Four young Communists leave New York City on September 3, 1921 for an epic cross-country trip by foot, auto, train, and buggy. Sleeping in barns, picking apples, hitch-hiking and meeting the locals, these delightful vignettes from Young Workers League leader S. Max Kintzes. Unfortunately, it appears the continuation of the story did not get printed in Young Worker.

‘Impressions, Incidents, Experiences of Our Cross-Country Trip’ by S. Max Kitzes from Young Worker. Vol. 2 Nos. 4 & 5. April  & May, 1923.

“Damn it!” I’d say
And take pack and sack on back
And leave.
Whereto?
Wherever!
Wherever I’d see a change
from the irksome monotony,
from the familiar uninteresting faces, into the distant different space.
And, Damn it!
I’d leave
my system-slaved father,
my convention-tortured mother, my change-longing friends, my money crazed boss,
my system-chained professors, my economic-stricken self-
And go
Whereto? Wherever!
Anywhere.
Everywhere.

SUCH was the restless spirit rampant in my change-craving self. Such too was the prevalent restlessness among my companions.

No sooner said than done. We enriched an Army and Navy store by the price of four khaki outfits and a few camping supplies.

On September third, after lamentations on the part of our parents, and envious expressions on the part of our friends, we regretfully, yet joyously, took the street car to the city limits–and therefrom our “hobo trip” began.

The freedom of the road, the calm cheerfulness contrasted greatly with the noisy congested city streets. Our unfettered spirits were in gay unison with the bright early Autumn day. Everywhere apples, alive on the branches, beckoned temptingly–and we needed no further invitation…Having consumed as much as we could, having filled our pockets, we were about to continue on the road with brimming handfuls when a tall, stout gent, later described as the sheriff confronted us. “Good apples, eh?” he asked rather pleasantly. ‘Sure’ was the sincere reply. “Well, do you know you are stealing? How would you like me to steal your salary? These apples are private property,” he moralized. We were becoming a bit shaky, and one of us interrupted him: “Wha’ do you wan’ for ’em?” “A dollar.”

We paid him and considered it “getting away with murder”…The apples were good, but on push-carts we can get more for the money!

For curiosity’s sake we found our way, by way of auto lifts, on the following day, to Saratoga Springs, of which we can only recall the taste of the cathartic waters flowing from the natural springs. From there, on our way to Amsterdam, the carpet city we viewed the Mohawk Valley. Distant trees formed impressionistic views….Easy-going folks, standing on the top of the hills, hands clasped behind their backs, observing the scenery below….Also: A mass meeting with the speaker on the stump….Nature’s picturesque beauties eased our sky-scraper-tired eyes. The inevitable question placed itself before us: Why this undeveloped vastness while the cities were crowded?

The usual complacent, contended A.F. of L. “democracy” showed itself predominant, at the Labor Day Celebration, at Syracuse, in the following slogan:

“WE WANT AMERICANISM IN INDUSTRY Our Motto: THE OPEN SHOP IS UN-AMERICAN”

Such was Labor’s protest against the exploitation of crumbling capitalism!

In Auburn, not being permitted to see the inside of the Bastile, due to legal holiday, we just gazed at this built-up grave where the inmates are (as if) buried alive. In the booths, scattered on the top of the walls, were foxy-eyed, armed guards.

In Seneca Falls, the smallest town yet seen, “Now I first feel that we are free; the holidays are over and we are not working…” one of us remarked, next day.

It was in this town that we got our first “write-up”. The old maid editor, penned in a cellar used as an “editorial room” envied our freedom. “That’s the life”, she waved after us as we left.

This is the publicity received there. Note the provincialism:

“ON WAY TO COAST: Monday they arrived in Seneca Falls where they were ROYALLY entertained Tuesday morning. WARM IN THEIR PRAISES OF SENECA FALLS and with the firm determination to again visit here on their return from the golden gate.”

By walking when we had to and riding on autos when such presented themselves, we reached Niagara Falls. The force of the Falls enveloped us. Their splendor excited our feelings. Never yet have we seen such marvellous wonder. The green-headed Horseshoe Falls, the brown-headed American Falls, the rainbow, the soothing spray–each left its indelible impression. The novelty of it filled us with desire to remain there endlessly. One of us, “the man of science”, had to be torn from this place.

Unsated, yearning for more, we decided to see the Falls from the Canadian side. And impatiently went there. We paid our toll. On the Canadian side we were called into the office where the following questions were put to us: “Are you American citizens?” “Who’s your husband?” “Are you sure?” “What’re you all doing?” “Is it contagious sickness? Everybody’s doing it?” Anyhow, we saw the Falls from the Canadian border, drank a glass of prohibition, and went back to continue our trip in the U.S.A.

