| Sacco & Vanzetti Event in Boston 8/23/2014 | |
 by Sacco and Vanzetti Commemoration Society Email: info (nospam) saccoandvanzetti.org | 13 Aug 2014 |
Saturday, August 23rd, in Boston, the 87th anniversary of the execution of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti will be remembered. Sacco and Vanzetti were Italian immigrants and committed anarchists whose trial is regarded as one of the great miscarriages of justice in American history. Calling attention to the continued repression of immigrants and radicals, the Sacco and Vanzetti Commemoration Society (SVCS) invites all to attend and participate in the ninth annual march and rally. | |
Sacco and Vanzetti Remembered in Boston, Saturday, August 23, 2014 PRESS RELEASE / PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT Saturday, August 23rd, in Boston, the 87th anniversary of the execution of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti will be remembered. Sacco and Vanzetti were Italian immigrants and committed anarchists whose trial is regarded as one of the great miscarriages of justice in American history. Calling attention to the continued repression of immigrants and radicals, the Sacco and Vanzetti Commemoration Society (SVCS) invites all to attend and participate in the ninth annual march and rally. We will begin by gathering at the Boston Common Visitors Center (Tremont and West, Boston) at 2PM, followed by a march to the North End at 3PM, and conclude with a rally at 4PM at the Paul Revere Mall at 416 Hanover Street and will feature a number of speakers and live music at both locations. For the last nine years, the SVCS has sought to bring public attention to the wrongful execution of the two Italian immigrant workers and radicals in 1927. We invoke their tragedy and our local history not just to remember Sacco and Vanzetti, but also to demonstrate how little has changed in the 87 years following their execution. Nationalist fear mongering and the repression of dissidents are as prevalent today as it was during the Red Scare in the early 20th century. The way in which immigrants workers are rounded up, detained and deported today under the pretext of a War on Terror, a War on Drugs or securing our borders, is eerily similar to the Palmer Raids targeting immigrants in the 1920s. And while the overwhelming majority of developed nations have abolished the death penalty, the retention of capital punishment in the United States puts the U.S. in the disgracefully bad company of countries notorious for their human rights abuses. # # # Contact: Sergio Reyes, 617-290-5614 Email: info[@]saccoandvanzetti.org Web: www.saccoandvanzetti.org Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/saccoandvanzetti/ Sacco and Vanzetti Commemoration Society | |
| See also: http://www.saccoandvanzetti.org http://www.saccoandvanzetti.org | |
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Friday, August 22, 2014
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Three weeks ago, Pentagon Papers whistleblower
Daniel Ellsberg wrote an appeal challenging our supporters to raise $100,000 for
Chelsea Manning’s legal defense by Sept 1st.
***The Roots Is The Toots-The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Elvis' Jailhouse Rock –Take Six
A while back when I was doing a series of scenes, scenes from the hitchhike road in search of the great American West night in the late 1960s, later than the time of Frankie’s early 1960s old working class neighborhood kingly time that I want to tell you about now, I noted that there had been about a thousand truck-stop diner stories left over from those old hitchhike road days. On reflection though, I realized that there really had been about three diner stories with many variations. Not so with Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood, stories. I have got a thousand of them, or so it seems, all different. Hey, you already, if you have been attentive to this space, know a few Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood, stories (okay, I will stop, or try to, stop using that full designation and just call him plain, old, ordinary, vanilla Frankie just like everybody else).
Yeah you already know the Frankie story (see I told you I could do it) about how he lazily spent a hot late August 1960 summer before entering high school day working his way up the streets of the old neighborhood to get some potato salad (and other stuff too) for his family’s Labor Day picnic. And he got a cameo appearance in the tear-jerk, heart-rendering saga of my first day of high school in that same year where I, vicariously, attempted to overthrow his lordship with the nubiles (girls, for those not from the old neighborhood, although there were plenty of other terms of art to designate the fair sex then, most of them getting their start in local teenage social usage from Frankie’s mouth). That effort, that attempt at coping his “style”, like many things associated with one-of-a-kind Frankie, as it turned out, proved unsuccessful.
More recently I took you in a roundabout way to a Frankie story in a review of a 1985 Roy Orbison concert documentary, Black and White Nights. That story centered around my grinding my teeth whenever I heard Roy’s Running Scared because one of Frankie’s twists (see nubiles above) played the song endlessly to taint the love smitten but extremely jealous Frankie on the old jukebox at the pizza parlor, old Salducci's Pizza Shop, that we used to hang around in during our high school days. It’s that story, that drugstore soda fountain story, that brought forth a bunch of memories about those pizza parlor days and how Frankie, for most of his high school career, was king of the hill at that locale. And king, king arbiter, of the social doings of those around him as well.
And who was Frankie? Frankie of a thousand stories, Frankie of a thousand treacheries, Frankie of a thousand kindnesses, and, oh yeah, Frankie, my bosom friend in high school. Well let me just steal some sentences from that old August summer walk story and that first day of school saga because really Frankie and I went back to perilous middle school days (a.k.a. junior high days for old-timers) when he saved my bacon more than one time, especially from making a fatal mistake with the frails (see nubiles and twists above). He was, maybe, just a prince then working his way up to kingship. But even he, as he endlessly told me that summer before high school, August humidity doldrums or not, was along with the sweat on his brow from the heat a little bit anxious about being “little fish in a big pond” freshmen come that 1960 September.
Especially, a pseudo-beatnik “little fish”. See, he had cultivated a certain, well, let’s call it "style" over there at the middle school. That “style” involved a total disdain for everything, everything except trying to impress girls with his long-panted, flannel-shirted, work boot-shod, thick book-carrying knowledge of every arcane fact known to humankind. Like that really was the way to impress teenage girls, then or now. Well, as it turned out, yes it was. Frankie right. In any case he was worried, worried sick at times, that in such a big school his “style” needed upgrading. Let’s not even get into that story, the Frankie part of it now, or maybe, ever. We survived high school, okay.
But see, that is why, the Frankie why, the why of my push for the throne, the kingship throne, when I entered high school and that old Frankie was grooming himself for like it was his by divine right. When the deal went down and I knew I was going to the “bigs” (high school) I spent that summer, reading, big time booked-devoured reading. Hey, I'll say I did, The Communist Manifesto, that one just because old Willie Westhaven over at the middle school (junior high, okay) called me a Bolshevik when I answered one of his foolish math questions in a surly manner. I told you before that was my pose, my Frankie-engineered pose. I just wanted to see what he, old Willie, was talking about when he used that word. How about Democracy in America (by a French guy), The Age of Jackson (by a Harvard professor who knew idol Jack Kennedy, personally, and was crazy for old-time guys like Jackson), and Catcher In The Rye (Holden was me, me to a tee). Okay, okay I won’t keep going on but that was just the reading on the hot days when I didn’t want to go out. There was more.
Here's what was behind the why. I intended, and I swear I intended to even on the first nothing doing day of that new school year in that new school in that new decade (1960) to beat old Frankie, old book-toting, mad monk, girl-chasing Frankie, who knew every arcane fact that mankind had produced and had told it to every girl who would listen for two minutes (maybe less) in that eternal struggle, the boy meets girl struggle, at his own game. Yes, Frankie, my buddy of buddies, prince among men (well, boys, anyhow) who kindly navigated me through the tough, murderous parts of junior high, mercifully concluded, finished and done with, praise be, and didn’t think twice about it. He, you see, despite, everything I said a minute ago he was “in.”; that arcane knowledge stuff worked with the “ins” who counted, worked, at least a little, and I got dragged in his wake. I always got dragged in his wake, including as lord chamberlain in his pizza parlor kingdom. What I didn’t know then, wet behind the ears about what was what in life's power struggles, was if you were going to overthrow the king you’d better do it all the way. But, see if I had done that, if I had overthrown him, I wouldn’t have had any Frankie stories to tell you, or help with the frills in the treacherous world of high school social life (see nubiles, frails and twists above. Why don’t we just leave it like this. If you see the name Frankie and a slangy word when you think I am talking about girls that's girls. Okay?)
As I told you in that Roy Orbison review, when Roy was big, big in our beat down around the edges, some days it seemed beat six ways to Sunday working-class neighborhood in the early 1960s, we all used to hang around the town pizza parlor, or one of them anyway, that was also conveniently near our high school as well. Maybe this place was not the best one to sit down and have a family-sized pizza with salad and all the fixings in, complete with family, or if you were fussy about décor but the best tasting pizza, especially if you let it cool for a while and no eat it when it was piping hot right out of the oven.
