by H. T. Tsiang
As she herself could not make out what this was all about, she could not tell her mother.
As her feeling did not bring up an issue of a class nature—in the narrow sense—she could not present the matter at her Unit-Meeting.
If her girl friend had been with her, Stubborn could have talked the matter over with her.
About one hour before she had telephoned her girl friend and asked her to tell her employer at the dress-shop that she—Stubborn—was sick and could not go to work that day. But Stubborn didn’t tell her friend about the feeling she had now.
Such a feeling had to be talked about face to face with someone, and not over the phone.
At the time Stubborn had phoned, she hadn’t known she could have such sentiments. They were very recent.
Even at that very moment, she was still uncertain what her feelings were.
* * *
—
“Drop the issue!” Stubborn said to herself. “Sleep! Four o’clock this afternoon, there’s a demonstration in front of City Hall. And it’s twelve now!”
* * *
—
When she thought of the City Hall demonstration, she began to realize that she had forgot something.
At the time the new Comrade (Nut) was helping her family move the furniture back into the apartment, why didn’t she tell him about the demonstration? As he was a new Comrade, wasn’t it necessary that he should know about it? If he knew, he would go.
* * *
—
She read the paper and she knew that many communists, while picketing and in demonstrations, had been killed by the police in Detroit and other cities.2
She might have been killed last night in front of the cafeteria, or in the activity that morning, or she might be killed in the next demonstration. Who could tell?
Therefore, Stubborn thought, what a revolutionist should keep in mind was to get some new person into the ranks. Then the workers’ movement would be like a stream passing under a bridge. There are not always the same drops of water in it, but there is always a stream. So individuals might come in and go, but the movement would go on forever.
If an old member got a new member, Stubborn thought, and that old member were killed, in the Wall Street term, it would be “fifty-fifty.” If an old member got two new members and then was killed, in the Wall Street term again, it would be “making money!”
* * *
—
Stubborn knew that she should have told Nut about the City Hall demonstration to be held that afternoon. But she didn’t know why she hadn’t.
* * *
—
The first few times she had met Mr. Nut she had been very free and very natural. She could say what she felt like saying. She could look at him as freely as she wished.
But that morning, when this new comrade was in her home, she dared not look at him when he was looking at her. Yet she could look at him when he was not looking at her.
* * *
—
While she had been talking on the platform in front of the building, she had been courageous and eloquent.
But when she had met this new comrade, that morning, she had felt that she had much to say, but that she could not say it.
* * *
—
That morning, she had wanted to shake hands with him. She had put out her hand and then drawn it back.
When the Comrade was leaving her apartment, she did so at last. It was only because her mother had said that she should shake hands with the Comrade for his kind-hearted work in moving the furniture.
* * *
—
All this uneasiness of looking, speaking, handshaking and forgetting to tell him about the City Hall demonstration was mystical.
XXV:
WHAT NOW? AND HOW!
“Try my pill—New Deal!
Hello,
Everybody:
How do you feel?”
One o’clock.
* * *
—
Nut reached Union Square.
When he passed the Russian movie-house,3 he stopped for a minute to look at the posters in front of the theatre. On the poster, he saw Russians who were well-fed and who were smiling.
He had read in the newspapers that starvation had been going on in Russia for years. And he now wondered what these Russians were made of. Iron? Steel? If not of iron or steel, how could they last so long? For it was only about twenty-four hours in which he had gone hungry and he was in a nice fix already.
* * *
—
When the area was clear of traffic, he crossed Fourteenth Street and came to the Square proper.
He passed a statue of a rider on a horse.4 As he looked up, the fellow stopped him with his right hand:
“Go back to the earth—the nation will have a rebirth!”
“Down with landlords!” Nut replied.
Following the stone wall on the Square, he went towards the northeast.
Nut met another fellow with a sword at his waist. He had one hand stretched out and was shouting:
“Achetez-Vous, joli Monsieur, Ma Belle Demoiselle;
Beaucoup Merci, Bon Nutt, Bonsoir, Bonjour—”5
Nut didn’t know French, but he guessed that this fellow must be a French salesman of the cheap dress company across the street.
“To hell with salesmen!” Nut said.
He went to the North side of the Square.
Then he saw another fellow. This man had a sincere look on his face. He was standing there, perspiring. He Gettysburged:6
* * *
—
“Stay away from the land,
The factories need cheaper hands!”
“Down with capitalism!” Nut shouted.
* * *
—
Nut followed the stone wall towards the west.
Theoretically, Nut, ever since he had stepped into the Dime Hotel, that ten-cent movie-house, was a Communist.
