Spain in our hearts americans in the spanish civil war 1936 1939 2016 1st edition adam hochschild -
Spain in Our Hearts Americans in the Spanish Civil War 1936 1939 2016 1st Edition Adam Hochschild
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The battle for Spain: the Spanish Civil War, 1936-1939
Friend or Foe Occupation Collaboration and Selective Violence in the Spanish Civil War Canada Blanch Sussex Academic Studies on Contemporary Spain Peter Anderson
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
Where place names have a common rendering in English, I have used them, such as Majorca, Navarre, Seville, Aragon, Cordova, Catalonia, and Saragossa. Where today’s maps show Basque or Catalan town or street names, I have nonetheless used the Spanish version when that is how the name appears in writings from the civil war era; hence Guernica, Marsa, the Ramblas, and so on. Some errors in Spanish words or phrases quoted by American journalists and volunteers have been silently corrected, but I have not altered the occasionally erratic English spelling and punctuation of their letters and diaries.
Prologue: Far from Home
DAYBREAK, APRIL 4, 1938. Shivering, exhausted, and naked, two bedraggled swimmers climb out of the freezing water and onto the bank of Spain’s Ebro River, which is swollen with melted snow from the Pyrenees. Both men are Americans.
The country is in flames. For nearly two years, the fractious but democratically elected government of the Spanish Republic has been defending itself against a military uprising led by Francisco Franco and backed by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. Franco, who has given himself the title of Generalissimo, has a framed photograph of Adolf Hitler on his desk and has spoken of Germany as “a model which we will always keep before us.” The skies above the Ebro this dawn are dark with warplanes, state-of-the-art fighters and bombers, flown by German pilots, that the Führer has sent the Generalissimo. On the ground, tanks and soldiers from Italy, some of the nearly 80,000 troops the dictator Benito Mussolini will loan Franco, have helped launch the greatest offensive of the war. A powerful drive from the western two thirds of the country, which Franco controls, its goal is to reach the Mediterranean, splitting the remaining territory of the Spanish Republic in two.
Franco’s prolonged battle for power is the fiercest conflict in Europe since the First World War, marked by a vindictive savagery not seen even then. His forces have bombed cities into rubble, tortured political opponents, murdered people for belonging to labor unions, machine-gunned hospital wards full of wounded, branded Republican women on their breasts with the emblem of his movement, and carried out death sentences with the garrote, a medieval iron collar used to strangle its victim.
Battered by the new offensive, the Republic’s soldiers are retreating chaotically, streaming eastward before Franco’s troops, tanks, and bombers. In some places, his rapidly advancing units
have leapfrogged ahead. The Republican forces include thousands of volunteers from other countries, many of them Americans. Some have already been killed. Franco has just announced that any foreign volunteers taken prisoner will be shot.
Cutting through rugged mountainous country in Spain’s northeast, the fast-flowing Ebro, the country’s largest river, marks the line between death and safety: the east bank is still in Republican hands. Small clusters of American volunteers, trapped behind the lines, have succeeded in slipping past Franco’s troops by night, navigating by the North Star. After three days with little sleep, pursued by soldiers, tanks, and cavalry guided by spotter planes circling overhead, they reach the Ebro before dawn, near a point where a bridge appears on the map. The bridge, they discover, has been blown up, and there are no boats. A few of those who cannot swim desperately tear a door from an abandoned farmhouse to use as a raft; other nonswimmers enter the river clinging to a log. Swept away by the current, at least six—four of whom are wounded—will drown.
Three remaining Americans who can swim strip off their boots and all their clothing and plunge into the icy water. One of them lands far downstream, but two young New Yorkers, John Gates and George Watt, who has a sprained ankle and a shrapnel wound in his hand, wade out of the water together on the far side. As morning breaks, they head east, hoping to find someone who can tell them where the remnants of their unit might be. “We walk stark naked and barefoot over a seemingly endless stretch of sharp stones and burrs that cut our feet,” Watt remembered. “We are shivering from the cold, and our feet are bleeding when we reach the highway. . . . A truck comes down the road. I wonder what must be going through the mind of the driver, seeing two naked men standing on the highway. He hands us a couple of blankets and drives away.”
Gates recalled the next moment this way: “Hungry and exhausted, I felt I could not take another step. . . . We lay down on the side of the road, with no idea of who might come along, too beat to care. . . . Suddenly a car drove up, stopped and out stepped two
men. Nobody ever looked better to me in all my life. . . . We hugged one another.”
In the black two-seater Matford roadster are a NewYorkTimes correspondent, Herbert L. Matthews, and Ernest Hemingway, who is covering the war for the North American Newspaper Alliance. “The writers gave us the good news of the many friends who were safe,” Gates wrote, “and we told them the bad news of some who were not.” Hemingway and Matthews had often reported on the American volunteers in Spain and knew some of them well. Many are now missing, including Major Robert Merriman of California, chief of staff of the XV International Brigade, last seen some ten miles away leading a party of soldiers about to be encircled by Franco’s troops. None of the four men by the river have any news of his fate.
