This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Heroic Wikileaks Whistleblower Private Chelsea Manning ‘s Fight For Freedom Will Again Be Remembered At The Fourth Annual Veterans For Peace-Led Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade in South Boston On March 16, 2014
We will be forming up at the corner of D Street and West Fourth in South Boston (take Redline MBTA to Broadway Station-walk up four blocks and then left) at 1 PM for a 2 PM step-off (note time change). Supporters of Chelsea Manning will be out in force distributing informational leaflets and stickers as well as encouraging participants to sign the Amnesty International and Private Manning Support Network petitions calling on President Barack Obama to pardon her. We will not leave our sister behind ******** President Obama, Pardon Pvt. Manning
Because the public deserves the truth and whistle-blowers deserve protection.
We are military veterans, journalists, educators, homemakers, lawyers, students, and citizens.
We ask you to consider the facts and free US Army Pvt. Chelsea (formerly Bradley) Manning.
As an Intelligence Analyst stationed in Iraq, Pvt. Manning had access to some of America’s dirtiest secrets—crimes such as torture, illegal surveillance, and corruption—often committed in our name.
Manning acted on conscience alone, with selfless courage and conviction, and gave these secrets to us, the public.
“I believed that if the general public had access to the information contained within the[Iraq and Afghan War Logs] this could spark a domestic debate on the role of the military and our foreign policy,”
Manning explained to the military court. “I wanted the American public to know that not everyone in Iraq and Afghanistan were targets that needed to be neutralized, but rather people who were struggling to live in the pressure cooker environment of what we call asymmetric warfare.”
Journalists used these documents to uncover many startling truths. We learned:
• Donald Rumsfeld and General Petraeus helped support torture in Iraq.
• Deliberate civilian killings by U.S. forces in Iraq and Afghanistan went unpunished.
• Thousands of civilian casualties were never acknowledged publicly.
• Most Guantanamo detainees were innocent.
For service on behalf of an informed democracy, Manning was sentenced by military judge Colonel Denise Lind to a devastating 35 years in prison.
Government secrecy has grown exponentially during the past decade, but more secrecy does not make us safer when it fosters unaccountability.
Pvt. Manning was convicted of Espionage Act charges for providing WikiLeaks with this information, butthe prosecutors noted that they would have done the same had the information been given to The New York Times. Prosecutors did not show that enemies used this information against the US, or that the releases resulted in any casualties.
Pvt. Manning has already been punished, even in violation of military law.
She has been:
• Held in confinement since May 29, 2010.
• Subjected to illegal punishment amounting to torture for nearly nine months at Quantico Marine Base, Virginia, in violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), Article 13—facts confirmed by both the United Nation’s lead investigator on torture and military judge Col. Lind.
• Denied a speedy trial in violation of UCMJ, Article 10, having been imprisoned for over three years before trial.
• Denied anything resembling a fair trial when prosecutors were allowed to change the charge sheet to match evidence presented, and enter new evidence, after closing arguments.
Pvt. Manning believed you, Mr. President, when you came into office promising the most transparent administration in history, and that you would protect whistle-blowers. We urge you to start upholding those promises, beginning with this American prisoner of conscience.
We urge you to grant Pvt. Manning’s petition for a Presidential Pardon.
FIRST& LAST NAME _____________________________________________________________
STREET ADDRESS _____________________________________________________________
CITY, STATE & ZIP _____________________________________________________________
Friends,
This past weekend was epic. 1,200 students and young people from across the
country descended on DC to demand that President Obama stop the Keystone XL
pipeline. The energy was incredible as students marched from Georgetown
University, past Secretary Kerry's house and to the White House, where students
and young people from across the youth climate movement spoke about how tired
they were of waiting for President Obama to be a real climate champion. Then 398
of them got arrested at the White House fence to show the President how serious
they were. Their banner read, "Obama, we did not vote for Keystone XL! Stop this
pipeline or the people will!" Obama was home and must have seen some passionate
faces on his front steps.