Organizationally, he wasn’t; for things must take time.
* * *
—
At one of the entrances to Union Square Park, he saw a water-fountain. He stopped and had a free drink. Then he took out his toothbrush from an upper pocket of his overcoat and brushed his teeth, without using toothpaste. For he couldn’t find any in any of his pockets.
While he was using the water of the fountain to brush his teeth, some fellows, standing in back of him, surprised at what he was doing, laughed at him and sneered at him. Another fellow pushed him away and exclaimed:
“We’ve nothing to chew on, anyway, so what do we need our teeth for?”
* * *
—
Nut now walked to the center of the Square.
He saw several workmen with overcoats on, very quickly removing the snow that remained on the ground. And he told one of them:
“What are you hurrying for? You hurried before and that’s why you became what you are today. Go ahead—hurry today—what’ll become of you tomorrow? There’s one country where the more you produce, the quicker you get in the breadline. Take my word for it. I’m not a Nut any more.”
* * *
—
Having become class-conscious so suddenly, how did Nut come to know about laws and conditions in Russia?
For to know what you know takes time. To become conscious of what you should be conscious of, takes you a day or an hour or a minute—or even a second.
* * *
—
Nut wanted to know who those three fellows in the Square were. But at this moment, it was more urgent for him to find a washroom than to bother about the historical background of the Three Statues.
* * *
—
When Nut came out of the washroom at t
he north end of the Square, he saw some people around the flagpost. They were arguing.
It was rather boring, so Nut left.
* * *
—
He saw a group of people following a person with a wheelbarrow in front of him. In this wheelbarrow there were an old, torn broom and a shovel.
There was a sign on his back. It read:
“This is no stunt! I want to show that I am willing to work . . . if I can have a job. As an ex-serviceman, I refuse to starve or stand in the breadline. Work or bust!”
This ex-serviceman crossed Fourth Avenue and pushed his wheelbarrow to the front of a colonial, red-brick building—Tammany Hall.
“You lazy bum, why don’t you shovel the snow?” a well-dressed man, who was passing by, told the fellow.
“I registered all right. I got up early this morning and I waited for a long time in front of the office, but I couldn’t get the job.”
“That’s Communist propaganda!” another gent said.
“Last election I voted for Roosevelt. What do you think I am?” the ex-serviceman replied.
While the ex-serviceman went along the Square, no policeman bothered him. In front of Tammany Hall, however, the law had to maintain its dignity.
“Move on!” a cop told the ex-serviceman.
“Where should I move?” answered the ex-serviceman stubbornly.
“I don’t care where you move, as long as you get the hell outa here!”
“Say, I’m an ex-serviceman. Stop pushing me!”
“You’re too damn fresh. I’ll take you to the station.”
“O.K., go ahead,” the ex-serviceman answered.
“Awright then, come with me!” ordered the policeman.
“If you want me to go with you, push the wheelbarrow for me. I know the law. You can’t bluff me.”
Another policeman came along. One got hold of the ex-serviceman and the other pushed his wheelbarrow. They all went off.
* * *
—
“Join the Navy, see the world!”
“Join the Army, have a ball game!”7
What now?
And how!
XXVI:
WHICH TASTES BETTER?
“Try my pill—New Deal!
Hello,
Everybody:
How do you feel?”
Nut came back to the Square. He was hungry.
An old woman with a basket on her arm was selling twisted pieces of salted cake. “Two pieces for a nickel. Good! Fresh!”—was her cry.
Nut had no nickel.
A few steps away he saw an old fellow who was displaying some clothes on the pavement. Because the pavement was wet, he had put an old carpet between the clothes and the pavement. A few people stood nearby and were looking on.
Nut joined the people who were looking on.
He realized that the old man was a petty businessman of the kind he had seen in the so-called “open market” under Williamsburg Bridge in the lower East Side.
Nut traded his rather good overcoat for an old coat and an old overcoat with the man, and he had twenty-five cents from him as a bargain.
* * *
—
For ten cents he bought four large Jewish pretzels from the old woman on the Square. He found a seat on a park-bench and began to eat.
* * *
—
While he was eating, a fellow next to him looked at him attentively.
The fellow had his thin hair nicely combed. He had a small button with an American flag on it, attached to the collar of his overcoat.
Nut, in the first place, didn’t like the guy’s face and secondly, he didn’t like the way he publicized the Star Spangled Banner. He therefore turned his head away from the fellow and chewed by himself.
But this fellow pulled Nut’s sleeve and said to him:
“A fellow was discovered in the Hudson River off Essex Street, Jersey City, with four pennies in his pocket.”