The evening invited us to friendly and hospitable Italian workers, at whose little shop our night’s lodging was arranged. A kerosene lamp illuminated the inside of our nicknamed ‘hotel de spigett.’ In the house we had a friendly chat, trying hard to make ourselves intelligible to them, drank some dandelion wine and learned the recipe therefore, heard some Italian rags, and observed the curiosity look in their eyes.

The night was clear and at our friendliness.

The moon smiled at our nerve. The stars winked us to sleep.

The next day, the city of Buffalo added an interesting incident: Outside the city we decided to return to a farmer’s about 100 miles east of Buffalo to work at picking apples. A hill rose before us. We refused to walk it. Hills stand robust and appear to elongate to pedestrians and vagabonds, but fearfully flatten before imposing automobiles….Having no obligations, instinct ruled, and we wandered as we list. An auto going east cleared our indecision. We went east. (Had it gone west, we’d turned west…)

A middle aged couple gave us a lift. Our spirit was jovial, reckless and happy. The woman in the car was soon infected by our youthful contagious hilarity. The couple first invited us to ice-cream. Thereafter, to a “gefilte fish” supper–this being Friday. And to further add to the current glee and joy, they offered us two rooms for the night. We jumped in frenzy. A dream, it seemed. But reality it was. Needless to say all invitations were readily accepted.

‘Twas here we were labelled “THE UNUSUAL FOUR”. Well-said!

This is probably the most appropriate place in which to record that when, in Chicago, helping the Friends of Soviet Russia, we did not forget our Buffalo friends, and wrote them asking for a donation to aid the starving Russians. A twenty dollar check was added to the amount collected in Chicago.

The next day we reached our destination, having left our heavy knapsacks on a porch on the country-road. “How far is it to Ryan’s?” we asked the farmerette. “Ten miles.” “How do you measure miles here?” we again asked. “When I have to walk ’em, it seems ten miles to me,” she said. We started to walk the “ten” miles. Women and children, dogs, goats, cows, horses, orchards, pastures and country-huts were enframed in our view. We asked for the apple-picking job, and got it. The conditions were: 15 cents per barrel, and free lunch. Board and lodging to be paid out of our 15-cent earnings. Work would begin within two weeks. (On condition we help wash the dishes we could stay over that night. We stay over night.)

This being Saturday night we accompanied our farmers to town. Everyone goes to town on Sat’d’y night–to shop, to gossip, to the “pi’tchers.”

On our way we tried to get our belongings, but ’twas dark, and the dog barked. We were not heroic this time, and continued to town. We promenaded, while all curiously gave us the once overs. We again met the farmerette at whose house we had left our belongings and told her about the dog. She calmly said: “He may JUST GRAB YOUR ANKLE, but he won’t bite…Just call him ‘Nipper-Nipper’…” We safely got our packs.

Necessitating a wait for two weeks until the picking, we asked the Farmers’ Bureau for work on Monday morning. None to be had. So we went to try at the canning factory. No extras wanted yet. One of the young workers stopping with us near the factory said, in bitter discontent, “They work you to death in there. Someone ought to blow this place up!” Discontent of the exploited is to be found even in hic towns. I thought ’twas only in cities.

While on the road, we were asked if we wanted to pick tomatoes. Five cents a crate was the price offered. Not knowing what it means to pick tomatoes, we went to work. The sun burnt. Perspiration ran down our bodies. And all we earned averaged each fifteen cents an hour. The girls chucked the work first. We unhesitatingly followed suit. Got paid, and…

Free again, on the road. prancing, skipping, singing was our recreation. Ah!!! The road!

Towards sundown we again reached our “hotel de spigett” where we were welcomed this time as unexpected old friends.

On our way to Cleveland, standing on the running-boards, were Moe and I. I was tired. And to add thereto, over the detour road, a deathly fear possessed me. “There she turns turtle,” I thought as the auto jolted and bumped along lopsided. “There she falls on my side and mortally pins me under the weight,” Gee, what fear!!!

Yet–all this was worth not to miss the sunset view: The sun, turning crimson, sank slowly prolonging the resplendent, colorful moment. We were heading directly west, while the twilight sun set before us, and apparently for us. And when the playful clouds completely hid the sun to sleep, they curly-carved and rolled upon the smiling moon.

About nine P.M. we were at the door of one of our relatives. These conventional petit-bourgeois looked upon us as upon “four crazy kids.” (Analogous: Should the New York Times praise me, I’d have myself examined…)

Part II.

From Cleveland to Chicago.