Hundreds of these young people came from Boston,
and TOMORROW the President is coming to our turf. He will be
hosting a dinner fundraiser tomorrow night and we will be rallying to say No
KXL! The bigger our crowd, the bigger our
message. Think you can make it? Click here to RSVP. Here are the details:
What: Boston Tells Obama: No
KXL! When: Tomorrow, March 5th,
6pm Where: 100 West 2nd Street, Boston, MA
For the last few years, Boston has held some of the strongest, biggest
climate events we've seen. Let's keep up the pressure and show the President
that we are tired of waiting. We need his leadership now, and that starts with a
rejection of the Keystone XL pipeline! Together, we can show President Obama
that Boston is more fired up and ready to go than ever to fight the
pipeline!
We will have signs, banners, and chant leaders, just bring yourself (in your
350MA shirt and banners if you have 'em) and get ready to make some noise. In
the final days of the public comment period, let's be louder and stronger than
ever. Click here to RSVP.
Can't come but still want to make a difference? Publish a comment on the State Department website before the
comment period ends this Friday!
International Committee for the Freedom of the Cuban
5
Vote for the Cuban 5
for the 2014 People's Choice
Award
The International Committee for the Freedom of the Cuban 5 has nominated
the Cuban 5 for the 2014's
People's Choice Award
The People's Choice Award is part of a larger
annual Human Rights Awards event organized by Global Exchange. Each year this
organization invites their members, supporters and allies to nominate and vote
on individuals or groups who they consider to be human rights heroes.
We consider the Cuban 5 to be perfect
candidates for this award for fighting to protect the lives of the Cuban people
and people in the United States against terrorist attacks. They did this at
great personal risk and have had to endure long unjust prison sentences as a
consequence. Despite the injustice the Cuban 5 continue to hold their heads high
with dignity and resolve.
This nomination and voting campaign is another
way to spread the word about the case of the Cuban 5.
The voting begins 9 A.M. March 3,
2014 through 5 P.M. March 21, 2014
IT WILL TAKE ONLY ONE MINUTE OF YOUR TIME! CLICK HERE TO VOTE FOR THE CUBAN 5 NOW! AND ASK
YOUR FRIENDS TO VOTE FOR THEM TOO!
One of the criteria for
winning is by who gets the most votes. We urge you to cast your vote for them
and spread the word to people you know.
Once the online voting concludes, a People's Choice
Award committee consisting of Global Exchange and noted activists will review
each nominee to determine the winner. The 2014 People's Choice Award will be
announced by Global Exchange on April 9th. The winner will receive an award in
honor of their work at the Human Rights Awards celebration on May 8,
2014.
International Committee for the
Freedom of the Cuban 5 | P.O. Box 22455 | Oakland |
CA |
94609
*** A Pauper Comes Of Age- For the Adamsville South Elementary School Class Of 1958
From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin
Fritz Taylor, if he thought about it at all, probably would have said that he had his history hat on again like when he was a kid and was crazy to impress everybody with his arcane knowledge of about two thousand facts nothing before 1900, every girl that is, on that day in 2008 when out of the blue, the memory time blue, he thought about her, thought about fair Rosimund. No, before you get all set to turn to some other thing, some desperate alternate other thing, to do rather than read Fritz’s poignant little story, this is not some American Revolution founding fathers (or mothers, because old-time Abigail Adams may have been hovering in some background granite-chiseled slab grave in very old-time Adamsville cemetery while the events to be related occurred) or some bold Massachusetts abolitionist regiment out of the American Civil War 150th anniversary memory history like Fritz used to like to twist the tail around when you knew him, or his like.
Fritz, that 2008 early summer’s day, was simply trying to put his thoughts together and write something, write something for those who could stand it, those fellow members of his who could stand to know that the members of the North Adamsville High School Class of 1964 were that year celebrating the 50th anniversary of their graduation from elementary school. In Fritz’s case not North Adamsville Elementary School like many of his fellows but from Adamsville South Elementary School across town on the “wrong side of the tracks.” The elementary school that served “the projects” where he grew up all rough and tumble and survived to tell about it. And although, at many levels that was a very different experience from that of the average, average North Adamsville class member the story had a universal quality that he thought might amuse them, amuse them that is until the name, the thought of the name, the mist coming from out of his mouth at the forming of the name, holy of holies, Rosimund, stopped him dead in his tracks and forced him to write a different story.
