The World of Tomorrow... Today!

Excerpt from Diary of a Reactionary: My Life in the Sons of Liberty by Paul Matthews (UASR: University of Colorado Press, 1983)

I had been stationed at Fort Collins since the judge sentenced me to basic training. For the first few months, it was rough, especially in comparison to the light tasks we had to do in the Sons. I was in a squadron with fellow “delinquents”, who also took a deal for basic training over prison. Some were simply criminals, but some were also political partisans like me, like a young Indian [Native American] from the fascist aligned “American Indian Federation”, or a German from the German American Bund. Their goal was to make good comrades out of us. I never saw my old squad of fellow SOL teens who were captured with me for several years, probably so that we couldn’t coordinate an escape.

The daily routines were brutal, especially since they also served the purpose of punishment. I struggled at first to get a handle on them, and I sustained some small injuries as I tried to climb walls or run with my fake rifle. I held out hope in the beginning, however, that I could use this harsh training for the great final war to restore the Republic. I zoned out a while during my political education classes, because I felt that I would have no need for it. I was also sure that my father would arrange for communiques indicating missions to accomplish with my new training.

That never came, and gradually, my devotion to the cause of capitalism crumbled, as my worldview was expanded. The commanders, devoted as they were to building new soldiers, showed compassion and kindness, and never pushed us beyond our own capabilities. My commissar proved patient, and eventually, I got into his lessons. I was also allowed to explore, something I rarely did under the Sons. My father feared I would be indoctrinated into Judeo-Bolshevism.

He wasn’t wrong. I still remembered the hardships we went through during the Depression, and how everyone around us had it just as rough. I think the only thing keeping my dirt-poor father from joining the Communists was his staunch Baptism and patriotism. What I saw now were people who had jobs, who were living well, who weren’t hungry, who all had homes to go to in the winter. It seemed Communism really did improve the lives of people.

My stance against communism softened, but I was still convinced I was a Sons member.

About a year and a half into my sentence, I received a surprise visitor: my older brother Daniel. The last time I had seen him was right before my fateful journey. He was wearing a simple shirt and pants, and looked much happier than when I left him.

We embraced and talked in the visitor’s lounge.

“How are things, Danny?”

“It’s been fine. Mostly fine.”

“How’s father?” Maybe he’d finally give me a secret communique.

“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t spoken to him for over a year.”

I was shocked. Danny was very loyal to my father, parroted all his beliefs, never questioned him.

“What happened?”

“After your capture, I tried to mount a rescue with some of the older guys. Father immediately told us not to. That you were already lost to the Bolshevik machine, and the Jews and Papists had likely already brainwashed you into becoming a soldier of Satan.”

“What, I…”

“He told me that they couldn’t trust you. That you might be inclined to turn them in from your brainwashing. So, we had to abandon you and if absolutely necessary, kill you, if the time comes.”

I couldn’t believe it. My own father abandoned me, and was willing to kill me, over some imaginary idea that I could ever turn him in.

“I argued against it for months, and he gave the same answer. Finally…. I was forced out of the Sons.”

“Over me?”

“No, I had been seeing someone.”

“Outside the camp?” There were generally no women in our camp. The Sons used entirely male partisans. Women were trained as auxiliary or spies separately. I think it was some very Protestant thing about sexes mixing.

“No… inside. With another one of the boys.”

“Oh.” Keep in mind, had I heard this when I first entered, I would’ve disowned him then and there. Homosexuality was a sin, and only communists did it. Since then, however, I had seen some of my very own commanders and commissar have wonderful relationships with their same-sex partners, just as loving as those between my very own parents.

Still, I knew that having a Uranian relationship was punishable by death for violating the Sons of Liberty oath (“You must live a decent, Christian lifestyle, and abstain from sin”).

“They caught us, and we had to both flee the camp to avoid getting killed. I went to the Public Safety Office the next day to become an informant. They raided the camp, but Dad wasn’t there. Apparently, Dad and some of the other members were transferred just before the raid. I think they’re in Colorado Springs now.”

So, Father had the opportunity to contact me, but didn’t. There was no mission.

“I’ve been living in New York for the past year. Found someone that I love very dearly.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“You ought to come by sometime.”

“Still got six months left before I get released.”

“Well”, he took out a sheet of paper with a pen written address. “If you’re ever in New York, I’m always available to talk.”

