I.

Johann Bremser was 35 years old. He supported his enfranchised private property, named Mathilde, and his two daughters. Mathilde was lean and dark, like the figures of the woodcut revolutionaries whose faces were found in the café. The children fulfilled the earth-shattering task of revolutionising a girls’ secondary school from within, by forming cells. Their chests were adorned with the customary crafted Soviet star as a confession and symbol engraved in sheet metal: “We let ourselves be Bolshevised!” Johann Bremser was the wood from which Ruth Fisher carved rods for the centre-right against the ultra-left and ultra-right. Intelligent without being intellectual, he possessed all the merits that contributed what was essential for solving the problem of “mass and leader,” and succeeded in placing himself on the well-known list as a candidate for the election campaign. He confessed at a favourable opportunity that in his younger years he had been a member of the “Deutsche Eiche” athletics association, and that, besides, he could also box. For Ruth Fischer, this tipped the scale: he was elected, the ultras ahead of him on the list were knocked out cold and Johann entered the Reichstag.

II.

Soon came the per diems, the complementary tickets and the promotion into the central office. Johann Bremser took advantage of everything. With youthful enthusiasm, he threw himself with broad shoulders against the Luxemburg-Liebknecht aberration and for Bolshevisation in Maslow’s sense. Johann was made a delegate to the Congress of the Comintern. Moscow’s World’s Fair, with its true-to-life illusions, was met with applause, while the banquet was also not half-bad. He was thus completely submerged and very touched when, on the way out, comrade Zinoviev shook his hand goodbye and said in a friendly voice, “Comrade Bremser, give my best regards to the German workers!” Johann returned home completely changed. His taut body was now adorned with a formal morning coat, and people with poor eyesight believed to recognise him as a veteran of the movement from the days of the Anti-Socialist Laws of Bismarck. Johann, however, had become a different person not only in his family photo, but also in his family life. He tattooed a second Soviet star on his daughters’ hearts, cancelled the family newspaper and finally subscribed to the Party organ. He removed the crucifix hanging above his bed and hung instead on its nail a three-colour print of Zinoviev and another of Ruth Fischer. Shortly thereafter, he wrote his major article on the “Value or Non-Value of the Bathing Suit for the Bolshevisation of the Party.” The article was enthusiastically received and earned him the position of editor, which had long been held by a suspected Liebknechtian.

III.

“My husband is a professional revolutionary,” said Mathilde to Mrs. Schmitz of Poststraße when asked about his situation. “Professional revolutionary? How long does one study for that? Does it provide room and board?—How?—.” Mrs. Schmitz wanted further details. Mathilde told of the great family who courageously abandoned their dear and accustomed principles with a heavy heart, sighing, in order to devote themselves fully to manoeuvring; who selflessly threw themselves into the danger of becoming a product of these new circumstances, and who use the night, which is conventionally the time for sleep and love, to imbue their brains with the keywords of freshly imported reference material. Yes, Bolshevised professional revolutionaries would be those strategists of class struggle about whom one would hear the most after having achieved victory; those aware that their precious flesh must not be wounded by the fascist’s truncheon, nor by the rifle of the communist beat cop, so that they could later take the lead in what Lenin called the great initiative. — The husband of Mrs. Schmitz was only a run-of-the-mill party member, with ordinary revolutionary ideas. It is still a long way from there to becoming a professional revolutionary. What separates the two is the amount of intrigue, the bulk of one’s back, the depths of conscience. Mrs. Schmitz wanted to know possible opportunities for her own husband, and she promised to attend today’s meeting to get more information. —

IV.

A meeting with the formidable leader Ruth Fischer! Every seat was doubly occupied. The youth, who are known as the rock upon which Ruth Fischer stands, sang the new tune: “Bolshevised, Bolshevised, noblest of communists!” — No sooner had the last notes resounded on the walls of the People’s House did comrade Sourdough begin her recital with verve and strength. However, its content was not understood. It was incomprehensible, probably from the house poet Havelok. The speaker was surely also very excited. This was not surprising, since after her came “She” – Ruth Fischer, of whom the Party press had for weeks been promoting everything, from editorials to photographs, that could be useful to her contemporaries. A whole fabric of such incredibly interesting legends and anecdotes wove itself around her person. And then her organ, her dialectic, the brilliant rhetoric! Not for nothing did the whole of the Red Youth Storm dream of her, and its members sighed, like the gentlemen in “Gösta Beding”: “She is without equal!” —

Comrade Bremser entered at half past ten and soon returned beaming, in a fighting mood, with his austere features marked by an enthusiasm stamped with the expression of the firmest resolution. He had found the company for which he had been longing. He did splendidly next to little Ruth, who floated towards the podium with fairy steps, serious and confident, surrounded by the sound of the International and curses against reaction, Amsterdam and ultra-leftists. She took her seat, threw back her red scarf, nervously tapped her swollen, Bolshevised little fingers on a mountain of newspaper clippings, and turned her commander’s face to the crowd.