Still, once the initial trauma wore off, he thought what better way to celebrate that milestone on the rocky road to surviving childhood than to take a trip down memory lane, that Rosimund-strewn memory lane. Those days although they were filled with memorable incidents, good and bad, paled beside this Rosimund-related story that cut deep, deep into his graying-haired mind, and as it turned out one that he have not forgotten after all. So rather than produce some hokey last dance, last elementary school sweaty-palmed dance failure tale, some Billie Bradley-led corner boy down in the back of Adamsville South doo wop be-bop into the night luring stick and shape girls like lemmings from the sea on hearing those doo wop harmonies, those harmonies meant for them, the sticks and shapes that is, or some wannabe gangster retread tale, or even some Captain Midnight how he saved the world from the Cold War Russkies with his last minute-saving invention Fritz preferred to relate a home truth, a hard home truth to be sure, but the truth. So drugged with many cups of steaming instant black coffee, a few hits of addicted sweetened-orange juice, and some protein eggs he whiled away one frenzied night and here is what he produced:
At some point in elementary school a boy is inevitably supposed to learn, maybe required to, depending on the whims of your school district’s supervisory staff and maybe also what your parents expected of such schools, to do two intertwined socially-oriented tasks - the basics of some kind of dancing and to be paired off with, dare I say it, a girl in that activity. After all that is what it there for isn’t it. At least it was that way in the old days, and if things have changed, changed dramatically in that regard, you can fill in your own blanks experience. But here that is where fair sweet Rosimund comes in, the paired-off part.
I can already hear your gasps, dear reader, as I present this scenario. You are ready to flee, boy or girl flee, to some safe attic hideaway, to reach for some dusty ancient comfort teddy bear, or for the venturesome, some old sepia brownie camera picture album safely hidden in those environs, but flee, no question, at the suggestion of those painful first times when sweaty-handed, profusely sweaty-handed, boy met too-tall girl (age too-tall girls hormone shooting up first, later things settled down and even out , a little) on the dance floor. Now for those who are hopped up, or even mildly interested, in such ancient rituals you may be thinking, oh well, this won’t be so bad after all since old Fritz is talking about the mid-1950s and they had Dick Clark’s American Bandstand on the television to protect them from having to dance close, what with those funny self-expression dance moves like the Stroll and the Hully-Gully that you see on old YouTube film clips. And then go on except, maybe, the last dance, the last close dance that spelled success or failure in the special he or she night so let me tell you how really bad we had it in the bell-bottomed 1960s (or the disco 1970s, the hip-hop ‘80s, etc.). Wrong.
Oh, of course, we were all after school black and white television-addled and addicted making sure that we got home by three in the afternoon to catch the latest episode of the American Bandstand saga about who would, or wouldn’t, dance with that cute girl in the corner (or that Amazon who must have been the producer’s daughter in the front). That part was true, true enough. But here we are not talking fun dancing, close or far away, but learning dancing, school-time dancing, come on get with it. What we are talking about in my case is that the dancing part turned out to be the basics of country bumpkin square-dancing (go figure, for a city boy, right?). Not only did this clumsy, yes, sweaty-palmed, star-crossed ten-year-old boy have to do the basic “swing your partner” and some off-hand “doze-zee dozes[sic]” but I also had to do it while I was paired, for this occasion, with a girl that I had a “crush” on, a serious crush on, and that is where Rosimund really enters the story.
Rosimund see, moreover, was not from “the projects” but from one of the new single-family homes, ranch-style homes, that the up and coming middle-classes were moving into up the road. In case you didn’t know, or have forgotten since North Adamsville High days, I grew up on the “wrong side of the tracks” down at the Adamsville Housing Authority apartments. The rough side of town, okay. You knew that the minute I mentioned the name, that AHA name, and rough is what you thought, and that is okay. Now. But although I had started getting a handle on the stick "projects" girls I was totally unsure how to deal with girls from the “world.” And Rosimund very definitely was from the world. I will not describe her here; although I could do so even today, but let us leave it at her name. Rosimund. Enchanting name, right? Thoughts of white-plumed knighted medieval jousts against some black-hooded, armored thug knight for the fair maiden’s hand, or for her favors (whatever they were then, mainly left unexplained, although we all know what they are now, and are glad of it)
Nothing special about the story so far, though. Even I am getting a little sleepy over it. Just your average one-of-the-stages-of-the-eternal-coming-of-age-story. I wish. Well, the long and short of it was that the reason we were practicing this square-dancing was to demonstrate our prowess before our parents in the school gym. Nothing unusual there either. After all there is no sense in doing this type of school-time activity unless one can impress one's parents. I forget all the details of the setup of the space for demonstration day and things like that but it was a big deal. Parents, refreshments, various local dignitaries, half the school administrators from downtown whom I will go to my grave believing could have cared less if it was square-dancing or basket-weaving because they would have ooh-ed and ah-ed us whatever it was. But that is so much background filler. Here is the real deal. To honor the occasion, as this was my big moment to impress Rosimund, I had, earlier in the day, cut up my dungarees to give myself an authentic square-dancer look, some now farmer brown look but back then maybe not so bad.