I took the note, and mulled over what happens next. I didn’t know where my father was, and he’d shoot me dead if he saw me. My mother died shortly after Charleston in an aborted bomb-making scheme. Even if I went with my brother, I didn’t really have an idea for my own future, especially an ex-terrorist like me.

Finally, I asked my commander if I could stay in the Army after my term was up. He got the paperwork done. At the end of my term, I also requested a transfer to Winchester, to be closer to my brother.

[…]

Along with my weekend excursions with Danny and his partner Hershel, I also befriended several other soldiers. I was exposed to many different people from many different parts of the country for the very first time. Blacks, Jews, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Mexicans. I had never seen such diversity in my life!

My bunkmate was an Italian fella from Stubbenville, Ohio, Dino Crocetti. He had a similar story to me, though was never a political partisan. He had been making side money off a job guarding an illegal casino in Ohio. Because of his age during the arrest, he was allowed to join the militia. We became close friends. I hear him sing along with Frank Sinatra or Harry Crosby on the records. He would also box as “The Crochett”, though that caused problems with the local commanders.

[…]

Dino and I got off the subway near the fairgrounds, amid a crowd of people. I looked around the horizon, before finally seeing the pointed statue known as the Trylon and the large dome known as the Perisphere rising over them, comparing them to our tickets

“Looks a bit like some private parts,” Dino chuckled as he looked at the structure.

In hindsight, it did, but I was still squeamish about such things from my Baptist upbringing. I stayed silent. Together we moved towards the entrance with the large crowd of people. I read years later that there were ten entrances to the fairgrounds, each marked with a statue or mural marking some sort of socialist value or important event. In my case, I saw a large mural on the ground dedicated to the Haymarket Affair of 1886. One side dedicated to the event itself, one to the trial.

We had gotten the tickets from our commanding officer in Winchester. He had said that he visited the fair himself with his wife and children, and said it would be a nice spot for a weekend leave if we so desired.

We got the tickets punched by an automated system (checked by an attendant) after a long wait, and formally entered the fairgrounds.

It was a truly amazing experience. Like nothing I had ever seen before. Everything was so colorful, and all the buildings were like nothing I had ever seen before. All experimental designs, all magnificent. A lot of experimental art pieces, which I later learned were commissioned by the Secretariat of Culture to try to dispel the notion that the American government was only interested in “social realism.”

“Hey, Paul,” Dino cried out. “Let’s take a look at that time capsule the commander told us about.”

It was more impressive in concept than in design. It was a simple tube filled with various artifacts from this very time period, including the writings of people like Karl Marx, Emma Goldman, Eugene Debs, and Albert Einstein; copies of The Daily Worker and Libertine Magazine; a microfilm full of informational text; a Mortimer Mouse watch; farming and industrial tools; and seeds from agricultural products provided by the AgSec. This at least according to the plaque that was nearby. It was lowered into the ground last year, and was not to be opened for over 5000 years.

“So… about 6939, if the plaque’s correct. Imagine them digging this up in Buck Rogers time, and finding a watch or some seeds. Would they even know what this is?”

“Maybe” I was just awestruck by the possibility of them digging up this in a new millennium.

[…]

Dino and I agreed to split up and explore the fair by ourselves. (I think he was trying to be alone to flirt with women.)

The Fair was separated into several exhibitions that corresponded to several government secretariats. Said Secretariats either had their own pavilion display on the fairgrounds or there were more than a few cooperatives that were featured. All were geared towards emphasizing the accomplishments of socialism and the potential for future developments.

The sections were:

• The International Zone (representing the Union government in general, Foreign Affairs, and several nations)
• The Hall of Republics (representing Comintern and individual Republics)
• The Communication and Research Zone (Representing Communications and Education)
• The Defense Zone (Representing Defense, Justice, and Public Safety)
• Industry and Agriculture Zone (Representing Agriculture, Energy, Manufacturing, Light Industry, and Construction)
• Art, Culture, and Amusement Zone (Representing the Academy of Arts and Sciences and the Secretariat of Culture)
• Transportation Zone (Representing Transportation, Railways, and Maritime Transport)

I put off visiting the Hall of Republics and the International Zone until the end, and went through the zones. I’ll attempt to describe all these journeys in full, but my memory is a bit flawed from 50 years ago, so bear that in mind.