And then Ruth Fischer spoke. Ruth Fischer Bolshevised. — The excitement of those present occasionally interrupted her Maslowisms. One found right what she proposed, right what she rejected, right what she affirmed, right what she denied, cursed what she cursed. Everything was good, very good; wow, just listen, listen! Even when her voice started to become hoarse, the enthusiasm of the audience did not wane. She moistened her larynx with saliva; she said something against the Entente, acrobatically directing her voice from a whisper to a roar. — “She has gone mad,” said the little Veilchengelb to Lotte Schreiber.

Ruth had to unfortunately end her magnificent speech at some point. She reached her limit, her vocal cords having become like dry palm, so brittle and harsh. The thundering applause that had long since set in became a riot. The “Red Ruth” fighters’ club became so excited that it organised a Bolshevisation exercise in the stairwells and corridors. In fact, they broke the noses of some workers who had uttered the name of Rosa Luxemburg.

V.

On the way out, Johann ran into Mrs. Schmitz. She had not quite understood the presentation and had questions. Johann could in fact talk about everything he had heard. In the past, he used to fall asleep during the heavy lectures; but now there was nothing to think about. Now, everything that was said, even the way it was spoken, was a textbook example for him to follow. Every Bolshevised man simply imitated Ruth. Up until that point, he had imitated the tone and gestures of comrade Höllein; now, he took it upon himself to become a male Ruth Fischer. He even wanted to acquire the grace and nervous tapping of her swollen little fingers. And he needed it; he sensed more turbulent times ahead. He knew from experience that the changing situations of political manoeuvres would lead to the complete reshuffling of the highest posts within the Party. And his turn would come one day too. The restructuring of the big organisations and the regrouping of the big fortunes are conditioned by the development and ruthless destruction of everything old (apart from the secured private wealth) in order to make room for the modern. The KPD, too, must reorient its organisational structure towards manoeuvring. It can hold on only by radically Bolshevising and shaking off the revolutionary past. This change of manoeuvre is necessary every half hour. After the tenth turnaround follows again the first, etc. etc. “Long live Trotsky!” — “Trotsky is a pig!” — and again: “Long live Trotsky!” — According to this system, Ruth Fischer, too, would one day be cooked and would have to be content with a post in a cooperative bakery in Moscow. But until then she must remain an example for our Johann Bremser! — How did Ruth put it this evening? — Oh, Mrs. Schmitz, yes! — yes! — The communists have nothing to do with the ultra-leftist propaganda of world revolution. — Oh no! Only the petty bourgeois and ultra-leftist and KAPD-ish bumblebrains and small farmers with private capitalist ideology resort to such methods. — We are a legal party, a legally registered association, we want a united front — we want — well, we sometimes want the dictatorship of the prol…, yes, of the workers, civil servants and peasants. You understand — pseudonym! — Well, and the middle class must also be there — at least neutralised. We do everything by “open letters,” we want mass action, you understand, pressure on the parliament from the outside. No bombings! We want to demonstrate with discipline, win subscribers, we have four publishing houses competing with each other — we have our hands full. — Down with the ultra-left phraseologists! Down with them!

VI.

Every truly Bolshevised professional revolutionary is a Maslowian thinker; even his dreams have as their content the goal and the means to get there. They dream of unmasking the ultra-left and ultra-right, of congresses and secretarial posts.

The excitement of this manoeuvring day was felt, Johann dreamt. — — A ringing at the door jolted him from a deep sleep. A messenger handed him a heavy letter. It contained the order to immediately come to Moscow, as soon as possible, where Zinoviev was waiting for him personally. He quickly slipped into his suit, and without bidding farewell to his wife and children, left the house. Somehow, he arrived in Moscow. He immediately rushed to Zinoviev and found him still lying in bed, reading “Pravda,” the contents of which are valid only in Russia and disavowed in other countries. “My dear boy!” said Zinoviev to Johann Bremser, “times are changing, one must remain young to be able to manoeuvre, as Leninism demands. Listen. The Treaty of Rapollo has become meaningless. Today there is a Belgian-French-German trust. Your economy is turning towards the West and inevitably submits to any conditions. This trust wants to compete against America. We must compete against this economic alliance in the West and its competitors. This is difficult.” Johann nodded heavily. Zinoviev continued: “But how are we going to capitalise Russia so that the pure proletarian revolution can historically mature without being competitive? We still have hope! The colonies of the West are putting pressure on its dominance. They rob Western capitalism of the tranquillity demanded by regulated, profitable production. The nationalisation of India is taking on grotesque forms, yet it is harming the English empire. There is Mahatma Gandhi, who wants to return to a manufacturing economy; natural healing, however, has nothing to do with economics. The West is uniting as a bloc. There is nothing left for us to do but create a counter-pole in the East, one of comparable strength, so that we are not devoured.” Johann nodded a second time and with even greater weight. He already saw himself plucked out of Germany, which had become inconsequential, and transferred to Manchuria on behalf of Russia to levy New Economic Policy taxes on long tangled queues. However, Zinoviev brought the discussion to the Balkans, pointing out the advantages for Russia if Party authorities were secured there too. And what traction the slogan “Workers and Peasants’ Government” has especially in the agrarian Balkans for the creation of small peasant livelihoods. When Johann Bremser indicated that he had fully understood the situation and wanted to make his own comments, Zinoviev began to speak again: “Johann Bremser, I have confidence in you and have brought you here because I have big plans for you.”

