A Ripple From the Storm

  ‘Such busy little bees you Reds are,’ said Betty, her fair and delicate face ugly with dislike.

  ‘I thought you were a Red,’ retorted Martha, and she and Marjorie left.

  ‘Those Trotskyists are really so awfully childish,’ said Martha explosively, thinking of Solly that afternoon.

  Marjorie said: ‘But they are all right for that kind of work.’ She was looking embarrassed, and Martha knew why: she liked to slip off for a meal alone with Colin before or between meetings, and always felt as if this submission to ‘personal feelings’ was disloyal to the group.

  ‘Meeting Colin?’ Martha asked; and Marjorie, relieved, said: ‘You know we are getting married next week.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful.’

  Marjorie was hesitating on the edge of the pavement, giving Martha lingering glances of appeal. The wet street swam blue and red and gold as the cars swished by. It was still raining a little, and though it was a warm rain, Martha had started to shiver.

  ‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’ demanded Marjorie.

  ‘To get married?’

  Marjorie’s face, usually open with enthusiasm and response, seemed pinched. She was wearing a red shirt, open at the neck, but she was holding it close in front of her throat with her thin brown hand, clenched like a fist.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Martha.

  ‘I don’t know; I feel I haven’t known Colin very long. He’s so nice.’ She added humorously – and the moment the humorous note entered the conversation Martha knew that the impulse to confess had passed: ‘He’s so nice, and he’s just what I wanted – a solid man, you know.’ She grimaced, staring across the street at the cinema which was showing some war film. Spitfires and Focke-Wulfs dived, spitting fire, across a vast wall-high poster. The reflection from the reddish lights of the cinema shone on her face. ‘You know I always said I didn’t want that kind of marriage, I mean a dull marriage – I don’t mean dull, of course; no, I don’t mean that. But I’ve been playing around quite a bit now and you get fed up …’

  ‘You talk as if you were forty,’ said Martha, suddenly angry.

  ‘Well, I’m twenty-five, and if you want to have children, though of course if we’re in a revolutionary situation we won’t be able to have children … but I suppose everyone feels like this when they’ve committed themselves,’ she added, smiling, again reaching out firmly for the support of humour. She nodded, and went off, saying hastily: ‘I’ll see you in half an hour at the meeting.’

  So she’s not in love, Martha thought, disapproving, feeling that Marjorie had betrayed something. Then she thought: Well, what does it matter, what matters is we should all work hard for the Party. And with this she walked off towards the group office. She had had no lunch and proposed not to have supper. She was still damp and shivering and thought she might warm herself in the office by doing some work, whatever needed to be done.

  Anton was first into the office, and at once sat in his chairman’s place at the table, looking at his watch. ‘We cannot tolerate unpunctuality,’ he said. ‘The comrades are late.’

  Marjorie and Colin came in. She was being gruffly humorous; he was eyeing her uneasily. Martha thought that the supper together must have been an uncomfortable one. They accepted Anton’s reproof for being five minutes late with nervous apologies.

  Soon Andrew came in with two of the men from the camp: there should have been five more, but he said they had all promised to be here and did not know where they were, They all sat around on the hard benches, waiting, while Anton watched the door.

  ‘Why can’t we start?’ asked Marjorie.

  ‘This is a full organization meeting; we have one only once a week and everyone should be here.’

  ‘I’ve a mind that Murdoch will not be with us,’ said one of the airforce men.

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘He’s had a wee drop too much,’ said the lad apologetically.

  Anton let his cold eyes settle on him, and Andrew protected him hastily with: ‘Murdoch’s a good lad. He’ll be here if he can.’

  Martha remembered the scene of that afternoon, and thought: He couldn’t possibly have got drunk just because I said I wouldn’t marry him … Acutely depressed all of a sudden she thought: Are we all going to pair off? But it’s like cards being shuffled, something quite arbitrary. It’s frightening.

  Fifteen minutes passed and Piet and Marie du Preez came in. They were late because they had been at the Hall with Jasmine, who sent a message to say she was not coming.

  ‘And why not?’ demanded Anton.

