by John Sanford
“Vanzetti?” Danny said.
And Mig said, “Sacco.”
I love people who labor and work and see better conditions every day develop, makes no more war. We no want fight by the gun, and we don’t want to destroy young men. The mother been suffering for building the young man. Some day need a little more bread, so when the time the mother get some bread or profit out of that boy, the Rockefellers, Morgans, and some of the peoples, high class, they send to war. Why? What is war? The war is not shoots like Abraham Lincoln’s and Abe Jefferson, to fight for the free country, for the better education, to give chance to any other peoples, not the white people but the black and the others, because they believe and know they are mens like the rest, but they are war for the great millionaire. No war for the civilization of men. They are war for business, million dollars come on the side. What right we have to kill each other? I been work for the Irish, I have been working with the German fellow, with the French, many other peoples. I love them people just as I could love my wife, and my people for that did receive me. Why should I go kill them men? What he done to me? He never done anything, so I don’t believe in no war. I want to destroy those guns….
Mig broke off reading, and Danny did not have to turn to learn why. Instead, he studied the trio of likenesses on the wall, and after a moment, over the running-down presses, he heard his friend say, “I’d sooner be a shoemaker or a fish-peddler in prison than have a face like yours and be a Judge and a free man. I’d sooner die looking alive than live looking dead, and, oh Jesus, if I could only speak their wonderful wonderful words …!”
A SHORT WALK ON A FALL AFTERNOON
“You weren’t at the usual place yesterday,” Miss Forrest said.
“I had to go right uptown,” Danny said. “There was a birthday-party.”
“Whose?” the teacher said.
“Somebody that lives next door.”
“Do I know the boy?”
“It was a girl. Harriet Bryant.”
The teacher said, “Oh,” and then said nothing, and they reached her house after a long silent block.
“Did you read the pamphlet I gave you the other day?” Danny said as they stood for a moment in the backslapping wind.
“I did, and I found it pretty one-sided.”
“Why was it one-sided?”
“It looks at the case from only one point of view.”
“How many point of views does it have to have?”
“To be convincing, it should’ve been impartial.”
“The man that wrote it was just the opposite.”
“I know he was, and that’s why what he wrote was unconvincing.”
“Well, if I had to be convinced, it would’ve convinced me.”
“Possibly, but I’m the one who had to be convinced, and I wasn’t. The pamphlet was prejudiced.”
“But, Miss Forrest, you’re prejudiced. How could the pamphlet convince you unless it was prejudiced?”
“Was it a nice party?” the teacher said.
“It was all right, I guess,” the boy said.
DEPENDS ON WHAT BOOKS YOU READ
Danny and Mig DeLuca walked along Central Park past the side-streets of Yorkville. Overhead there was a flurry of stars and underfoot a new and almost untrodden snow, a winter coat that seemed to have been grown by the ground.
“You ever hear of Tom Mooney?” Mig said. “The Mooney case?”
“No,” Danny said. “Is it a case I ought to know about?”
Mig shaved a hackle of snow from the back of a bench. “In 1916,” he said, “before we got in the war, there was a Preparedness Day parade in San Francisco. In the middle of the crowd, a bomb went off and killed ten people. The police arrested Tom Mooney and Warren Billings, saying they’d fixed the bomb to go off at a certain time and left it in a satchel on the sidewalk. Mooney and Billings said the whole thing was a frame-up to give Labor a black eye for not wanting America to get mixed up in the war.” Mig spat, and his spit sank into the snow. “Who do you think was telling the truth…?”
* * *
Mounds of snow, soiled public linen, lay along the gutters, but the damp air was turning cold, and soon more snow would fall and the city would put on a clean shirt over its dirty underwear.
Mig said, “If you were standing on the gallows with a rope around your neck, do you think you’d say, ‘This is the happiest moment of my life’?”
“Not if I was innocent,” Danny said. “And I guess not even if I was guilty. I won’t ever be happy to die.”
“There’s a place in Chicago called Haymarket Square,” Mig said. “In 1886, some workers were holding a meeting there to complain about the police beating and shooting strikers at the factory where they made the McCormick harvester. The meeting was about to break up when along came the police to make it break up faster. The workers had a few pistols, though (they were tough in those days), and the police got a dose of their own medicine. While the battle was going on, somebody heaved a bomb, and a police-sergeant got blown out from under his hat. A whole bunch of labor-organizers were arrested and tried and sentenced to be hung.”
“Did one of them really say that about the happiest moment of his life?”
“His name was Adolf Fischer.”
“It was a brave thing,” Danny said. “It was so brave that he must’ve been innocent.”
“How do you know that?”
“A man as brave as Fischer would’ve been brave enough to admit he was guilty.”
Mig said, “You’re learning, kid.”
* * *
The snows, both new and old, had gone down the drains, and now it was the season of vaporous rains that fell slowly, as if fine-sprayed, and with them on the west wind from the plains came the wet-earth smell of spring.
Mig said, “Are you against slavery?”
