For Max it was a painful time, not only because he felt the separation from his father, but because by the time that summer was over, it was beginning to look as if his father had been right.

True, at first, the party strategy had seemed to be wise. The strikers had accepted the terms of the government’s settlement, and gone back to work. Even the employers had praised the parties and the unions for showing such responsibility. Moreover, the new working conditions were a huge improvement. “This is historic progress,” the unions could claim. They had won respect.

But would it last? Within weeks, the employers started to whittle back the benefits the strike had won. As he looked forward, it was clear to Max that he would soon see more of the same.

Outside France itself, the Spanish military and Catholic right had launched a massive counterattack on the leftist government in July. Spain was now in a state of civil war. Fascist Italy and Germany were sending support to the military. In France, Blum’s socialist government was dithering over what to do. Was Spain about to fall under a fascist regime?

And in the month of August, the Nazi regime in Germany had staged the Olympic games with a magnificence that the whole world had watched and applauded. A token German athlete with a Jewish father had been allowed to take part. But while all the world’s press and thousands of visitors had only to look around them in Berlin to see what the Nazi regime was really like, the splendor and beauty of the games had overpowered their imaginations. As his father had perceived, they didn’t want to know. Hitler’s fascist regime had scored a huge propaganda success.

So what had been achieved? Max asked himself. The answer: nothing. The Marxist cause had been betrayed, the chance of revolution lost, its enemies stronger than ever.

He had been wrong. His father had been right. The question was, what could he do now?

On the first Sunday of October, the fourth day of the month, Max went as usual to his parents’ apartment. His father was not there, so he talked to his mother as usual. But instead of leaving at the end of the afternoon, he remained there.

It was six o’clock when his father came in.

“Oh,” he said, “you’re here.” But he didn’t leave.

“I came to say good-bye,” said Max. “I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye to you.”

“Leave?” His father frowned. “Where are you going?”

“They’re recruiting international brigades to fight against Franco and his fascists in Spain.”

“I’ve heard.”

“I went for an interview on Friday. Paris is the main recruitment center, as you know. Being a Communist Party member, I was accepted at once. All the others have to be interviewed by a Russian intelligence officer.” He grinned. “I would have enjoyed being grilled by the NKVD, but it was denied me.”