Revolution Baby by Alison Anderson, Joanna Gruda

that day on . . . Well, almost, except for one time when out of solidarity I went with the big kids who refused to get their heads shaven when it was the only remedy for the lice epidemic raging at L’Avenir Social. But I won’t go into that story, because it is time to get back to more serious things: politics.
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    CHAPTER 14
    Here Come the Russians
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    After our participation in the demonstration in support of the Republicans in Spain, the political fervor of a number of children at L’Avenir Social increased. Naturally I belonged to this politicized elite. We often talked with Arnold about the evolution of the situation in Spain. Unfortunately, the news was always bad.
    Arnold didn’t only talk about Spain, he also taught us about the situation elsewhere in the world. We were proud to be considered old enough to understand what was at stake in the modern world. We were proud to be on the right side, that of communism, and we intended to do whatever it took, as long as we had to, to get France to join the Communist International alongside the USSR.
    One day we were told a great event was in store, the very next day: a visit from some Soviet dignitaries. Roger and I were enchanted: real flesh and blood Soviet Communists in our orphanage! Philippe too was thrilled with the news. For the rest of the day, we saw him walking around with a book in his hand, even outdoors; while everyone else was playing, he had his nose buried in his book. It was as if he were studying to take an exam to enter the Supreme Soviet (I didn’t know exactly what that was, but I thought the term “Supreme Soviet” was full of grandeur and nobility, however contradictory that might seem).
    The next day I got up earlier than usual and I left the dormitory without a sound, because I wanted to be sure not to miss the arrival of the Soviets. I came upon Philippe, who was sitting on a bench near the front door, still completely absorbed by his reading. The orphanage was silent; clearly the dignitaries would not be arriving anytime soon. I sat down next to Philippe, curious to find out what sort of book could be hypnotizing him to such a degree.
    â€œWhat do you want, Jules?”
    â€œI haven’t seen you once without that book in your hand since yesterday. I just wanted to know what it was.”
    â€œI’d be surprised if it interested you.”
    â€œWell, I am interested, since I asked you.”
    â€œNo, what I mean is . . . Anyway, suit yourself. The book is
The Communist Manifesto.
I want to be well prepared, I want to show that even children can have an enlightened vision of politics.”
    â€œAnd is it interesting to read? Could you lend it to me?”
    â€œâ€˜But not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons—the modern working class—the proletarians.
    â€œâ€˜In proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e. capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed—a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labour increases capital. These labourers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce . . . ’”
    I didn’t dare show him that I was all at sea. As I had, regardless, a solid political background—I knew, for example, that the bourgeois were on one side and the proletariat on the other, and that we communists believed in the might of the proletariat—but I didn’t expect to feel so stupid upon hearing this famous manifesto . . . I wanted to ask Philippe to explain it to me somewhat, so that I would be ready, too, to meet the Soviets, but to do that I would have to admit I hadn’t understood a thing, and something inside wouldn’t let me do