by Ann Tatlock
Yes, I thought, and the same thing happens if you're just too scared to know.
Mother turned from the sink to cast Papa a dubious look. "Do you mean to say Communists were able to organize a protest?"
Papa nodded. "There've been a couple of men trying to set up an Unemployed Council for some months now. Looks like they succeeded. According to this article, about three hundred men and women showed up at City Hall saying they were hungry and demanding relief."
"Not all from Soo City, were they?" Dr. Hal asked.
"Couldn't have been," Papa said, sticking out his lower lip. "No doubt some were from the shantytown, but they must have gotten people from all over the city to join them."
"Papa," I piped up, "how come Mr. Mason didn't tell you it was going to happen? You told him to let you know if there was going to be a march."
"He's been gone for the past week, though he's supposed to return today. He found temporary work just over the border in Wisconsin."
"But even if you'd known about the march," Dr. Hal interjected, "what could you have done about it?"
Papa shrugged. "I don't suppose I could have done much of anything. You can't stop three hundred hungry people."
Mother sounded slightly exasperated when she asked, "So what happened?"
"More violence, I suppose," said Aunt Sally, who had been quiet until now.
Papa nodded again as his eyes scanned the article. "Says here, `A delegation of unemployed, led by John Jones, alleged head of the Unemployed Council, demanded of City Manager Thomas Simington that the authorities furnish immediate relief for the men and their families. Jones rejected a request by Mr. Simington for the names and addresses of the members of the Unemployed Council. Jones and the delegation returned to the marchers, a group of some three hundred men and women, and excited the crowd with antigovernment rhetoric. From City Hall they led the crowd on a raid of two businesses on nearby Third Avenue--Elkton Grocer's and Owensby Bakery. The owner of the bakery, Owen Owensby, suffered a broken arm when he was attacked as he drew a revolver and attempted to keep out the angry demonstrators. The shelves of the grocery store and the bakery were stripped of their goods, and windows in both establishments were broken. Local police hastily assembled an emergency squad and dispersed the crowd with tear gas. Thirty-seven men who were trapped in the wrecked stores were arrested. Six women were released. Among those arrested were John Jones and Ernie Armstrong. The police said Armstrong was one of the speakers who harangued the crowd at City Hall before the demonstrators descended on the stores.' " When he finished reading, Papa folded the newspaper and lifted his shoulders in a sigh.
Mother asked wearily of no one in particular, "Will it ever end?"
Papa tossed the paper across the table to Dr. Hal and said, "I guess I'll find out more this afternoon when I make my rounds at Soo City."
I took a sip of milk, then leaned toward my father and asked quietly so that Mother wouldn't hear, "Can I go with you, Papa?"
I should have known it was no use. Mother heard and, answering for Papa, replied firmly in the negative. "No, you may not go, Virginia. Certainly not today, after what's just happened at City Hall."
"But, Mama--"
"I said no, young lady, and that's final."
It was just as well. I was supposed to go to the movies with Charlotte in the afternoon, and she'd be cross with me if I backed out. She'd been waiting all week to see Lowell Sherman in What Price Hollywood? Lately Charlotte had been thinking about becoming a movie star, and she thought the show might give her some ideas on how to break into film. As for Soo City, Papa could tell me everything when he got back, if there was anything to tell.
Both Papa and Dr. Hal got up from the table without asking for a second helping of pancakes. Dr. Hal must have lost his appetite for Walter Lippmann, as well, because he left the newspaper on the table where Papa had tossed it.
I spent the morning doing chores, working on my school lessons, and practicing the piano. After lunch, Charlotte came by so we could walk together to the theater. Her father was out of town again, and her mother, though always ready with an opinion about the times, didn't in fact pay much attention to the news, so I knew Charlotte probably hadn't heard about the hunger march.
"You mean a bunch of Reds busted up a couple of stores downtown?" she asked when I told her what Papa had read in the paper that morning.
"Yeah, a grocery store and a bakery."
"On Third Avenue?"