I thought I looked pretty good. And Rosimund, looking nice in some blue taffeta dress with a dark red shawl thing draped and pinned across her shoulders (although don’t quote me on that dress thing, what did a ten-year old boy, sister-less, know of such girlish fashion things. I was just trying to keep my hands in my pockets to wipe my sweaty hands for twirling time, for Rosimund twirling time) actually beamed at me, and said I looked like a gentleman farmer. Be still my heart. Like I said I thought I looked pretty good, and if Rosimund thought so well then, well indeed. And things were going nicely. That is until my mother, sitting in a front row audience seat as was her wont, saw what I had done to the pants. In a second she got up from her seat, marched over to me, and started yelling about my disrespect for my father's and her efforts to clothe me and about the fact that since I only had a couple of pairs of pants how could I do such a thing. In short, airing the family troubles in public for all to hear. That went on for what seemed like an eternity. Thereafter I was unceremoniously taken home by said irate mother and placed on restriction for a week. Needless to say my father also heard about it when he got home from that hard day’s work that he was too infrequently able to get to keep the wolves from the door, and I heard about it for weeks afterward. Needless to say I also blew my 'chances' with dear, sweet Rosimund.
Now is this a tale of the hard lessons of the nature of class society that I am always more than willing to put in a word about? Just like you might have remembered about old Fritz back in the day when I went on and on about the civil rights struggle down South or started squawking about nuclear disarmament. Surely not. Is this a sad tale of young love thwarted by the vagaries of fate? A little. Is this a tale about respect for the little we had in my family? Perhaps. Was my mother, despite her rage, right? Well, yes. Did I learn something about being poor in the world? Damn right. That is the point …but, oh, Rosimund.
************
Rock Around The Clock Song Lyrics from Bill Haley
One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock, rock,
Five, six, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, rock,
Nine, ten, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, rock,
We're gonna rock around the clock tonight.
Put your glad rags on and join me, hon,
We'll have some fun when the clock strikes one,
We're gonna rock around the clock tonight,
We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight.
We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.
When the clock strikes two, three and four,
If the band slows down we'll yell for more,
We're gonna rock around the clock tonight,
***Fragments Of A Treasure Island (Cady Park) Dream #1, Circa 1955
Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville High School Class Of 1964, comment:
It’s funny how working now, on one thing or another, will bring back those childhood hurts, those feelings sealed, or is it seared, so deep in memory that one does not expect them to resurface for love or money, although this little piece did not start out that way and probably won’t finish up that way either. This “dream” started off from seeing, a few months ago, an unexpected and fairly unusual surname of a fellow female elementary school classmate innocently listed in an off-hand, indirect North Adamsville Internet connection. The very sight of that name triggered a full-blown elementary school “romantic” daydream, from my days down at the old Adamsville “projects” where I came of age, that blossomed into a pining prose sonnet that would have made Shakespeare blush. I’ll tell you about that one sometime, but not now.
That flashback, in turn, got me into a fierce sea-faring dreaming, rolling-logged, oil-slicked, ocean water on three sides, stone-throwing Adamsville projects mood that turned into a screed on the trials and tribulations of growing to manhood in the shadows of tepid old Adamsville Beach. And that, naturally enough, triggered a quick remembrance of too infrequent family barbecue outings as the old Treasure Island (now named after a fallen Marine, Cady, if I recall correctly). At least I think that was the name in those days. That’s what we called it anyway, down at the Merrymount end of the beach. You know where I mean, you probably had your family memory barbecue outings there too, as least some of them. But enough of that background. Let me tell you what I really want to talk about, the tricks that parents used to use, and still do I suppose, to get their way. The story isn’t pretty, or for the faint of heart.
