The Stalinist Becomes Bogomil

By Michael Yarbrough

At war´s end, Europe was divided between ourselves and the Soviet Union. With the author, Michael Yarbrough, it has never been an issue whether our side of the barbed-wire was the better place to be. I’ve ALWAYS assumed as much. But I’ve ALWAYS regarded it as beside the point.

The point is that on our side, there was the reconstitution with brilliant reforms of the very socio-economic order that led to the Depression in the first place which in its turn led to World War II and 60 million dead by conservative estimate. On the last Friday of January 2020, Kristalina Georgeva of the International Monetary Fund expressed dismay at the parallels between the international economic situation of the roaring 1920s that led to the Depression with the situation today. No surprise to me; it was inevitable. What else is inevitable?

So who is Jean LeFey? At war’s end a question loomed: Would there be a Communist revolution in Italy (and France)? This question impinged on the very life, the dream and lethal conspiracy of a (French-Canadian) American visionary serving in the American Army in Italy in the closing days of World War II...and the opening days of the Cold War. He was once a Catholic priest an ancient history professor committed to the defense of Christendom – Christian civilization. He is now a Stalinist committed to the revolutionary Communist unification of Europe, which he believes will be an intellectuals' Europe secure from depression and world war, resurgent in power and culture. He does not seriously suspect that for reasons of state, Stalin does not want a revolution in Italy and has since the war’s outset exerted himself to prevent it. All of this in keeping with the novel’s theme: The elusiveness of reality or the uncertainty of life. It is inspired by classical Greek tragedy and Graeco-Roman and Germanic epics.

*A paean to internationalist-inspired high treason as well as a cautionary tale against it.
*A metaphor of a spiritual ordeal not only transfixing the epoch of the Cold War, but in different guises our own as well.
*Passionate, heroic, brooding, romantic, sinister, threatening, poignant, tender, wildly ribald.
*A national epic for an Italy -- even a Europe...never to be born. Its hero: Jean LeFey, a professorial blend of Captain Ahab, Lenin, and Woody Allen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469120911

Michael Yarbrough

Michael Yarbrough at different times has written poetry, fiction, and now verse drama. He has studied history and politics for years. He has also traveled throughout Asia where he taught English for 23 years. His writing has drawn on his interests in Asia, Europe and America. He's just finished a screenplay about the eastern Mediterranean in the early 7th century. Next year, he hopes to publish a novel about San Francisco.

Book preview

Copyright © 2004 by Michael Yarbrough.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

20045

Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

NOTES

  I

E ven for those peering through a bay window over the bluffs of La Jolla Cove, the sea burst with light in an ageless calm. Most, however, preferred the evanescent brilliance of a beauty seated by herself, sipping a 7-UP, and glancing nervously at her watch. Only for a second could the handsomest of the men at the bar capture her gaze. When she looked down, he approached. Then she looked up at him, with a mirthful grin, and shook her head. Ignoring his gesture for appeal, she abruptly looked out to sea. Hearing the man take his stool, she laughed to herself.

Laura, a voice called.

She turned, checked her watch, and smirked. Morgan Le Fey! On time. Absolutely on time, as usual, she said aloud, as if to herself. With a decent suit of clothes, he could compare with any man; she had often wanted to tell him that. Normally, he dressed and appeared to act in disregard of her own uniquely lush dress and person. Now, however, his desperation was almost abject. The men at the bar exchanged looks of anger and amusement.

I see, said the handsome one, We overdress. Our mistake.

What about her? replied another, That’s not burlap she’s wearing!

No, said still another, but where do you suppose she shops? Not where everyone else does; that’s for sure. Maybe she’s a designer and designs her own. I’d love to ask her. She certainly doesn’t design anything for him, though. Maybe that’s it. Let’s face it, fellas. We look like we all go to the same shop— He stopped to catch the young man’s words.

They were spoken very gravely. Never early. Life is short.