"I think that's right. You know, Elkton Grocers and Owensby Bakery."
"I've been to both those places a million times!" Charlotte cried. She quickened her pace. "Come on! Let's go see how busted up they are."
Charlotte took off running and I called out, "But what about the movie?"
"We can miss the cartoon and the newsreel. This is important!"
I hurried to catch up with my curiosity-seeking friend. We sprinted toward downtown until we arrived panting at Third Avenue.
A policeman, his hands clasped together behind his back, lingered in front of the grocery store. He paced the sidewalk, stopping momentarily to glance from the wrecked grocery store to the ravaged bakery across the street, then satisfied that both places were free of looters, he continued pacing. Pedestrians walking past the stores, taken aback by the destruction, stopped, shook their heads, talked among themselves, and exchanged comments with the policeman before moving on. Even cars slowed as they passed by in the street, the occupants fairly hanging their heads out the open windows to get a better view. More than once the policeman had to blow his whistle and wave the traffic on to prevent a backup on Third Avenue.
Charlotte and I paused a few yards from the policeman and gaped at the broken windows. Someone had swept up the glass on the sidewalk, but a few small shards remained, glittering in the sun. We timidly approached the grocery store to peer in through what was left of the plate glass window. Peaks of glass pointed upward from the bottom frame of the window and downward from the top, reaching toward each other like the columns of stalactite and stalagmite in an underground cavern. Through the hole we saw the aisles of the store strewn with debris--wilted vegetables heaped upon splattered fruit, canned goods scattered amid broken glass bottles. Two men, appearing to us like shadowy figures from where we stood in the sunlight, moved about inside, cleaning up.
Wide-eyed, Charlotte and I gazed in disbelief at the mess.
So, I marveled, there really are Communists in this city. And here is the evidence of their existence.
All the while the strike at the grain mill had been going on, the Communists had been a kind of nebulous group to blame, a smoke screen for the real issues at hand. Surely patriotic, freedom-loving Americans wouldn't pull a stunt like that, it was thought. Oh no, only Communists would call a strike and talk about workers' rights. It was kind of like the kid blaming the mess in his room on goblins or elves--on something that doesn't really exist.
But this, these two wrecked stores, was the work of the Commies. The goblins were real. They hadn't had anything to do with the grain mill strike, but nevertheless, they were real. And they were busy.
The silence into which Charlotte and I had settled was interrupted by the policeman. "All right, girls," he said, not unkindly, "you've seen all there is to see. Move along now."
Like a couple of dumb sheep, we obeyed, making our way along Third Avenue to the theater a few blocks east. We paid our quarters and sat through the movie, but after viewing the destruction of the hunger march, even Charlotte thought the picture somewhat dull and unreal in comparison.
When Papa got home that evening, I asked him what he'd found out at Soo City. He said that of the three hundred marchers, less than fifty had been from Soo City, and only a half dozen of those arrested were from the shantytown. "No one you know," Papa told me, "though you may have seen some of them once or twice."
I asked him about Steel O'Neil, Shoes, Mr. Lucky, Sherman Browne, Longjohn, the three musicians, everyone I could think of, and he assure
d me they were all fine. None of them had been involved in the hunger march. Dick Mason had returned from Wisconsin and, after taking inventory, told Papa that the men who'd ended up in jail were rascals anyway, and Soo City was better off without them.
"With Jones and Armstrong out of the picture," Papa predicted happily, "life should be much quieter for everyone from now on."
My father was a smart man and made us all feel better with his words of assurance. But as it turned out, he was not a very good barometer of things to come.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte and I usually walked home from school together, but after the last bell on Monday, she headed downtown on an errand for her mother, and I was left to walk home alone. But I didn't mind too much. The autumn leaves were dropping from the trees, and I enjoyed listening to their swishing and crunching as I strolled through the mat of crisp colors on the sidewalk. It was a music I could never quite hear over Charlotte's chatter.
I wasn't walking really, but rather shuffling, barely lifting the soles of my shoes from the sidewalk so as to produce the loudest swish-swish possible from the leaves. The noise was delightful and I almost started to whistle along with it as Papa would have done, except that I was interrupted by someone calling my name.
