10 THE YOUNG SOCIALISTS' MAGAZINEso there remains for me but onepossibility for effective anti.militaristic propaganda, the openand absolute refusal to do miUtaryservice.I am confirmed in my decisionby my activity during the lastyears as International Secretaryof the Federation of <strong>Young</strong> p~pie's S~ialist Organizations. Inthis capacity I have issued a1lumber of manifestos and resolutionsto the young workers ofaU nations, which have led theyoung <strong>Socialists</strong> in America aswell as in other countries to refuseto participate in the pre·sentwar. My political friends inRussia art fighting even to-dayagainst every offensive, againstevery war-measure. To my mindit is impossible for a man who ishonest in his political convictions,to be for peace to-day andfor war to-morrow, to extend theolive branch to-day,-only tothrow the hand-grenade to-mor~row because circumstances havebecome more fa vorable. Such apolicy is possible only in a nationthat safely escorts revolutionarieshome to the country: ofthe enemy and throws their po~litical friends into jail at home.Such a policy is possible only ina government that can speak ofpeace without annexations whenthings go wrong, only to rant of"freeing" Riga when the si tua ~tion turns in its fa vor.lt cannot be my duty, that Iam sure, gentlemen, even youwill understand, to support ordefend a government, a governmentthat tramples upon themost elementary rights of my 'class. On the contrary. I canhave but one duty, to fightagainst such a government withevery measure that lies in the in ~terest of the international work~ing proletariat. And this, as itWhat of the NightEven yet .they will not know it iswarlCripple Creek-Calumet-Trinidad-speakin vain.Yet though battles and bloodshould not, fainWere we to think they might readportents as plainAs to the elder-world the terribleBlazing Star tAs when the heavens hang on thebreathless verge of storm,And even nerves of beasts are tensewith the strain,So ere wars and tumults-throncshatteringQlange-Ever the human emotions give thealarm,Breaking forth into forms grotesqueand strange.Then the warrior paints his skinand dances the danct; of death ;11len the faith-frenzies rage, andthe great brute throat of lustLooses the roar and blast of hisfurnace-breath.And though for better things theheart of mankind we trust,'Ve know not what comes on asthe swift hours roU,The expropriation of the peasantfrom the soil was the basis of thecapitalist system.-Marx.The land shall not be sold forever.-Leviticus.has been in the past, shall be mylife-work.Zurich, Sept. 15, <strong>1917</strong>.Wilhelm Munzenberg,Secretary · of the InternationalFederation of <strong>Young</strong> People'sSocialist Organiutions.Or whether it be but a step to thebarricades in the streetAnd sound 01 the grinding 01swords and lilt of the carmagnole. . . •If it comes with less or more ofstrile and blood,It will come-and beautiful on thehills its feet;It will come-the Day-with itslight like a golden Hood,The Day to seers and singers of oldmade known,When Man, ah Man, at last shallcome into his own.Though the light of its splendorousrising I may not hail,And little it be I know of fate'sdecrees,And little it be of trust in gods Iknow,Yet I know-the Morning cometh IIt cannot fail.The great unresting tides thatthrough Time's eternity flow,The stars in their courses that everAnd the ultimate Wilt of Man, willhave it so.EI"abtth Waddell."00 you think the Englishtongue will ever become a deadlanguage?" "Of course it will. It'sbeing murdered every day."Courage without conscience is awild beast. Patriotism withoutprinciple is the prejudice of birth,the animal attachment for piace.Ingersoll.The landlord produces nothing;he renders no service and is entitledto nothing, yet he is allowedto shut the door of Nature's stonehouse.I had never worked in a factorybefore and I was afraid that theforelady would instantly recognizemy superiority. I dimly rememberbelieving that this superioritymight count ~gainst my getting ajob. Therefore I hid it under as·sumed humility as I mil:de my waybetween the whirring machines tothe being at the far end designatedas Her.God made Heaven and earth inseven days. On the eighth He madeforeladies. They are a specialcreation."Do you need any help ?"I had modulated my tone to theproper shade between indifferenceand respect. I expected her to un·derstand. I don't know whatjustto understand. Instead shelooked at me. She looked at mefor centuries and all the time shewas looking I was sliding, down,dow n to a bottomless abyss. Whenshe caught the last faint echo ofmy plop at the bottom of that incalculableabyss, she moved hereyelids."Green ?"I shrank between two dust motesin that dust-laden air.She shrugged. "Wait here." Sheannihilated me to an unencumbered~JX>t in the ether and di~appeared.I waited. Giant wheels toreround. Belts whirred throughmysterious holes in the floor andceiling. The floors trembled andthe walls shook. The huge toftstretched on and on across theearth. Small boys ran about