Moreover, this was the one place where the teen-friendly owner, a big old balding Italian guy, Tonio Salducci, at least he said he was Italian and there were plenty of Italians in our town in those days so I believed him but he really looked Greek or Armenian to me, let us stay in the booths if it wasn’t busy, and we behaved like, well, like respectable teenagers. And this guy, this old Italian guy, blessed Leonardo-like master Tonio, could make us all laugh, even me, when he started to prepare a new pizza and he flour-powdered and rolled the dough out and flipped that sucker in the air about twelve times and about fifteen different ways to stretch it out. Sometimes people would just stand outside in front of the doubled-framed big picture window and watch his handiwork in utter fascination.
Jesus, Tonio could flip that thing. One time, and you know this is true because you probably have your own pizza dough on the ceiling stories, he flipped the sucker so high it stuck to the ceiling, right near the fan on the ceiling, and it might still be there for all I know (the place still is, although not him). But this is how he was cool; he just started up another without making a fuss. Let me tell you about him, Tonio, sometime but right now our business to get on with Frankie, alright.
So there was nothing unusual, and I don’t pretend there is, in just hanging out having a slice of pizza (no onions, please, in case I get might lucky tonight and that certain she comes in, the one that I have been eyeing in school all week until my eyes have become sore, that thin, long blondish-haired girl wearing those cashmere sweaters showing just the right shape, please, please, James Brown, please come in that door), some soft drink (which we called tonic in New England in those days but which you call, uh, soda), usually a locally bottled root beer, and, incessantly dropping nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukebox.
(And that "incessantly" allowed us to stay since we were paying customers with all the rights and dignities that status entailed, unless, of course, they needed our seats). But here is where it all comes together, Frankie and Tonio the pizza guy, from day one, got along like crazy. Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, map of Ireland, red-headed, fair-skinned, blue-eyed Frankie got along like crazy with Italian guy Tonio. That was remarkable in itself because, truth be told, there was more than one Irish/ Italian ethnic, let me be nice, “dispute” in those days. Usually over “turf”, like kids now, or some other foolish one minute thing or another.
Moreover, and Frankie didn’t tell me this for a while, Frankie, my bosom buddy Frankie, like he was sworn to some Omerta oath, didn’t tell me that Tonio was “connected.” For those who have been in outer space, or led quiet lives, or don’t hang with the hoi polloi that means with the syndicate, the hard guys, the Mafia. If you don’t get it now go down and get the Godfather trilogy and learn a couple of things, anyway. This "connected" stemmed, innocently enough, from the jukebox concession which the hard guys controlled and was a lifeblood of Tonio's teenage-draped business, and not so innocently, from his role as master numbers man (pre-state lottery days, okay) and "bookie" (nobody should have to be told what that is, but just in case, he took bets on horses, dogs, whatever, from the guys around town, including, big time, Frankie's father, who went over the edge betting like some guys fathers' took to drink).
And what this “connected” also meant, this Frankie Tonio-connected meant, was that no Italian guys, no young black engineer-booted, no white rolled-up tee-shirted, no blue denim- dungareed, no wide black-belted, no switchblade-wielding, no-hot-breathed, garlicky young Italian studs were going to mess with one Francis Xavier Riley, his babes (you know what that means, right?), or his associates (that’s mainly me). Or else.
Now, naturally, connected to "the connected" or not, not every young tough in any working class town, not having studied, and studied hard, the sociology of the town, is going to know that some young Irish punk, one kind of "beatnik' Irish punk with all that arcane knowledge in order to chase those skirts and a true vocation for the blarney is going to know that said pizza parlor owner and its “king”, king hell king, are tight. Especially at night, a weekend night, when the booze has flowed freely and that hard-bitten childhood abuse that turned those Italian guys (and Irish guys too) into toughs hits the fore. But they learn, and learn fast.
Okay, you don’t believe me. One night, one Saturday night, one Tonio-working Saturday night (he didn’t always work at night, not Saturday night anyway, because he had a honey, a very good-looking honey too, dark hair, dark laughing eyes, dark secrets she wouldn’t mind sharing as well it looked like to me but I might have been wrong on that) two young toughs came in, Italian toughs from the look of them. This town then , by the way, if you haven’t been made aware of it before is strictly white, mainly Irish and Italian, so any dark guys, are Italian period, not black, Hispanic, Indian, Asian or anything else. Hell, I don’t think those groups even passed through; at least I don’t remember seeing any, except an Arab, once.
So Frankie, your humble observer (although I prefer the more intimate umbrella term "associate" under these circumstances) and one of his squeezes (not his main squeeze, Joanne) were sitting at the king’s table (blue vinyl-seated, white formica table-topped, paper place-setting, condiment-ladened center booth of five, front of double glass window, best jukebox and sound position, no question) splitting a Saturday night whole pizza with all the fixings (its getting late, about ten o’clock, and I have given up on that certain long blondish-haired she who said she might meet me so onions anchovies, garlic for all I know don’t matter right now) when these two ruffians come forth and petition (ya, right) for our table. Our filled with pizza, drinks, condiments, odds and ends papery, and the king, his consort (of the evening, I swear I forget which one) and his lord chamberlain.
Since there were at least two other prime front window seats available Frankie denied the petition out of hand. Now in a righteous world this should have been the end of it. But what these hard guys, these guys who looked like they might have had shivs (ya, knives, shape knives, for the squeamish out there) and only see two geeky "beatnik" guys and some unremarkable signora do was to start to get loud and menacing (nice word, huh?) toward the king and his court. Menacing enough that Tonio, old pizza dough-to-the-ceiling throwing Tonio, took umbrage (another nice word, right?) and came over to the table very calmly. He called the two gentlemen aside, and talking low and almost into their ears, said some things that we could not hear. All we knew was that about a minute later these two behemoths, these two future candidates for jailbird-dom, were walking, I want to say walking gingerly, but anyway quickly, out the door into the hard face of Saturday night.
We thereafter proceeded to finish our kingly meal, safe in the knowledge that Frankie was indeed king of the pizza parlor night. And also that we knew, now knew in our hearts because Frankie and I talked about it later, that behind every king there was an unseen power. Christ, and I wanted to overthrow Frankie. I must have been crazy as a loon.
***Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach, Circa 1964-For “The
Girl On The Rocks”-North Adamsville Class of 1964-Take Five
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
I have been dedicating some of my
sketches to various people. When I first wrote this one in 2008 I had not one
in particular in mind, just everybody who had ever longed for the sight and
sound of the sea whether living right next to the shore like I had many times
in my life or some wistful forlorn landlocked child sailor dreaming of
adventure out on the high seas from somewhere in Kansas, but when I recently
rewrote it I did have the “girl on the rocks” in mind. That designation
reflecting an image I have of an old female classmate who I “met” on our 50th
anniversary reunion Class of 1964 website in her high school days, her troubled
high school days with family troubles very similar to my own, her own share of
the then standard brands of teen angst and alienation, and her ambivalent
attitude toward life.
For me as a troubled teenager going
to Adamsville Beach helped calm my nerves, helped me forget the home life
miseries for a while and to have some unarticulated oneness with the ocean, now
maybe spiffed up with Zen significance but then purely to escape the household noise.
For her, for the girl on the rocks, she felt that same feeling when she went to
a local spot on the other side of the bay from where I would walk near her
house at low tide and just sitting on those lonesome rocks listening to the
waves spill by her on their way to shore.
So whatever else we, she and I, may agree
or disagree on, whatever else including unfortunate distances may set us apart these
days we are kindred in that good night. I did not know her at all during my
time at North although I know I saw her around, had asked about her to guys who
knew and found out she was “unapproachable” by raggedy guys from the wrong side
of the tracks like me and left it at that and moved on to the next fantasy girl
possibility as was the standard operating procedure then, and probably gave her
one of my furtive glances that I was famous, locally famous, school famous for
giving young women I was interested in at the time. I do not know her now much
better after some sporadic communication, and after we have again lost contact,
but I felt her presence very strongly when I was rewriting this thing earlier
this year. So here it is.
********
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane,
Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Quincy Old Sailor’s
Home (and cemetery about a quarter of a mile away, closed now but the final
resting place for many a sea-faring man, known and unknown, resting place of
many a man who dreamed in his youth of adventures on the high seas and got
bilge, barnacles, some oil-stained stink, some humongous waves that almost
capsized his ship, maybe an off-hand torpedo hit if he saw service during
wartime, short rations, short pay, a couple of land-side jack-rolls when he was
drunk and the “clap” more than once when he hit those woman hungry
ports-of-call and in the end the sweet landward smell of fresh mown grass and a
granite memory stone to while away eternity). Yes, those names and places from
the old housing project down in South Adamsville where I came of age surely
evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of desperate, high
stakes battles fought off shrouded, mist-covered coasts by those hearty enough
to seek fame and fortune. And agile enough to keep it. (What would I know of
the real sea work, the bilge, barnacles, some oil-stained stink, some humongous
waves that almost capsized one’s ship, maybe an off-hand torpedo, short
rations, short pay, a couple of land-side jack-rolls, and the “clap” more than
once when he hit those woman hungry ports-of-call).