“That’s a dumb one,” Danny said. “Sure, I am.”
“Suppose you were living before the Civil War.”
“I’d’ve been against it any time.”
“What about if you were a preacher?”
“Then I’d’ve been specially against it.”
“In a slave-state, though—Missouri, say.”
“That wouldn’t’ve stopped me.”
“You were a preacher, and you owned a newspaper.”
“I’d’ve written things against slavery. Like Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
“Suppose the slave-owners got a mob together, and they broke up your press.”
“If I had enough money, I’d’ve bought me another.”
“Suppose the mob came and dumped that one in the Mississippi.”
“I’d’ve fished it out or bought me a third.”
“You bought it, and the same thing happened all over again.”
“I’d’ve got so sore I couldn’t see straight.”
“That’s a little too sore, kid.”
“Well, anyhow, sore enough to get another press, God damn it!”
“That’s better. You’re on your fourth press now.”
“If my money held out, I’d’ve bought forty.”
“It isn’t holding out. You’ve got that fourth press, and you’re printing your paper on it, and you get the tip that the mob is coming again, and you can only save the press if you move it across the river to a free-state—Illinois.”
“I’d’ve moved it, but all the way over in the boat, I’d’ve wrote another article against slavery.”
“You set the press up in a warehouse over there, and you get word that the mob decided to follow you. Now, what?”
“I can’t answer that till I know if I would’ve had any money left by that time.”
“You have some. A few bucks, maybe.”
“That’s enough,” Danny said. “I would’ve bought me a nice long gun.”
“All right,” Mig said. “So you’re in that warehouse with your gun, and the mob is outside, trying to get in and break up the press—the fourth press.”
“You know what I’d’
ve done?” Danny said.
“No,” Mig said. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“I’d’ve plugged the first son-of-a-bitch I could draw a bead on!”
Mig put his arms around Danny and hugged him. “Kid,” he said, “if you did all that, you’d’ve been just like Elijah Lovejoy!”
“Who was Elijah Lovejoy?”
“That preacher we were just supposing. Only he wound up getting shot dead that night, Danny.”
* * *
Mig and Danny lay on a lawn in Riverside Park, looking up at the sky of a spring afternoon.
“Jesus Christ!” Danny said.
“What’re you christing, kid?” Mig said.
“What the hell kind of a country do we live in?”
“A big swell country, kid—rivers, and trees, and mountains, and railroads, and farms, and fine houses. A big swell country.”
“Sure, but who owns it all?”
“Don’t you know?” Mig said. “The people.”
“The people!” Danny said. “The people don’t have enough of it to get buried in!”
“They own all of it, from here to Golden Gate.”
“You’re out of your mind, Mig.”
“I didn’t say they had it, kid. I said they owned it.”
RIDING ON A PONY
“Well, Danny,” Miss Forrest said when she reached their meeting-place, “it’s no more pencils and no more books till next September,” and then she looked away along the brown-stone street. “I wonder how you’ll feel a year from now, when it’s no more pencils and no more books for good.”
“I wonder too,” Danny said.
[When the bell rang to end the exam, Mr. Holloway came right to your desk, saying, “I’ll take your papers, Johnson.”
[You said, “I have to put them in order.”
[“Never mind that,” he said, “They’re in good enough order as they are.”
[“But you won’t be able to understand them.”
[“Don’t worry about what I’ll understand. Just hand over those papers.”
[“I need time to fix them,” you said.
[“I’m sure you do, but hand them over all the same.”
[“Please, Mr. Holloway,” you said. “I’ll only take a second.”
[“GIVE ME YOUR PAPERS, JOHNSON!” he said.
[“I won’t!” you said, and you tore them up and stuffed the pieces in your pocket.]
“Miss Forrest,” Danny said, “would you keep on liking me if you knew I did a rotten thing?”
The woman’s reply was inexact and late. “I like you a very great deal,” she said.
“I cheated on the English final.…”
* * *
“… Do you feel bad because you were caught?” Miss Forrest said. “Or because you cheated?”
“I don’t know,” Danny said. “It’s the first time I ever cheated and the first time I ever got caught.”
“Mr. Holloway caught you at the end of the exam. How did you feel at the beginning, when you took the pony out of your pocket and slipped it among your papers?”
“I didn’t notice any kind of a feeling.”
“How did you feel while you were using the pony? How did you feel as you went through question after question, copying down the answers? How did you feel all the way up to one instant before you were caught?”
“I didn’t pay much attention to my feelings. I was too busy copying.”
“In other words, your ‘rotten feeling’ came only after you were caught.”
“Yes, but that don’t mean I had it because I was caught. Getting caught might’ve made me feel rotten about the cheating all the way back to the first question.”
“I’m sorry, Danny,” the woman said, “but your regret came too late to be genuine.”