I swear I knew, and I am pretty sure that I knew for certain early on when I was just a half-pint kid myself, that kids, especially younger kids, could be “bought off” by their parents and easily steered away from what they really wanted to do, or really wanted to have, by a mere trifle. Probably you got wise to the routine early too. Still, it’s ridiculous how easily we were “pieced off”, wise as we were, and I firmly believe that there should have been, and there should be now, something like the rules of engagement that govern civilized behavior in war-time written out in the Geneva Conventions against that form of behavior by mothers and fathers. After all what is childhood, then or now, except one long, very long, battle between two very unevenly matched sides with kids, then and now, just trying to do the best they can in a world that they didn’t create, and that they didn’t get a say in creating.
I learned this little nugget of “wisdom” from battle-tested, many times losing, keep- in-there-swinging, never-say-die, first-hand experience, although I guess I might have been a little too thin-skinned and have been a little too quick to feel slighted about it at the time to really focus in on its meaning. I know that you learned this home truth this way as well whether you got onto the scam early on or not. Sure, I could be bought off, I am not any better than the rest of you on that score, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t nurse many a grievance to right those wrongs(and, incidentally, plotted many a feverish revenge, in my head at least, some of them, if impractical, pretty exquisitely drawn).
Sometimes it was just a word, sometimes literally just one word, usually a curt, cutting, razor-edged one from Ma that sent you reeling for cover ready to put up the white flag, if you ever even got that chance. Sometimes it was a certain look, a look that said “don’t go there." And, maybe, depending how you were feeling, you did and maybe you didn’t, go there that is. Hell, sometimes it could even be a mere inside-the family-meaningful side-long glance, a glance from Ma, a thing from her eye, her left one usually, brow slightly arched, that said "case closed," and forget about the pretense behind the “don’t go there” look, which at least gave you the dignity of having the opportunity to put up a little fight no manner the predetermined ending. Sometimes though, and this is hard to “confess” fifty years later and ten thousand, thousand other experiences later, that lady switched up on us and "pieced" us off with some honey-coated little thing. That damn honey-coated thing, that “good” thing standing right in front of full-blown evil, or what passed for that brand of evil in those days, is what this dream fragment is all about.
Now don’t tell me you don’t know what I am talking about in the Ma wars, and don’t even try to tell me it wasn’t usually Ma who ran point on the “no” department when you went on the offensive for some thing you wanted to have, or some place you wanted to go, especially when “desperately” was attached to the "have" or to the "go" part. No, just don’t do it. Dad, Pa, Father, whatever you called him, was held in ready-reserve for when the action got hot and heavy. Maybe, in your family, your father was the point-man but from what I have learned over the last couple of years about our parents from information that I have gathered from some of you that was a wasted strategy. We were that easy. No need for the big guns, because our ever-lovin’, hard-working, although maybe distant, fathers were doing what fathers do. Provide, or go to the depths in that struggle to provide. Ma was for mothering and running interference. That was that. Thems were the rules then, if not now. The main thing was the cards were stacked against us because what we really didn't know was they were really working as a team, one way or another. In any case, I don’t have time to dilly-dally over their strategies as I have got to move on here.
See, here is what you don’t know. Yet. Those family trips to old Treasure Island, whether they were taken from down in Adamsville or later, when we moved "up-town" to North Adamsville, as they tapered off when we three boys (my two brothers, one a little younger one a little older, and me) got too big to pretend that we really wanted to go, were really the ‘booby prize’ for not going to places like Paragon Park down in Nantasket or down to Plymouth Rock or, christ, any place that would be a change of scenery from the claptrap projects. Of course, the excuse was always the same-dad was too tired to drive after working some killer hours at some dirty old dead-end job, or one of a succession of old, hand-me-down, barely running jalopies (and I am being kind here, believe me) wasn’t running, or running well enough to make the trip, or something else that meant we couldn’t go some place.
