George Alec Effinger - Relatives

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RELATIVES
by GEORGE ALEC EFFINGER (1973)
[VERSION 1.2 (December 19 2005). If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the
version number by 0.1 and redistribute.]
For Victoria Schochet,
the St. Mother Cabrini of the publishing world.
Or maybe the Ma Barker.
We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.
--LAWRENCE DURRELL
Justine
We are digging our own graves.
--JOHN A. STORMER
None Dare Call It Treason
-=*=-
CHAPTER 1
The radio said that the quality of the air had been judged acceptable for the first time in two years.
Ernest Weinraub couldn't see any difference, through his modular apartment's single window the skies
over Brooklyn still looked yellow, a sick color that tempted him to get back into bed. But, as every
morning, he prodded himself with thoughts of job and money. He closed the steel shutters so the light
wouldn't disturb Gretchen in her sleep. Then he went into the tiny, curtained bathroom area to shave.
Ernest wondered if the air outside would smell better than usual. He could almost recall the
summertime fragrances of his childhood. Lord, there were probably plenty of kids on the streets now
who had never gotten that first fresh smell. They were probably down there this morning, bouncing
spaldeens against the building, trying to figure out why the air was so funny. Life in the city had changed
rapidly; not many trees grew leaves these days, just a few in Prospect Park. That didn't make Ernest feel
sad. It made him feel old.
It was dark in the small apartment with the louvers shut. Ernest dressed quickly; he always felt lonely
in the morning, with his wife asleep across the room. He tended to think cheerless thoughts, unpleasant
things, and he often had to shake his head to break the melancholy train. On television he heard the
popular sociologists talking about the reasons. Too many people living too closely together. A person
needed a certain territory that he felt he could master. The regulated apartment modules seemed more
and more like tin boxes, the kind they packed dead fish in....
Ernest pulled the hinged bench down from its place on the wall and swung open one of the seats. He
made himself a bowl of cereal, permitting himself a large teaspoon of sugar and a cup of milk substitute.
The sugar was a luxury; he didn't miss real milk very much, but sugar substitutes always left a horrible
taste in his mouth. The filtered light was too dim to read by. The cereal box's messages would remain a
mystery. That wasn't such a great loss, particularly the side panel that listed the ingredients. Ernest
wondered how his stomach would react if it were ever again confronted with real food.
The radio was still on, playing softly, distracting him with the familiar commercials and themes, lulling
him with the tinny, muffled voices. He finished his breakfast and took the empty bowl to the sink, leaving
it for Gretchen to wash. He stood by the sink for a moment, looking around the small apartment. "This is
my domain," he thought bitterly. "This is the little area I'm supposed to feel secure about." No, not even
the old module was his completely. The small sink was plugged into the invisible skeleton of the building;
carefully metered dollops of water drizzled out when the correct combination was dialed on the tap. How
could he think that he was his own master when he was dependent on the city's crumbling systems to
keep him alive?
Ernest sighed and switched off the radio. He had to get to work. He walked quietly across the room,
not even glancing at Gretchen. He didn't want to think about her yet.
"You going?" she said, yawning.
He stopped by the door, still not turning. "Yeah. See you later."
"What do you want for supper?"
Ernest opened the door, ready to duck out quickly. He looked at his wife. "How do I know?" he
said. "Lord, it's only eight-thirty. How do I know what I'll want for supper? Anything you want. I got to
go."
"All right, honey. I love you." Ernest nodded and shut the door behind him. He was halfway
downstairs before he remembered that he hadn't checked the baby.
Outside, the day was warm and pleasant. The sun shone in a diffuse ball behind the grayish yellow
haze and, though it was not yet hot, Ernest removed his light jacket. The ride in the subway was going to
be very unpleasant. The entrance to the subway was at the end of a tiresome bus ride; although it was still
early, a long line of commuters stretched up the stairs and down the sidewalk. These were the foolish or
unlucky people who had not bought enough subway tokens at a more convenient time. Ernest always got
his late at night, during the week-end.