In Communications and Research, I found myself at the Bell Labs Pavillion, where I discovered weird new communications devices, like the “Voder” mechanized voice system, the man-like robot Elektro, and the “electric typewriter”. At the University of Chicago Pavilion, there was research being done on biological processes that formed life on Earth, fossils discovered across the country, and strange things that could be achieved with radioactive material (apparently, according to one of the scientists in confidence, they had been importing a lot of uranium from the USSR and Belgian Congo recently.)

In Defense, there were multiple tanks, weapons, and aircraft on display, representing the cutting edge of WFRA technology. What really interested me, however, were the rockets, from the CalTech Pavillion. Majestic objects, most of them. The guest speaker for the day, a young Chinese engineer named Qián Xuésēn, stated that he and his team at the Rocket Propulsion Lab hoped to use these for a variety of different purposes, including space exploration.

Industry and Agriculture mostly focused on socialist accomplishments in those fields. We were shown the construction of a communal home and its various appliances, as well as the construction of the Manufacturing Pavillion we were standing in at this very moment. Agriculture was a large communal farm, and the various products that could be borne from them. Special emphasis on the larger yields these produce over their capitalist counterparts.

The most interesting experience came from the Culture Secretariat. A crowd of families gathered around a strange man in Black tights with a Red cape. A large “S” on his chest. I was baffled as he described his battle with a counterrevolutionary cell.

“That’s Superman”, a voice behind me commented.

I turned to see a group of four, younger than me. Three men, one woman. The closest one, a thin fellow with glasses, approached me.

“It’s Superman Day. There’s a Superman contest, there’s Superman comics being given out. And that guy over there is playing Superman for all the kids.”

I thought for a moment. Superman, Superman…. Oh, that black clad guy in the funny books. I see some soldiers reading him sometimes.

“There was another contest for Columbia a couple weeks back too,” the woman shrugged.

I suppose it was meant to be Commander Columbia, from that picture I see posters of on occasion.

“Paul Matthews”, I introduced myself.

“Fred Pohl,” the guy replied. “This is Don Woldheim, Isaak Ozimov, and Judith Merrill.”

I shook hands with all the participants.

“Say, are you here for the convention?” The one called Don asked.

“Convention?”

“There’s a convention for fans of science fiction. It’s being held in Caravan Hall” Judith stated.

“Ya oughta come.” Isaak interjected.

I was not a science fiction fan, but I was intrigued. However, with the limited time I had, I decided not to for the time being. Fred gave me the number of the “Futarians Science Fiction/Fantastik” Club, in case I was interested.

[…]

I boarded the Perisphere’s automated sidewalk from the elevators along with many others, and very slowly entered through the entryway. It was dark as we entered, before the sidewalk finally stopped, and we could see the city below illuminated.

“BEHOLD!” a voice boomed from the ceiling “FUTURAMA, A CITY OF MEN IN A WORLD OF TOMORROW!”

I could see the full display. White buildings covered one side, while fake greenery in the form of trees and grass were scattered on the other side. There appeared to be one large city, full of large communal buildings, with the occasional skyscraper, filled in with parks, trains, and massive public areas. Scattered on the outskirts were smaller towns, with large futuristic communal homes and large farms, which appeared to be automated.

” HERE ARE GRASS AND TREES AS WELL AS STONE AND STEEL. NOT A DREAM CITY, BUT A SYMBOL OF LIFE AS LIVED BY THE MAN OF TOMORROW. HERE LIES THE PINNACLE OF WORKER ACHIEVEMENT!”

The lights steadily grew, and I could see the buildings light up.

“TOWN AND COUNTRY JOINED FOR WORK AND PLAY AND SUNLIGHT!”

“THE DAY OF THE WORKER OF TOMORROW BEGINS WITH THEIR JOURNEY FROM THEIR COMMUNAL HOMES ON THE OUTSKIRTS TO THEIR WORKPLACES. THEY WILL HAVE THE FASTEST TRANSPORT TO THEIR VARIOUS WORK PLACES, THROUGH THE ADVANCED RAILWAY AND SUBWAY STATIONS.”

The trains lights grew red, and started to flicker.

“THE WORKER OF TOMORROW WILL LIVE IN AN AUTOMATED SOCIETY. THEIR EVERY NEED SHALL BE MET, AND THEIR BUILDINGS ARE EQUIPPED WITH TECHNOLOGY THAT ALLOWS THEIR VOTE TO BE DEMOCRATICALLY HEARD AT ANY LOCATION!”

The building lights started coming on, as did those in the parks and public areas.