Ya, that was all right for public consumption but here is the real reason; no dough, plain and simple. Why Ma and Dad just didn’t tell us that their circumstances were so tight that spending a couple of dollars on the roller coaster (which I didn’t care about anyway), or playing “Skee” (which I did care about), or getting cotton-candy stuck every which way (which I didn’t care about), or riding the Wild Mouse (cared about) would break the bank I will never know. Or the extra gas money. Or the extra expense of whatever. How do I know. All I knew is that we weren’t going. Period.
But, here, finally, is where the simple “bought off” comes in, although I really should have been more resolute in my anger at not going and held out for better terms. Such is the fate of young mortals, I guess. My mother, and this was strictly between me and my mother as most things were in those days, dangled the prospect of having some of Kennedy’s potato salad in front of my face on the next family picnic. You remember Kennedy’s, right? If you don’t then the rest of this thing is going to come as less that the “Book of Revelation”. Or ask your parents, or grandparent. There was one in Adamsville Square about half way down Hancock Street on the old South Shore Bank side and there was one in Norfolk Downs almost to the corner of Hancock Street and Billings Road next to the old A&P. I am not sure, and someone can help me on this, whether it was called Kennedy’s Food Shop, or Deli, or whatever but it had the best potato salad around. And fresh ground peanut butter, and sweet fragrant coffee smells, and… But I will get to describing that that some other time. Right now I am deciding whether I can be bought off or not. Yes, shamefacedly, I can and here is the closer -I can even go to Kennedy's and get the stuff myself. What do you think about that? From then on, moreover, I became the “official” Kennedy’s boy of the family. Did I sell out too cheaply? No way.
***In The Time Of The Dutch Masters…Take Four
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
…she was sick, sick unto death of being pawed at by every beer- swilling or wine-gulping burgomeister with a lazy free hand, and with nothing but lustful thoughts, some spoken out in company, about their various abilities to bed her, and left unspoken, leave her after they had had their way with her. She, Magda, swore, not Christian high Calvinist pre-determined fate parceling out the elect swore not in 17th century pious Dutch lands filled with superficial horror when such cursed crudities left some maiden’s mouth, even an ex-milk maid from the country, but more of a female curse under her breath that the next burgher, high heaven civic leader or earnest military dragoon or not, who touched her ever so slightly was going to get his, well, get his.
That “get his” would best be left to the imagination but it had to do with certain well-placed kicks to a man’s sensitive groin areas, a tactic understandable since Eve’s day, maybe before, to take their misplaced ardor out of a man’s sails.Anna, one of her fellow serving girls, the oldest in service and so something of an assistant and thus spared the continual harassment of the drink servers, more used to the rough usage of the Guildhall guardians and rumored to have been bedded by more than one of those ancient burghers even though she was on the long side of twenty-five, laughed a wry laugh when Magda confided her oath to her. Laughed and wisdom warned her that she should rather gently grab what she could from these old goats if she planned to make any fortune in this wicked old world. After that admonition Magda stopped mentioning her woes to Anna (although she did not stop her eternal damnation oaths and planned pay-back scenarios, under her breath).
She had had no idea once she came in from the countryside, from farm country, to Amsterdam to seek her fortune that serving old men, old revered civic leaders (old to her fifteen-year old eyes) rumored to be beset at home by dour squat old wives and broods of unseen children at table in the Guildhall was going to be a test of mortal strength. Sure she had let Jan grab her a few times up in her family’s hayloft back home in Rik after the dancing was over and she/they had had perhaps too many lagers (as she reddened at the thought). But that was pretty Jan full of youthful ardor (and with very quick, gentle and subtle hands that would shame these old burghers) and, well, good-looking too, so good-looking she felt she had to submit to his advances since her sisters, Eline and Anka, confessed to her one night that they would not mind seeing how quick his hands were if they had the chance.So Magda maybe let Jan take a few more liberties than the elders would have approved of (if they had known or been consulted neither of which happened as she thought better of the idea with her, and his, straight-laced high Dutch Calvinist families spying on them constantly). But then too she and Jan had been practically betrothed and their two families had planned that marriage proposition well before they had gotten their grabbing habits.