He dug in his pocket and found the dull metal coin. It gave him a strange pleasure to be able to
bypass the slowly moving line. Once through the turnstile, he pushed through the rush-hour mob to the
front of the platform. All through its administration the current city government had wrestled with the
problems of mass transit: the equipment was deteriorating, many of the subway cars were over thirty
years old and in terrible condition. There were ever more people to move, as the population and labor
force grew year by year. The Representative of Europe had adopted the Gleitzeit plan, which had been
popular in Germany and certain other areas of Europe for almost twenty years. Under the system,
workers were permitted to arrive at their jobs at any time before ten o'clock. They worked as long as
they liked, going home any time after two o'clock. As long as they put in the necessary hours every
week, the management was pleased. The system seemed to encourage initiative while cutting down on
the great masses of employees clogging the public transportation systems at the same hours each day.
Negative effects soon became apparent when the plan was put into continent-wide use. The lack of
discipline led to shoddy work and a lessening of personal interest in the traditional values of the
mercantile and free-enterprise systems. The Representatives abolished the Gleitzeit plan wherever it was
in practice and returned to the old nine-to-five scheme. Other ideas were tested; the Representative of
North America required corporations to pay bonuses to employees who lived within walking distance of
their jobs. In New York City, workers were forbidden to take jobs outside their borough of residence.
There were complaints of governmental meddling but, as usual, the Representatives had a long list of
mitigating explanations.
Ernest's job bored him to the point of insanity. He worked in a factory, making electronic testing
equipment. He sat at a long table with a dozen women; everyone at the table had a box of tools and a
high stool with an uncomfortable back. Ernest was a fourth-class subassembler, which meant that he was
not rated for soldering work; his toolbox held fewer and less specialized tools than those of the women,
who were for the most part third- and second-class assemblers. Maybe his feelings of inferiority were
imaginary. He didn't know for sure, and he wasn't worried enough to test the situation further. But Ernest
noticed how rarely the women included him in their conversation.
Some days Ernest worked only on front panels. He would take the plates of sheet metal from their
tissue wrappings very carefully, because if he nicked the light green paint on the front the slightest bit, the
panel was ruined. His panels had odd-sized holes punched in them, some with calibration markings
stenciled around their circumferences. In some of the holes Ernest installed control knobs, in some he
merely pushed rubber gaskets or fuses, and in one he put an on-off toggle, which was difficult to tighten
without chipping the paint on the front. Sokol, the nervous foreman, walked around the section checking
how much was wasted by each employee. He carried a blue plastic notebook; several times a day he'd
stand behind each worker and scribble his idea of the person's worth.
When Ernest took his seat at the table, Sokol was already making his rounds, apparently taking an
early attendance check. Sokol stopped by Ernest's stool and made a notation.
"Why are you checking up, Sokol?" asked Ernest. "That's what the timeclocks are for, aren't they?"
"Just making sure, Weinraub. It's my job. Just leave me alone."
Ernest shrugged. "Are they that worried?"
"No, they don't even care," said Sokol. "It's very hard to understand, Weinraub. I can understand it
fine. That's why I'm a foreman."
"Is that why you're a foreman?"
"Yeah. And because I never wised off, either. Once you get real good at that work, if you get real
good, you may get to be a foreman, too. And then you'll find out it's not such a terrific thing."
Ernest snorted skeptically. "What do you do all day? Just walk around and scribble in that notebook,
right?"
"Yeah, that's all. And then I write up reports on everything, and I turn them into the front office, and
the secretaries throw them away."
"I feel real sorry for you."
Sokol slapped his notebook shut and turned away. Ernest stared after him. "Anybody check up on
you, Sokol?" he called.
Sokol stopped and turned again. "Yeah. Kibling does."
"Anybody check up on him?"
"I guess the Assembly Supervisor."
"Where does it end? Old Man Jennings?"
Sokol shook his head sadly. "You won't listen, Weinraub; that's your trouble. It doesn't end. I told
you. It doesn't even begin. Now get to work." The foreman stalked off down the narrow aisle toward his
cubicle of an office.
Before him on the bench Ernest arranged the color-coded socket wrenches to his left, and the
corresponding screwdrivers to his right. He seated the toggle switch in the proper hole, held it with a
wrench, and tightened a hexagonal nut on the back. As the morning passed, he paid less attention to his
work, completing one panel after another efficiently, mechanically. His hands were cut and his fingernails
torn. His day was measured out from clocking-in to coffee break, from break to lunch, from lunch to
afternoon break to clocking-out. Those were the only goals he had; if he worked quickly it was only to
minimize the awful tedium. But the company knew perfectly well that his boredom would begin to work
against that productivity. All that it could devise to alleviate the monotony was piped-in music.
