Krauss put the package of cigarettes on the floor, waved, and marched out the door.
The nine men were taken upstairs to a high-vaulted cave lit by sooty lamps and candlelight. They saw their own shadows on the walls and heard their comrades below in the basement, laughing and retching and throwing up the wine. General Krauss sat hunched over a little table raised on a platform with a group of judges: the Spanish commissar, who knew only Spanish; the French commissar, who knew only French; the Russian commissar, who knew only Russian; and the Bulgarian commissar, who knew Russian well. Four interpreters sat beside Krauss. Pohoric sat off to the side.
The men waited in the flickering light for the trial to begin. The minutes passed, and many of the men sprawled on the floor and began to snore. Sammy, sober, remained alert.
Krauss began to speak in German. After each sentence, the first interpreter translated into Spanish, the second into French, the third into Russian, and the fourth into Bulgarian.
Krauss said, “Comrades, the reason these Americans are so weak is that they do not have any proletarian history whatsoever, whereas the German working class, the European working classes have a mighty proletarian tradition developed over the centuries. It’s simple. These poor Americans are not individually culprits—”
Sammy raised his hand. “Tovarishch” Sammy said, “look, you’re trying a group of Americans. The language of America is English. Now the least any court could do is provide an interpreter for the defendants. Am I asking too much?”
“Ach, not important,” Pohoric said, wriggling his fingers.
But the jury conferred for a moment. The Bulgarian addressed Sammy. “Look, you understand Russian. That’s enough. We’re not going to cater to you damn Americans.”
Sammy leaned down to the other men and told them what the Bulgarian had said. He had to shake some of them to make sure they heard him. “Aw, fuck this shit,” said Rob Mason, a steelworker from Youngstown. “Let them get it over with.”
Krauss cleared his throat and continued. “Comrades, I was contrasting the measly American working class with our splendid German workers. The German progressive tradition goes back to the Bauern-Kriege, the peasant wars. As early as the sixteenth century and the time of the Reformation, the peasants and artisans of Germany formed their own militias and fought against the city bourgeoisie, yah. That, comrades, is tradition. Let me describe for you the nature of the battles throughout our glorious German history that illustrate my thesis.”
Krauss spent an hour and a half on his illustrations, pointing his finger at the Americans, concluding his sentences with “Yah!” and occasionally stamping his foot, making the candles shudder. Some of the interpreters also stamped their feet. The men beside Sammy were snoring, and from below in the basement, he heard chairs thrown and dishes breaking and the roar of voices drunkenly shouting.
“Viva el ejercito popular!”
“Viva las Brigadas Internationales!”
“Viva la victoria final!”
“It is illuminating, comrades,” Krauss droned on, “that the German working class and the German general staff were one and the same, for one reason, holding to the current ideological perspective: it was in the interests of the bourgeoisie, and in the interest of the nobility to keep the motherland united, yah yah yah! You get it? The only elements that stood for German unity were the peasants and workers of Germany! This advanced consciousness continued all through the eighteenth century.”
Whatever Krauss was saying, Sammy noticed that each interpreter diluted it further until little of his meaning, such as it was, came through. Thus, the Spanish translation was: “Krauts are all pals, yah yah yah! They stick together, always, Bolsheviks and Stalin’s goody-goodies. So get on the wagon and push!”
The French version went: “The boche bastards are all
The nine men were taken upstairs to a high-vaulted cave lit by sooty lamps and candlelight. They saw their own shadows on the walls and heard their comrades below in the basement, laughing and retching and throwing up the wine. General Krauss sat hunched over a little table raised on a platform with a group of judges: the Spanish commissar, who knew only Spanish; the French commissar, who knew only French; the Russian commissar, who knew only Russian; and the Bulgarian commissar, who knew Russian well. Four interpreters sat beside Krauss. Pohoric sat off to the side.
The men waited in the flickering light for the trial to begin. The minutes passed, and many of the men sprawled on the floor and began to snore. Sammy, sober, remained alert.
Krauss began to speak in German. After each sentence, the first interpreter translated into Spanish, the second into French, the third into Russian, and the fourth into Bulgarian.
Krauss said, “Comrades, the reason these Americans are so weak is that they do not have any proletarian history whatsoever, whereas the German working class, the European working classes have a mighty proletarian tradition developed over the centuries. It’s simple. These poor Americans are not individually culprits—”
Sammy raised his hand. “Tovarishch” Sammy said, “look, you’re trying a group of Americans. The language of America is English. Now the least any court could do is provide an interpreter for the defendants. Am I asking too much?”
“Ach, not important,” Pohoric said, wriggling his fingers.
But the jury conferred for a moment. The Bulgarian addressed Sammy. “Look, you understand Russian. That’s enough. We’re not going to cater to you damn Americans.”
Sammy leaned down to the other men and told them what the Bulgarian had said. He had to shake some of them to make sure they heard him. “Aw, fuck this shit,” said Rob Mason, a steelworker from Youngstown. “Let them get it over with.”
Krauss cleared his throat and continued. “Comrades, I was contrasting the measly American working class with our splendid German workers. The German progressive tradition goes back to the Bauern-Kriege, the peasant wars. As early as the sixteenth century and the time of the Reformation, the peasants and artisans of Germany formed their own militias and fought against the city bourgeoisie, yah. That, comrades, is tradition. Let me describe for you the nature of the battles throughout our glorious German history that illustrate my thesis.”
Krauss spent an hour and a half on his illustrations, pointing his finger at the Americans, concluding his sentences with “Yah!” and occasionally stamping his foot, making the candles shudder. Some of the interpreters also stamped their feet. The men beside Sammy were snoring, and from below in the basement, he heard chairs thrown and dishes breaking and the roar of voices drunkenly shouting.
“Viva el ejercito popular!”
“Viva las Brigadas Internationales!”
“Viva la victoria final!”
“It is illuminating, comrades,” Krauss droned on, “that the German working class and the German general staff were one and the same, for one reason, holding to the current ideological perspective: it was in the interests of the bourgeoisie, and in the interest of the nobility to keep the motherland united, yah yah yah! You get it? The only elements that stood for German unity were the peasants and workers of Germany! This advanced consciousness continued all through the eighteenth century.”
Whatever Krauss was saying, Sammy noticed that each interpreter diluted it further until little of his meaning, such as it was, came through. Thus, the Spanish translation was: “Krauts are all pals, yah yah yah! They stick together, always, Bolsheviks and Stalin’s goody-goodies. So get on the wagon and push!”
The French version went: “The boche bastards are all
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