Johann wept with joy. He had always known that one day he would sit within the executive authority, equal to the great Ruth; what else could this be? Gratefully he looked up at Zinoviev and swallowed his every word.

“You know,” said Zinoviev, “that we are gods and great psychologists. We called the New Economic Policy Bolshevisation, and we were believed; we said Leninism was new Marxist knowledge and again, we were believed; we claimed that the trade unions could become instruments of struggle and they became strong. The masses did everything we wished, and they are still doing it today. We were on the left, they went with us. We manoeuvre against the left, they obey. We can turn the wheel of history, as we wish, and today I want to turn it. Lenin should be an altar boy next to me, like Trotsky; I suddenly feel the vein of radicalism in my bones. In short, I want to make the world revolution again. — Listen to the formula. You know the movement in Bulgaria, you know about the White Terror. I want to march troops into Bulgaria. The Red Army should establish Soviets all over Bulgaria according to our model, all over the Balkans. And you must lead the troops, in all of Russia I don’t know of any Bolshevik leaders who are still interested in world revolution anymore; Ruth Fischer has surrendered too deeply to Maslowism to adopt the role. You, however, are the fresh element, you are the leader with a proletarian pedigree, you are not yet enrolled in the army of leftovers!” — Yes, yes, said Johann, smiling sheepishly, if it works, with pleasure, with great pleasure! — “What will be the consequence?” continued Zinoviev. “The East and the Balkans welded together — an insurmountable phalanx. But still, our Western competitors will have to march their mercenaries and slaves against us; for this is in the interest of their profits. A new, unimagined world conflagration will be unleashed, but in every country there will be workers fighting for us. A chaos will tremendously facilitate the decomposition of the old, the hope of a new form of economy will revive hearts. In any case — progress — the world revolution with seven-league boots!” —

Johann had not been listening for a long time, he was already at home in his thoughts, with his Mathilde, his children, his party organ, his meetings and his listeners, his German commander Ruth. Oh, what did he care about this new project; he only wanted to Bolshevise calmly, peacefully. And he had so many prospects, he was a professional revolutionary ordained by HER! How did he come up with the foolish idea to go to Moscow, maybe this Zinoviev suddenly went insane, because the reasonable Zinoviev had never before talked so reasonably. Surely he will hand him over to the Cheka? A horror ran down his spine. “Great,” however, he said to Zinoviev, “why don’t you write a new book; let’s flood it to the masses. After all, these are the problems that always hinder practice. Why do we only have Party schools and expert courses? Shouldn’t they obscure the mystery of revolution even more? We need theorists, people who at any time are ready to scientifically prove that mistakes are no longer mistakes when repeated?” Zinoviev stopped him. “I am the highest authority,” he then said, “Party order! You must go to Bulgaria, the world revolution demands it. Collect your travel expenses tomorrow morning, go to the border, and await my further instructions.” Pale but composed, Johann took his leave. He made the sign of the cross three times at the door and went back to his hotel, looking forward to a nice lunch. —

Johann already had a tradition. He was an old trade unionist, and five years of attempted conquests in this institute for psychology had taught him to suppress his spontaneous impulses. He almost wanted to go to Bulgaria (after lunch, of course), but he pulled himself together in time. No, he did not want to die in Bulgaria, that would be ultra-left madness. At his grave, banners and flags would have to be lowered, and the Lyra choral society should sing “A Son of the People,” and Ruth should speak against Luxemburgism. — We are still in the minority, he kept repeating to himself as he picked his teeth. Idealism is nothing in times of stagnation. He returned to Germany. He awoke and lay in the arms of his wife, who kept calling out to him: “You must be stupid, wake up, it’s me, your Mathilde!”

Only slowly did he realise that it was all a dream and that there was no reason to notify the police. How happy he was when, fully awake, he reached for the newspaper and read on the front page: “The Bulgarian Communist Party declares that it has played no part in the violent measures taken against the Zankof government.”

A happy sigh shuts his eyes. Slowly, quietly, Johann Bremser falls asleep, and his thoughts drift to the new act of Bolshevisation by the great Ruth.

 

Originally published in: Die Aktion, Issue 15. Volume 15/16, 28. August 1925, p. 420-5.