“There are hundreds of men still across the Ebro,” wrote Watt. “Many are dead; some are drowned. How many captured? We have no idea. Matthews is busy taking notes. Hemingway is busy cursing the Fascists.” The novelist’s notorious strut and bluster were on full display, though his audience consisted only of two wet, shivering men wearing nothing but blankets. “Facing the other side of the river,” as Gates remembered it, “Hemingway shook his burly fist. ‘You fascist bastards haven’t won yet,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll show you!’”
The war in which these four Americans encountered each other near a riverbank so far from home was a pivotal event in Spain’s history. At the time it was also seen as a moral and political touchstone, a world war in embryo, in a Europe shadowed by the rapid ascent of fascism. Roughly 2,800 Americans fought in the Spanish Civil War, an estimated 750 of them dying there—a far higher death rate than the US military suffered in any of its twentieth-century wars. For many veterans it would be the defining experience of their lives, as it would be for some American correspondents. “Wherever in this world I meet a man or woman who fought for Spanish liberty,” Herbert Matthews wrote years later, “I meet a kindred soul.” Despite the conventions of American journalism, reporters can feel as partisan as anybody else. In this war all pretense otherwise often vanished: as Republican troops fled Franco’s deadly offensive that
spring, Matthews and his counterpart from the NewYorkHerald Tribuneboth sent personal telegrams to President Franklin D. Roosevelt begging him to send the Republic arms.
The Second World War has largely eclipsed the earlier conflict in our collective memory, but at the time, tens of millions of Americans followed news of it intently. While the fighting lasted, from mid-1936 to early 1939, the NewYorkTimesran more than 1,000 front-page headlines about the war in Spain—outnumbering those on any other single topic, including President Roosevelt, the rise of Nazi Germany, or the calamitous toll of the Great Depression. While their government adamantly refused to intervene in Spain, many Americans were deeply involved—on both sides. For example, the fuel for those Nazi aircraft bombing and strafing the American volunteers came from Texas, sold to Franco by a swashbuckling American oilman with a penchant for right-wing dictators.
My own introduction to the war came in the mid-1960s when I was a cub reporter on the SanFranciscoChronicle.Two older journalists at the paper were veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, as the several units of American volunteers informally came to be called. I remember asking one of them, who had driven an ambulance in Spain, how he looked back on the war. Over the clatter of manual typewriters and teletype machines and the whoosh of pneumatic tubes that carried our stories to the typesetters, he said with great feeling, so unlike the usual banter of the newsroom, “I wish we’d won.”
The Spanish Republic lost the war, of course, and that loss has cast a certain shadow over the conflict ever since. The aura of knowing things will end in defeat pervades the best-known novel of the war, Hemingway’s ForWhomtheBellTolls, published the year after Franco’s victory. More than any other event of its era, the Spanish Civil War invites “What if?” questions. What if the Western democracies had sold Republican Spain the arms it repeatedly, urgently tried to buy? Might these have been enough to defeat the aircraft, submarines, and troops dispatched by Hitler and Mussolini? And if so, would Hitler still have sent his troops into Austria, Czechoslovakia, and finally some dozen other countries? Could the
Second World War in Europe, with its tens of millions of deaths and untold suffering, have been avoided? Or might it at least have unfolded in some different, more limited way?
Few American volunteers doubted that they were fighting the first battle of a world war to come, and they were right: where else, after all, were Americans being bombed by Nazi pilots more than four years before the United States declared war on Germany and Japan? In other countries as well, many felt the Spanish war to be the era’s testing ground. “Men of my generation,” wrote the French novelist Albert Camus, “have had Spain in our hearts. . . . It was there that they learned . . . that one can be right and yet be beaten, that force can vanquish spirit, and that there are times when courage is not rewarded.”
There seemed a moral clarity about the crisis in Spain. Rapidly advancing fascism cried out for defiance; if not here, where? This is why so many men from around the world volunteered to fight, and why, decades later, I saw Lincoln Brigade veterans enthusiastically cheered when they appeared in demonstrations for civil rights or against the Vietnam War in the 1960s, or against US intervention in Central America in the 1980s. Over time, I met half a dozen former volunteers, and was friends with two for many years. (Only in writing this book did I realize that yet another, Dr. Jacques Grunblatt, who appears only briefly in these pages, was the surgeon who once stitched me up after an accident when I was a boy.) Imagining myself in their shoes became still easier when I discovered that the couple whom you’ll meet in the first chapter lived, when the husband was a graduate student at Berkeley in the 1930s, only a few blocks from where I do today, in a building I’ve walked past hundreds of times. All of us who care about social justice feel a need for political ancestors, and surely, it seems, that’s what these men and women—some 75 American women, mostly nurses, volunteered in Spain—were.
I felt this as strongly as did other members of the ’60s generation. Anyone’s interest in a time and place usually springs from wondering: what would I have done then? I often liked to believe that, had I been alive in that era, I, too, would have gone to Spain.
