My life in Canada soon settled into the routine of a party organizer in a more or less virgin field—differing from that of a missionary mainly in that the faith we preached was redemption through joining one of our organizations and salvation through revolution, through the overthrow of the capitalist system right here on earth. I tended my flock, made new converts, brought them to a closer understanding of life and society by lecturing on such subjects as evolution and the class structure of society, all strictly according to the gospel of Marx and Lenin. My congregation consisted mostly of peasants who had broken with their old church and came to look upon Communism as a new religion, on the editor of the Worker as not only their spiritual but their lay leader as well, bringing to him their personal problems as well as their disputes, and abiding by his authority. I was even called upon to deliver funeral orations in which I was expected to console the bereaved by extolling the virtues of the departed not only as a good family man but also as an outstanding example of a class conscious workingman. I was invited to name the newly born and I still take credit for naming none of them Vladimir after Lenin or Krupskaya after his widow.
The one incident that was anything but routine occurred at our May Day demonstration in Hamilton in 1930 and the memory of the part I played in it still makes me uneasy.
It all began when the party selected me chairman of the United May Day Committee which was formed to organize the demonstration. By that time I had become accustomed to leadership.
At our first meeting all went well and in harmony until a nonparty delegate raised the question of applying for a police permit. The delegates seemed in general agreement on the advisability of that—I alone stood in opposition. I reasoned that the police had shown increased apprehension of late over our growing activities, particularly among the unemployed, and by risking the denial of a permit we would be playing right into their hands. That would give them a pretext for smashing our demonstration and on top of this, to charge us with provoking a riot by willful violation of the police ban.
Leadership is a heady wine. One gets used to power just as easily as to having money enough to burn, without giving it a thought. Since the majority opinion seemed to be definitely against me I used the chair’s prerogative. I asked for someone to move that we should not apply for a police permit. Some comrade mumbled something to that effect; I called for seconding, some other comrade did so. I then immediately called for a voice vote and when a few comrades said “aye,” pronounced the motion carried.
At our next meeting one of the delegates made a peculiar report. He claimed that he had been approached by a police captain who objected to our announced route. Our plan called for marching up one main avenue and then turning right on the most important thoroughfare in the city. The police wanted us to turn left at that crossing to avoid traffic being paralyzed.
His report caused considerable agitation but I quickly ruled out all discussion of it. The way I interpreted it, that was merely a request to make things more convenient for the police. After all, we did want to tie up traffic; the worse the traffic jam, the greater the impression we’d make on the bourgeoisie.
At our final meeting a few days before May first, another delegate, this time the President of the Veterans’ Unemployment Council, came in with a still graver report. He had been called in by the Police Chief himself and warned that under no condition would the police allow us to turn right on the main avenue. If we turned left, they would leave us alone. But if we turned right they would await us with machine guns and we would then be held responsible for whatever ensued.
This threat couldn’t be ignored. A number of delegates asked for the floor at once, including two members of the Local Executive Committee of the Party. To be democratic I recognized a delegate of one of the Unemployment Councils first—besides, I wanted to know how he felt. He spoke for changing the route, arguing that what we were primarily interested in was a demonstration, not a bloody clash with the police. He spoke with heat and it made good sense to me. The majority seemed to agree with him.
After a few other delegates spoke in a similar vein, I finally recognized one of the official Communist Party delegates, one of the members of our Local Executive Committee.
He was vehement. May Day was a day for “militant” demonstration. The workers themselves would decide where and how they wanted to demonstrate. The route of the demonstration had already been publicized, binding us to our plan. If the police interfered, the responsibility would rest squarely on them, and on the capitalist government!
After he spoke the other party members became silent. They did not approve of his stand, but the party had spoken and that settled it for them. It settled it for me too, although I did not like it either. That police threat might well have been a bluff, to scare us out of tying up traffic at that key corner. On the other hand, the threat of machine guns might not be an idle one in view of the growing nervousness of the city authorities. But the party had spoken, I was the chairman, it was my task to put its decision into execution. After the motion to leave our route of march unchanged had been carried, although with a notable lack of enthusiasm, I decided I might as well put the best face on it.
“If the Police Chief approaches any one of you delegates again, simply tell him we’ll march as announced, that we’ll turn to the right even if they face us with cannons. The streets belong to the people. The working class of Hamilton will assert its right to demonstrate peacefully even though that may inconvenience the bourgeoisie.”