Once that planned betrothal was set Magda had left the family farm to come to Amsterdam to make some money so that she and Jan could be married as quickly as possible and start their own farm and family. Jan had come too and was apprenticed to a blacksmith on the other side of town to learn a trade that would help them survive those long cold Atlantic winds forced winter nights. She had been offered the serving girl position through her cousin Rueben who catered to the civic leaders at the Guildhall. This franchise, had become increasingly lucrative as every civic leader, merchant, and even night-watch commander had taken up the habit now that they were the “elect” of banqueting at the drop of a hat. So being a serving girl at the Guildhall was considered a plum by all, all who did not know what was fully expected from such a position.
Magda, truth be told, had not been above a little coquetry when they had made the rounds of the town’s taverns in order to make Jan a little jealous and make him work harder to get that farm but these old coots were a different matter. Especially the group of four that were always seated at the far end of the Guildhall and who set themselves up with the best linens and silverware like they were so high and mighty (which on earth they were) sneaking their little pinchings when Rueben was busy watching over the preparations for the next course or Anna and another serving girl, Matilde, were clearing the last course’s set of dishes and setting up the next set for these fatted cows.
Once the wine and beer started flowing one burgher was just as bad as the next. The banker, Hans as he insisted she call him while in thrall to his “democratic” spirits, usually on about his fifth glass, talking about how his (dour) wife was feeling poorly and wouldn’t he be just within his rights to be with some little wench who could appreciate his ardor. Looking, no, leering directly at her. The merchant-general, Daan van der Helst, all serious talk with the men, discoursing on the latest trade figures from his ships just in from the Indies, until she came into the room and he then stopped, waving her to his side where he would try to twist one of her breasts right in front of the others who egged him on at times. The sanctimonious faker. She knew that the good merchant-general had a rosy-cheeked daughter, Sonja (knew from a distance anyway since genteel womenfolk did not enter the hall), her own age who would be appalled by her father’s behavior if she knew. Magda had threatened (well, not so much threatened as warned) him after the first time but he had laughed it off. Moreover Reuben had told her to keep quiet for the sake of the franchise and possible family shame.
Then there was the night-watch commander, Neils, and his insatiable hunger for oysters through all the courses he said in order to enhance his manliness (according to the folk wisdom of the day). What a laugh since by the end of the night he would be floor-bound snoring to high heaven too drunk to do any manly deeds. And lastly that red-headed one, that damn red-headed one, Willem Vert, the magistrate, always pointing one stubby single finger to make some obscure legal point and always swishing his sword “by mistake” so he said when she came by tapping her on her ass with it and then making suggestive cooing sounds when he tried to “apologize” but using his hands to pat her ass. Jesus.
[Magda had had to laugh when a few weeks previous to this banquet this quartet had sat for a group portrait by the up and coming master artist, Govert Flinck, whom they had commissioned to paint them in their civic solemnity. Those collective portraits were all the rage among the civic leaders of the town ever since the famous Rembrandt had started the fashion a few years before she arrived in the city. This Flinck had been a student of his and was sought after by all who could afford his now steep fees. She had to admit that Flinck was good, good enough to turn those lecherous old men into solid citizens discoursing on the events of the day and having an air of “making and doing” in the world.
Flinck had been able to capture their fine clothing, the latest black austere velvets and white linens from London, the well-starched collars, the hats tilted just so indicating a status that permitted hats indoors (unlike the lesser mortals hat-less indoors and required to give hat-service doffs seemingly to every male passer-by outside). Also the well-turned ribbon-bedecked leather shoes setting them apart from the wooden shoe plebian crowd. Naturally he captured the fine banqueting linens and the import of the austere plain functional hall. As natural as well, as if to mock this gentry in his own way, Flinck painted the discarded oyster shells waiting for some wayward servant girl to come by and attempt to pick them up. But mainly it was his ability to capture that solemn “grandeur” of their discourse to the world that made his steep fees worth it all to them. If that candid world only knew what happened when Govert put down his brushes.]
Just then Reuben called her to bring in another fistful of mugs for the gentlemen (he had a nicely snide way of saying that under his breathe -“bring the buffoons theirs”) and as she prepared herself for the next battle to avoid being pricked and prodded she thought that if she filled her mind with thoughts about Jan, about his quick gentle hands and that illicit hayloft, she might get through that miserable night …
In Honor Of The 95th Anniversary Of The Founding Of The Communist International-Take Three –A Daughter of The Communards?