Yet I also knew that the story had a darker, less romantic side. For the only major country that did sell arms to the Spanish Republic was the Soviet Union, and it exacted a considerable price in return. Some Spaniards became victims of the ruthlessness against his enemies, real and imaginary, that was such a hallmark of Joseph Stalin’s dictatorship.
In a most unexpected place, I once encountered a vivid reminder of the toll that his paranoia took. In 1991, I was researching a book on how Russians were coming to terms with Stalin’s legacy. Just that year, as the Soviet Union was swiftly falling apart, the authorities finally lifted decades of restrictions on where foreign journalists could travel, so I was able to visit a place few Westerners had previously seen, Karaganda, in Kazakhstan. That remote, decrepit city of crumbling gray and brown concrete had once been the center of a huge network of gulaglabor camps for prisoners put to work mining coal. In a desolate rural cemetery, some miles outside of town, years of freezing and thawing had left stark, homemade metal crosses tilted or flat on the ground. Electric power lines crossed above them, and scraps of plastic bags and garbage blew in the constant wind of the Central Asian steppes. To my surprise, many graves had Spanish names.
The USSR, I learned, had taken in several thousand Republican refugees, many of them children. In addition, when the war ended, Spanish sailors on ships in Soviet ports and several hundred Spanish pilots in training were unable to return home. Like millions of Soviets, a number of these Spaniards fell victim to Stalin’s suspicions. An estimated 270 Spanish Republicans were sent to the gulag, many dying there of starvation, exhaustion, or exposure. At least 60 were imprisoned near the cemetery I saw, in a crowded labor camp surrounded by three high, concentric fences of barbed wire.
How do we reconcile these two pictures of the Spanish Civil War? Surely Spaniards were right to resist a coup backed by Hitler and Mussolini. But did the Republic become doomed by its entanglement with the Soviet Union, whose government was at least as murderous as the Franco regime? Defenders of the Republic were, in short,
fighting for one of the finest of causes beside one of the nastiest of allies. How did they experience this? How much were they even aware of it? Or, if you’re in a desperate battle for survival, do you have the luxury of worrying about who your allies are? These were among the questions that long made me want to explore this period of history.
Most of the Americans who went to Spain considered themselves Communists, and we cannot understand them without understanding why communism then had such a powerful appeal and why the Soviet Union seemed a beacon of hope to so many. The funeral of one of my Lincoln Brigade friends, 65 years after he left Spain and 45 years after he left the US Communist Party, was the first time I ever heard the “Internationale.” Once it had been the anthem of the world Communist movement; now it was a tune sung by a few old men struggling to remember the words and, perhaps, the youthful dream they had once evoked.
Today communism, Trotskyism, and anarchism have generally lost their hold, and the old arguments among their followers can sometimes feel as remote as medieval religious disputes. Vanished also is the widespread conviction that the capitalist system was in crisis and could endure no longer, and that a blueprint for the future existed, even if there were quarrels over whose blueprint was right. While much of that feels distant now, other aspects of 1930s Spain still seem all too similar to many countries today: the great gap between rich and poor, and the struggle between an authoritarian dictatorship and millions of powerless people long denied their fair share of land, education, and so much more. These things make Spain of the 1930s, a crucial battleground of its time, a resonant one for ours as well.
I wondered about something else too. For more than half a century now, many members of my own political generation have been strongly opposed to war, and especially to American intervention in the civil wars or internal affairs of other countries, whether in Vietnam, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Iraq, or almost anywhere else. Yet most of us have long thought the world would have been better off if our government had not stood aside from the
Spanish Civil War. We’ve regarded as heroes an earlier generation of Americans who went off to fight in it. This raises the question: are there times when military involvement in a distant conflict is justified?
This was certainly the only time so many Americans joined someone else’s civil war—and they did so even though their own government made strenuous efforts to stop them. They came from nearly every state in the Union and included rich and poor, Ivy League graduates, and men who had ridden freight trains in search of work. What made them go? What did they learn—about themselves, about war, about the country they had signed up to defend and the one they had left? Did any have later regrets?
There were also Americans, I discovered as I began exploring this era, who were drawn to Spain not by the fight that the Lincolns were waging, but by a far less publicized social revolution happening behind the lines. One, who reached Spain months before any of the Lincoln volunteers, was a fiery young Kentucky woman on her honeymoon.
I was curious about another group of people as well. As a journalist who has often reported from abroad, on occasion from conflict zones, I wanted to take a close look at the muchmythologized American reporters who covered the war. Did Matthews, Hemingway, and their colleagues get the story right? Did their passionate feelings—it’s normally unheard of for correspondents in the field to send telegrams to the White House— skew their reporting? What did they miss?