"Ginny! Hey, Ginny, wait up!"
To my great surprise and even greater horror, I recognized the voice of Danny Dysinger.
Not bothering to turn around, I continued walking and swishing all the louder. Ignoring him gave me a deep sense of satisfaction, but the feeling was short-lived.
Danny Dysinger was not one to be easily put off. He came panting up behind me and tugged at the shoulder of my dress, saying, "Ginny, are you deaf or something? I said wait up."
I pulled my shoulder away briskly, as if I'd been shocked by static electricity. "My name's Virginia," I stated firmly, "and what do you want?" My mouth had suddenly gone dry and the last word rolled clumsily off my tongue.
"Listen," he said, "I didn't mean to make you sore the other day. I wish you wouldn't hold it against me."
Giving him my wildest stare of disbelief, I responded, "You call my father a Communist and expect me not to get mad?"
Danny belched out something between a laugh and a guffaw. "Aw, Ginny," he explained, "it was just a joke."
My eyebrows jumped up toward my hairline. "Some joke!" I cried.
"Aw, I didn't mean nothing by it."
I shook my head and walked on. I was still sweet on Danny and there was no denying it, but I couldn't bring myself to accept his fumbling apology.
Still not ready to give up, though, he tugged again at my shoulder. "Aw, Ginny--"
"Virginia!" I hissed.
"All right, all right. Virginia, then. Listen, I'm trying to tell you I didn't mean nothing by it."
Lifting my chin half an inch higher, I argued, "It's your father's fault my uncle's in jail. My uncle Jim's a good man, and your pa put him where he doesn't belong."
"My pa was only doing his job," Danny countered. "Any sheriff would've had to go out there and arrest the strikers."
"Maybe so," I said, "but just because your father's the sheriff doesn't mean he can go around calling people names. Your father said my father and my uncle and Dr. Hal were all Reds, didn't he? He said those awful things and it's not true."
"Yeah," Danny admitted, sounding sheepish. "He said it, but I know it ain't true. I know your pa's not a Red. And not your uncle or Doc Bellamy neither."
"Then why did you say it?"
"I don't know, Gin--I mean, Virginia. You can be sore if you want, but listen, I got to tell you something. Something important."
He paused. I waited for him to go on, but he didn't.
"So what is it?" I asked stonily, adding a heavy sigh to accentuate my contempt.
Danny took a deep breath, and I noticed his chest quivered nervously. His lips puckered a moment as though he were trying hard to spit the words out. Finally, he said, "I heard my pa talking with some men yesterday. They didn't know I was outside the door, but I was and I heard everything."
I let the feigned contempt drop from my voice. Danny had captured my curiosity. "Yeah?" I asked. "So what did they say?"
"They said the hunger riot was on account of the people down at the shantytown. They said those tramps were responsible for busting up the grocery store and that bakery."
"That's not true!" I cried. "Most of those people that rioted weren't from the shantytown!"
"I'm just telling you what I heard," Danny said defensively. "My pa said those tramps are vermin that need to be got rid of for the good of the city. He said the shantytown is really a Red village, a miniature Moscow sitting right there on the banks of the river. So my pa and his men--they're going to run them out, Ginny. They're going to run them out and burn the camp down. They're going to do it tonight after dark."
Stopping abruptly, I stared at Danny in horror. My heart pumped wildly and my limbs became so weak I thought I might drop the books clutched in my arms if my knees didn't buckle beneath me first and leave me in a heap on the sidewalk. "Danny Dysinger," I asked quietly, "are you telling me the truth?"
"I swear, Ginny," he said solemnly. His walnut-colored eyes were wide and fearful, almost pleading. "That's what I heard them say." Hurriedly, he added, "Listen, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you got to warn them. But it's too late. Pa's already got some of his men posted down there at the camp disguised as tramps. Three deputies wandered into the camp this morning looking like all the other bums down there. They're all riled up and just aching for action, Ginny, and I'm telling you they won't act kindly toward anyone who tries to interfere." Danny paused and looked at me long and hard for a moment. "I know your pa goes down to the camp a lot to help out, but I'm giving you fair warning: don't let him go down there tonight. Make sure he stays home. What's gonna happen down there ain't gonna be a pretty sight."