Claudette Longuet idolized her
grandfather, her maternal grandfather, Louis Paret, called the Lyonese Jaures
by his comrades in the Socialist Party and by others as well not attuned to his
political perspectives by respectful of the power of his words nevertheless, an
honorific well-deserved for his emulation of the internationally famous French
socialist orator, Jean Jaures, who had been villainously assassinated just
before the war. Claudette had reason to idolize Papa Paret for his was a gentle
man toward his several grandchildren and so had a built-in fan club of sorts
before he even left the comfortable confines of his townhouse on the edges of
downtown Lyon.
More importantly Claudette had
idolized him for his political past, his proud working class and socialist
political past. As a mere boy he had fought on the barricades during the Paris
Commune, a touchstone for all those who survived the bloody massacre reprisals
of the Thiers government carried out by the sadistic General Gallifit. He just
barely missed being transported. Fortunately no “snitch” could place him on the
barricades, although the Thiers government was not always so choosey about such
things when they had their killing habits on. He had defended the poor Jewish
soldier Dreyfus when Emile Zola screamed for his release. He had opposed
Alexander Millerand, an avowed socialist, in joining the murderous bourgeois
government when he took that step. He tirelessly campaigned against war, signed
all the national and international petitions to prevent that occurrence, and
attended all the conferences too. Although he himself was no Marxist, his
socialism ran to more mystical and philosophical trends, he welcomed the
Russian revolution of 1905 with open arms. So, yes, Claudette, as she grew to
young womanhood and began her own search for social and political meaning,
understandable took her cues from her Papa. Moreover before the war she had
spent many hours in his company at the local socialist club doing the “this and
that” to spread the socialist faith around and about Lyons.
Then the war came, that dreaded
awful August 1914 when the guns of war howled into the night and her
grandfather changed, almost chameleon-like. From a fervent anti-warrior he
turned overnight into a paragon of the defense of French culture, French
bourgeois culture, as he would have previously said against, against, the Hun,
the Boche, the, the, whatever foul word he could use to denigrate the Germans,
all of them. He stood in the central square in Lyon and preached, preached the
duty of every eligible young Frenchman to defend the republic to the death, no
questions asked. And since he had that Jaures-like quality those young boys
listened and sadly went off to war, many to never return. For a while he also
had Claudette with him, for the first couple of years when he, they uttered not
one anti-war word, not one. But after about two years, after some awful battles
fought on French soil, some awful battles that were just stacking up the corpses
without let-up, she started to listen to that younger Papa voice, the voice
that thrilled her young girl-hood, and silently began to oppose the war, to
oppose her grandfather who had not changed his opinion one iota throughout the
carnage.
Claudette kept his silence until the
February Revolution in Russia in 1917 when it seemed like peace might be at
hand. He grandfather cursed the Russians whenever there was talk that they
might withdraw from the war but she saw that their withdrawal might stop the
war on all fronts. Mainly she was tired of seeing the weekly casualty lists and
all the women, young and old, in black, always black. Then in November or maybe
December 1917 she heard, heard from her new beau (a beau a little younger than
her, almost just a boy, since the men her age were either at the fronts or down
in the ground) who had been agitating for an end to the war (and getting hell
for it from the local government, and her grandfather) that the Russians under
the Bolsheviks had withdrawn from the war. Things were sketchy, very sketchy
with the wartime censorship on but that is what she heard from him. She talked
to, or tried to talk to her grandfather about it, but he would not hear of the
damn Bolshevik rabble.
Papa Paret moreover said when peace
came, and it would come, with or without the damn Russians, since the entry of
the American would take the final stuffing out of the Germans, then everybody
could go back to arguing against war and French and German workers could unite
again under the banner of the Socialist International and maybe really end war
for good. And the war did end, and the various socialists who had just
supported the massive blood-letting in Europe and elsewhere started talking of
brotherhood once again and of putting that old peacetime International back
together. Claudette though, now more under the spell of that feisty boyfriend,
was not sure that grandfather had it right. And in the summer of 1919 when she
heard (via that same boyfriend who had already joined the French Communist
Party, or really the embryo of that party) that the Bolsheviks had convened a
conference to form a new International, a Third International, to really fight
against war and fight for socialism she was more conflicted. See she really did
idolize Papa and so she would wait and see…
International Committee for the Freedom of the Cuban
5