Ernest found that even worse. He sat huddled over his work, protecting his tiny area from the
innocent glances of the women and the omniscient gaze of the foreman. Ernest defined the others by their
functions -- not even limiting them to as human a thing as a name on a timecard. There was the heavy
black woman who picked up the stack of front panels he completed. There was the old lady next to him
who soldered complex balls of electronic components, turning out those delicate webs with mindless
precision. And Sokol, the foreman. He was the boss. He prowled with more freedom, and Ernest envied
him. But Sokol wasn't a real person to Ernest, either. Sokol was only the man who watched him.
It was as if everyone were like a rough crystal, with dozens of different facets. Here in the factory
Ernest saw only one facet of each person, the same facet every day. And in return he didn't want these
strangers to have access to more than one of his own facets. There were thirty million people in the New
York metropolitan area, and he could feel the presence of every individual of those masses. There wasn't
any way to escape it. The only privacy available was inside; to defend it there could be no hints of one's
feelings, no tentative gestures of friendship or loneliness. And there was a terrible loneliness.
Ernest enforced his own alienation; he ignored the multiple facets of the millions of others. Each
person had to work out his own salvation; idealism to the contrary, there was no way for Ernest to
submerge himself in the incessant dramas of his neighbors and maintain his own mind. So he held himself
apart from the shopping-bag ladies who lived their meager lives on the subway, and the kids who shaved
a round area on their skulls where three wires poked out, and the others who could so easily upset him.
He concentrated on those friendships he wished to endure; and when those people ignored him, he found
only a deeper depression. There was only trouble when one person presented the wrong facet to
another.
There was no one to whom a person like Ernest could turn for help. He was certain that thousands of
other people were making the same depressing realizations every day; the environment was becoming
less attractive, and more and more people were turning inward, only to discover there a growing
madness. Coping with the mere physical presence of thirty million people was an exhausting occupation.
The Representatives had long ago made a declaration which had effectively crippled the psychiatric
industry; they had decided that relying on psychic crutches could only weaken the popular mind.
Nevertheless, Ernest often felt the need to lessen the emotional burden he carried.
The only person he could address legally was the fuser assigned to the modapt building. The fuser had
no special training in psychology; in fact, the idea of public fusers in each modapt building originally came
from the office of the Representative of Asia, so they had the government's blessing. But, unskilled as
they were, the fusers were vital to the new, highly mobile culture. They were given authority to decide
disputes among tenants and, by extension, to make many other decisions which in earlier times had been
concluded between neighbors and friends. Few people stayed in one place long enough to form those
kinds of relationships, and their places had to be taken by professional strangers. But while minor
domestic hassles could be solved by arbitration, there were unfortunately no such solutions beyond the
limits of the private residence.
Ernest's job provoked him more as the day went on, and his thoughts moved from simple to abstract.
When they became too frightening, usually just before lunch, he thought about Gretchen. She no longer
had any facets of her own that he could respond to. Gretchen was the cement that filled the gaps among
his other relationships. She was a bland, even unattractive, substitute, but she was dependable. From
there he thought about the lack of depth in their marriage; the even shallower relationship he had with
almost everyone else; how such a willingness to ignore people guaranteed his freedom to do as he
pleased (how, after all, misanthropy was the surest safeguard of liberty); how such an attitude led to
community apathy; and then, just as the lunch bell rang, he realized that apathy was what had deluded
them all into accepting the world they lived in.
As he walked toward the plant's cafeteria, he met Sokol by the tool cage. "You going to lunch now,
Sokol?" he asked.
"In a little while."
"Do you foreman types get longer lunch breaks?" Sokol only glared. "I was thinking," said Ernest. "If
you look at the way we're watched in here, you wonder if maybe we're being watched outside, too. I
mean, like at home."
Sokol leaned against the iron mesh of the tool cage and yawned. "Maybe we are. But if we're
watched by people like plant foremen, then we don't have anything to worry about. They're probably just
people who got put into the job just to get them off the streets. They do their work and nobody pays any
attention at all."
Ernest looked at Sokol curiously. "You were serious about what you said? About the secretaries
throwing your reports away?"
The foreman nodded slowly. "You ever wonder why we got old ladies soldering the insides of these
units, when they got printed circuits and magnetics that would be a whole lot cheaper and better?