And so I decided to explore the lives of Americans involved in the Spanish Civil War. I have widened the circle slightly to include three Englishmen: one fought with the Americans, one against them, and a third is familiar to all American readers. What follows is not a full history of the war, or even of American involvement in it. It is, rather, the story of a collection of people whose paths took them an ocean away from home during a violent time. History does not come neatly packaged, and some of these men and women, however courageous, had beliefs that seem illusions to us today; idealism and bravery, after all, are not always synonymous with wisdom. Still, it
was deeply moving to get to know them, and to wonder again what I might or might not have done in their place and time. Looking into their lives took me to meetings with their descendants, to libraries and archives, to a few documents long tucked away in closets or drawers, and finally to the banks of the Ebro River.
PART I
Chasing Moneychangers from the Temple
IN A STATE that was largely brown desert, the wide lawns of the University of Nevada stood out like a green oasis. On a bluff overlooking Reno, tree-shaded red-brick buildings were laced with vines and dotted with cupolas and windows in white frames. Spread around a small lake, the school had an Ivy League look that would make it a favorite location for Hollywood films set on campuses.
Six feet two and a half inches tall, sandy-haired, rangy, and handsome, Robert Merriman was working his way through college. He held jobs at a local funeral home, as a fraternity house manager, and as a salesman at J. C. Penney, where he used his employee discount to buy his clothes. Growing up in California, he had already spent several years in a paper mill and as a lumberjack—his father’s trade—between high school and college. Along the way, he had also worked in a cement plant and on a cattle ranch. Once enrolled at Nevada, he discovered he could earn an extra $8.50 a month by signing up for the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, or ROTC, whose cadets wore cavalry-era dress uniforms including riding boots and jodhpurs. He also found time to play end on the campus football team, and then, when an injury forced him to stop, to become a cheerleader. Indeed, for the rest of his life there would remain something of the clean-cut cheerleader about him.
Bob Merriman met Marion Stone at a dance just before their freshman year. On the first day of school he spotted her as he was driving by in a small Dodge convertible, braked, and called out, “Climb in! We’re going places.” Slender, attractive, and half a head shorter than he, Marion was the daughter of an alcoholic restaurant
chef. She, too, had worked for two years after high school and, like millions of other people, had then lost her savings in a bank failure. She was supporting herself as a secretary and by cooking and cleaning for the family who owned the mortuary where Bob worked.
Marion lived most of her college years in a sorority house. By her account, campus courting was a chaste affair: dancing, kissing, and perhaps an occasional daring visit to a Prohibition-era speakeasy. She was chosen “Honorary Major” of the University Military Ball that Bob staged with his ROTC friends, and he splurged some of his hardearned money to buy her slippers and a taffeta gown. On the morning of graduation day in May 1932, they received their degrees and Bob his commission as a second lieutenant in the Army Reserve. They were married that afternoon. Afterward they drove through the Sierra Nevada to a borrowed cottage on the shore of Lake Tahoe and went to bed together at last. It was, she says, the first time for each of them.
That fall, encouraged by one of his Nevada professors who had spotted his talent, Bob Merriman enrolled as a graduate student in economics at the University of California at Berkeley. In a country gripped by the worst depression in its history, with nearly a quarter of the population out of work, no subject seemed more vital. Berkeley leaned to the left, but with millions of homeless Americans living in “Hooverville” shacks of corrugated iron, tarpaper, cinderblocks, or old packing cases—in New York, one Hooverville sprouted close to Wall Street and another in Central Park—you didn’t have to be a leftist to wonder: was there a better way?
Franklin D. Roosevelt entered the Oval Office during Merriman’s first year at Berkeley, voicing in his inaugural address a near-biblical radicalism seldom heard from an American president before or since: “Practices of the unscrupulous moneychangers stand indicted. . . . The moneychangers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of the restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit.” Some of the moneychangers seemed uneasy. The financier J. P. Morgan Jr., heir to a vast banking fortune, put his yacht in mothballs, writing a
friend, “There are so many suffering from lack of work, and even from actual hunger, that it is both wiser and kinder not to flaunt such luxuriant amusement.”
Funds were tight for the newlyweds. For several months, Marion could not afford to leave a new job she had in Nevada. A stream of letters and an occasional love poem from Bob to his “Dearest girl of all” assured her of how much he missed her: “Love and please hurry. I’m tired of living alone and need you and you alone.” At the same time, he kept a wary eye on their finances: “I am very much in favor of your coming down over the holidays if you can make it. However, if there is any possibility of spending much money doing it we had better not try.”
He shared with her his excitement at being on a far more sophisticated campus: “One room in the library is like a handsome club room of some sort. Soft armchairs and all.” It was thrilling for him to become an instructor of undergraduates and to get to know fellow graduate students who had come long distances to study in his department, including a young Canadian named John Kenneth Galbraith. “The most popular of my generation of graduate students at Berkeley” was how Galbraith would remember Merriman. “Later he was to show himself the bravest.”
Bob took a bed in a rooming house while searching for an affordable place for the couple to live. “Since my arrival here,” he wrote to Marion, “I have looked at, at least, fifty apartments. . . . Last nite I left the library early . . . and searched some more. I found one that I consider we can’t beat. . . . So I put down $5 deposit and shall move in tomorrow afternoon. . . . They charge $20 a month so it is no palace neither is it a shack. . . . I have been a trifle skimpy on rations but I’m eating more now all of the books are paid for. I am feeling like a million and just dying to have my sweetheart join me soon.”
