife! My darling!” He made a step towards her, his boots scraping on the con- crete path, and stretched out his arms to embrace her. He could not hold the beating of his heart nor the spasmodic contraction of his features. Dasha stood in the doorway on the top step. Frozen in the conflict between her impulse towards him and the struggle against her own weakness. While the blood rushed to her face she could only stammer: “Js it you? Oh, Gleb!” And in her eyes, in the black depths of her eyes, like a spark of fire, burnt an unknown fear. Then Gleb seized her—the crushing embrace of a husband, of a peasant—till her bones were cracking; pressed his prickly, unshaven lips to her lips. And she gave herself to his will, and remembrance was lost in rapture. “Well, then, you’re alive and well, my little dove? Have you been waiting for me, or have you been leading the life of a gay widow? Ah, my dear!” She could not tear herself from him and stammered in the crooning voice of a child, “Oh, Gleb! How was it... ? I didn’t know. ..+ Oh, Gleb!” Bo this sprang from her heart for a second only, and in this s¢cond Dasha felt the old power of Gleb once again upon her. Ah, once, three years ago, when she was a young housewife, and the young bride bloomed as did the geraniums in the window-box—this power of her man was sweet and welcome, and it was good to feel herself deprived of her own will and secure with him. But Gleb was not able to take her into his arms as a child and carry her into the room, as in the first days of their mar- ried life. Firmly but tenderly Dasha lifted his_arms from about her and gazed at him distantly with a surprised smile. “What’s wrong with you, Comrade Gleb? Don’t be so wild. Calm yourself. She trod a step lower, and began to laugh. “You soldier! You are altogether too excitable for this peaceful neighborhood. ... The key is in the door. You can boil yourself some water on the oil-stove. But there’s no tea and sugar and bread. You’d better go to the Factory Com- mittee and register for your ration.” She came yet another step lower. And her careworn face showed anxiety—a strange anxiety, not for herself. This was more than an insult—it'was a blow! He had sought a human being, and run his head against a wall. He felt shamed and hurt. His arms were still extended, and uncon- trolledly his smile still flickered. “What the hell do you mean? Do you think I’m a damned fool?” DAs had already gone down the steps and had reached the gate. There she stood, gazing at him, smiling. Is it Dasha, or is it-not? “I take my dinner in town, in the communal restaurant of the Food Commissariat; and I get my bread ration from the Party Committee. Gleb, you’d better call in at the Factory Committee and register there for a bread card. I shall be away for two days. They’ve ordered me to go to the country. Take a good rest after your journey.” “Here! Wait a bit! I can’t understand this. Since when did you become ‘Comrade’ to me? What have I wandered into, anyway?” “I’m in the Women’s Section. . . . Can’t you understand?” “And Nurka? Where’s our Nurka?” “In the Children’s Home. Go and rest yourself; I haven’t any time, Gleb. We'll have a talk afterwards. Take a good rest.” She walked quickiy away, with long decided steps, without looking back, the red kerchief on her head teasing him. beckoning him and laughing at him. When she reached the breach in the wall Dasha turned ahd waved to him. Gleb stood on the steps, bewildered, watching Dasha’s vanishing figure ; he could not understand what had happened. Ee had returned home and had met his wife Dasha. It had been three years since he had seen her last. Three years, passed in the tempests of war. Dasha also had been through these three years. And what path had she followed? He did not know. And now their paths again crossed, strangely. Before their marriage their ways went side by side and then fused into one path. Then circumstances tore them apart, and they journeyed on, each following a separate road, knowing nothing of the other. Had Dasha travelled farther than he? Had they become strangers to each other, unable to meet again in their former love? Three years. What had happened in these three years to this wife without a husband? Those three years, which for Gleb had been a whirlpool of frightful events—what had they been for Dasha? No he was back in the home which he had once left to go out into the empty night. Here was the same factory where he had worked as a boy, grimed with oil, soot and metal dust. Now the nest was empty; and his wife Dasha, who had clung to him so desperately at the time of their parting, had not welcomed him as should a wife, but had passed on by him, like some cold and hostile ghost in a dream. Ge sat down on a step and suddenly realized that he was very tired. It was not the four miles he had walked from the station, but the last three years and then this incompre- hensible encounter with Dasha, the unexpected anguish of which had profoundly wounded him. Why this heavy silence? Why does the air vibrate and the hens creep screeching through Pleasant Colony ? These are not buildings, but slow-melting