They talked like this as far as Bebra. As darkness fell outside, Lena spoke: To tell the truth, she wanted to sleep a while. But there was something that needed to be said. What Comrade Luxemburg was saying — she'd read pretty much the same thing in the party press. And on paper it was true. Freedom from the bottom up — she was all for it. And as for Comrade Michels, whose writings she was sorry to say she hadn't read, he talked mighty big, sounded almost like her Otto Friedrich shooting his mouth off in Adler's Beer Hall when he was carried away on his radical Sundays. But people live on Mondays, and every day of the week. Comrade Bebel had said that time and time again. Too bad he wasn't chairman any more. What would happen now if no one could put just enough left-wing and right-wing truth into sensible sentences? Because too much truth was dangerous. Pretty soon you'd talk the party's unity away. Comrade Luxemburg should think about that. And as for Comrade Michels, who was so learned and such a glib talker, he should take care that his talk didn't carry him too far to the left, because then he'd come out on the right. She knew people, take Karlchen Klawitter, for instance, who'd changed beyond recognition in only a few years. The only thing that didn't change was the real world, its poverty, for instance.
Then, after again offering her apples, Lena Stubbe pulled her coat over her face and slept, while the express sped through the bright morning, making every effort to
get there on time, for the enginer and fireman, as well as the relays of conductors, were all comrades. They knew exactly whom they were taking where, and knew that their regularly scheduled train was becoming more historical from mile to mile.
Lena's words — at one point she had called Rosa "child" and "my lass" — had made Rosa Luxemburg and Robert Michels rather thoughtful. And yet, because socialism is like that and habit is habit, they had to argue the principle of the thing for another hour, though in a considerate undertone, until they, too, were tired.
Of course Rosa didn't want to split off from the party (as she did later on, with dire consequences). Of course the radical son of the bourgeoisie didn't want to end up in the camp of reaction after an eccentric career (and yet soon after the First World War — then imminent — he became a Fascist in Italy, where he was a professor, and remained an enthusiastic and radical Fascist to the end). All in all, a good deal of future was traveling in that train to Zurich: Ebert and Scheidemann were riding in a first-class carriage, and Ple-khanov, whom Lenin was even then excoriating as a revisionist, was also on his way to speak beside Bebel's grave in the name of the Russian comrades.
Unfortunately, there are some things that no one can foresee. For all his jokes about sons of the bourgeoisie, Bebel had held the brilliant young man in high esteem: his (liberal) scientific attitude, his (colorful) style. While with Brandt, Guillaume's reliability and even disposition had become a soothing habit. Traitors have their special charm. It was rather flattering, in fact, for even in their betrayal Michels and Guillaume always managed to speak respectfully, the one of Bebel, the other of Brandt. No one reading Michels's obituary of Bebel, even the critical passages, can fail to see how dearly he must have loved the old man. And if Guillaume should some day present us with the "Memoirs of a Traitor," I am sure he will draw a neat distinction between his political employers' cause and his own private feeling. After all, one can only betray what one loves; though Lena Stubbe, who all her life obeyed only necessity, remained single-minded even in her love.
Punctually at 3:39 p.m. the express pulled into the Zurich Central Station. The Workers' Association had prepared lodgings for the new arrivals. As usual, the arrangements went off without a hitch. Lena — who had taken leave of Rosa with a motherly "Take care of yourself, lass; and try and write something sensible about us poor womenfolk," and of Michels with a good-natured slap on the back — went to spend the night with the Loss family, to whom she had been assigned. For supper there was cafe au lait with a Swiss variant of home-fried potatoes known as Rdschti.
Old Man Loss, who had worn out shoe leather as a postman until he himself was worn out, told her how the comrades among the Swiss and German post-office employees had worked together at the time of the Socialist Laws, to smuggle The Social Democrat, which was printed in Switzerland and forbidden in Germany, across the border.
Lena Stubbe told her hosts about the strike at the Klawitter Shipyard, and how Bebel had come to their place on Brabank for a visit. Though mentioned only in passing, her cook book, for which she had found no publisher, aroused the interest of Mother Loss, who was about Lena's age.
Then they all went to bed. The bells of Zurich woke them. A fine summer day gave the impression that the whole world was sparkling bright. Money was going to church. God was keeping his finances secret. Bebel's death had thus far gone unnoticed.
It was May when Willy resigned. On the sixth I had spent the whole day drawing pictures of myself with gulls' quills: aged and worn, but still blowing feathers as I'd done as a boy (when airships were in vogue) and even before that, as far back as I can remember myself (b.c, Stone Age), three, four at once, the down, the wishes, the happiness, lying, running, blown them and held them in suspension. (Willy, too. His amazing second wind. Where he got it from. The Liibeck recreation yard.) My feathers — some were his — are getting limp. It so happens that they fell in the usual pattern. Outside, I know, state power is puffing up its cheeks; but no feather, no dream will dance for it.
The funeral ceremonies were scheduled for two o'clock Sunday afternoon. As Comrade Loss belonged to the organization committee, Lena was favored with an admission ticket to the municipal cemetery at Sihlfeld, which she picked up at the Workers' Association on Stauffacherstrasse. Until Saturday the body had lain in state in the auditorium of the Volkshaus. From there the dead Bebel was transferred to the house of his widowed daughter on Schonbergstrasse. That was where the funeral procession formed. In the lead the Konkordia band. Then more than five hundred wreath bearers, among them Lena Stubbe, who had not wanted to delegate her wreath. Then came the hearse, followed by several carriage loads of flowers, the carriage bearing the bereaved family, and two more occupied by persons too frail to walk. The bearers of the traditional banners were followed by delegations from Germany (including the Reichstag fraction), France, England, Austria, Switzerland, and other groups. Then came the Harmony band, followed en masse by the political organizations of Zurich and environs. The trade unions brought up the rear. Even the Xeue Zurcher Zeitung, always ready to sneer at the labor movement, was amazed at the size of the crowd and wondered why.
Bound for Sihlfeld, the procession made its way down Ramistrasse, across the Kai Bridge, down Thalstrasse and Badener Strasse. The churches remained silent except for the Jakobskirche, where the bell ringer was evidently a comrade. Thousands of people lined the sidewalks. Most of the men wore flat straw hats; the women's hats were adorned with artificial flowers. Not all the men removed their hats as the hearse passed. A year later straw hats of the same type were photographed when many-headed crowds gathered all over Europe to cheer the declaration of war, although only recently the Socialist International, meeting in Basel, had passed a resolution opposing all war, on which occasion Bebel had made a speech denouncing the armaments race and the general war mongering, and concluded as usual with an appeal for action: "So now let's get to work. Forward! Let's go!"
At the cemetery in Sihlfeld. Lena Stubbe saw Comrade Rosa only briefly but caught several glimpses of Comrade