Before long she did, in the one-room studio Bob had found five minutes’ walk north of the campus, equipped with a Murphy bed that unfolded from the wall. Despite the Great Depression, Marion seemed to have a knack for landing on her feet and finding work. She first took a job as a bank secretary, then clerked at a
housewares store in San Francisco, to which she commuted by trolley car and ferry. Even with little money, married life was a delight. “Bob invented a mischievous game in which we would sneak into the luxurious Nob Hill hotel, the Mark Hopkins, by pretending to be meeting someone at the bar. Once inside we danced for hours, never spending more than the price of the first drink. We got so good at it that we sometimes didn’t even order a drink.” Among their favorite tunes were “Stardust” and “Tea for Two.”
Soon three more people were crowded into the tiny apartment: on a cot in the kitchen was a graduate student without a place to live whom Bob had taken pity on; sleeping on another cot and the living room couch were Marion’s eight- and eleven-year-old sisters. Their mother had died and their hard-drinking father was incapable of caring for them. “You walked in the door and you had to crawl over a bed to get anywhere,” Marion remembered. “Bob was unflappable. He simply figured my sisters, the graduate student, and, God knows, maybe even someone else eventually, were in need; he had room, we ought to share it.” His infectious good spirits made her feel “as though I were a child running and laughing in a wild game of Follow the Leader.”
Meanwhile, the country around them simmered in misery. Thirtyfour million Americans lived in households with no wage earner. In every city, long lines of jobless men in cloth caps or Homburgs waited outside soup kitchens, but the churches and charities operating them sometimes ran out of funds and had no food to serve. Families rummaged in trash bins and garbage dumps for anything edible and tried to keep warm in winter over sidewalk hotair grates. In Pennsylvania, homeless unemployed steelworkers and their wives and children lived inside idled coke ovens. The economic abyss was deepened by a drought of historic proportions that sent millions of people streaming westward from the Great Plains under vast clouds of topsoil turned to dust. Midwestern farmers who managed to harvest a crop sometimes could find no grain elevator willing to buy it. The city of Detroit slaughtered the animals in its zoo to provide meat for the hungry. When the Empire State Building opened to great fanfare, it could rent only 20 percent of its space.
For the jobless, telephones became an unaffordable luxury: between 1930 and 1933, the number of households with phone service shrank by more than three million.
A mood of national despair was punctuated by moments when the desperate tried to seize what they needed to survive. Some 300 men and women gathered on the main street of the town of England, Arkansas, and refused to move until shop owners distributed bread and other food. In Oklahoma City, people forced their way into a grocery store and took food off the shelves, while in Minneapolis it required 100 policemen to break up a crowd doing the same thing.
Labor turned militant. More than 300,000 textile workers walked off the job in 1934 in the largest strike America had yet seen. From Maine to Georgia, clothing mill employees clashed with police, strikebreakers, and the National Guard in violence that left some dozen people dead. The Georgia governor put the whole state under martial law. Elsewhere, by the hundreds of thousands, small farmers and homeowners lost their property to foreclosure—or sometimes gathered neighbors with shotguns and refused to move.
In the summer after his first year at Berkeley, Bob Merriman worked on a Ford auto assembly line in the nearby industrial city of Richmond and was appalled to find that the workers, not even allowed bathroom breaks, were routinely splashed by battery acid. The next summer, in 1934, he would be swept into a far more political world than the one he had known in Nevada. Some 15,000 West Coast longshoremen had formed a union and, when shipping firms refused to recognize it, walked off the job. Sailors, harbor pilots, and truck drivers carrying cargo to the docks joined them. In a display of solidarity rare for that era, the strikers and their allies— whites, blacks, Chinese and Filipino Americans—marched eight abreast up San Francisco’s Market Street under a union flag.
The maritime companies hired replacements, sometimes housing them on shipboard to keep them beyond reach of the fists and boots of angry longshoremen. At Berkeley, hundreds of professors and students, like Merriman, fervently backed the strikers, while the
football coach—William Ingram, an Annapolis graduate known as “Navy Bill”—organized players to work as strikebreakers.
All major Pacific coast ports were shut down, but the heart of the battle was in San Francisco, then a rough-edged, blue-collar city and the country’s biggest union stronghold. A thousand men at a time blocked the waterfront in 12-hour shifts. Tensions rose, and any truck that tried to drive through the line of picketing workers was met by fusillades of rocks and bricks. From the hills that overlooked the wharves, thousands of San Franciscans watched the ensuing street fighting and listened to police gunfire. When tear gas grenades lit a hillside of dry grass on fire the city looked even more like a war zone. In several days of fighting, two strikers were killed and well over 100 injured people were taken to hospitals. A solemn crowd of 15,000 escorted the bodies of the dead along Market Street in silence. The San Francisco Labor Council voted, for only the second time in American history, to call a general strike. Throughout the Bay Area, nearly 130,000 people stopped working.