ice-blocks; and smoke-stacks, light blue like glass cylinders. There is no more soot on the tops of them; mountain winds have brushed it away. From one of them the lightning conductor has been torn—by the storm? by rust? or human hands? Previously one could never smell manure here; but now the sharp-snielling dung of cattle is found in the grass which spreads down from the mountain, a hs building just under the mountain slope is the work- shop of the mechanics. In the old days, at this hour, its gigantic windows, with its countless panes, blazed in the sun’s rays. Now one could see the black emptiness of the interior through the broken panes. And the town on the hill on the other gide of the bay—it also has changed. It has become grey. It is covered with mildew and dust, so that it merges into the mountain slope. No longer a town, one would say, but an abandoned quarry. ‘Comrade !’—what’s that? “Comrade Gleb! ...” The door which she left open, looking into the empty room. ... The darkened, forgotten factory. He had once been a worker in this factory. And now he was the commander of a regiment and wore the Order of the Red Flag. A rooster strolled over to the fence, raised his head and regarded him with a cold and evil eye. “Who is this?” And the goats looked at him curiously with their serpent eyes, while with their maiden lips inaudibly they chattered nonsense. “Shoo, filthy creature! I’ll shoot you, devil take you!” ? I.— GLOOM On the opposite side of the narrow street, from an open window in the tenement, sounded muffled drunken voices. It was the bass voice of the cooper, Savchuk, mingled with the hystarical voice of his wife, Motia, screeching like a hen. May Day Parade in Moscow Workers of the Zamoskvaretchie borough in Moscow parading through the Red Square, with the official banner of their borough Soviet. On these May Days the Moscow workers demonstrate three- quarters of a million strong, marching in solid ranks, from early morning till dawn, Gleb left his kit lying near the fence and went over to Savchuk’s place. The walls of the room were grimy with lamp soot. Overthrown stools lay upon the floor, upon which clothes were also strewn. A tin kettle lay upon its side and, like little white gleams, flour was scattered over everything. With the sun in his eyes, Gleb could not immediately dis- tinguish any person. Then he noticed two dirty convulsed bodies fighting, rolling on the floor. Looking keenly, he saw it was the Savchuks. The man’s shirt was torn to ribbons, his back was bent like the curve of a wheel, his ribs stuck out like hoops. Motia’s skirt was around her middle and her full breast heaved violently as they struggled together. Gleb seized Savchuk under his arms and squeezed his ribs until they cracked. “Here, man! Have you gone crazy? Stand up!” Savchuk’s muscles quivered. He clawed the air so violently that his finger joints cracked. Qeuteae of her naked thighs Motia, raising herself on one hand, gesticulated with the other and tried, gape- mouthed, to scream, but could not. “Savchuk, stand up, damn you! Be a man!” Again squeezing Savchuk till his bones cracked, Gleb at sat got him upright and planted his calloused heels upon the oor. “T'll give you one of the head, you old devil! Are you out of your senses, you blockhead? And stand up, you, Motia. Are your limbs out of joint? Cheer up! Don’t be ashamed; you can stay as you are.” And Gleb burst into friendly laughter. Motia screamed shyly like a little girl. She pulled her skirt down and curled up her legs under it, rolling herself up like a hedgehog. She was like a little frightened child and hid her- self in a corner, crying. Without recognizing him, Savchuk looked at Gleb with bloodshot eyes. Then he turned away, exhausted, and said, hiccupping: “The devil brought you here at the wrong time, my boy. Get out! Be off, before I break your head for you!” Again Gleb laughed cordially. “Savchuk, my old pal! I came to pay you a visit. Won't you receive me, Comrade? You know for how many years we humped our backs together in this hell of a furnace! wan mad dog has bitten you, cooper?” Again Savchuk regarded Gleb with his bovine eyes. He stamped his grimv foot upon the floor and waved his hands, His rags fluttered upon him like a scarecrow. This was no shirt, but a mass of tatters. The muscles flickered beneath the skin like knots in taut cords. “What, you old devil! Gleb! My old brother, Chumalbet What devil has dragged you back out of hell? You old bastard! Gleb! Look at me! Look at my ugly old dial! And kick me in the belly, if you like!” ‘iad And he enveloped Gleb in a sticky, sweaty embrace, ii “Get up Motia! Get yourself to rights; now I’m weak and peaceful. We'll carry on another time. I’m going to sit down with good old Gleb and cry a little bit and open my heart to him. Get up, Motia! Come over here. Now, let’s have peace! Kiss Gleb, our friend and comrade!” Like oak-shavings, his hair and beard stood up in tufts; like ragged bast shoes. Take a breather! THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF “CEMENT” WILL APPEAR IN THE THURSDAY, MAY 2, ISSUE OF THE DAILY WORKER. SUBSCRIBE NOW!