“How can regret come early?” Danny said. “You’d have to regret a rotten thing before you did it, and that’s impossible. You’ve got to do the thing before you can feel rotten about it, and once you’ve done it, your regret can come the next minute, or the next year, or just before you die, but no matter when, it can still be honest. You think I only regret being caught, but I regret the cheating too, or I never would’ve told you about it. Cheating is a mean thing, and people oughtn’t to do mean things, but sometimes they do do them, not just mean people, but even decent people, and afterwards they feel rotten about it, and I say it’s wrong to tell them they’re Humpty-Dumpties, and it’s too late to make them like they were before. People aren’t Humpty-Dumpties! They’re people!”
The woman put her hand on the boy’s arm, and when he stopped, she put her mouth on his mouth [and you weren’t ashamed, because all at once the people on the street seemed to disappear, leaving only you and Miss Forrest between buildings that were blind, and long after she’d taken her mouth away, you felt it touching you—cool, soft, damp, and moving a little].
“I’m glad you still like me,” he said.…
* * *
“… Nothing you can say will do you any good, Johnson,” Mr. Holloway said.
“I only want you to listen,” Danny said. “It doesn’t have to do me any good.”
“I gave you a flunk for the term, and I entered the mark on your school-record. That mark will not be changed. Now, what’ve you got to say?”
“I came here to tell you why I tore up my exam-paper. I tore it up because I had a pony in it.…”
“Do you think that’s a secret?” Mr. Holloway said. “I saw you take out that pony before the exam was a moment old.”
Danny rose, staring. “You saw it before I had a chance to use it?” he said.
“Of course I did. Teachers aren’t quite as stupid as you kids seem to think.” Danny turned away and started for the door. “Is that all you have to say, Johnson?”
With his hand on the knob, the boy looked back. “It’s all I have to say to you, Mr. Holloway,” he said.
“You stand right there! What do you mean by that remark?”
“When I made up my mind to come and see you, I thought I’d be talking to a human being, but I know now that you’re not. You proved it when you said you were wise to the pony from the start: you saw me take it out, and you knew I was going to cheat with it, but instead of stopping me then, you let me go ahead. You didn’t care about keeping me from being a cheat, you only cared about catching me at it, and that makes you like a law in a lawbook, Mr. Holloway—you only care about the punishment, not the criminals.” He opened the door and went away.
FOR A REDRESS OF GRIEVANCES
On 34th Street, opposite the Waldorf, Danny stood near the curb outside the pedestrian current. In his hand, he held several sheets of paper fastened to a square of stiff cardboard, from a notched corner of which hung a pencil-stub on a string. “Sign your petition!” he was saying. “Sign your petition!”
[The Boss said “Why do you want the job?”
[“I need it,” you said.
[“Is it only the salary you’re after?”
[“I could get other jobs, and I could get more pay, but I need this job more than I need the money, and I wish to Christ you’d tell me where to hang up my cap.”
[“Why do you keep saying you need this particular job?”
[“I think they’re innocent,” you said.
[“I think so too,” he said. “I’ve thought so for five years.”
[“And if people are innocent, they oughtn’t to be in jail.”
[“I’ve thought that for longer than five years.”
[“Do I get the job?” you said.
[“Not yet. What does your father do for a living?”
[“He’s a cab-driver.”
[“What do you expect to be?”
[“I don’t know. I had some ambition up to a week ago, but I got caught cheating on an English exam, and now I’m not so sure any more.”
[“Aren’t you ashamed to make such an admission?”
[“[No. I’m only ashamed of the cheating.”
[He said, “Do you thi
nk Sacco and Vanzetti would want a cheat to help them go free?”
[“Why not?” you said. “A whole slew of cheats locked them up.”]
“Sign here! Sign your petition!”
In front of Hearn’s, Danny watched a woman come toward him with several bundles on one arm and trying with the other to prevent a little boy from wandering away into the 14th Street forest of legs. The woman came up to Danny and stopped, saying, “Would you hold these bundles for me?” and when he took them, she drew a handkerchief from her purse and muzzled her son with it. “Blow, honey,” she said, and the little boy blew. “Blow harder, honey.” The little boy blew harder. “Oh, that’s not blowing at all,” she said, and the little boy gathered himself together and blew from his shoes. “That’s a good boy,” she said, and she accepted the bundles from Danny, saying, “Thank you, young man.”
“Would you like to sign this petition?” Danny said.
The woman smiled. “I’m afraid not,” she said.
“Don’t you even want to know what it’s for?”
“I never sign petitions,” the woman said, and still smiling, she walked away with her bundles and her boy.
[For nine dollars a week, you ran the addressograph-machine, you mailed your own weight in letters twice a day, you stood a trick at the switchboard from noon to one, you sharpened pencils and filled inkwells, you made the bank-deposits, you took copy to the printer, you shot up to the corner for soda-pop, you went to meetings and put literature on the chairs (a million chairs!), and you folded and filed and carried and phoned and swept and collected and wrapped, and you rode miles and miles on buses and cars, and once, when you had to go downtown with a famous lawyer, he stood you to a frosted chocolate, but mostly it was slacking and sorting and stamping and packing and walking and running—and in your spare time you grabbed some petitions and stood around on street-corners.]