“I’ve got fifteen pennies. I’m all right,” answered Nut.
“What! You’ve fifteen pennies? You must be a rich man!” exclaimed the fellow, surprisedly.
Nut again turned his head away from him. He kept on chewing.
“How do those big-time pretzels taste, good?”
“Why don’t you ask the publicity button which you so royally pinned on the collar of your overcoat?” answered Nut.
“You know, the newspapers said that a young chap about twenty-three years of age committed suicide by gas. The chap wrote a note just before he went. The note said that at the very beginning of his suicide his blood was pounding. He wasn’t in pain. And he must have gone to another world happily.” The fellow disregarded the coldness of Nut and continued his broadcasting.
Nut replied, bored: “I don’t believe in another world. I’m going to stay in this world any way I can.”
“You know, an artist jumped from the Washington Bridge last night. He left a message. It went something like this: ‘If you cannot hear the cry of starving millions, listen to the dead!’”8
“No, I didn’t know about that artist. I’m no artist myself,” said Nut, still bored.
“How is that elephant-pretzel tasting?” the fellow said diplomatically.
“Don’t ask me, chap. Why not ask our American Flag? I know what you want, all right!”
“Here’s another story: Almost at the moment that the mighty U.S. Navy dirigible Akron was sailing majestically past the Empire State Building three days ago, an unidentified man leaped from New York’s loftiest observation tower.9 He plunged from the landing on the hundred and third floor. But he reached only the eighty-seventh floor.”
“Is that the way to be on top of the world?” asked Nut. “I’ve no ambitions of that sort any more.”
Nut had finished three pretzels by this time.
“You have one big pretzel left. Do you think it’s as good as the others?”
“At least it’ll taste better than a Flag-button.”
Nut stopped chewing.
“Do you know how many people killed themselves in 1931? How many in the year 1932?” The fellow kept on chattering.
“If a fellow kills himself, I’ve no use for him. And I don’t care how many poor guys end it all,” said Nut.
“Do you want to see a newspaper clipping?
“20,008 committed suicide—1931.
23,000 committed suicide—1932.”
“Don’t bother me!” Nut again turned aside from his bench companion.
“Look! See here!” the fellow took out a bit of newsprint from his pocket.
“To hell with newspapers,” Nut muttered and he tore up the clipping.
“You’ll have to pay me for this,” said the other fellow angrily.
“Who asked you to show it to me? Do you want me to commit suicide? So you can take my fifteen cents?”
“You gotta pay me for this paper. Otherwise, I’ll call the police. You have violated my property rights!”
“Hell with the police! Go to the Station and get out a warrant for me. You think I care?” Nut now showed his stubbornness.
The fellow saw that Nut could not be frightened, so he began to show his smile. He told Mr. Nut: “If you give me that piece of wonderful pretzel, it’ll be square.”
“I don’t care about that pretzel. I’ve given away enough money to buy tons of pretzels. But I hate to see a guy like you with your thin hair so nicely combed, think he can take advantage of me. I’m not a Nut any more.”
“All right. O.K. Suits me. Fine. Nice. Nice weather. We’re friends. If you just give me that pretzel I’ll appreciate it very much.”
“If you take that flag-button away, I’ll give you a nickel and you can buy two pretzels. I can get along without a flag-button, so what do you
want one for? I let mine go at ten o’clock this morning, just before I stepped into a cheap movie-house, which was my Dime Hotel.” With these words Nut started to eat his last (and just as good as the others) pretzel.
* * *
—
The fellow took Nut’s nickel. But he hid the button inside of his coat.
* * *
—
It seems that pretzels tasted better than flags!
XXVII:
“TIME IS MONEY”
“Try my pill—New Deal!
Hello,
Everybody:
How do you feel?”
On one hand Nut was wondering about his own future. On the other hand, he was wondering what had happened to Miss Digger and Mr. Wiseguy last night in the Rich Men’s Club.
* * *
—
When Mr. Wiseguy and Miss Digger reached Miss Digger’s apartment after the great and celebrated performance in the Rich Men’s Club, and had unintentionally viewed the eviction on Fourteenth Street, it was ten o’clock Monday morning.
The first thing they did when they got in the apartment was to have a few cups of black coffee from Miss Digger’s kitchenette.
After the black coffee, they opened their purses and divided up the prize-money.
Each had made two hundred and fifty dollars, twelve cents and a half.
Just for a few hours’ work!
Rich men had the money. And they were sporty enough to spend it.
The money caused them both to be full of high spirits and gave them both a refreshed feeling.