  Marjorie said: ‘I don’t blame her for not wanting to leave, after last time,’ but Anton quelled her with his pale glance.

  A month before, a representative of the Johannesburg Medical Aid for Russia had paid a visit to this town. He was essentially ‘respectable’, being a Professor at the Rand University.

  On the evening, more than a thousand people, the biggest public meeting the town had seen, were assembled to hear the Professor on the subject of Aid for Russia. The Prime Minister, a Bishop, and half the Cabinet had graced the platform. For an hour and three-quarters the speaker had held forth on the virtues of communism, and the utter decay and corruption of capitalism.

  The members of the group had had the time of their lives, while the faces of the Cabinet Ministers had reddened and writhed, and the audience applauded each violently revolutionary sentiment.

  But afterwards Anton had broken into the excited chatter of the comrades, when they were discussing the meeting, to say: ‘Yes, yes. That was all very amusing, in its way. But it has no political importance at all. The new comrades do not realize that being a communist can be very hard indeed, a matter of life and death. They have joined at a time when any Tom, Dick or Harry calls himself a communist and communism is respectable. If you called a meeting in the middle of the night to discuss social insurance in Siberia they’d turn up and shout slogans. There’s no need to lose our heads over it. And there are better ways we can occupy our time than listening to a pack of fools applauding Comrade Rochester from Johannesburg.’

  The justice of this had been, with regret, recognized, and as a result, a decision had been taken that this second public meeting should be organized by Jasmine, but that no comrades should waste their time attending it.

  ‘We’ve taken a decision,’ said Anton, ‘that this kind of meeting can perfectly well be handled by the Borises and the Bettys. We have better things to do.’

  Bill Bluett came in, saying casually: ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Half an hour,’ said Anton.

  ‘We are under dscipline but the voluntary helpers are not. The girl who was supposed to take over from me was late.’

  ‘In that case you are excused,’ said Anton.

  Bill said, ‘Thanks’ in such a way that Anton raised his head sharply and the two men exchanged a long, thoughtful, challenging look. Bill Bluett, by no means the loser in this contest, waited until Anton had lowered his gaze and added: ‘Besides, there was the literature. I had to lug four cases of the stuff over from the exhibition.’

  ‘You, I imagined, were not responsible for the literature. What have you to say, Matty?’

  ‘I didn’t have time,’ said Martha. ‘I was down selling The Watchdog in the Coloured Quarter this afternoon. And all the afternoons this week.’

  Anton laid down his pen, pushed aside his papers, and sat back, in a way which told them all they could expect the full force of his critical disapproval. But it was deflected by the entrance of Jasmine and Tommy Brown both elated and laughing, because of the mass enthusiasm of the meeting they had come from.

  You are both under severe censure,’ said Anton to them. Tommy went to sit by big Piet, as if wanting his protection. Jasmine, instantly sobering, took her place beside Anton at the table in the secretary’s position.

  ‘We are more or less complete,’ said Anton. ‘I now declare the meeting open. First item. Party Work. And now I propose to spea
k unless anybody objects.’ He did not pause for objections. ‘I propose to talk about discipline. Discipline in a group like this is voluntary. There is no means of enforcing it. But what is the use of making collective agreements if they are not kept. It is an insult to the Party.’ He turned to Jasmine. ‘Comrade, if you and Comrade Tommy had come away from that meeting in time to be here, would anything have been lost by it – except, of course, your enjoyment at seeing all the bourgeoisie popping up and down in their seats and applauding every time the Soviet Union was mentioned just for the sake of applauding.’

  ‘I can’t understand why we bother to organize these meetings if you despise the people who come to them,’ said Marie.

  ‘It’s not a question of despising, it is a question of assessing a situation rightly. Well, Comrade Jasmine?’

  Jasmine said: ‘You are quite correct. I apologize to the whole group and promise not to let it happen again.’

  ‘Comrade Tommy?’

  Tommy muttered something, banging the top of his head with his fist.

  ‘So that’s Comrade Jasmine and Comrade Tommy accounted for. Comrade Murdoch is drunk; there is no excuse for that. Comrades Marie and Piet have apologized. There are five RAF comrades not here. Let us hope they have a good reason.’