Almost from my first wobbly, halting
baby steps down at “the projects” I have been physically drawn to the sea, a
seductive, foam-flecked siren call that has never left me. Moreover, ever since
I was a toddler my imagination has been driven by the sea as well. Not so much
of pirates and prizes but of the power of nature, for good or evil. The gentle
sea bringing passengers across great distances before humankind sought the
speed of the air for such ventures and the angry sea spewing her refuge over
the land, laughing at seawalls, break-waters, and levies when she had her
wanting habits on. Leaving devastation as her memorial.
Of course, anyone with even a
passing attachment to Adamsville has to have had an almost instinctual love of
the sea; and a fear of its furies when old Mother Nature turns her back on us.
Days when the fugitive waves respect nothing in front of them surging over
crumbling seawalls, laying waste to helpless abandoned houses, and flooding
roadways from Malibu to Adamsville Boulevard (oops, now Adamsville Shore
Drive). And moonless nights when she shows her furious face to sea- craft from
dingy to super-tanker leaving drowning men to ponder their lives in those long
last moments. Yes, the endless sea, our homeland the sea, the mother we never
knew, the sea... But enough of those imaginings. If being determines
consciousness, and if you love the ocean, then it did not hurt to have been
brought up in Adamsville with its ready access to the bay and water on three
sides anchored by its longest shoreline stretch, Adamsville Beach of blessed
memory.
The glint of silver off the Long
Island Bridge when the sun hit the steel structure at a certain time of sunny
day, usually morning making one wonder if a second sun had appeared in the sky
until one sights a maverick bus streaming along taking poor, misbegotten
passengers to a night’s sleep or closed off doors to a room with no end. The
early morning winter sun coming up over the horizon on the bay. The Boston
skyline still showing the signs that the city is livable at dusk (pre-Marina
Bay times when there was an unimpeded view). Well, I could go on and on with my
beach view memories but the one thing that mattered for me in any season or any
weathers was the word “escape.” Adamsville
Beach can serve as a metaphor for that idea. I do not know about you and your
family but I had a very rocky time growing up and certainly by the time I got
to high school I was in desperate need of a sanctuary. It is no accident that I
(and my old running mate also in desperate need of sanctuary as well, Brad
Badger) spent a fair amount of time there. It may be hard to believe looking at
its disheveled sands and tepid waves
aimlessly splashing to shore seen with today's older eyes after recent trips
there along its now hallowed shoreline and after having seen many more
spectacular ocean settings but then the place provided a few happy memories,
now old hazy, happy memories.
For the North Adamsville Class of
1964 one cannot discuss Adamsville Beach properly without reference to such
spots such as Howard Johnson's famous landmark ice cream stand about half-way
up the beach from the Causeway (where now stands a woe-begotten clam shack of
no repute, serving half-hearted barbecued hamburgers and flown in fish to
hungry patrons trying to enjoy the breeze if that is up that day). For those
who are clueless as to what I speak of, or have only heard about it in
mythological terms from older relatives, or worst, have written it off as just
another ice cream joint I have provided a link to a Wikipedia entry for
the establishment below. Know this: many a hot, muggy, sultry, sweaty summer
evening was spent in line impatiently, and perhaps, on occasion, beyond
impatience, waiting for one of those 27 (or was it 28?) flavors to cool off
with. In those days the prize went to cherry vanilla in a sugar cone (backup:
frozen pudding). I will not bore the reader with superlative terms and the
“they don’t make them like they use to” riff, especially for those who only
know “HoJo’s” from the later, orange pale imitation franchise days out on some
forsaken great American West-searching highway, but at that moment I was in
very heaven.
Moving on down the boulevard how
could one forget the 19 cent hotdogs sold on the beach a few doors down at
Maggie’s. (That can’t be right, I must be misremembering, maybe it was nineteen
dollars, nothing in this wicked old world ever cost 19 cents. Ever.) Or those stumbling, fumbling, fierce childish
efforts, bare-footed against all motherly caution about the sting of the dreaded
jellyfish, pail and shovel in hand, to dig for seemingly non-existent clams
down toward the Merrymount end of the beach at the just slightly oil-slicked,
sulfuric low tide. (By the way the jellyfish are still there in all their glory
and please, take mother's advice, do not step on them, they might be poisonous.)
And one could always see some parent parading a group of kids down to the flats.
Generally staying for a couple of hours before high tide, and after as well,
and that parent always seemed to have had snacks and drinks in tow in an
all-purpose cooler.
Elsewhere along the shoreline older
kids swam, dug dream castles in the sand to be washed away by an indifferent
tide, played catch in the water with a rubber ball, and when they finally got tired,
could be seen laying on towels strewn every which way listening to WRKO or WMEX
on the transistor radio. Listening to Earth
Angel, Jonny Angel, Teen Angel, Who’s
Sorry Now, I Want To Be Wanted, Suzie Q and the like. [I know this is a geriatric
site but there may be a stray child who sees grandma’s computer glued to this
page, you know some young member of generations X, Y or Z, who may not be
familiar with the term “transistor radio.” For their benefit that was a little
battery-powered gizmo that allowed you to listen to music, the “devil's music,”
to hear one’s parents tell the story, rock 'n' roll to us, without them going
nuts. And no, sorry, you could not download whatever you wanted. Yes, I know,
the Stone Age.]
Farther down the shore came
overpowering memories of the smell of charcoal-flavored hamburgers on those
occasional family barbecues (when one in a series of old jalopies that my
father drove worked well enough to get us there) at the then just recently
constructed barren old Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine, and
now fully-forested, such is time) that were some of the too few times when my
family acted as a family. The memory evoked too of roasted, really burnt,
sticky marshmallows sticking to the roof of my mouth. Ouch!
But those thoughts and smells are
not the only ones that interest me today. No trip down memory lane would be
complete without at least a passing reference to high school Adamsville Beach. The
sea brings out many emotions: humankind's struggle against nature (we all had
first-hand knowledge of that when the weak-kneed seawalls protecting the beach were
swept over when Mother Nature threw one of her hurricanes our way and cut off
the road, cut us off from the civilized world), some Zen notions of oneness
with the universe (although what did we know of such exotic ideas except maybe
in books and what would we care of that kind of oneness when the oneness that
counted was some unattainable he or she), the calming effect of the thundering
waves (making me and others I have talked to life-long converts to the proposition that no human made noise
should be any louder than the splashing waves treating the shoreline as if one
were in a cathedral. Naturally that idea comes up against, at least in the old
days before everybody got technology quiet, some damn hooligan boom box blaring
out rock ‘n’ rock and hip hop nation music, drunken teenagers trying to make a
mark in the world by being as loud as possible assuming that is the ticket to
attention in a world not watching and the ramble amble of passing traffic that interrupts
the endless ocean sleep), thoughts of immortality (some primordial longing to
return to mother sea, some womb configuration and let’s leave it at that because
we are dealing with some DNA connection far beyond what little literary effect
I am trying for here), and so on.
But the sea, being around the vastness
of it (maybe not at old Adamsville but surely in places like LaJolla, Big Sur,
Peggy’s Cove, Bar Harbor and Kitty Hawk to name a few) also brings out the
primordial longings for companionship. And no one longs for companionship more
than teenagers. So the draw of the ocean is not just in its cosmic appeal but
hormonal as well. Mind you, however, I am not discussing here the nighttime Adamsville
Beach the time of "parking" (you know guys and gals getting together
in all seasons to fog up some father-borrowed car and learning the rudiments of
getting heated about another person, beyond that use your imagination or check
in with your ancient memory bank) and the "submarine races." Our
thoughts are now pure as the driven snow. We will save that discussion for
another time when any kids and grand-kids are not around. Here we will confine
ourselves to the day-time beach. (Although I still have a long-standing
nighttime-driven question now grown
fifty years hoary with age- Why, while driving down the boulevard on some cold November
night could one notice most of the cars parked there all fogged up? What, were
their heaters broken?)
