Paul was at that time a dock worker; he was in jail for having, during a strike riot, remembered his professional past and applied the grip known as a double Nelson to a policeman.
This grip consisted in passing one’s arms through the opponent’s armpits from behind, locking one’s hands behind his neck, and pressing his head down until the neck vertebra began to crack.
In the ring this had always brought him considerable applause, but he had learned to his regret that in the class struggle the double Nelson was not done.
Little Loewy and ex wrestler Paul became friends.
It turned out that Paul was the Administrative Secretary of the Dockers’ Section of the Party; when they came out, he procured papers and work for Loewy and obtained his reintegration in the Party.
So Little Loewy could again lecture to the dockers on Darwinism and on the latest Party Congress as though nothing had happened.
He was happy and forgot the cats and his anger against the Party bureaucrats.
After half a year, he became Political Secretary of the local section.
All’s well that ends well.
And Rubashov wished with his whole heart, old and tired as he felt, that it should end well.
But he knew for what task he had been sent here, and there was only one revolutionary virtue which he had not learned, the virtue of self-deception.
He looked quietly at Little Loewy through his glasses.
And while Little Loewy, who did not understand the meaning of this look, became slightly embarrassed and saluted smilingly with his pipe, Rubashov was thinking of the cats.
He noticed with horror that his nerves were going wrong and that he had perhaps drunk too much, for he could not get rid of the obsession that he must take Little Loewy by his ears and legs and break him over his knee, deformed shoulder and all.
He was feeling ill and stood up to go. Little Loewy saw him home; he gathered that Rubashov was in a sudden fit of depression, and was respectfully silent.
A week later Little Loewy hanged himself.
Between that evening and Little Loewy’s death lay several undramatic meetings of the Party cell. The facts were simple.
Two years ago the Party had called up the workers of the world to fight the newly established dictatorship in the heart of Europe by means of a political and economic boycott.
No goods coming from the enemy’s country should be bought, no consignments for its enormous armament industry should be allowed to pass.
The sections of the Party executed these orders with enthusiasm.
The dock workers in the small port refused to load or unload cargoes coming from that country or destined for it.
Other trade unions joined them.
The strike was hard to carry through; conflicts with the police resulted in wounded and dead.
The final result of the struggle was still uncertain when a little fleet of five curious, old-fashioned black cargo boats sailed into the port.
Each of them had the name of a great leader of the Revolution painted on its stern, in the strange alphabet used “over there”, and from their bows waved the flag of the Revolution.
The striking workers greeted them with enthusiasm. They at once began to unload the cargo.
After several hours it came to light that the cargo consisted of certain rare minerals and was destined for the war industry of the boycotted country.
The dockers’ section of the Party immediately called a committee meeting, where people came to blows.
The dispute spread through the movement all over the country.
The reactionary Press exploited the event with derision.
The police ceased their attempts to break the strike, proclaimed their neutrality and let the harbour workers decide for themselves whether they would unload the cargo of the curious black fleet or not. The Party leadership called the strike off and gave orders to unload the cargo.
They gave reasonable explanations and cunning arguments for the behaviour of the Country of the Revolution, but few were convinced. The section split; the majority of the old members left.
For months the Party led the shadow of an existence; but gradually, as the industrial distress of the country grew, it regained its popularity and strength.
Two years had passed.
Another hungry dictatorship in the south of Europe began a war of plunder and conquest in Africa.
Again the Party called for a boycott.
They received an even more enthusiastic response than on the previous occasion.
For this time the governments themselves in nearly every country in the world had decided to cut off the aggressor’s supply of raw materials.
Without raw materials and particularly without petrol, the aggressor would be lost.
This was the state of affairs, when again the curious little black fleet set out on her way.
The biggest of the ships bore the name of a man who had raised his voice against war and had been slain; at their mastheads waved the flag of the Revolution and in their holds they carried the petrol for the aggressor.
They were only a day’s journey away from this port, and Little Loewy and his friends knew as yet nothing of their approach.
It was Rubashov’s task to prepare them for it.
On the first day he had said nothing—only felt his ground.
On the morning of the second day the discussion began in the Party meeting-room.
The room was big, bare, untidy and furnished with that lack of care which made the Party’s offices in every town in the world look exactly alike.
It was partly a result of poverty, but chiefly of an ascetic and gloomy tradition.
The walls were covered with old election posters, political slogans and typed notices.
In one corner stood a dusty old duplicator. In another lay a heap of old clothes destined for the families of strikers; next to them piles of yellowing leaflets and brochures.
The long table consisted of two parallel planks laid over a couple of trestles.