  ‘They are down in the Coloured Quarter,’ said one of the RAF men. He had just joined the group: a big-boned, hollowcheeked, passionately serious youth from London, Jimmy Jones, who tended to make violent rhetorical speeches as if at a public meeting. ‘They seem to have made valuable contacts in the Quarter.’

  ‘And who took a decision that their contacts are more important than group discipline?’

  Jimmy said obstinately: ‘They are good contacts. They should be maintained.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Anton. He turned to Martha: ‘You have not fulfilled your duties as Literature Secretary because of your work with The Watchdog. The correct way to deal with such problems is to come to the group, say you have too much work, and get the work reallocated. Not to leave the work undone.’

  At this, Bill Bluett, always derisive about Martha when he met her outside the group meetings, looked sympathetically at her and said: ‘Comrade Matty’s doing good work in the Coloured Quarter.’

  ‘The Coloured Quarter, yes, yes, yes. But we decided selling The Watchdog there would be allocated one afternoon a week. How many afternoons have you all spent running like chickens around the Quarter? And why?’

  ‘There are so many things to do: people in trouble, and the women want advice about their children.’

  ‘You are supposed to be selling The Watchdog and not having a social life.’

  At this everyone exclaimed, and Bill said: ‘Communists should enter into the lives and the problems of the working people. That is what Comrade Matty is doing. And by the way, the group will have to raise two pounds tonight for a bloke with rent trouble – fork out.’

  ‘Comrade Bill,’ said Anton.

  ‘Comrade Anton,’ said Bill, grinning, and not pleasantly.

  ‘How many Coloured people are there in this Colony? A few thousand. They are unimportant, economically and politically. We can sell The Watchdog around the Coloured Quarter from now until doomsday but unless the numbers or the economic position of the Coloured people alter, they will never be a political force.’

  Bill nodded, and remained silent.

  ‘Do you agree with my assessment of the Coloured people? I seem to remember it was you who made the analysis for us?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bill reluctantly.

  ‘And may I expect you to draw the correct conclusions from it? We agreed that in principle our work should be done among the Africans who are the proletariat of this country. But that in view of the fact we have no contact at the moment with the Africans, since the political structure is such that no white person can easily make contact, we must work in the progressive white organizations and with the Coloured who are physically accessible. And we decided that one afternoon selling The Watchdog would be adequate.’

  Here Jimmy burst out: ‘I agree we should go among the Africans, we’re wasting our time, my complaint about the work of this group is that we spend all our time with the white people. They’re all bourgeois and a waste of time.’ At this there was an outburst of agreement from the three RAF men, Bill, Andrew, and Jimmy who reinforced his words with emphatic nods and exclamations.

  ‘Comrades,’ said Anton patiently, ‘you were all here when we analysed the class situation in this country – well, weren’t you?’

  Silence.

  ‘And from that analysis we drew certain conclusions and with those conclusions we all agreed, and took a vote on them.’

  An uncomfortable and uneasy silence.

  ‘Well, comrades? Is it that you wish us to make a fresh analysis?’

  ‘Jesus, no,’ said Jimmy angrily.

  ‘And what does that mean? That such analyses are unnecessary?’

  Jimmy said stubbornly: ‘All I know is that we have developed good relations with a number of the Coloured people. They are working people, like us – or some of us. We understand each other. And Comrade Matty has been doing good work. Why throw it away? I don’t see it.’

  ‘I shall put the question formally,’ said Anton. ‘Do you wish us to pass a resolution that we should make a fresh analysis of the class forces of this country, and, based on that fresh analysis, review our work?’

  ‘No,’ said Jimmy heatedly. ‘No, hell, no.’

  ‘In that case, logically, the previous decisions stand. Matty will spend one afternoon in a week selling The Watchdog from house to house in the Coloured area. The RAF comrades may help her if necessary. None of you will get involved with rent problems, birth-control problems, or any other such problems. And we shall from now on not only resolve to be punctual, but in fact be punctual. Now, next item on the agenda.’