Life is short, she mimicked, moving her 7-Up, then added, Life is so dramatic at every moment, isn’t it, Morgan? Where do you think you live anyway? What’s dramatic about La Jolla? . . . Automobile accidents and crimes… sometimes, I suppose… price increases…

Weapons research… for wars that no one knows the history of, nor will, even when they finally end… but never mind…

He was carrying a thick manila envelope, which he now set down roughly without sitting. This is dramatic! It’s also important and interesting! . . .

I’m glad you love your father, Morgan, Laura said with a formidable smile, But don’t you want to sit down?

I’m glad you love yours, he replied.

I didn’t write a book about him.

Nor I about mine.

Please sit down, Morgan, she said seriously.

Most of this he wrote himself, he said, sitting down.

Is it about himself as priest or Communist?

Everything. Communist, ex-priest, as an actor in life with a very distinctive style, whether in the pulpit, the classroom, the soap-box, or in the war. Also as an historian, if of no real distinction. He might have tried poetry—

Like you, Morgan? she said, with sudden admiration.

The men at the bar nodded to one another, some of them shaking or lowering their heads to the bar in grins and laughter.

Morgan saw but ignored them. Well, I’ve already told you about him… many times…

Yes, Morgan, many times, she said without impatience, The French-Canadian, who doesn’t seem to belong to Canada or America.

Or to the Church or to the Party, added Morgan.

Only to a ‘West and to a future never to be.’ Isn’t that how you put it, Morgan?

Yes, whereas I’ve given myself to the nothingness of everyday life.

Excuse me, she said, much amused, and reaching for her 7-UP, it may not be dramatic, but it’s not nothingness for the rest of us.

She could smile so beautifully, he thought.

But, Morgan, she continued, ignoring his suddenly unconcealed admiration, if it’s really nothingness, why do you choose it?

Because for me, this life is all there is… this life… and the one I want to escape…

This life, Morgan. Your life as a student… and me, meeting with me… as a friend. My husband’s become nervous over you… You know that…

Too bad, fella, muttered one at the bar.

He’ll get there, said another with a grin, He’s an artist. She’s probably too dumb to know he’s shit… It’s a good racket.

But he’s also curious, they heard Morgan say, very curious. So that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me once that he was curious?

Yes. You’re secretive. But he doesn’t know how often we’ve met—

So you’re secretive, too! Morgan replied with a smile, But I have so much to be secretive about. That life… as a red-diaper baby… crowded into everything. They’re plenty of radicals at U.C.S.D.—Marxist-Leninists, and every other sort—but they’re of the faithful. I don’t want to talk to them. We’re not fit for each other. As for other people here, they don’t understand the issues involved, and don’t want to. If there’s any meaning at all, it’s in every working day and that’s it… There’s no cosmic—

There’s no religion, Morgan! Laura interrupted in a lowered voice, Not everyone needs it. There is family, children, sex, money, work, and being married to a very successful man, and remaining home… I’m not a very able mother, although I love my kids. I want to write, but talking to you is no substitute for inspiration… or for authentic ambition.

Morgan lowered his voice and said calmly, Neither is your husband’s success. So you’ve strayed into a back eddy to find me. Well, I hope it’s interesting. There must be a lot of people like you. Bored with their freedom, unable to find something greater than themselves to freely give it to. We do have something in common! Let’s keep talking! You are such a good friend!

Laura started and pushed her 7-Up over to the window. You didn’t come here just to laugh at me, did you?

Morgan smiled and said, Only in so far as you are like me. That’s a confession I know you’ll shy from. But let’s see how far it goes. We both want to write. We both prefer a life far from anything worth writing about… My father saw it all—or wanted to see it all, and act in it all—wars, revolutions, treason, heroism, conspiracy—and wrote only this. I suppose he did it all—in his own mind, at least—so that everyone might have the luxury of problems like ours… Anyway, it reads like a novel—and should you or your husband say anything to anyone of consequence about it, I’ll say that it is only a novel and a hoax. Even if my father’s Congressional Medal of Honor is a matter of public record. I can’t make you believe it, of course. I think you will. If you can read it, and still accept me as a friend, I’ll be a lot easier to talk to… I think I’ll be more relaxed. For once, I won’t feel as if I’m being accepted on false pretenses—

Huh?