“THE WORKER OF TOMORROW WILL THUS HAVE ENOUGH LEISURE TIME TO EXPLORE THEIR OWN COMMUNITY, OR THEIR OWN CREATIVITY IN THE AVENUE OF THE ARTS AND SCIENCES.”

Similar displays went on for several minutes before the voice came in and the lights dimmed.

“AS DAY FADES INTO NIGHT, EACH WORKER SEEKS HOME. FOR HERE ARE CHILDREN, NEIGHBORS, COMFORTS, RECREATION, THE GOOD LIFE… OF THE WELL -PLANNED CITY!”

“AS MAN HELPS MAN, SO NATION LEANS ON NATION.UNITED BY A THOUSAND ROADS OF COMMERCE, ART, AND HUMAN ASPIRATION. A BRAVE NEW WORLD, BUILT BY UNITED HANDS AND HEARTS. HERE, BRAIN AND BRAWN AND COURAGE ARE LINKED IN HIGH ENDEAVOR AS THEY MARCH ON, TOWARD UNITY AND PEACE. LISTEN! AS THEY SING!”

The musical score (an eclectic mix of classical and jazz) suddenly included an operatic score, as the sidewalk started again, and the display was lit in resplendent color.

As I left, I wondered if the World of Tomorrow would really look like that.

[…]

Before I met with Dino again, I made one final stop in the International Zone.

Several countries had pavilions dedicated to several nations. I could see nations like China, Britain, Spain, France, Pan-America, the USSR, Poland, Japan, Palestine, the Netherlands, and Ethiopia. I visited the Soviet Pavilion first, marked with a tower featuring the Worker and Kolkhoz Woman. It featured several Soviet machines, some bits of Russian art and artifacts from various museums, and most notably to me, a recreation of the Mayakovskaya station of the Moscow Metro. Large archways spanning down, large circles above with lamps surrounding it. Brown marble floors. It was unlike anything I had seen before.

I exited, and headed to the Polish pavilion. I approached the boxy, checkered building (which now had a large banner on it: “FREE POLAND FROM NAZI OPPRESSION”), when I spotted a figure near a statue of a king.

She was a medium height, black hair, wearing fatigues including the Polish Flag. She was smoking a cigarette and watching the patrons walk in. With her long hair and striking features, I was fascinated, and cautiously approached

“Do you have a light?”

She reached into her uniform and pulled one out, as I reached for a cigarette Dino gave me.

“Thanks.”

“You on leave?” She asked, with a thick New York accent.

“Yeah, I guess the uniform gave it away.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I see a bunch of GIs swarming around in my line of business.”

“Are you on leave too?"
"No, this is, for now, my workplace.”

“Really? Are you Polish?”

“My folks are. I speak it fluently, so I was useful for this assignment.”

“Which assignment?”

“You don’t know?” She pointed to the top of the building.

“The top few floors are the current headquarters of the Narodowowyzwoleńczy front. After the invasion, the government had it set aside for exiled leaders of the Polish left to operate, and now with the Nazis having taken over, they’ve decided to make the Polish Pavilion the headquarters for their left opposition. The invasion happened right when the Fair was starting, and they figured, ‘we already have this building given by Polish government, why not just use it for Polish liberation’”

“And what do you do?”

“I’m a translator. Help ease the communications between them and the government. I’ve been with these leaders on behalf of Comintern for a while, and I’ve only come back home since the Nazis came back.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“It can be, but lately it’s been tiring. And for the freedom fighters, it’s real rough sometimes. They’ve lost everything to the Nazis, and they’re stuck in a country they don’t understand and have trouble in. I help as much as I can, but they really want to go home.”

“I’ll admit, that’s how I feel sometimes.”

“Oh?”

I discussed my past with her. My current estrangement. It felt like a while, but she patiently listened.

“Hm. You know, I think there’s something for you.” She reached for a pen and paper, and wrote down a phone number.

“Call this number when you get back to base. Ask for ‘Commander Jay Resnick and Commissar Jeff Cooper’. They have something for reformed rightists like you.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“You want me to show you around?”

“Sure.”

With that, we entered the complex. She showed me the various artifacts, and I even met some of the Polish partisans.

In retrospect, for me, the World Revolutionary War began for me at the foot of that statue.

-------

The Perispehre speech was taken verbatim from parts of this: *[WPA]: Works Progress Administration *[NBI]: National Bureau of Investigation