Because our Representative figures the ladies need jobs. I mean, for God's sake, you need a job, right?
And what would you be doing if some damn machine was turning out two thousand chassis an hour while
you did twelve?"
"It's lunchtime, Sokol. I got to go eat lunch."
Sokol sighed and gestured Ernest away impatiently. Ernest shrugged and followed the crowd of
employees to the cafeteria.
The ten-minute coffee break earlier in the morning only began to soothe him; lunch was the only real
chance to relax during the long day. But even here the company could order his private life with its rules.
It required him to take a full hour for lunch every day; and so, working from nine to four, in order to
make up a thirty-five-hour week, he had to come in for almost a whole day on Saturdays. Every day at
noon the employees lined up to punch out at the time-clocks, then filed into the large, cold cafeteria. The
lunch tables were staked out by the various cliques, none of which seemed interested in including Ernest.
Often he ate alone, but lately he had been speaking to one of the secretaries from the front office.
A fundamental disregard for people in general allowed the masses a kind of new, frantic liberty; this
disregard was not abusive in nature, but merely a defensive reaction to the crowded and disturbing
environment. One of the most unfortunate aspects of this freedom was the utter transience of human
relationships. Not only were neighbors nothing more than temporary and accidental affiliations, but the
very idea of fellowship was disappearing. Whenever a person transported his modapt to a new building,
his relations with his old neighbors were abruptly cut. Consequently, he had to find a whole new crew of
local friends to replace those he had left behind. This happened with such frequency that long-term
friendships were maintained only by the very few people who cared to remain in the same locality and
who coincidentally had friends who did the same. In the majority of cases, however, one did not bother
to create lasting ties, but instead looked for new people to fill old roles from place to place. With the
North American national average residency down to 2.8 years, the roles were kept rather simple, and a
person could not be overly critical of the new people he met. At the moment, Ernest was looking for
someone to play the role of sexual partner. He had good hopes for his noontime conversations with the
secretary turning in that direction.
"Hello, Eileen," he said, sitting in the seat that she had saved for him. "How's it going?"
"Hi, Ernie. Terrible. I'm just getting so sick of that Mr. Di Liberto. I mean, no matter what I do, he
knows better. I've been a secretary for three years now, you know. For crying out loud, there are some
things I can do by myself. I'm not as stupid as he thinks I am."
"Don't mind him. It's just a job. Just do what you're told and take your money."
Eileen took a sip of her orange drink. "Easy enough for you to say," she said. They talked a while
longer, until they were interrupted by the chime signal that prefaced an announcement on the public
address system.
"Your attention please." The amplified voice spoke out from several locations in the lunch room. "We
have a message of special importance from the president of the Jennings Manufacturing Corporation, Mr.
Robert L. Jennings."
"Thank you, Bob. My fellow employees, as my son has told you, I have unusual and particularly
important news. For that reason, I would appreciate it if you all would stop what you're doing, whether
you are working or on the lunch break, and listen closely.
"We have received word of a grave situation, the details of which unfortunately have not been
released. But the government has ordered that all normal daily employment be suspended, so that you
may all go home to be with your families when an official statement is made later this afternoon. Only
essential police and transportation facilities will remain operative after one o'clock this afternoon.
"Therefore, in compliance with the governmental order, you are all hereby dismissed to return to your
homes. We are given to understand that normal activity will resume as soon as circumstances permit.
Please do not attempt to call our offices for details for, as I have said, I am as ignorant of the exact
situation as you. But whatever the emergency, I wish you all the best of luck, and may God bless."
There was the chime signal indicating the end of the announcement, and then there was a silence. A
second later, someone laughed nervously; Ernest guessed that a few people wanted to pretend it was all
a joke. "A grave situation." It had to be, if Old Man Jennings was giving them the rest of the day off. That
ought to convince the skeptics. A moment later they all came to the same conclusion, for the cafeteria
was a scene of confusion. Ernest smiled to himself as he calmly began packing up his lunch. He always
enjoyed watching the herd instincts begin to take possession.
"What?" asked Eileen. "They're sending us home?"
"That's fine with me," said Ernest.
"But what do you think is the matter?" she asked.
"I don't really care." Eileen stared at him, and he smiled back. "We'll find out soon enough, won't we?
I mean, what could it be? Maybe a Representative died, or something. I don't know. I'm just glad to go
home. Can you give me a ride to the subway? I want to beat this rush."