Some 500 special police were sworn in, and vigilante groups joined them in wrecking union offices and a kitchen feeding the strikers. The attackers smashed furniture, threw typewriters out of windows, and beat up union members and other radicals. “Reds Turn Black and Blue” ran the triumphant headline in the SanFrancisco Chronicle.Well over 250 unionists and their sympathizers were arrested, and the governor mobilized 4,500 National Guardsmen. Along the waterfront, helmeted soldiers manned sandbag barricades and a machine-gun nest.
The conflict did not bring on the revolution that many dreamed of, but the strikers won some of their demands. The union took firm root among longshoremen, and until cranes for shipping containers replaced dockworkers’ cargo hooks several decades later, it would be one of the country’s strongest. Working as a volunteer in the strike publicity office, Bob Merriman had a front-row seat at a historic labor victory.
Just as the strike was one part of Merriman’s introduction to the political strife of his day, his surroundings at Berkeley were another.
Teaching in his department, for instance, was the economist Paul Taylor, husband of the photographer Dorothea Lange; the couple went into sunbaked fields to research and publicize the dire conditions of California’s migrant farmworkers, among the poorest of the country’s poor. Berkeley was home to many others on the left: Democrats who wanted Roosevelt’s New Deal to be more farreaching, Socialists who advocated a peaceful transition to public ownership of industry, Communists, and members of a host of smaller sects.
It was hardly surprising that the Merrimans became interested in the Soviet Union. Nor were they the only Americans to feel that the USSR was worth a sympathetic look. Surely, many felt, there must be an alternative to an America where workers trying to organize risked bloody beatings and an economic system drove so many to depths of despair. Every day brought more headlines that underscored the enormity of the national crisis. Ten paroled prisoners asked to be readmitted to a penitentiary in Pennsylvania because they couldn’t find jobs. Chicago ran out of money to pay its schoolteachers. In Appalachia, men, women, and children survived on wild grass, roots, and dandelions. Capitalism, it seemed, was at last experiencing the death throes that Karl Marx had predicted. Couldn’t a planned economy, by contrast, put the unemployed to work building much-needed housing, schools, and hospitals? And wasn’t that just what they were doing in Russia?
Today we remember the American Communist Party as the handmaiden of a ruthless and ultimately failed Soviet dictatorship. But as the historian Ellen Schrecker has written, it was also “the most dynamic organization within the American Left during the 1930s and ’40s.” Thanks to its influential role in great labor battles like the San Francisco waterfront strike and its pioneering efforts to organize farmworkers, the Party had won respect from many far beyond its small membership. In a highly segregated and sexist age, it campaigned to get black Americans onto jury and voter rolls and fought for the rights of women. A New York trade unionist, who would later cross paths with Merriman in Spain, joined the Party after he saw members of its youth league defiantly carrying the
belongings and furniture of newly evicted tenement dwellers back upstairs to their apartments. “There was an organization that didn’t just talk, but actually did something.”
The national sense of crisis was so deep that, in the presidential election of 1932, 52 prominent American writers—including Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, John Dos Passos, Langston Hughes, and Edmund Wilson—announced their support for the Communist candidate for president. Even that very non-Communist chronicler of high society F. Scott Fitzgerald urged Marx on his daughter: “Read the terrible chapter in DasKapitalon TheWorking Day, and see if you are ever quite the same.”
As the ’30s went on, it only became clearer that the New Deal was doing little to pull the country out of the Depression. And elsewhere things seemed even worse. Riding a deadly wave of street violence by his brown-uniformed storm troopers, Adolf Hitler had taken power in Germany, burned books, fired Jewish professors, pulled his country out of the League of Nations, and thrown more than 50,000 Germans into “protective custody” in prisons and concentration camps. In 1934, in the “Night of the Long Knives,” he personally led the contingent of SS men who gunned down more than 100 of his enemies inside and outside the Nazi movement, including a former German chancellor; one man was murdered with pickaxes. The next year Germany dramatically stepped up its military spending and stripped citizenship and civil rights from the country’s Jews, whom propaganda chief Joseph Goebbels called “syphilis” infecting the people of Europe. In Italy, Benito Mussolini’s paramilitary Blackshirts terrorized anyone who resisted his Fascist dictatorship. On the other side of the world, a militarized imperial Japan had brutally occupied the Chinese region of Manchuria.
In many countries hit by the Depression, right and left clashed violently—and the right seemed to be winning. When revolutionminded Spanish coal miners armed with dynamite seized mines, factories, banks, and other businesses in the province of Asturias in the fall of 1934, at least 1,000 of them were slaughtered by government troops and artillery. The soldiers included the muchfeared Spanish Foreign Legion, whose men sported the sliced-off
ears of their victims on wire necklaces and sometimes cut off miners’ hands, tongues, and genitals. Rebellious miners saw their wives raped, and thousands of them were thrown in prison. The victorious troops were led by one of Europe’s youngest generals, the toughtalking Francisco Franco, whom the Associated Press referred to as “Spain’s ‘man of the hour.’”