That speech was met by great applause and it restored the confidence of all delegates except mine. Inwardly I felt that our stand was wrong. The real issue was not whether the police were provoking us or we were provoking the police, but that a good number of people might be gravely hurt. The party had egged me on, I egged the party on! They had committed me, I had committed them. Leadership meant responsibility—come what may, I would have to face it.
May Day broke sunny and beautiful. The profusion of red flags and banners put the crowd at the assembly point in a festive mood. Both sidewalks were jammed with onlookers—those prudent comrades who were one with us in spirit but who nevertheless considered it wiser to separate their bodies from the common cause.
It took quite a while to line up the column in the most colorful and yet, if attacked, the most effective position for defense. There were a considerable number of women and children among the marchers and to protect them we concentrated the huskiest men on the flanks so that from there they could rush quickly into the fighting. The plan called for me to march in the lead with one member of the United May Day Committee on my right and another on my left.
We started our march on schedule, singing the Internationale, and shouting slogans at intervals. The crowds on the sidewalks kept step with our progress, people waved to us from the windows, the sun shone bright and warm—it was an exhilarating demonstration.
As we neared the contested intersection I subconsciously slowed down which must have affected the spirit of the crowd. The singing died down and this in turn reacted on me. I felt my feet dragging and when we reached the crossing the column came to a slow halt.
The street left of the intersection lay clear of all traffic. The crossing to the right was blocked curb to curb by a line of motorcycles. Two policemen in full battle dress manned each motorcycle, the driver leaning forward, one foot on the pedal in readiness. The other in the gondola slouched low in the unmistakable posture of a machine gunner ready for instant action. A police captain, feet planted apart, was facing us in the center of the road.
The marchers were moving up closer. There was a momentum to that column—it was physically pressing me on. I felt the eyes of the comrades boring into my back. The Communist Party was leading that demonstration. I was the picked leader of the party.
To the left the street stretched open and enticing. It beckoned: “This way to joy and peace!”
To the right the police line was tensing. That way lay fire, flame, and bullets—the road to destruction.
It was my responsibility to the party, it was my decision to make. I made it.
I raised my right arm and shouted loud and clear: “Lo-o-ng li-i-lve the soli-i-da-a-a-arity of the interna-a-ational working claa-a-ss!”
“Long live the solidarity of the international working class,” the shout thundered back from the crowd.
“Long live May Day!” I shouted, and brought my arm down decisively, pointing firm and straight to the right, to the police line ahead. I executed a sharp right turn and marched resolutely ahead, the column following in my wake.
I was marching on stiffly. One . . . two . . . three . . . I drew my shoulders back . . . Four . . . five . . . six . . . A few more steps and the police would open fire! The Police Captain raised his arm in a signal and shouted a command. Here it comes! I marched grimly on. One . . . two . . . three . . . The motorcycles came alive with a roar . . . Four . . . five . . . They are heading into us . . . Six . . . They are going to ride us down Seven . . . I threw my chest out. Shoot, you bastards, shoot! Yes . . . ! No . . . ! Yes . . . ! The motorcycles parted into two, the road was no longer blocked, the motorcycles were pulling over to the curb to let our column pass.
An immense cheer rose and the column broke into the Internationale, we marched victoriously on, shouting and singing, and I changed my stride from parade step to route. I looked back—everyone was happy and triumphant. I was not elated, I felt remote and detached as I kept marching on.
That evening, at the May Day dance and celebration, I was listless. I shook hands, accepted congratulations, answered the small talk, but my attention was not there, my mind was hovering over a vast empty space with no landmarks on which to alight. I excused myself early, went home and to bed. I was curiously exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t read—the page blurred in front of my eyes. I turned off the light and closed my eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. Suddenly the sky lit up and there was that police motorcycle line right in front of my eyes, the column in back of me pressing me on, and I was out in front, the decision resting with me.
I watched the motorcycles roar to life and suddenly I saw those machine guns spitting fire, heard the screaming of the comrades, saw men, women, and children crumpled up on the pavement, moaning in pain. I was responsible for all that; it had not happened that way, yet my action could very well have resulted in such a massacre!
I tried to twist and turn out of it, I argued with that phantasmagoria but it wouldn’t dissolve. That was not leadership, that was not responsibility to the masses, that was an out-and-out provocation. I, the party leader, had deliberately disregarded the possible consequences, had led the workers to be massacred—to uphold what? A party decision and my position of leadership. But for the mercy of that police captain, many of those workers would now be lying in blood, screaming in agony, those women and children, too—all for the glory of the Communist Party!
I shook and shivered until sleep brought oblivion.