-=*=-
Meantime A
Jermany, 1918.
Like a great reef sunk treacherously in the depths of the ocean, the Jerman nation ripped gaping holes
in the Allied war machine. While the greedy Jerman industrialists cried out for the opening of a new front
in the east, the Jerman War Ministry fought doggedly on to the west, still keeping an eye on Russia,
hoping desperately to keep her out of the war. At least until the rest of Europe was secure. And that,
admitted even the top-level spokesmen, might be a long time in coming.
But the Allies were exhausted. Wave after wave of weary soldiers hurled themselves against the
stubborn defenses of the Jerman Reich. Time after time they were thrown back, crushed and dismayed.
With no satisfactory staging area on the continent proper, the British and American forces were unable to
gain a foothold; counting on a recaptured Europe to supply the necessary outposts and provisions, the
failure to mount a successful invasion was doubly disastrous to the Allied High Command. Patience and
attention to detail gained the Jerman leaders time to deploy their forces to best advantage. Discipline and
a shrewd appraisal of its strengths enabled the Jerman nation to wear down its enemies.
But it was not unperceived by the General Staff that the Jerman people themselves were growing
dangerously fatigued. The best hope was in keeping Russia out of the struggle while avoiding a decisive
battle in the west. Time would tell whether the Allies or the Jerman Empire would prevail; time, and the
strength of the combatants' national will.
The summer passed, and the Allied threats grew fewer and weaker; that news was good, but the
Jerman population was starving. Angry mobs demonstrated in Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, demanding an
end to the war and a restoration of a stable economy. As autumn deepened into winter, the situation
became desperate. The army, unable to win a clear victory on its own, was discredited and bitter. The
General Staff was blamed for both its alleged military failures and the resulting social ruin throughout the
empire. The pressure increased until the War Ministry had only one course left in its defense; on the
morning of October 20, 1918, the General Staff declared that the great corporate and banking trusts of
Jermany were secretly working against the interests of the empire, and that all industry would henceforth
be nationalized.
The announcement caused a wrathful and outraged reaction. It was commonly rumored that the Allies
had assembled nearly three-quarters of a million fresh troops in Great Britain in preparation for the spring
offensive. Jermany could not continue much longer. The General Staff informed Kaiser Wilhelm that the
war was certainly lost unless something was done soon about the domestic situation. At first the Kaiser
did not take the obvious hint; instead, food rations were cut once more. Munitions workers in Berlin
began a series of violent strikes. The Jerman battleships in the North Sea refused to follow an order to
attack the British Navy. In a matter of days, the mutiny had spread to all the northern ports, and then to
Berlin. Still the Kaiser chose to ignore the gravity of the situation.
At that time, the Kaiser left the capital for a rest at a Belgian resort. In his absence, a republic was
proclaimed; the old Kaiser was forced to abdicate and flee to Sweden. Under the banner of a shaky
coalition government, the Jerman people settled down. Order was slowly restored, and the business of
the war was taken up with renewed vigor. The Allies, who in truth had been largely responsible for the
instigation of the internal upheavals, were as good as defeated -- the 750,000 troops waiting in England
never existed.
Ernst Weintraub, Jugendleiter of the Frachtdorf Red Front, threw the newspaper into the air. "Do we
celebrate now, boys?" he said.
"Yes, sir, Herr Kamerad Weintraub."
Weintraub, at the age of eighteen, was the leader of the tiny cell of the Jerman Communist party. He
had enjoyed little prestige, though, partially because of the underground nature of their organization, and
also because his command consisted of the more insolent of the neighborhood's delinquents. But now,
according to the Berlin edition of Pravda, recognition was at last only a few gunshots away. The World
War was nearing its end.
"Now, boys, our work shall begin indeed. Soon we will see that day we've been struggling so long to
bring about." Weintraub indicated the headline of the paper: the world revolution has begun!
"Wine, Herr Weintraub?"
"No, not for me. Beer, I think. Good Jerman beer."
"The dunkel?"
"Yes, of course," said Weintraub distractedly. Though his adolescent henchmen seemed more
interested in the festivities than the occasion, he couldn't help thinking about the future's task with pleasant
anticipation. Despite its victory, the Jerman Reich had collapsed; its economy had been strained by the
World War and would finally be ruined by the disillusionment of peace. The Jerman people had no
leadership in this crucial time. They had no sense of national destiny, no direction among the ashes of the
old, false values. All this Weintraub viewed with great satisfaction; as a minor worker for the cause of
international Communism, he could easily see that such a state of economic anarchy was fertile ground
for the cultivation of his party's beliefs.