By comparison, events in the Soviet Union sounded promising. In these apocalyptic times, it became a place onto which millions of people projected their hopes. There were no strikes—at least none that anyone in the United States heard of—and whatever other problems the new society might have, unemployment was not one of them. The Soviet economy appeared to be booming, enough so that Joseph Stalin ordered 75,000 Model A sedans from Henry Ford.
More than that: the Russians were hiring. When the government posted job openings for American engineers and technicians, in an eight-month period more than 100,000 applied. Thousands more headed for the country on tourist visas hoping to find work when they got there—enough American and British newcomers so that the weekly English-language MoscowNewswent daily. Two brothers who would later become major labor leaders, Walter and Victor Reuther, were among the tens of thousands of foreigners who found jobs in Russia, working in an auto factory in the city of Gorky. A book originally written for Soviet schoolchildren, NewRussia’s Primer:TheStoryoftheFive-YearPlan, spent seven months on the American bestseller list. “In the great financial storm that has burst on us your own ship is sinking,” the Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw told American radio listeners after returning from a visit to the USSR, “and the Russian ship is the only big one that is not rolling heavily and tapping out SOS on its wireless.”
Although he had become head teaching fellow in Berkeley’s economics department, Bob Merriman was an activist at heart. He was more interested in a society that was remaking itself than in texts about supply and demand curves that seemed to have little relevance to a world caught in the Depression. Though not a Communist Party member, he began to move in its circles. The chair of the economics department was a conservative, but told Bob that
he believed it was important to understand the new Soviet system. Why not, Merriman thought, do his doctoral dissertation on some aspect of the subject? By the end of 1934, he had finished his course work and, as Galbraith wrote, “was awarded one of the rare traveling fellowships in the gift of the university.” Although the decision must have been painful for her, Marion placed her two sisters, now ten and thirteen, in the most enlightened children’s home she could find (a professor of Bob’s was on the board). The fellowship provided $900 for study abroad, and that was enough, with the couple’s savings, to set the Merrimans on their way to Moscow.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The botanist's repository for new and rare plants; vol. 03 & 04 [of 10]
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The botanist's repository for new and rare plants; vol. 03 & 04 [of 10]
Author: active 1799-1828 Henry Cranke Andrews
Release date: February 9, 2024 [eBook #72911]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The author, 1797
Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by Biodiversity Heritage Library.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOTANIST'S REPOSITORY FOR NEW AND RARE PLANTS; VOL. 03 & 04 [OF 10] ***
Volume III. Index to Volume III
Errata Volume III. Volume IV. Index to Volume IV
Errata Volume IV.
3.
of the Botanist’s Repository
Comprising Colour’d Engravings of New and Rare Plants ONLY
With Botanical Descriptions &c. in Latin and English, after the Linnæan System. by H. Andrews
Botanical Painter Engraver, &c.
PLATE CXLV.
HILLIA LONGIFLORA.
Long-Flowered Hillia.
CLASS VI. ORDER I.
HEXANDRIA MONOGYNIA. Six Chives. One Pointal.
GENERIC CHARACTER.
C . Perianthium hexaphyllum; foliolis oblongis, acutis, erectis.
C monopetala; tubus cylindricus, longissimus; limbus sexfidus; laciniis oblongis, planis.
S . Filamenta sex, brevissima. Antheræ oblongæ, erectæ, intra faucem corollæ.
Hillia with blossoms six cleft, segments lance-shaped, convex above; leaves egg-shaped, pointed and smooth.
REFERENCE TO THE PLATE
1. A flower cut open, to expose the number and situation of the Chives.
2. The Shaft and its summit, natural size, placed by the flower, to shew its proportional length to the tube.
3. The Seed-bud, with the leaflets of the Empalement attached, cut transversely, to shew the division of the cells in the center.
T species of Hillia was first introduced to our gardens in the year 1789, from the Island of Barbadoes, sent in plants, by Mr. J. Elcock, to Messrs. Lee and Kennedy, Hammersmith. Originally this shrub was specifically termed, parasitica by professor Jacquin, when he first formed, and titled the Genus, after Dr. J. Hill, of voluminous memory; from a supposition that it was to be found growing, only, upon some other plant; a circumstance, which being denied by Swartz, he has altered it to longiflora. We have followed the latter name that ours may go in unison with the author of the last Species plantarum now publishing by Willdenow, as well as professor Martyn, who in his edition of Miller’s Dictionary has followed Swartz; they appearing to be the most accurate, as well as the most read and followed of any modern Botanical authorities. It is a tender hot-house plant, strikes easily from cuttings, thrives in rich mould and flowers about the end of February. To the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Valentia we are indebted, for the specimen from which our figure was taken, sent from his Lordship’s famed collection at Arley near Bewdley, Staffordshire; where, we believe, it has flowered for the first time in England.
PLATE CXLVI.
PSORALEA ACULEATA.
Prickly Psoralea.
CLASS XVII. ORDER IV.