[For the heathens, the pure of
heart, the clueless, those who just got in from Kansas or some such place, or
the merely forgetful, going to watch the “submarine races” was a localism
meaning going, via car, preferable your own car and not some borrowed father’s
car to be returned by midnight no later, down to the beach at night, hopefully
on a very dark night, with, for a guy, a girl and, well, start groping each
other, and usually more, a lot more, if you were a lucky guy and the girl was
hot, while occasionally coming up for air and looking for that mythical
submarine race to start out in the bay. Many guys (and gals) had their first
encounter with sex that way if the Monday morning before school boys’ lav talk,
and maybe girls’ lav talk too, was anything but hot air.]
Virtually from the day school got out
for summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that
beach but the section directly between the North Adamsville Yacht Club and Adamsville
Boat Club. Most of the natural landmarks are still there, as well as those
poor, weather-beaten yacht clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my
fruitless search for that aforementioned teenage companionship. Now did people,
or rather teenage boys, go to that locale so that they could watch all the fine
boats at anchor? Hell, no. Or was this the best swimming location on the beach?
Hell no. This is where every knowledgeable boy had heard all the
"babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of Beach
Blanket Bingo or some such early 1960s Frankie Avalon-Annette Funicillo
teenage beach film. (For those who are again clueless this was a classic
Hollywood “boy meets the girl next door” saga that the industry lives and dies
for and apparently capable of spinning off endless variations of, except the
action is at the beach...)
Get this though. For those who
expected a movie-like happy ending to this piece, you know, where I meet a
youthful "Ms. Right" to the strains of Sea of Love, forget it.
I will keep the gory details short. As fate would have it there may have been
"babes" aplenty down there on the shore but not for this lad. I don't
know about you but I was just too socially awkward (read: tongue-tied) to get
up the nerve to talk to girls (female readers substitute “boys” here). And on
reflection, if the truth were to be known, I would not have known what to do
about the situation in any case if I had succeeded in getting any place with a
girl. No job, no money, and, most importantly, no car for a date to watch one
of those legendary "submarine races" that we have all agreed that we
will not discuss here. But I can hardly fault the sea for that.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Johnson's)
In Honor Of The “Old Man”- On The 74th Anniversary Of The Death Of Leon Trotsky
Markin comment:
Every year at this time we honor the memory of the great Russian revolutionary leader, Leon Trotsky, a man who not only was able theoretically to articulate the arc of the Russian Revolution of 1917 (the theory of permanent revolution) but personally led the defend of that revolution against world imperialism and its internal Russian White Guard agents. Oh yes, and also wrote a million pro-communist articles, did a little turn at literary criticism, acted in various Soviet official capacities, led the Communist International, led the opposition first in Russia and then internationally to the Stalinist degeneration of that revolution, and created a new revolutionary international (the Fourth International) to rally the demoralized international working class movement in the face of Hitlerite reaction. To speak nothing of hunting, fishing, raising rabbits, collecting cacti and chasing Frida Kahlo around Mexico (oops, on that last one). In short, as I have characterized him before, the closest that this sorry old world has come to producing a complete communist man within the borders of bourgeois society (except that last thing, that skirt-chasing thing, although maybe not). All honor to his memory. Forward to new Octobers!
Usually on this anniversary I place a selection of Trotsky’s writings on various subjects in this space. This year, having found a site that has material related to his family life, the effect of his murder on that family, and other more personal details of his life I am placing that material here in his honor. The forward to new Octobers still goes, though.
*****
*****
In Honor Of Leon Trotsky On The 74th Anniversary
Of His Death- For Those Born After-Ivan Smirnov’s Journey
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
Ivan Smirnov came out of old Odessa town, came out of the
Ukraine (not just plain Ukraine like now but “the” then), the good black earth
breadbasket of the Russian Empire, well before the turn of the 20th
century (having started life on some Mister’s farm begotten by illiterate but
worthy and hard-working peasant parents who were not sure whether it was 1880
or 1881 and Mister did not keep very good records up in the manor house)
although he was strictly a 20th century man by habits and
inclinations. Fashioned himself a man of the times, as he knew it, by
developing habits favored by those who liked to consider themselves modern. Those
habits included a love of reading, a love of and for the hard-pressed peoples
facing the jack-boot (like his struggling never- get-ahead parents) under the
Czar’s vicious rule, an abiding hatred for that same Czar, a hunger to see the
world or to see something more than wheat fields, and a love of politics, what
little expression that love could take even for a modern man stuck in a
backward semi-feudal country driven by the ruthless cops and General Staff
bayonets.
Of course Ivan Smirnov, a giant of a man, well over six
feet, more like six, two, well-build, solid, fairly muscular, with the Russian
dark eyes and hair to match, when he came of age also loved good food when he
had the money for such luxuries, loved to drink shots of straight vodka in
competition with his pals, and loved women, and women loved him. It is those
appetites in need of whetting that consumed his young manhood, his time in
Odessa before he signed on to the Czar’s navy to see the world, or at
least brush the dust of farmland Ukraine
and provincial Odessa off his shoes as the old saying went. Those loves trumped
for a time his people love (except helping out his parents with his wages), his
love of liberty but as we follow Ivan on his travels we will come to see that
those personal loves collided more and more with those larger loves.
So as we pick up the heart, the coming of age, coming of
political age, Ivan Smirnov story, he was no kid, had been around the block a
few times. Had taken his knocks on the land of his parents (really Mister’s
land once the taxes, rents, and dues were taken out) when he tried to organize,
well, not really organize but just put a petition of grievances, including the
elimination of rack-rents to Mister which was rejected out of hand and which subsequently
when Mister took his revenge forced him off the land. Forced him off under threat
to his life. The rack none too good for him heard in some quarters by Mister’s
lackeys and henchmen. He never forgot that slight, never. Never forgot that it
was Mister and his kind, his class and its hangers-on that took him away from
home, split his family up, pushed the rack-rent higher and finally killed off
his benighted father at an very early age in an age when early age was the norm.
So off he went to the city, and from there to the Black Sea Fleet and
adventure, or rather tedium mixed with adventure and plenty of time to read,
read novels, big Tolstoy-sided novels, novels for long sea-ward trips, when he
could and clandestinely radical political tracts.
Ivan also learned up close, made it his business to learn up
close, the why and wherefores of modern warfare, modern naval warfare. Knew too
that between the stifling old-fashioned naval bureaucracy and the shoddily
built ships (many with badly welded seams) some minor confrontation the Czar’s
navy was cooked. As things worked out
Ivan had been in the Russian fleet that got its ass kicked by the Japanese in
1904. He never called them “Nips” like lots of his crewmates did not after that
beating they took that did not have to happen if the damn Czar’s naval officers
had been anything but lackeys and anything but overconfident that they could
beat the Johnny-come-lately Japanese in the naval war game. And so Ivan came of
war age and political age all at once. And the Russian navy was in shambles.
More importantly after that debacle he applied for, and was
eventually granted a transfer into in the Baltic fleet, the Czar’s jewel and
defender of citadel Saint Petersburg, headquartered at later famous Kronstadt, and
so he was in the swirl when the revolution of 1905 came thundering over their
heads and each man, each sailor, each officer had to choice sides. Most seaman
had gone over the rebels or stood on the sidelines, the officers mainly played
possum with the Czar. He had gone wholehearted with rebels and while he did not
face the fate of his comrades on the Potemkin
his naval career was over. That was where his love of reading from an early age
came in, came and made him aware of the boiling kettle of political groupings
trying to save Russia or to save what some class or part of a class had an
interest in saving Russia for their own purposes. He knew, knew from his dismal
experience on the land, that Mister fully intended to keep what was his come
hell or high water. He also knew that Mister’s people, the peasantry like his
family would have a very hard time, a very hard time indeed bucking Mister’s
interests and proclaiming their own right to the land all by themselves. Hadn’t
he also been burned, been hunted down like a cur over a simple petition.
So Ivan from the first dismissed the Social Revolutionary
factions and gave some thought to joining the Social Democrats. Of course being
Russians who would argue over anything from how many angels could fit on the
head of a needle to theories of capitalist surplus value that party
organization had split into two factions (maybe more when the dust settled).
When word came back from Europe he had sided with the Mensheviks and their more
realistic approach to what was possible for Russia in the early 20th
century. That basic idea of a bourgeois democratic republic was the central
notion that Ivan Smirnov held for a while, a long while, and which he took in
with him once things got hot in Saint Petersburg in January of 1905.
