At the door of a river street house, I mounted gritty stone steps. A
red-badged man opened the door part way. As soon as I told him I was an
American journalist, the suspicious look on his face vanished. With much
cordiality he invited me to come upstairs. While he knocked on a
consultation door, he bade me wait. In the wavering hall light, the knots
in the worn wooden floor threw blots of shadow. On an invitation to come
in, I entered a badly lit room where workingmen sat at a long black
scratched table. In the empty chair at the end of the table opposite the
chairman, I was invited to sit down. As I asked my questions, every head
was turned down towards me as if the strike committee was having its
picture taken and everybody wanted to get in it.

"Yes, this is a soviet," said John Cronin, the carpenter who was father of
the baby soviet. "Why did we form it? Why do we pit people's rule against
military rule? Of course, as workers, we are against all military. But our
particular grievance against the British military is this: when the town
was unjustly proclaimed, the cordon was drawn to leave out a factory part
of town that lies beyond the bridges. We had to ask the soldiers for
permits to earn our daily bread.

"You have seen how we have thrown the crank into production. But some
activities are permitted to continue. Bakers are working under our orders.
The kept press is killed, but we have substituted our own paper." He held
up a small sheet which said in large letters: The Workers' Bulletin Issued
by the Limerick Proletariat.

"We've distributed food and slashed prices. The farmers send us their
produce. The food committee has been able to cut down prices: eggs, for
instance, are down from a dollar to sixty-six cents a dozen and milk from