A few days later at sundown, we stopped at Dover, Ohio. There we were advised to go to the mayor, suggesting the calaboose as a better-than no place to sleep in. The suggestion was well taken. The mayor asked us a few natural, expected questions as to our personal relationship, and as to whither bound, purpose, etcetera. We explained at the supper table. We ate heartily, as is proper–being at the mayor’s…(Gee if he had only known whom he had invited!) Our personal narratives interested the mayor, his wife and their children. She had taken a liking to the girls, and expressed what sounded as a sincere regret that she had no room to house us in. So, after supper, the Hon. Mayor himself was our chauffeur to the jail. The steel cages, and more so the man behind the bars, sent a thrill through our veins. It took a few moments to adapt ourselves to this new environment.

The stupid-looking mayor, now turning judge, ordered the prisoner be let out and seated for cross-examination. The young man was found asleep on the road, the marshal (the mayor’s son-in-law) stated. The charge was drunkenness. Obviously he was drunk. But he was at his wit’s end. The mayor quizzed and the prisoner cleverly replied. “Of course, I drank,” he admitted, “but only meelk and water,” he added. “Only meelk and water,” he insisted. “But what about your breath?” he was asked. “Don’t yours smell after waking from sleep?” was his retort. At first the mayor feigned the seriousness of a superior, but he gradually grew mild (probably due to his feeling amiably disposed to his “visitors,” considering that this was to be their “hotel” for the night.)

Dismissed, the prisoner asked for something to eat. He was handed a ham sandwich. Then he burst forth with: “Y’ know, I can sing. Y’wanna hear?” “Sure,” the mayor replied. So in an immelodious, inharmonious, screechy, tuneless tone he broke loose with the appropriate: “How dry I am: how dry I am”…

When the mayor and his family and the freed-man left, and the old watchman with them, a solemn silence filled the chamber, and the consciousness of being in jail (and not in a vaudeville house) again awoke. Inspiration entered and worked us up into a writing mood, and each feverishly wrote expressing our first impressions of the first time in jail.

If our present surroundings were through force and not through choice!…was the question in my mind. In daring, adventurous spirit, I tried to experience sitting behind the bars…What uncomfortable curiosity!

But in the morning, on the open road, we were again FREE….

At the Toledo-Detroit cross-roads, we stopped at a Polish farmer and helped him clean tomatoes, in consideration of a promised barn for the night. While waiting for suppertime, a well-dressed, prosperous-looking gentleman, who had been talking real estate to the Pole, asked as to our wherefrom, whereto, wherefore, and so on. The excited interest caused an invitation: “Come along!” You bet we went. In his Dodge Sedan he told us that he was keeping a bachelor apartment while his wife was on a hay-fever cure. The girls offered to prepare supper.

O, coffee! How many think they know how to prepare you for particular people!…

The hearty meal consumed (by the way, on the road our appetites were always healthy…) we went onto the porch whence extended a long private board-walk into Lake Erie. Two benches at its end made a romantic ending to the boardwalk.

Romanticism Was In the Air.

The waves ran their incessant races. The row-boat danced alluringly. To the left and right, on the banks, trees obeyed the command of the cool breeze. I feverishly watched the rippling waters dancing in the ecstatic brightness of the moon’s reflection, until-clouds eclipsed the moon, jealously humiliating my moment-romantic eyes. Lightning zizzagged in spells. Awaiting the moon’s reappearance, I comfortably rocked in the Wicker rocker. Stars twinkled through the clouds’ crevices. The wind blew its pleasant breath over the lake to me. Ah! The moon’s victorious! She smiled alike upon me as upon the lake. My heart danced in rhythmic unison with the rolling waves…In all: what entrancing, inspiring, beauteous moment! Moments are my life!

‘Twas painful to part–to bed. But….

On the morrow, the call of the early red sun brought us to foot.

The day brought us to Detroit. With two comrades we spent our time on Bell Isle. With discovered acquaintances we stay the day or so. Desiring to “give us a good time,” this latter simple couple “took us out” into a cheap burlesque show. A boresome, disgusting evening. But they enjoyed it. And the kids were too young to understand. It is this couple who has as its sole aim to save a couple thousand dollars, and to go to New York in a Chevrolet following will speak for itself: Their laundry-store sign read:

THIS LAUNDRY OPEN FROM 9 A.M. TO 7 P.M.

was changed to read:

OPEN FROM 7 A.M. TO 9 P.M.

Just a transposition of figures, eh?…

On our way to Ann Arbor, our interesting “lifter” related to us the following: He had given two sailors a lift from somewhere in Rhode Island to Syracuse, New York. They had taken advantage of a ruling which gave them the right to leave three months before discharge, but without fare home. They had not known of the stipulation “without fare” until they were out. To be privileged with fare they then would have had to re-enlist for a year. Having twenty-seven “bucks” between them, tho they decided to hobo home (on the Western coast.) “Why didn’t you re-enlist when you found you were left without fare?” they were asked. “We’d rather go to hell and back than reenlist”…was the sailors’ reply.