That January after the Czar’s troops, his elite bloody
Cossack troops in the lead, fired on (and sabre-slashed) an unarmed procession
led by a priest, damn a Russian Orthodox priest, a people’s priest who led the
icon-filled procession to petition the Czar to resolve grievances, great and
small, Ivan Smirnov, stationed out in the Baltic Fleet then after the
reorganization of the navy in the wake of the defeat by the Japanese the year
before had an intellectual crisis. He knew that great things were going to
unfold in Russia as it moved into the modern age. He could see the modern age
tied to the ancient agrarian
age every time he had leave and headed for Saint Petersburg with its sailors’
delights, the taverns, music halls, and whorehouses of which Ivan usually took
his full measure. (Being sea-bound he was a proverbially “girl in every port
guy” although he had had one short serious affair with a girl student from the
university, a left-Social Revolutionary who had never been outside the city in
her life) He could see in the city within a city, the Vyborg district, the
growing working-class district made up of fresh recruits from the farms looking
for higher wages, some excitement and a future.
That was why he had
discarded the Social Revolutionaries so quickly when in an earlier generation
he might very well have been a member of People’s Will or some such
organization. He had that kind of heart, the heart of a warrior –avenger with
the cool calculation of the average ward-healer. No, his intellectual crisis
did not come from that quarter but rather that split in the workers’ party
which had happened in 1903 far from Russia among the émigré intellectuals around
the question of what kind and how much activity qualified an activists as a party
member. He had sided with the “softs,” the Mensheviks, mainly because he liked
their leader, Julius Martov, better than Lenin. Lenin and his
faction seemed more intent on gaining organizational control, had more
hair-splitters which he hated, and were more [CL1] wary of the peasants
even though both factions swore faith in the democratic republic for Russia and
to the international social democracy. He had sided with the “softs” although
he saw a certain toughness in the Bolshevik cadre that he admired. But that
year, that 1905 year, had started him on a very long search for revolutionary
direction.
The year 1905 moreover had started filled with promise after
that first blast from the Czarist reaction. The masses were able to gather in a
Duma that was at least half responsible to the people, or to the people’s
representatives. At least that is what those people’s representatives claimed.
More importantly in the working class districts, and among his fellow sailors
who more likely than not, unlike himself, were from some strata of the working
class had decided to set up their own representative organs, the workers’
councils, or in the Russian parlance which has come down in the history books, the soviets. These in 1905,
unlike in 1917, were seen as supplementary to other political organizations. A
pressure group not a central contender for power. As the arc of the year curved though there
were signs that the Czarist reaction was gathering steam. Ivan had then had trouble
organizing his fellow sailors to action. The officers of his ship, The Falcon, were challenging more
decisions by the sailors’ committee. The Potemkin
affair brought things to a head in the fleets. Finally, after the successes of
the Saint Petersburg Soviet under the flaming revolutionary Leon Trotsky that
organ was suppressed and the reaction set in that would last until many years
later, many tough years for political oppositionists of all stripes. Needless
to say that while Ivan was spared the bulk of the reprisals once the Czarist
forces regained control his career in the navy was effectively finished and
when his enlistment was up he left the service.
Just as well Ivan that things worked out as they did he had thought
many times since then because he was then able to come ashore and get work on
the docks through some connections, and think. Think and go about the business
of everyday life like marriage to a woman, non-political but a comfort, whom he
met through one of his fellow workers on the Neva quay and who would share his
home and life although not always understanding that part of his life or him
and his determination to break Russia from the past. In those days after 1905,
the dogs days as everybody agreed, when the Czar’s Okhrana was everywhere and
ready to snatch anyone with any oppositional signs Ivan mostly thought and
read, kept a low profile, did as was found out later after the revolution in
1917, a lot of low-level underground organizing among the dockworkers and
factory workers of the Vyborg district. In other words developing himself and
those around him as cadre for what these few expected would be the great awakening.
But until the break-out Lena River gold-workers strike in 1912 those were
indeed dog days.
And almost as quickly as the dog days of the struggle were
breaking up the war clouds over Europe were increasing. Every civilized nation
was impatiently arming to the teeth to defend its civilization against the
advancing hordes pitched at the door. Ivan could sense in his still sturdy
peasant-bred bones that that unfinished task from 1905, that fight for the land
and the republic, hell maybe the eight-hour day too, was going to come to a
head. He knew enough too about the state of the navy, and more importantly, now
the army through his organizing contacts to know that without some quick
decisive military action the monarchy was finished and good riddance. The hard
part, the extremely hard part, was to get those future peasant conscripts who
would provide cannon fodder for the Czar’s ill-thought out land –grabbing adventures
to listen up for a minute rather than go unknowingly head-long into the Czar’s
arm (the father’s arms for many of them). So there was plenty of work to do.
Ivan just that moment was glad that he was not a kid. Glad he had learned enough to earn a hearing,
to spread the word. To get people moving when the time for action came.
As the war clouds came to a head after the killing of the
archduke in bloody damn Sarajevo in early summer 1914 Ivan Smirnov knew in his
bones that the peasant soldier cannon fodder as always would come flocking to
the Czar like lemmings to the sea the minute war was declared. Any way the deal
was cut the likely line-up of the Czar with the “democracies” of the West,
Britain and France and less likely the United States would immediately give the
Czar cover against the villainies of the Huns, of the Germans who just the
other day were propping up the Czar’s treasury. It could not end well. All Ivan
hoped for was that his party, the real Social-Democrats, locally known as the
Mensheviks from the great split in 1903 with the Bolsheviks and who had
definitely separated from that organization for good in 1912, would not get war
fever just because the damn Czar was lined up with the very democracies that
the party wished to emulate in Russia.
He knew too that the talk among the leadership of the
Bolsheviks (almost all of them in exile and thus far from knowing what was
happening down in the base of society at home) about opposing the Czar to the
bitter end, about fighting in the streets again some said to keep the young
workers and the peasants drifting into the urban areas from the dead-ass farms
from becoming cannon-fodder for a lost cause was crazy, was irresponsible.
Fortunately some of the local Bolshevik committeemen in Russia and among their
Duma delegation had cooler heads. Yes this was not time to be a kid, with kid’s
tunnel vision, with great events working in the world.
Jesus, thought Ivan once the Czar declared his allegiance to
the Entente, once he had gotten the Duma to rubber-stamp his war budget (except
for a remnant of the Bolsheviks who were subsequently relieved of immunity and readied
for Siberian exile), he could not believe that Plekhanov, the great Plekhanov, the
father of the Marxist movement in Russia and mentor to the likes of Lenin,
Martov, Dan, hell even flea-bitten free-lancer Trotsky, had declared for the
Czar for the duration and half of Ivan’s own bloody Menshevik party had
capitulated (the other half, the leadership half had been in exile anyway, or
out of the country for some reason) this was going to be hell.
There would be no short war here, no quick victory over the
land hungry Huns, nothing but the stench of death filling the air overcoming
all those mobilization parades and the thrown flowers, the kissed girls, the
shots of vodka to fortify the boys for the run to the front. The Czar’s house,
double eagles and all, was a house of cards or rather of sawdust like those
villages old rascal Potemkin put up to fool Catherine in her time. Most of the
peasant boys marching to the front these days would never see Mother Russia
again, never get to smell the good Russian earth. But if he had anything to say
about it those who survived, those who would have to listen if not now then
sometime, would have their own piece of good Russian earth unlike their fathers
who toiled on the land for Mister’s benefit for nothing. And went to early
graves like his father.
And so in the summer of 1914 as if led by blinders Europe,
along with solid phalanxes of its farm boys and factory workers, went to bloody
stalemated war.
Went without Ivan just that minute declared too old to fight
and relegated to the home guard. There would come a day, a day not too long in
the future when the “recruiting sergeants” would be gobbling up the “too old to
fights,” like Ivan, the lame and the halt, any man breathing to fill the
depleted trenches on the Eastern front. By then though Ivan would have already
clamored to get into the ranks, get in to spread the new wave message about the
meaningless of the fight for the workingman and the peasant and that the fight
was at home not out in the trenches. But that was for the future, the music of
the future. Ironically Ivan’s unit wound up guarding the Peter and Paul
Fortress for the Czar. The same place
that would see plenty of action when the time for action came.
The home guard was a loose operation, especially in Saint
Petersburg, which entailed not much more than showing up for guard duty when
the rotation called your turn and an occasion drill or assembly. The rest of
the time, or most of it, Ivan spent reading, reading clandestinely the sporadic
anti-war materials that were being smuggled in from various point in Europe by
whatever still free exiles groups had enough gall and funds to put together
those first crude sheets proclaiming the new dispensation. Ivan had time to
think too during those first eighteen months or so of war. Thought about how
right he had been that this “glorious little war” would not be over soon, would
devour the flower of the European youth and if enough lived long enough change
the face of half-monarchial Europe. Thought about how, when, and where street
organizers like him (he admitted long ago that he was not a “theory man) would
get a chance to change the awful slaughter and the daily casualty lists.