withgreat crates of white stuff on littletrucks. And the ai r was filled withfine gray dust. It was all alive,quivering. All except the hundredsof girls, bent forward at their machines,thei" eyes fastened to theTHE YOUNG SOCIALISTS' MAGAZINEF O&R E LAD I E SBy Adriana Spadoniflashing points of the needles.There they sat all bent fonvard atthe same angle, each feeding theThing before her. They alone weremotionleS$. Like the dead kings ofEgypt, rigid 01\ their stone throne!,they sat before the living machines.I wanted to turn and run. Realfear of those human machines,those motionless women, seizedme. Rivers of white cascaded fromthose glittering needles. I felt unableto move, to make my wayacross that vib rating floor, amongthose moving belts. I felt that Ishould stand there forever, befinally engulfed in that silent riverof white. The smal boy with thebig crate on the little truck shriekedfor me to get out of th e way. Likea volcanic eruption long ends ofwh ite trailed from the whitemountain. The small boy wasquite lost.Then suddenly she reappeared.She came from behind a partitionand walked straight down the aisletowards me between two rows ofher stone women. A few feetaway she stopped and beckoned mewith her eyelids. At the far endof the loft we stopped before anempty machine. W ith her eyelidsshe indicated a place on the wallfor my hat. , :Vhen I returned shewas sitting before the Monster.The gnome dragging the whitemountain came and upset themountain beside her. She liftedone end of many miles of cuffs andfitted it under the foot. Then withher heels she pressed on the treadleand the Monster began to gobbleits food. In a moment it had swallowedyards. She pressed with hertoes and it stopped. She rose andindicated with her eyelid that I wasto try. I sat down. I fitted thecuff under the needle. I pressedwith my heel. The whole factoryrose and came at me. With a demaniacalsnort the Monster torethrough the white goods.Stop. Press with your toes."I have wished since that I hadlooked up and c~ ught the look Ifelt in the middle of my back. ButI lacked the courage. I extricatedthe mangled cuffs and waited.Again she sat at the machine andshowed me with an insulting patience.I wonder whether she hadbeen born a forelady, whether shehad never mishandled the Monster.' ·Vhcn I had stitched several milesto her satisfaction she. left me.I arranged the first link in theendless chain of cuffs. I pressedwith my heel s. The creature beganto masticate quietl y. I forgotev e r)'thin~, everyth ing except tokeep feeding it evenly. steadily,hour after hour. Twice the girl immediatelyacross the table glancedup at me. She Illust have been veryexpert or sile would not have daredto move her eyes from the needle.I did not Ii ft mine, but I felt hers.Iron bands dosed about myhead. A sharp knife buried itselfjust below my shoulder blades. Mywooden wrists gu ided the supply o fcuffs. My ('yes came to the veryedge of their sockets. Once I shutoff the power and pressed themback again. The only living, conscious,thinking things were myfi ngers. For a long time before Ibecame conscious of nothing at all.I watched them. They were separate,Quite apart from myself.They guided the cuffs so skilfully,just to the edge of the movingneedle. I know now how engineerscan sleep at the throttle. Howmothers wake at the slightest 010-II
12tion of their babies. The only thingthat penetrated the frozen Dumbnessof my aching body was thetightening of a thread, the leastchange in the motions of the Monster.Then I was all alert soothingit by personal attention until thenumbness in me conquered againand I we"t on feeding it mechanically.At twelv.e o'clock the machinesstopped' with a final roar. Thefloor, the walls, contracted in oneconvulsive spasm and wefe still. Ina moment the loft was deserted.Only at the distant end, the forelady,aloof and superior, movedtoward the special peg reserved forher hat and coat. There they hungon the empty expanse of a sidewaH, as if the entire factory hadbeen designed for this particularnail."Well, how did it go?"If! don't know," I said stupidly;"I'm too tired to think,""Ain't used to power." For thefirst time she became human. in thetremendous scorn for my powerlesspast. "You'U git used to it." Withthat articulate eyelid s~e consignedme to an etemit)' of pressingtreadles, guiding small white ' ob·longs under a flashing needle.Long before the end of the weekI believed that she was right. Foreverand ever, through all theaeons to come, I should sit there~t i tching cuffs. The only differencewould be in the color of the cuffs.Now I was ma.king bright yellowcuffs with purple lines.She had been right. My backno longer ached. The knife hadgone from under my shoulderblades. The. muscles at the backof my neclc had petrified to Permanentinsensibility. She: was right.I had gotten used to it. SO · usedthat I no longer even FELT thehuman beings about me.. The pitytor their 1iIent. rigidity .... II"'M.THB YOUNG SOCIALISTS' MAGAZINEI alS
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