I recall Fritz’s emotion at the meeting we held to commemorate the dissolution—the death; or, more precisely, the slow murder—of the Comintern, to which, like me, he had given his youth. The Ibero-Mexican Center, an unswept room in a restaurant. There were about twenty of us. The nasty mugs of the M.s, yawning and picking their teeth, and Fritz, upset, red, reading his notes. And myself, on edge, meditating on so many dead and so much wasted hope and energy.