Ivan through all of early 1916 thought too that things
within his own Menshevik organization needed serious upgrading, needed to be
readied if the nation was to turn from semi-feudal monarchy to the modern
republic which would provide the jumping off point to agitate for the social
republic of the organization’s theory, and of his youthful dreams. Although he
was no theory man he was beginning to see that the way the bourgeoisie, native
and foreign, lined up it was as likely as not that they would not follow
through, would act even worse than in 1905 when they went hat in hand with the
Czar for the puny no account Duma and a few reforms that in the end only
benefitted them to the exclusion of the masses. He began to see Lenin’s point,
if it was Lenin’s and not some Okhrana forgery, that the new parties, the
parties that had not counted before, the peasant and worker parties, would have
to lead the way. There was no other way. And no, no thank you he was not a
Trotsky man, a wild man who believed that things had changed some much in the
20th century that the social republic for Russia was on the agenda
right away. No, he could not wrap his head around that idea, not in poor, not
in now wounded and fiercely bleeding and benighted Mother Russia. Beside
Trotsky was living off his reputation in the 1905 revolution, was known to be
mightier with the pen than the sword and a guy whom the main leadership of the
Mensheviks thought was a literary dilettante (strange characterization though
in an organization with plenty of odd-ball characters who could not find a home
with the Bolsheviks and were frightened to death of working with the mass
peasant parties being mostly city folk).
He thought too about the noises, and they were only noises
just then, exile noises mostly that the Bolsheviks had had a point in opposing
the war budget in the Duma, those who had not deserted the party for the Czar
in the patriotic build-up, and who had been sent to Siberia for their
opposition. He admired such men and knew slightly one of the deportees who had
represented one of the Vyborg worker districts in the capital in the Duma. Now
word had come back from Europe that a small congress held in some no-name
village in the Alps (Zimmerwald in Switzerland as he later found out) had
declared for international peace among the workers and oppressed of all nations
and that it was time to stop the fighting and bleeding. More ominously Lenin
and his henchmen had come out for waging a civil war against one’s own
government to stop the damn thing, and to start working on that task now. Worse
Lenin was calling for a new international socialist organization to replace the
battered Socialist International. To
Ivan’s practical mind this was sheer madness and he told whatever Bolshevik
committeemen he could buttonhole (in deepest privacy since the Czarist
censorship and his snitches were plentiful).
In Ivan’s mind they were still the wild boys, seemingly on principle,
and he vigorously argued with their committeemen to keep their outlandish anti-war
positions quiet for now while the pro-war hysteria was still in play. But deep
down he was getting to see where maybe the Bolsheviks, maybe Lenin, hell maybe
even goof Trotsky were right-this war would be the mother of invention for the
next revolutionary phase.
The Czar has abdicated, the Czar has abdicated, the new
republic is proclaimed! The whirl of early 1917 dashed through Ivan Smirnov’s
head. A simple demonstration and strike by women in the capital after the
bloodletting of over two years of war, after the defeats of 1905 and later
showed the monarchy, the now laughable double-eagle monarchy that held the
masses in thrall for centuries was shown to be a house of cards, no, less, a
house of sawdust blown away with the wind. While Ivan had not caught the early
drift of the agitation and aggravation out in the worker neighborhoods he had
played an honorable part in the early going. And the reason that Ivan had
missed some of the early action was for the simple reason that Ivan’s home
guard unit, the 27th Regiment, had been mobilized for the Silesian
front in early 1917 and had been awaiting orders to move out when all hell
broke loose.
This is where the honorable part came in. The 27th
Regiment had been fortified to a division with remnants of other front-line divisions
whose casualty levels were so high that they were no longer effectively
fighting units. As the units meshed and the action in the capital got intense
two quick decisions needed to be made by the 27th –would the unit go
to the front as ordered by the General Staff and subsequently would the unit
still stationed in Saint Petersburg defend the Czarist monarchy then in peril.
Now this new unit, this of necessity haphazard and un-centered unit, was made
up of the likes of Ivan (although none so political or known to be political)
and of disillusioned and bedraggled peasant boys back from the front who just
wanted to go home and farm the land of their fathers, for Mister or for
themselves it did not matter. And that is where Ivan Smirnov, of peasant parents
born, came center stage and made his mark. Ivan when it came time to speak
about whether they would go to the front argued that going to the front meant
in all probability that if they went that they would farm no land, Mister’s or
their own since they would be dead. And some other peasant boy would come along
to farm the ancient family lands.
Ivan did not need to evoke the outlandish theories of Lenin
and Trotsky about civil war and the social republic but just say that simple
statement and the unit voted almost unanimously to stay in the capital (those
who did not go along as always in such times kept quiet and did not vote to
move out). Of course as always at such times as well Ivan’s good and
well-earned reputation among the home guard members for prudent but forceful
actions when the time was right helped carry the day. That reputation, borne of
many years of street organizing and other work, also came in handy when the 27th
was ordered to defend the Czar in the streets. Again Ivan hammered home the point
that there would be no land, no end of the bloody war, no end of dying in some
forsaken trenches if the Czar stayed. The 27th would not defend the
Czar to the death (again the doubters and Czarist agents kept mum).
And for Ivan’s honorable service, for his honorable past,
when it came time to send delegates to the soviet, or the soldiers’ section of
the soviet (the other two sections being the workers and the peasants with
everybody else who adhered to the soviet concept filling in one of those three
sections) Ivan was unanimously elected to represent the 27th Regiment.
Now this soviet idea (really just Russian for council, workers councils mainly)
was nothing new, had been created in the heat of the 1905 revolution and had
been in the end the key governmental form of the opposition then. Now with the
Czar gone (and as our story moves on the government is in non-Czarist agents
hands) there were two centers of power- the bourgeois ministry (including representatives
of some worker and peasant parties) and the soviets acting as watchdogs and
pressure groups over the ministry. As Russian spring turned to summer Ivan from
his post in the Soviet saw some things that disturbed him, saw that “pretty
boy” Trotsky (who had just gotten back from American exile as had Lenin a bit
earlier) and now damn Lenin had begun to proclaim the need for the social
republic right then. Not in some few years future but then. But he was also
disturbed by the vacuous actions of his Mensheviks on the land question and on
social legislation. As the summer heat came Ivan began to see that defending
the people’s revolution was tough business and that some hard twists and turns
were just waiting ahead for him.
Jesus, Ivan said to
himself as summer turned to early Russian fall when is that damn Kerensky going
to pull us out of the war after that foolish summer offensive ordered by who
knows who collapsed and made Russia look ridiculous to the world, our ragged
starving troops are melting away from the trenches, his own 27th had
repeatedly been called up to the front and then mysteriously at the last moment
held back to defend something. Who knows what the General Staff had planned
after Kornilov’s uprising was halted in it tracks (everybody in the private
drinking rooms laughed at the fact that Kornilov could not move his troops step
one once the Soviet told the trainmen to halt all troop transfers). See here
was the deal, the new democratic deal. Now that Russia was a democracy, weak as
it was, it was now patriotic no matter what that madman Trotsky said, no matter
what the man with the organization Lenin said, the brutal Hun must be defeated
by the now harmonious democracies.
Bullshit (or the Russian equivalent) said Ivan when a part
of his own party swallowed that line, went along for the ride. Lenin was
calling from the rooftops (in his Finnish hideout once old Kerensky put a price
on his head, wanted to smoke the old bald-headed bastard out and bring him to
trial for treason if he could) for a vote of “no confidence” in the ministry. Both
were beginning to call for the soviets to do more than express worker, soldier,
and peasant anger and to stop acting as a pressure valve for Kerensky and his
band of fools and take the power to change things into its own hands. And that
madman Trotsky was proclaiming the same thing from his prison cell at the Peter
and Paul where a remnant of the 27th was still doing guard duty (and
standing in awe of a real revolutionary giving him unheard of privileges). Meanwhile Ivan, Ivan Smirnov, the voice of the
27th, the well-respected voice of the peasant soldier, was twisting
in the wind. There was no way forward with Kerensky, the mere tool of the
British and French imperialists who were holding him on a tight string. But
Ivan could not see where poor, bloody, beleaguered and drawn Mother Russia, his
earthen Russia could move forward with the radicals who were beginning to
clamor for heads, and for peace and land too.
