Birth of Our Power by Victor Serge Richard Greeman Page A

Afterward—they all hope to escape to Argentina; for they have a vocation for collective martyrdom and an individual love of self-preservation. But it doesn’t make any difference. The main thing is to begin. Action has its own laws. Once things get started, when it’s no longer possible to turn back, they’ll do—we’ll all do—what must be done … What will it be? I haven’t any idea, Comrade. But certainly a whole lot of things we don’t even suspect …”
    â€œYou have to burn your boats. If Cortes hadn’t burned his, his conquistadores would have re-embarked like cowards. Burn your boats …”
    â€œIn 1902 we held the city for seven days. In 1909 we held out for three days, without, moreover, finding anything better to do than burn a few churches. There were no leaders, no plans, no guiding ideas. Now, all we need are a couple of weeks to make us practically invincible.”
    Indeed? Obviously Dario wasn’t saying everything he was thinking. Had he really thought it out himself? He made us explain the Russian events to him while he wrinkled his brows like a schoolboy having trouble following the lesson. Then, suddenly erect, joyful:
    â€œI’ve got a feeling we’re going to catch up with the Russians! That would be beautiful, Europe burning at both ends!”
    Dario often slept in that dwelling, after secret meetings that might last until the hour when the city of pleasure lighted its lamps: a fiery glow mounting above the gloomy convent from the brightly lit streets. Couples entwined along the street, standing motionless in front of the old doors with their wrought-iron knockers. From his balcony, Dario would lean out over them for a few moments, breathing in the throbbing freshness of the night, stretching his great arms (capable of carrying two-hundred-pound loads), mouthing a cry of power and fatigue which had to be repressed. He would totter back into the room where a shade-less oil lamp was burning on the table among the wine glasses and the remains of supper. With the indolent step of a tired cat he crossed through that feeble yellowish light and entered a sort of dark closet built under the stairway, where there was just enough room for a chair and a bedstead. It was there that he lay down, without a light, cramped as if in a dungeon, a Browning at his bedside.
    But sometimes a mouse like noise made him stretch out his hand and draw open the bolt. Then Lolita would slip in next to him, naked under her red-and-blue striped Indian mantle (the colors invisible in the dark), svelte and cool, yet burning. She pressed herself close to him without speaking a word. He sought her face and found only her ardent lips. “Let me look at you,” he said. He struck a phosphorus match against the wall. A sputtering blue star, hissing and spidery, burst into flame at his fingertips: her delicate, soft-toned face—with its huge dark eyes, each now lighted by a spark, shining from out of their deep-set, dusky orbits—was nestled in the hollow of his arm, with a poor, gentle, worried smile. Dario gazed at it until the ephemeral light singeing his fingers went out. They made love in total darkness—in silence, for he was hurried and tired, and she always felt on the verge of losing him.

    5    Francisco Ferrer, executed October 13, 1909, at Montjuich. A libertarian teacher, he happened to be in Barcelona during the general strike which had forced the government to flee. Accused—without the slightest evidence—of fomenting the whole rebellion, his trial and execution sparked a worldwide protest movement similar to the Sacco-Vanzetti movement a generation later. —Tr.

SEVEN
The Trap, Power, the King
    AT THAT PRECISE MOMENT A TELEPHONE RANG IN THE LARGE, QUIET OFFICES of the Deputy Commissioner of the Security Police, a stubborn old civil servant with the smooth, hairless face of an actor. Don Felipe Sarria put down his