"Mein Lehrer," said Staefler, a tall, athletic youth, "is it true, now that the revolution is approaching,
that we can break our sworn secrecy?"
Staefler was the most enthusiastic member of the small town's cell, though Weintraub realized that the
boy was unfortunately too slow of mind to accept much authority. The Youth Leader thought for a few
seconds, chewing his lip while Staefler regarded him eagerly. "No," said Weintraub at last, "I think not.
Until we get directives from Berlin along those lines, I feel it best to continue as we have. I know that
makes it hard on you," he said, slapping Staefler's shoulder in a comradely fashion, "but the Party expects
certain sacrifices. We must all put personal conveniences aside for the benefit of our great cause."
"Certainly, mein Lehrer," said Staefler, a little disappointed.
"It will not be much longer. The Bolsheviks are ready. The Russian and the Jerman Revolutions will
merge, joining forces and facing westward together. Then how can the rest of Europe stand against us?"
"Jermany," said Staefler brightly, "and then the world!"
"Go drink," said Weintraub with a proud smile. "These preliminary worries are not for you. The
celebration is your only concern this afternoon." While his young charges laughed drunkenly around him,
Weintraub studied his day's concerns. There was a small sheaf of dispatches from Party headquarters in
Berlin. He stared at the top sheet of paper -- a copy of a two-week-old handbill printed by the Slasniev
Loyal Soviet Red Sports Club congratulating the Jerman folk for throwing off the chains of the corporate
bosses. The handbill made Weintraub feel a little sad; what did the soccer players in Slasniev know about
Jerman conditions? What did the Berlin Party leaders know or care about Slasniev? Suddenly the idea of
a true revolution seemed too big, too remote, too unrealistic. He shook his head to stop those thoughts.
Berlin was coordinating everything, after all. Here in Frachtdorf he couldn't be expected to have an
objective view. That's what all the handbills and clippings were for, to give him a better glimpse of the
international implications of his work.
"Some more beer, Kamerad Weintraub?" asked another of the boys. He was grinning crookedly,
already beyond Weintraub's slight authority. His tunic was unbuttoned and his hair mussed; one leg of his
trousers showed a large wet stain, and the youth reeked of cheap wine. Weintraub wondered how the
Party expected to seize power through the agency of such as these inept scoundrels.
"No, no, Kleib. Just let me work. You go back to your fellows now. Let them know that I don't wish
to be disturbed."
Kleib tottered in his place. He laughed as he realized how drunk he was. "You got something
interesting today?" he asked.
Weintraub waved the papers. "Nothing," he said irritably. "It's far too early. There's nothing here but
the usual garbage." Kleib nodded, still grinning, and staggered back to the party. Weintraub riffled
through the remainder of the day's dispatches: greetings from workers' organizations in the Soviet Union,
music and art associations, political theory groups. Transcriptions of radio broadcasts pledging the
support of the Russian people. Newspaper clippings from all over the Russian nation in praise of the
courageous Jermans and their imminent revolution.
One printed notice excited Weintraub more than the others. It said simply, without the use of large
banner type or crude, inflammatory illustrations, that an All-Jerman Workers' and Soldiers' Council was
set to convene in Berlin. This was ostensibly a meeting of the discontented army and trade union
members, most of whom had been all but destroyed by the war; Weintraub could see the hand of the
radical left behind it. The trade unions had always demonstrated a certain receptivity to socialist thought;
it would not be difficult at all to lead their unsophisticated minds to accept the attractive promises of
Communism. The soldiers were the angriest segment of the population, having seen their fellows killed
daily during the needlessly drawnout war, simply because of the greed of the industrialist and the ambition
of the politicians. They, too, would be eager to embrace the Party's ideas. The groundwork had been
well prepared.