Jesus, cried Ivan the Bolsheviks have this frosty October
day proclaimed the social republic, have declared that the war over in the East
(or that they were prepared to sue for peace with whomever would meet them at
the table and if not then they would go it alone). Ivan had heard that it might
be peace at any price in order to get the new order some breathing room. But
peace. Necessary peace if Russia was not to lose all its able-bodied men for
the next two generations. The longed for
peace that Ivan had spent his underground existence propagandizing for. Ivan
already knew as a soldier delegate to the Soviet that the trenches had been and
were at that moment being emptied out by land-hungry peasant soldiers, his
peasant soldiers who heard that there would be “land to the tiller” and they
wanted to till land not be under it. Ivan’s old call was being taken up by the
damn Bolsheviks who sent out a land decree as a first order of business once
they dumped the Kerensky ministry, once they flushed out the Winter Palace of all
the old deadwood. All kinds of things were being proposed (and sometimes
accepted even when the human and material wherewithal were non-existent which
worried Ivan to perdition).
But here is the funny part. Although Ivan had lined himself
up with Martov’s Left Mensheviks (those who wanted peace and some kind of
vibrant bourgeois democracy to pressure forward into the social republic) in
the Soviet for most of the summer and fall he kept getting incessant news from
the 27th that they were ready to mutiny against the Kerensky
ministry, they had had enough and wanted to go home. Ivan was twisting in the
wind. He saw that the idea of the social republic was being presented too soon,
that the resources were not there to give the experiment a chance (who knows
what outside force would come to the aid of the Soviets and when). But he also knew
that right that moment the old ways could not relieve the impasse. And so he
broke ranks with Martov and his group, did not walk out when the voting did not
go the way Martov wanted. In fact when the division of the house was called
Ivan Smirnov, longtime political foe of the madman Trotsky and scarred opponent
of the damn Leninists (he had not heard that Trotsky had quietly joined the
Bolsheviks earlier), voted for peace, voted for the land distribution. The new
day had come and there would be hell to pay and he would not join the
Bolsheviks, no way, but in for a dime in for a dollar and he would defend the
Soviet power as best he could.
“Petrograd must be
defended to the last man, everyone to their posts, no Whites must get to the
city itself,” cried Political Commisssar Ivan Smirnov now that the Red Army (or
rather one of the Red armies since between the internally diverse White Guard
forces, their foreign imperialist backers and the vastness of Mother Russia
there were several fluid fronts and battles raging at any given time) had its
back to the wall and the working-class capital of the worlds’ only workers’
state in existence was threatened by Cossacks and other forces. It had come to
this, come to this as Ivan always knew it would, the forces of the past would
not let go without a bloody fight (even if the actual seizure of power by the
Soviets in October 1917 had been relatively bloodless), would scream bloody
murder about the land (the land that he had come off of at the turn of the
century), about the factories and about the very fact that the fellahin of the
world had decided to take matters into their own hands. Ivan had sworn once the
heads had been counted back in that cold October of 1917 that he was in the
fight to the finish (in for a dime, in for a dollar as the expression when
then), or until he had lain his head down from some stray bullet.
And it had almost come to that at Kazan in that desperate
struggle to hold Russia together before the Czech Legions that were marauding
their ways back from Siberia took the city and cut Russia into not much more
than a small province. Trotsky himself, then risen to War Commissar with
extraordinary powers had organized the fight, had put every resource at hand
(on that famous train that he rode through most of the civil war) and in the
fierce river battles before Kazan some sniper had popped Ivan in the shoulder
just above the heart. That seemed like years before as he now helped prepare
the defense of the capital. There had even been talk that Trotsky himself was
coming through to boost morale (and to die like Ivan and many others defending
the city street by street if need be. It was that perilous.). Yes, Ivan had
come a long way since those October days when he swore his oath. Of course a
military cadre like Ivan was hand-picked to move away from the placid Soviet parliamentary
job and into the yawning gap that needed filling of cadre who could fight and
give reason to the fight. And so Ivan, grown old in the previous two years, had
worked his way up to division commissar in the days when political reliability
meant-for or against the revolution, arms in hand. He had not, despite many
attempts by the Bolsheviks, joined the party (now called Communist harkening
back to Marx’s time). Yet there he was steadying the nerves of the raw recruits
from the factories in front of him. No the Whites would not pass, not while the
Ivan Smirnovs of the world drew breathe.
Finally, finally the Whites were being pushed back, the
revolution, the red revolution appeared to be saved after many losses, after
the carnage of the world war, after three years of civil war, the worst kind.
Ivan Smirnov, political commissar of the 5th Army, had done more
than his fair share of bringing in that result (including organizing and
fighting, arms in hand, before Petrograd when that city was threatened by the
Whites. Hell, even Trotsky himself went crazy in defense of the revolution during
that action rallying the troops personally like some whirling dervish). He had
even received the Order of the Red Banner personally from Trotsky for his
heroic action. But now in the year 1921 Ivan was ready, more than ready, to
take his place in the struggle to bring socialism to Russia as a civilian as
fast as possible.
Still as he pondered the future Ivan was anxious for his
Mother Russia alone in the world as a workers’ state with no prospects that he
could see in sight. Still had, despite increasingly insistent requests, held
off from joining the Communist Party (Joseph Stalin himself, at Lenin’s
personal request, had delivered the message along with the lure of high
position). One thing about Ivan Smirnov was that he was a man of his word, had
sworn to defend the revolution come hell or high water once he broke with his
Left Menshevik friends and voted for the soviet power back in fateful October
(old calendar) 1917. He would not desert the revolution with so much work to be
done although he still insisted on remaining outside the party in order to have
room to criticize what he did not like, have room to speak for his peasant
brethren to the powers that be. And so Ivan, as he readied to demobilize
himself, after the general demobilization of the red armies needed now at the
factory and farm fronts, decided that he would take that lesser position in the
commissariat of agriculture when he paperwork was completed. Ah, civilian life,
he murmured to his wife whom he had seen infrequently the past few years but
who had kept his houses in order during the chaos of the bloody civil
wars. Civilian life indeed.
The revolution is in danger. Those words from the chairman,
from the Bolshevik leader and head of the government Vladimir Lenin
himself, came thundering throughout the
auditorium of the Commissariat of Agriculture as Ivan Smirnov, now Deputy
Agricultural Commissar Ivan Smirnov, stood against the wall behind him in some
disbelief. Stood in disbelief that in 1921, in the fourth year of the
revolution, after the last remnant of the White Guards and their imperialist
sponsors had been quelled Lenin, the total political realist, had uttered such
words. Disbelief that is until Ivan
realized that Lenin was not talking about the threats from the now White émigré
clots plotting in Paris and other destinations or from the now hamstrung
imperial powers that had tacitly accepted the Soviet regime for the most part.
What had Lenin in thrall was that factory production, farm
production, the distribution of goods, that what Trotsky in his flaming pen way
called the “scissors” crisis had caused such havoc that famine, hell, even
cannibalism gripped the country- side and was edging away the life of the
cities. The countryside was not producing the foodstuff necessary for the
cities to survive for the simple reason that there was no godly reason to sweat
away on the land if there were no products to buy except on some “black market”
at extortion
prices.[CL2] Lenin was in this
auditorium specifically to address those like Ivan whose help he needed to call
the “retreat,” the need for the social revolution to take a step back to get
production going again and the only way to do that was to “reintroduce” a
certain controlled internal capitalism and foreign capitalist concessions.
Ivan was not sure, not sure at all if his peasant brethren
once they produced for the market would be able to switch back and try to
produce as collectives the way the commissariat plans had been mapped out.
Plans that even the week before he had gone to a conference in Minsk to push.
He, unlike the wild man Trotsky who had thought up the bright idea of putting the
demobilized soldier-peasants under labor discipline (really military
discipline) to get the economy going, would hold his judgment out of respect
for Lenin and the enormous problems that Soviet Russia was facing with little
hope of help from the outside, particularly Germany where the working class
which to his mind seemed incapable of revolutionary action, except it heroic
elements, had just lost another opportunity to make their own revolution.
While Ivan held judgment on the new policy (the policy that
would come down in history as the NEP, New Economic Policy) that very day after
his speech Lenin had personally buttonholed him to join the Communist Party.
And while Ivan felt that he would chaff under the discipline of party life
(mainly the need to publicly spout the party line whatever the internal doubts)
the “revolution was in danger” and as he had all his political life once again he
would “be in for a dime, in for a dollar.”
Lenin gone, Lenin the greatest revolutionary theorist and an
utter political realist was gone on that sad cold snowy (as always) January day
in 1924. Once Ivan heard the word (second-hand from his wife who told it to him
with some trepidation) he immediately asked himself who would take the great
leader’s place. He had spent half his political life as an opponent of Lenin
and his “wild boy” Bolsheviks, had thought they were incapable of understanding
the land hunger of the poor peasants (which he country-born was acutely aware
of from the plight of his poor peasant parents now both long gone to early
graves), and then they just decreed “land to the tiller” as one of their first
acts in October 1917. And he had bought into the struggle from that point on,
fought with honor in the civil wars, and had taken a senior position in the
Agricultural Commissariat which he still held. Although he had only joined the
Communist Party in 1921 at the height of NEP (at the specific urging of Lenin
himself although he was aware that Ivan had doubts about letting the peasantry
return to small market production for fear that you could never get them back
on the socialist road once they tasted the profit motive) he had taken part in
all the inner party debates and had developed certain important relationships
with Lenin’s old right-hand man, Gregory Zinoviev.