Laura’s dismay touched him unexpectedly. He must love her. I should go, he said, rising.

Laura scowled. This is a little brief of you, isn’t it? You just came here to throw this in my lap, didn’t you? What makes you think I’ll read it at all?

Morgan stood over her. You want me to tell you all about it now? he asked. Truthfully, I don’t expect you to get past the opening letter. It’s an historical note. In it, I deny that Stalin wanted a revolution in Western Europe… but now, I’m going on… It’s a lecture.

Laura looked up, perplexed. She could see that the other people in the bar were dismayed.

Laura, maybe I should just take it and go, he said, moving to take it.

But Laura clutched it and put it in her bag.

I’ll look at it, Morgan, she said, I don’t know if I’ll finish it. But I’ll give you a call… Please… She stopped, then added with a bewildered smile, Oh well, you have to go.

Morgan nodded, saying, Yes, I think I do, and I hope that we meet again sometime. And I suppose my leaving like this will reassure your husband, and so it’s all for the best.

Laura nodded, open-mouthed, and nodded once more in reply to his nod at the door. He’s so afraid of me! she observed aloud.

At home, Laura found this letter and, at length, forced herself to read it three times:

Dear Laura:

My father’s experience took place at the end of the war in Italy. The first thing I need to explain is Stalin’s wartime policy. Both before and after the pact, Stalin was a conservative. For the protection of the U.S.S.R., he refused to rely mainly on foreign Communists. In the manner of a conventional power-politician, which he certainly was, he sought alliance with established governments, especially with the capitalist democracies of the West. Only when it was clear to what extent these powers—in particular, France and Britain—preferred to encourage a Nazi invasion of Russia did he enter into the pact (which, I should add, encouraged a Nazi invasion of the West. Like the reactionaries of the West, he envied the Americans’ capacity in the First World War to enter just when the belligerents were exhausted to decide the issue.) When two years later, the Nazis attacked anyway, he again appealed for an alliance. This was the Grand Alliance.

For foreign Communists like my father, this had certain consequences. They were to follow the national-unity line, a wartime resumption of the Popular Front of the 1930s. (I have said little about this, Laura, but I hope it will prove unnecessary.) The line ruled that all friends of the Grand Alliance were to be allies, regardless of class. Revolutionary objectives would have to await Germany’s defeat. The pursuit of revolution would, Stalin held, not only force into alliance with the Fascists, the bourgeois elements of the occupied countries, but probably those of the Grand Alliance as well. Thus, the pursuit of revolution would not only be premature, but objectively counterrevolutionary.

But Stalin probably had other reasons. He did not think Communism saleable. In his country, the people took it for the policeman’s knock on the door. Surely, abroad it must be the same. In both instances, therefore, Communists must rally the people with nationalism. Only by their heroism and effectiveness could they rally adherents. In any case, a revolution abroad would threaten his leadership of the Communist movement. Moreover, the ferment of such an insurgency, even if led by Communists, might inspire one in his own country or in Eastern Europe. Better that such peoples be put back to sleep under their old masters in the West, and by the Soviet Army and police in the East.

Nevertheless, by 1943, the Western Allies wanted new assurances. Russia was unexpectedly on the offensive, and in some of the occupied countries, the Communists seemed strong enough to seize power. Accordingly, Stalin dissolved the Communist International, a gesture whose superficiality was everywhere understood. More important was Stalin’s willingness to content himself with a partition of Europe in classic imperialist fashion. Actually, Russia’s part began with the partition of Poland with Hitler. Stalin had long been the sort of fellow Churchill and Roosevelt could accept.

But no foreign Communist—or very few anyway—understood this. For him, the national-unity line was ultimately revolutionary. Small wonder! By the war’s end, the Communists of Yugoslavia had seized power anyway, and those in Greece almost had. Why? Or how? In part, because even more than they knew, they had disobeyed Stalin’s orders. Even in the course of fighting, they had addressed class issues. Against the