I was momentarily stunned into silence, but finally I managed to mumble, "You can't let your pa do this, Danny. He's got it all wrong. The people in the camp--they're good people. You have to stop him, Danny."
Danny shook his head slowly, almost sadly. "I can't stop him, Ginny. He and his men--they've made up their minds. You got to understand...."
His words trailed off and a look of helplessness crossed his face. Suddenly I did understand. Danny was afraid of his father. He knew his father was doing something wrong, but Danny felt incapable of confronting him. And so he was trying to have some influence over the situation in the only way he knew how--by telling me.
And now that the burden had been passed to me, I was equally staggered by its weight. Without another word to Danny, I turned and ran, half stumbling, my legs limp with fear. Behind me I heard Danny call out my name, "Ginny! Ginny!" but I didn't stop and I didn't even turn my head to look. Breathless, gasping for air, my books heavy and awkward against my chest, I ran, feet pounding recklessly on the sidewalk. Tears stung my eyes until I was half blind, and I moved through the dizzy streets by instinct, like a homing pigeon. When I reached our house at last, I flew through the front door, pulled myself up the stairs with the help of the banister and flung myself across my bed. My school books went soaring through the air and landed on the floor with a thump that alerted Mother. In the next moment she came to my room and settled her ample body on my bed where I lay weeping. Though I didn't lift my face from my arms, I felt the bed sag to one side with her weight, and just the sense of her presence was comforting.
"Why, Virginia," she said, sounding almost startled. But her voice was laced with a soft note of compassion. "What on earth are you crying about?" She reached out one hand and patted my tangled hair. I longed to lie there beneath her soothing touch and tell her everything, shifting the weight of Danny's warning over onto her strong shoulders.
But I couldn't tell her, of course. There was no question about that.
Neither could I simply say it was nothing. One didn't throw herself across the bed weeping for no reason. I hated
to do it, but I would have to lie.
Lifting my tear-streaked face from my arms, I said, "I didn't do well on my lessons today, Mama."
Mother almost laughed, but it came out more like a chuckle. "Well, for heaven's sakes, Virginia," she replied, the note of compassion becoming a flat chord of amusement. "You don't have to get so upset over something like that. It's not the end of the world. We all have a bad day now and again."
I tried to nod bravely. "I know. It's just that I want to do well."
"Of course you do," Mother agreed. "But crying isn't going to get you anywhere. Come on, now, dry your tears." She rose from the bed--that side of the mattress sprang up again--and gathered up my books from the floor. "Here you go. Why don't you spend the next hour studying before you come down to help with dinner?"
I sat up and wiped at my cheeks with the back of one hand. "What about the piano?" I asked.
"You can let that go for today," Mother replied. "It sounds as though you need some extra time with your books, and that's more important." Had the circumstances been different, I would have been jubilant to be excused from practicing the piano, but that afternoon I felt no joy at all. As it was, I would have gladly practiced an extra half hour if only the day had suddenly become like every other.
Mother placed the books on my desk and gave them a swift pat. "Come on. The only way to do your lessons well is to buckle down and get to it."
I dragged myself from the bed and wearily crossed the room to the desk. "All right, Mama," I said. I sat down and opened a book, not even noticing which one it was. "Call me when you want me to set the table."
I followed Mother with my eyes as she left the room, longing to call her back, longing to ask her what I should do but knowing that if I told her of what was about to happen in Soo City, she'd tell Papa, and Papa would undoubtedly go down there to the camp, and then ...
For the next hour I sat unmoving, staring out the window, so lost in thought I didn't even see what was beyond the glass. I was facing the worst dilemma of my life: Should I tell Papa what I knew, or should I remain quiet?