With Lenin gone though who was to take control. Right that
minute the group around Zinoviev (not Ivan who was not in the inner circle but
more like a fellow traveler to that group), Kamenev, and the General Secretary
of the Party, Stalin, whom he had had cordial relations with ever since he had
conveyed Lenin’s original offer to Ivan of party membership and high rank
looked like they would take collective control on a day to day basis. He was
not unhappy with that thought although he did not see Zinoviev as anything but
an acolyte of Lenin’s. Ivan had heard the rumors (later proven true) of
Zinoviev’s high-handed ways and his mercurial temperament. Kamenev was an unknown
and more of a pal to Zinoviev than a leader. Stalin he thought was the organizer
and although rumors had also spread about his high-handed ways of giving party
jobs (later proven true as well, deadly true) to some lesser cadre whom Lenin
had derided as fools (and political opponents as well) would probably rise out
of the group and take charge. The one person who stood kind of alone despite
his obvious talents was Trotsky. But Ivan felt that he was too much the
free-lancer, too much given to his admiring his own intellectual powers to
fight with the inner circle boys down and dirty. And so as Ivan made his
political judgments he was none too happy that Lenin, the great mind of the
age, would not be around to guide Soviet Russia forward.
The air, the political air, around Moscow, specifically
around the offices and corners of Red Square and the Kremlin had changed, had
changed dramatically over the past year since Vladimir Lenin had laid his head
down (had laid his head down for the revolution just as surely as any Red Army
soldier out in the myriad fronts in civil war days). The cliques had formed
(and re-formed as the tea leave-readers attempted to keep ahead of the
political storms), including the necessity of declaring allegiances, for and
against. Ivan had been somewhat close, a fellow-traveler of the
Zinoviev-Kamenev crowd, but he found that he had to draw closer, become
something of a yes man in the showdowns that were occurring more frequently
among the factions. The final show-down loamed not far in the future. Every
political instinct told Ivan that. He noticed that in the close quarters of the
Kremlin that some strange social doings were going on. Political opponent no
longer nodded the nod to each other, wives no longer spoke, things like that.
That all was surface however. Really ever since the aborted
revolution in Germany, the revolution that was both palpable and necessary for
the Soviet survival, the way things worked in the government (and less
noticeably in society) had changed. Soviet Russia would henceforth go it alone,
would built a mighty fortress in a sea of capitalist encirclement. That was bad enough since the full effects of
the world war and the civil war were just abating. What was worse was that the
Lenin Levy which had enlarged the party substantially with hangers-on and
go-fers, with those who had not gotten their hands dirty in the revolution and
its defense were getting plum jobs. Here is how it went on the ground. Ivan had
been a single deputy commissar of agriculture since 1921. Recently the number
of deputies had been expanded to three, the other two appointees of General
Secretary Stalin (and who had no experience, none, in agriculture) who were
expected to make decisions jointly with any dispute taken to the Commissar.
Yes, things had changed, the purposes of the revolution had become distorted
and the thoughts of world revolution relegated to the back closet. Ivan feared
his days were numbered in the government (numbered too since he knew, knew deep
in his bones that Zinoviev had no stomach for a serious political fight and the
odds were stacked against him). He had taken, taken against his will, to
reading, reading clandestinely, literature Trotsky and his associates were
putting out among party members to raise the alarm in order to “save the
revolution.” The times were out of joint.
The party is in danger, the party is in danger that thought
had caused Ivan Smirnov many sleepless nights in the years 1926 and 1927 when
the old flaming radical Leon Trotsky and then Zinoviev (whose faction Ivan was
aligned with in the intra-party struggles except on China where Ivan thought
Trotsky had the better of the argument since his boy Zinoviev had been
knee-deep in the failed strategy there when he ran the Communist International)
once he broke up with Stalin (or better Stalin broke with him but Zinoviev
always was the showman) and had aligned himself with the Left Opposition as it
came to be called. Strangely during those sleepless nights Ivan would also
think back to the days before 1921, the year he had joined the party (at the
now mummified and entombed Lenin’s persistent urging), that he had not joined
the Bolsheviks (old names die hard now called Communists since the revolution)
because he wanted to maintain his freedom to differ from the party line, to be
able to speak as a senior member of the Commissariat of Agriculture to his left
behind poor peasants out in the wildernesses without blinkers on. Then once the
threat of civil war had passed, the work of reconstruction had begun, and,
frankly the independent space for “free-lancers” had dried up there had been
few better party members. Few better even among the Society of Old Bolsheviks
who kept touting their own virtues as if time served rather than active commitment
was the key to revolutionary virtue (the Society, an organization that he, and
Trotsky, could never become members of due to their late adherence to the
party).
So, yes, the party was in danger, each day the more
ridiculous personnel were being assigned major positions in all party and
governmental organizations, including his own commissariat all to enhance the
bloc power of Stalin (and his newfound allies, the old ultra-radical Bukharin
and the staid Tomsky and Rykov, Christ the revolution and not just the party
was in danger with that crew). The odds were long that Trotsky (he never saw
his factional leader, Zinoviev, as capable of leading serious opposition when
the fighting got down and dirty since he was personally made for sunny days) and
the admittedly proven group of senior party cadre around him could pull the
party back from the brink but he was beginning to form that feeling that he
would be in for a dime, in for a dollar with the joint opposition once the dust
settled. The thought though that he would break bread with Trotsky after so
many years of seeing him as, and calling him, an old flaming radical and out of
touch with political reality in first Mother Russia and now Soviet Russia
seemed rather bizarre. More pressingly, more personally he was tired, tired
unto death, as he told his long-suffering wife who saw the toll the struggle
took on him daily of the political wrangling and longed for the days when he
could leave that behind. The year 1927 was not that year though and thus the
sleepless nights.
Jesus, Ivan Smirnov shuttered, they had finally thrown the
one serious revolutionary leader left, Leon Trotsky, into exile (they meaning mainly
the dear General Secretary Joseph Stalin and his new bloc partners, chiefly the
pliable Bukharin, Rykov and Tomsky, their respective hangers-on and anybody who
played their politics in the year 1929 in the Soviet Union by seeing which way
the wind was blowing and acted accordingly), had finally thrown the “Old Man”
into another Siberian exile, this time in godforsaken Alma Ata (that “Old Man”
designation had hung to Trotsky among his acolytes, associates and run-of- the-mill
acquaintances almost since the revolution even though he had only just turned
fifty. Ivan found himself calling Trotsky that moniker although he was only a
couple of years younger than him. Such was Trotsky’s look, such was his
authority among whatever Russian revolutionaries who were still devoted to the
cause, come what may). Ivan had seen it coming once Zinoviev and Kamenev had
given up the fight against Stalin, had frankly capitulated. Had seen that the
ground was crumbling under the Left Opposition leaving the lone figure of
Trotsky to lead the fight. He had always respected Trotsky even in the old days
when he was nothing but a wild man in the wilderness with his grandiose theories
even though Ivan had found himself in political disagreement and usually far from
whatever organization Trotsky was aligned with.
Although Ivan was formally in the Zinoviev bloc he held himself
somewhat apart as he always did from kowtowing to the leaders, but he had been
clearly more in sympathy with that bloc than with Trotsky’s wild men. However he
now sensed that the time for standing aside, for standing on some kind of
archaic principle of formerly rational politics was coming to a close. The time
for sorting out the wild men from the wily politicians was coming to a close
too. Ivan, as always, avidly read all the literature, read the increasingly clandestine
literature carried via the old time underground revolutionary methods like
under the Czar coming out of the various Siberian exile places. He could see
the winds shifting beneath his feet at work too, at his job where although he
was still formally a deputy commissar of agriculture (having given up years previously
the idea that he would become commissar, especially after Zinoviev’s break with
Stalin, or rather the opposite way around) he was now one of five deputies and
not even senior although he had more time on the job. Worse he was deputy in charge
of the emerging tractor stations that were now beginning to dot the countryside
as some of the land was being collectivized even while the majority was being farmed
out by kulaks and their agents for their personal profit. On that job he was out
of Moscow most of the time, and thus out of the loop. Yes, the time for maneuvering,
the time for standing in the shadows was getting shorter.
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