Our “lifter” also pointed out Henry Ford’s Dearborn estate. A palace amidst a pleasant, vast green, enframed in “Private Property” gates, as contrasted with the dull brown, dingy, low huts in which the Ford workers existed–yes, merely existed. His co-operative housing plan for the workers works on approximately the following basis, he outlined: “The workers buy the huts by means of their monthly rentals, for a number of years, on condition, of course, that they remain in his employ. Should they lose their jobs, they lose what they “paid in” which is treated only as rentals paid.” The Ford workers are “privileged” to certain “advantages” on condition that they comply with the rules set down by Ford. He wants to control the very lives of the Ford workers, and is therefore so “liberal.” Only the ignorant consider Henry Ford a benevolent philanthropist, but, as the truth has it, added our “lifter”: “When Henry ‘gives away’ one, he sees to it that Ford gets back two”

At Ann Arbor, we left him, lunched, and visited the Michigan University. A medical professor gave us a lift out in his “anti-semite,” commonly under the following aliases: “tin can, ” “tin Lizzie,” “rattle,” “Ford.”

At the close of the day we found ourselves in Francisco Village. These villagers went one better on Christ: He only commanded: “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” and they practiced so to phrase it, “My neighbor he be-eth better than I, try-eth him”–for a night’s lodging.

So, sitting on the railroad station resigned to the cold reality, wrapped in our blankets due to the cold night, we read some short story, to occupy our minds with…A “native” gave us the “once-over.” Seeing that we looked harmless, and with apparent good intentions, he the “BETTER NEIGHBOR” eventually offered us his barn, on condition that we do not use any matches. Our quick reply was that the boys do not smoke. (Our girls did not smoke yet, at that time).

The good breakfast, at a very low price, put us in good trim. We skipped and sang, and laughed, and walked four abreast in absence of any traffic. We even at one time lay on the road awaiting the desired auto. Joyous, frolicsome, animated, vivacious youngsters were the four of us. And with such jollity we arrived at Hartford, Mich., which unhesitatingly deserves the famous alias “Gopher Prairie.” This burgh had a four-block length Main Street, a Ladies’ Library, a Ladies’ Rest Room, a fire-house, and behind a calaboose, and last but not least the “pitcher-show,” which only came once a week…

Stuck for the night in this burgh, the Ladies’ Library librarian, refusing to comment on “Main Street” and thereafter to say anything at all, the girls got permission to sleep in the Ladies’ Rest Room, while the boys were becoming accustomed to sleeping in calabooses (this time on upper and lower beds in the or cell). And there, being nothing else to do in the rainy weather, we spent the evening at the ‘pitcher-show,’ where we acted as wild kids, reading the screen-inscriptions aloud, laughing and applauding every silly part in the “pitcher” (aside: the entire picture). Such was our actual reaction to “Gopher Prairie.”

A FIRE! Someone calls up the fire department. No one is there. (The firemen do not stay at the firehouse, as in the city). At last a street-walker, or the watchman, answers the phone. He then calls up the individual eight firemen, whose telephone numbers are posted on the bulletin board, and informs them of the existent fire. They dress and eat, and stroll over to the fire-house to take out the fire-engine. When they have all assembled, they eventually drive over to the fire place. By that time, however, the house originally afire will have left no trace, and the neighboring houses will have crumbled to ashes and the fire would have died of its own accord. Such is my imaginative interpretation of Hartford, Mich., alias “Gopher Prairie.” From there, through Michigan City and Gary, Ind., a “lifter” brought us into the “Windy City,” into Chicago, on 1 P.M., Sept. 25, 1921. First we went to search for our lost New York friend, whom we were advised to look for at the Tolstoy Vegetarian Restaurant. We asked. She wasn’t there. We then looked up some relatives. For Chicago meant no barns or hay-stacks for us. Optimism (through our relatives) greeted us.

In the evening the four of us planned to live, as on the road, on communal basis.

In the morning we went out hunting-for jobs. Roosevelt Road and Halsted Street saw our first pathetic parting into four different directions (as per THE CALL OF THE ADVERTISEMENT)…

The Young Worker was produced by the Young Workers League of America beginning in 1922. The name of the Workers Party youth league followed the name of the adult party, changing to the Young Workers (Communist) League when the Workers Party became the Workers (Communist) Party in 1926. The journal was published monthly in Chicago and continued until 1927. Editors included Oliver Carlson, Martin Abern, Max Schachtman, Nat Kaplan, and Harry Gannes.

For PDF of full issue: https://www.marxists.org/history/usa/pubs/youngworker/v2n04-apr-1923-yw-G-LB.pdf

PDF of issue 2: https://www.marxists.org/history/usa/pubs/youngworker/v2n5-may-1923-yw.pdf