It was suggested by the Party leaders in Berlin that all Jugendleiters produce handbills of their own,
which would then be distributed around the neighborhoods by the younger cell members. In this way, the
union of Jerman peasants and proletariat might be hastened. Some helpful guidelines were supplied, with
quotations from the writings of Marxist theorists. Weintraub studied the excerpts for several minutes. He
decided to base his handbill on something that Lenin had written in 1917: "An essential condition for the
victory of the socialist revolution is the closest alliance between the toiling and exploited peasantry and
the working class -- the proletariat -- in all advanced countries." Here in the rural town of Frachtdorf, the
mighty struggles of government seemed remote and insignificant. But it was Weintraub's duty to educate
the citizens of the village. He must make it clear that if they joined together they could have an
unprecedented influence on the affairs of state; if they then cooperated in a serious and uncompromising
effort with the oppressed urban workers, nothing in Jermany could stand against them.
Weintraub made a few notes for the handbill. "We have won the war against the capitalist 'Allies,'" he
said to himself. "But at what cost? How much of Jermany is left? How much less will remain after we rise
to demand our fair shares? The old leadership has failed us, and seeks to placate our righteous anger with
speeches about international prestige. Will that prestige feed us through the winter?" He paused and
rehearsed these lines, wondering if they had a proper revolutionary ring to them. "Sentiment is out of
place," he said. "It is a luxury we will never again be able to afford. Government by emotion is identified
with rule by tyranny."
"Eh, Herr Lehrer Weintraub?"
Weintraub was startled from his concentration. "Nothing, Staefler," he said. "I'm just a bit tired."
A week passed. The reluctant Friedrich Ebert was made the Chancellor of the new Republic; trying
to make the best of the confused, somewhat illegitimate situation, Ebert issued several declarations aimed
at uniting the Jerman people behind him. Prisoners taken during the weeks of open rebellion were freed.
Guarantees were made for freedom of expression. Promises were made for the eventual improvement of
the economy and in the areas of social justice and reform. Ebert was not a strongly willed leader, but he
was shrewd enough to see that, the stuttering revolution notwithstanding, the Jerman people as a whole
still clung to the old conservative ideals.
Ebert had not wanted a republic at all. He was working for a constitutional monarchy, modeled after
that of Great Britain, with one of Wilhelm's sons at the head of the government. But when Ebert himself
was thrust into the role of Chancellor, he found the courage to deal with the unpleasant circumstances.
He knew that he could count on little support in any sort of showdown with the radical elements, which
were still agitating throughout the nation; however, a secret pact with the remnants of the army bolstered
his uncertain authority. The government promised to crush the Bolshevik influence, and the army pledged
its strength in carrying out Ebert's programs.
Little of these semi-official dealings were reported in the official news services. Weintraub learned bits
of news through the Party's angry bulletins and in the secondhand reports that were forwarded from the
Soviet Union. "We must redouble our efforts, Staefler," said Weintraub, after reading of the new
Chancellor's program. "If we're not careful, our chance for power will slip right through our fingers."
"They're betraying us in Berlin," said Staefler resentfully. "They've betrayed the Jerman people. Why
have our enemies not been disarmed? Must we appease the Allies?"
"I pray that's not true," said Weintraub. But the evidence accumulated; Ebert would not let the
Communists claim their proportional share of legislative control. He feared another Bolshevik
Revolution.
In December, Weintraub was invited to attend the first Soviet Council in Berlin, a mass meeting of
local Party leaders and representatives of the various Workers' and Soldiers' Councils which had sprung
up throughout the nation. He did not attend, however, because of his mother's illness. He sent Staefler
instead; the youth returned several days later, his report colored by his infatuation with the capital
metropolis. At last Weintraub managed to obtain an objective list of the Council's activities: it had
demanded that Hindenburg resign as Field Marshall of the armed forces, that the army be disbanded and
replaced by a civil guard, and that the Jerman Republic accept the gift of two trainloads of grain offered
by the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
"Perhaps those demands are a bit too aggressive," said Weintraub thoughtfully. "We cannot afford to
compromise, and Ebert will surely not concede. If we back down now, we'll lose everything."
"We'll have to wait and see," said Staefler.
"That's the hard part," said Weintraub. "We have to sit here in our secret den in Frachtdorf, while
hundreds of miles away our destinies are being decided." At that moment in Berlin, the Communist
forces, flushed with their initial success, sought to consolidate their gains. The bands of militant
Communists seized buildings and blockaded streets. The army fought back, and demanded that Ebert
make a strong denunciation of the Party, as he had promised. Ebert vacillated. In the meantime, the
Communists gained support. Strikes closed Jermany's industries once more. Demonstrators numbering in
the hundreds of thousands took control of transportation facilities and newspapers. The army, at last
grown impatient with Ebert, took the matter into its own hands. Machine guns, grenades, and armored
vehicles were used against the Communist bands. It was a case of an organized military force against a
disordered mob of unemployed men, widows of soldiers killed in the war, and fanatical students. In three
days the Communists were crushed.