  ‘Literature,’ said Jasmine.

  ‘Just a minute, comrades,’ said Marie du Preez. She faced Anton. Her tone combined anxiety and a sort of easy maternal warmth for him, as if she could only subdue her disapproval of him by a tone of voice she might have used to a child.

  ‘Comrade Marie,’ said Piet impatiently.

  ‘I’m not happy about it. But I would find it hard to say why. Logically I agree with you. When you put it logically no one could disagree. But humanly – there is something wrong. Certain comrades here have made real friendly contacts with the Coloured people, and now you say it should all be thrown up and cut short – they are human beings and so are we.’

  ‘Comrade Marie, the work of a communist party in any given country is based on an intellectual analysis of the class structure, the class forces in that country at a given time. It is not based on individual and private feelings. Otherwise it’s not a communist party at all.’

  Marie frowned, and at last said stubbornly: ‘I’ve told you I can’t argue with you intellectually. But I feel you are wrong.’

  Her husband, Piet, who had been grinning throughout this exchange, now let out a great laugh, and said: ‘Women. She feels it is wrong, and so that’s enough.’

  His wife said: ‘That’s enough from you.’

  ‘I resent that,’ said Marjorie. ‘I demand Comrade Piet should withdraw his remark unconditionally.’

  ‘And I too,’ said Martha heatedly.

  ‘And I,’ said jasmine.

  ‘I withdraw,’ said Piet, still grinning.

  ‘You aren’t really withdrawing at all,’ said Marjorie. ‘You’re just humouring us. You’re showing a bad attitude towards women.’

  Anton said: ‘Comrade Marjorie, he has formally withdrawn.’

  ‘Formally,’ said Marjorie.

  The women looked with resentment at the big, good-natured, laughing trade unionist, who was trying hard to look contrite.

  Suddenly Andrew took his pipe out of his mouth and said, also grinning: ‘Comrades, I have to catch the station bus in half an hour and so have the lads.’

  ‘
OK,’ said Marjorie. ‘I see that Comrade Andrew shares Comrade Piet’s attitude.’

  ‘As for Comrade Piet,’ said Marie, looking at her husband, ‘I’ll fix him later.’

  ‘Well?’ said Anton, ‘have we now dealt with this important problem?’

  ‘I hope,’ said Marjorie, ‘you are not suggesting it is unimportant.’

  ‘As chairman,’ said Anton, ‘I now propose we take the second item on the agenda. Literature.’

  Jasmine said: ‘The position is we have four cases of pamphlets from Voks in Moscow. I consider their style is quite unsuited to our present conditions.’

  There was another chorus of agreement. It seemed everyone had seen the pamphlets. But on every face was a look of discomfort: they felt disloyal at having to criticize the Soviet Union: more, they felt subtly betrayed, and even threatened.

  Anton said calmly: ‘I have studied the pamphlets and I agree that the comrades in Moscow are out of touch with our needs and have sent us unsuitable propaganda. I propose we write a serious letter explaining why and suggesting lines on which they might frame more suitable pamphlets.’

  ‘They never answer letters,’ said Jasmine, bringing out this fresh criticism of the beloved country with an effort.

  They probably have more important things to do than worry about the problems of Zambesia,’ said Anton.

  ‘Then why do they bother to send the pamphlets at all?’ said Marjorie.

  Anton said coldly: ‘I suggest this is not such a very serious problem. Next item on the agenda.’

  ‘I consider you are dealing with this meeting in a very high-handed manner,’ said Bill Bluett suddenly.

  ‘So do I,’ said Jimmy, who was sitting clenched up, frowning, his big red hands trembling with excitement on his knees.

  Anton said: ‘There are twenty minutes before the RAF comrades must leave, and eight items still remaining on the agenda. We will have to cut political instruction because punctuality is not considered important by the comrades.’

  ‘I still think you are high-handed,’ said Bill.

  ‘In that case I suggest you elect another chairman?’

  Anton sounded huffy and impatient, and Marjorie said: ‘I consider your attitude towards Bill’s remark incorrect.’