DIADELPHIA DECANDRIA. Chives in two sets. Ten Chives.
P . Legumen longitudine calycis, compressum, adscendens, acuminatum.
S unicum, reniforme.
E . Cup one leaf, dotted over with small tubercles, and fivecleft; the segments equal and remaining, the lower one twice the length of the others.
B butterfly-shaped, five petalled.
Standard nearly round, notched at the end, turned upwards.
Wings half-moon-shaped, obtuse, small.
Keel two-petalled, half-moon-shaped, obtuse.
C . Threads in two sets (a single one like a bristle, and nine united), ascending. Tips nearly round.
P . Seed-bud linear. Shaft awl-shaped, ascending, the length of the chives. Summit blunt.
S - . A pod the length of the cup, flattened, ascending, and tapered to the point.
S , one, kidney-shaped.
SPECIFIC CHARACTER.
Psoralea foliis ternatis, minimis, confertissimis, recurvatis, in spinulam desinentibus.
Psoralea with three-leafletted leaves, very small, very crowded, bent back, and ending in a small spine.
REFERENCE TO THE PLATE.
1. The Empalement.
2. The Standard of a Blossom.
3. One of the Wings of the same.
4. The two Petals of the Keel.
5. The Chives, a little magnified.
T Prickly Psoralea is not a new plant in our collections; for, it was first introduced by Mr. F. Masson to the Royal Gardens at Kew, as we learn from the Catalogue, in the year 1774. But although so long a sojourner with us, it is not found in many collections, owing to the difficulty in its increase, as it seldom ripens its seeds; and cuttings, the only remaining method, but seldom succeed; although by taking them from a vigorous growing plant and giving them the assistance of the bark-bed of the hothouse, early in March, a few plants have been procured occasionally. Our drawing was made from a most beautiful plant in the Clapham Collection, last year, in the month of August.
PLATE CXLVII.
GLADIOLUS CUSPIDATUS.
Spear-spotted Gladiolus.
CLASS III. ORDER I.
TRIANDRIA MONOGYNIA. Three Chives. One Pointal.
ESSENTIAL GENERIC CHARACTER.
C sexpartita, ringens. Stamina adscendentia.
B six divisions, gaping. Chives ascending.
See G . Plate XI. Vol. I.
SPECIFIC CHARACTER
Gladiolus foliis lineari-ensiformibus, glabris; corolla ringente; laciniis longissimis, acuminatis, undulatis, subæqualibus, tribus inferioribus in medio macula oblonga notatis.
Gladiolus with leaves that are linearly sword-shaped and smooth; blossom gaping; segments very long, tapered to the point, waved and nearly equal, the three lower in the middle have an oblong spot.
REFERENCE TO THE PLATE.
1. The two sheaths of the Empalement.
2. A blossom cut open, with the Chives remaining attached.
3. The Seed-bud, Shaft, and Summit.
T Gladiolus here figured, represents a variety of one of the most errant species of the Genus, known commonly by the name of Spade Gladiolus, and of which we have drawings of eight, quite distinct; yet all, unquestionably, originating in one common parent. It was introduced in 1796, from the Cape of Good Hope, by Mr. R. Williams, nurseryman of
Turnham-green, near Brentford; is a very hardy greenhouse bulb, increases from the root in abundance, if planted in very sandy peat earth, and flowers about the Month of April, or May.
Lachenalia with leaves in pairs, linearly lance-shaped; flower-stem erect; blossoms hanging down, cylindrical, and four-coloured, with the border of inner petals spreading out.
REFERENCE TO THE PLATE.
1. A Flower cut open, with the Chives remaining.
2. An inner Petal, with its Chive, shewn from the inside.
3. An outer Petal, shewn from the outside.
4. The Pointal complete.
About the year 1789, this very handsome species of Lachenalia was first received by Messrs. Lee and Kennedy, Hammersmith, from the Cape of Good Hope, sent in bulbs to them by J. Pringle, Esq. It is as hardy as the L.
tricolor, to which it much inclines, well known to collectors, and is equally easily propagated; an excellent figure of which is to be found, in the 82d Plate of the Botanical Magazine of Mr. Curtis. The L. quadricolor is given as a synonym by Willdenow to L. pendula, a plant we have already figured, and from which this stands quite distinct in the conformation of every part; they are both to be found in the 2d Vol. of Icon. of Jacquin, from whom we copy our specific title, the pendula, t. 400, the quadricolor, t. 396.
PLATE CXLIX.
STRUTHIOLA CILIATA.
Fringed-leaved Struthiola.
CLASS IV. ORDER I.
TETRANDRIA MONOGYNIA. Four Chives. One Pointal.
ESSENTIAL GENERIC CHARACTER.
P diphyllum. Corolla tubulosa, 4-fida; Nectarium, glandulæ octo fauci circumpositæ. Semen unum, subbaccatum.
C two-leaved. Blossom tubular, 4-cleft; Honey-cup, 8 glands placed round the mouth of the blossom. One seed like a berry.