The bad news reached Frachtdorf slowly. With it came the announcement of an election for the
National Assembly, which would draw up a new constitution and elect a President. The official Party
directive stated that all Communists should boycott the elections, and strive to reform their shattered
organization. At the polls, the Jerman people vindicated Ebert's policies. He was chosen the first
president of the Jerman Republic by the Constituent Assembly in Weimar. His first act as president was
to decline the offer of grain from the Soviet Union, in favor of what he termed "reparations" from the
United States. There was shocked silence from the east, angry replies from Jerman Ostamerika.
"We're dead," said Kleib.
"No, not yet. But we've been forced underground again," said Weintraub. "We can't give up. We
can't get discouraged. The Party will not die. It just means more work for us, more dedication, a greater
willingness to sacrifice ourselves to convince the Jerman people of the swindle they've accepted."
"Oh, hell," said Kleib. Weintraub's cell was falling apart. Even Staefler had grown weary of the
Communist game. The boys found other entertainments; in a few days, Weintraub was all alone in the
Party's Frachtdorf headquarters. His superior, Herr Schneck, in the nearby city of Gelnhausen, learned of
the situation and ordered Weintraub to report in person.
The following afternoon, Weintraub was escorted into a darkened room where the old man lay,
tucked up to his chin with an old army blanket. He was dying, Weintraub knew, but he worked steadily
during his intermittent periods of consciousness. Schneck gestured, and Weintraub moved quietly to the
bedside. The old man spoke, his voice dry and soft in the darkness.
"Wilhelm, my grandson," he said, mistaking Weintraub in his delirium, "stay in touch with the Russians.
It will serve no purpose to cause conflict. But now you must go. Go to America. Good luck, and may
God bless."
Weintraub bowed to the old man. Schneck smiled, and made a gurgling sound deep in his throat. He
let his head fall one last time to the pillow. As Weintraub backed away, an aide handed him a thick
folder.
-=*=-
CHAPTER 2
The trains were already crowded. Apparently everyone in the city had been given the same message,
and they all rode home together with the same worried expression. Ernest wondered if he were the only
one without that paralyzing feeling of apprehension. No matter what had happened, its effects would
probably never trickle far enough down the ladder of fortune to alter his life. Or, he thought, the lives of
any of these people. But here they all were.
Their lives continued without thought, without concern. There was a peculiar insectlike quality to them,
Ernest reflected. It wasn't a complimentary comparison. A few days before, he had talked to Sokol the
foreman about that sad fact. "Jennings must get pretty burned," Ernest had said. "I mean, I do my work
all right. Not as good as I would if I gave a damn about these idiot machines. But, after all, the old man
can't expect me to jump for joy the way he does."
"Nah," said Sokol, "he won't expect that. He's running the red queen's race himself, trying to hold his
employees back so they won't advance themselves right into unemployment."
"We're like a bunch of bees," said Ernest. "You and me and everybody's working like crazy at jobs
we don't care anything about, and only Old Man Jennings gets to suck the royal jelly."
"He's just a drone himself," said Sokol with a cynical expression. "You ever see him? He's seventy
years old, running around the secretary pool pinching bottoms. He don't fool me, though. What's even
sadder, he don't fool the secretaries. And anyway, he's not the big boss. He can't understand what we're
doing, either. Only the Representatives can."
"I hope they do."
Sokol sighed. "Yeah, me too." The two men lapsed into silence; the discussion was edging nearer a
"meaning of existence" argument, and that was a pointless business before lunch.
The Representatives had learned to move softly while pursuing their enigmatic ends. Each of the
摘要：

RELATIVESbyGEORGEALECEFFINGER(1973)  [VERSION1.2(December192005).Ifyoufindandcorrecterrorsinthetext,pleaseupdatetheversionnumberby0.1andredistribute.]      ForVictoriaSchochet,    theSt.MotherCabriniofthepublishingworld.    OrmaybetheMaBarker.     Weareallhuntingforrationalreasonsforbelievingintheab...

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