Lonely Crusade (54 page)

And then he was moving again. But his mind was a Pandora’s Box that he dared not open yet. Casually he cut across the street, circling toward the parking lot. He could feel the gazes of the policemen digging into his back, measuring his height, weighing the manner of his walk. Fighting down the impulse to break into a run, he climbed the guard railing and went down between the cars.

Union men were all about—organizers from other unions, volunteers from other locals—moving in and out between the cars, approaching the workers, and passing out union buttons, arm bands, placards, and banners.

One stopped Lee. “Wear your union emblem, fellow.”

Lee looked blankly at the man. Then he accepted the button, pinned it on his shirt, and wrapped a band about his arm. “Thanks, fellow.” But his mind was not yet functioning.

As he came out of the parking lot on the other side, he saw the union sound truck facing down the street toward the company gates. Surrounded by a score of men, it was the hub of activity. The deputy sheriffs blocking off the street on which the plant faced were thicker here, and four policemen stood near by. Even from where he stood, Lee could feel the tension of the crowded scene. Every minor motion seemed deliberate. He jumped the rail and hurried toward the truck with the feeling of walking into danger.

As he approached, Joe Ptak opened the back doors of the truck. Beyond, he saw Marvin Todd’s blond head high over the others as he moved quickly to call the policemen’s attention to something down the street. He saw Joe’s thumb motion him into the truck. He looked inside and saw Smitty frantically beckoning. Everything was posted on his brain, but all for future reference. Now he only moved without a loss of motion and swung inside the truck.

It was to Joe Ptak he first turned, drawn by the change in Joe’s attitude. Joe was dressed in the shiny blue serge suit, complete to vest, with soiled gray shirt and tie, as Lee had first seen him, and his hard blunt features were the same. For a moment they stared at each other. Then Joe ran his two fingers through his bristling shock of iron gray hair, and for one brief flicker his stony stare relented.

“Okay, boy.”

“Okay, Joe.”

Rigidity settled back into Joe’s granite face as he quickly closed the door.

“Lee—”

He looked at Smitty in the cab’s semigloom and saw it painted on his face. A stunned look spread slowly down his features. “I know.”

The operator of the sound control looked at him and looked away.

“They have a warrant out for you,” Smitty said.

“I know,” Lee said again, his mind groping for the best thing to do. “Then I better give up, Smitty. No need of getting you into trouble now.” The slow, forced deliberation of his voice reached out to Smitty’s face and shaped it.

“No, wait, Lee. Just stay here in the truck for the time being.”

“Won’t they look in here?”

“Not right away. They have already. The main thing now is the rally. Later we’ll think about you.”

“But I’ll mean more trouble, Smitty, if they catch you hiding me.

“No, wait, Lee,” Smitty said again. “We’ve already sent for Hannegan. We’ve got those affidavits to think about.”

“Oh!”

“Just keep out of sight.”

Lee knelt down behind the microphone stand and gathered in his thoughts. A numbed, dazed expression came into the ashes of his eyes. He did not feel abused or persecuted, just defeated in the end, just caught in the fall of that sudden disaster hanging always overhead—not that it was unexpected, just that it had to happen now, when happiness had seemed so close and life had looked so wonderful. Now Ruth would never know. This was the thought that brought hurt.

For once again he was a burden, an obstacle, and a liability, at the very time he needed most to be an asset. When the fate of the union hung in the balance, perhaps of all of the world—“As Corn-stock goes the West Coast goes. As the West Coast goes the nation goes. As the nation goes the world goes.” Lost!—for the want of one black man!

It was not only this, but more: He was jeopardizing the very freedom of these good men who were taking up their time and thought protecting him—fellows who normally hated his guts. Benny Stone had given him the warning. Marvin Todd had blocked off the cops. Joe Ptak had given him a vote of confidence. It was not because he deserved it—just because he was a Negro.

In the end it came back to the beginning, back to the legend of Georgia, that a Negro was the white man’s burden. He was nothing but trouble for anyone—no good in the world. He never had been any good to anyone—not to the union, not to his wife, and not to himself.

He raised his head and peered through the small side window as he tried to collect his thoughts. He must determine what to do. He could not let these good guys take another rap for him. But there was no escape. The four policemen had divided; two stood behind the truck, two in front. He could not even give up now without getting the union men into trouble. They had committed themselves by hiding him. And what could it bring them but ruin, ignominy, perhaps imprisonment ? His head jerked spasmodically from the hammer of his thoughts.

He looked across the parking lot at the workers crowding along the edges of the guarded, barren street. He saw the union workers trying to form a line. But there was no space within the lot and the deputies kept them from the street. The workers stood and looked, as if they had come more to view the rally than be a part of it.

“How do you think it’ll go?” he said to Smitty.

Smitty was hurt. A feeling of failure had overcome him. It showed all through his big, flabby face and in his bright, protruding eyes. “Lee, I don’t know. It looks like Foster’s got us beat.”

“It looks that way, Smitty.”

“I didn’t think he would do it,” Smitty said, as if talking to himself.

“Do what?”

“Call out the cops. I wrote him a letter and told him that we did not intend to cause a work stoppage.”

“Oh ! Did you think that would mean anything to Foster?”

“I thought he’d at least be fair about it.” After a moment he said : “You got to believe in something, Lee. And I’ve always been a sucker for people.”

Lee flinched as the knowledge of Smitty’s belief in him spun out its special hurt. “Is Joe going to break the line?”

“He’s going to try.”

Lee turned to look through the window again, tortured by the hurt in Smitty’s voice. This was his, too. This failure of the rally was more his than anyone’s. And this breaking down of this big bluff man’s belief in human nature was his. But what could he do ?

“Why don’t you have Joe line them up down this street first?”

“That’s an idea.” Smitty spoke into the microphone, “Joe, why don’t you try lining up the workers on this street first?”

The blaring metallic voice drew everyone’s attention. Lee saw Joe directing the workers toward the side street. Joe’s stocky barrel-chested body, clad in the dark blue suit, seemed impregnable in the sunlight as he rode herd on half a dozen workers and forced them into a line. But most of them remained within the parking lot.

“Workers of America!” Smitty appealed to them. “Now is the time to assert your democratic rights—All of you—brothers in the union—accept the emblems and placards from the volunteers among you…line up behind your union leaders in orderly fashion…when your leader gives the signal march in orderly fashion up and down the public street before the plant—”

When the voice ceased, the silence closed in. A few more workers moved to join the line. But most just stood and stared. Over them hung a pall of abnormal tenseness. Lee could see the sullen animosity in their faces. It was as if now at the showdown they hated the union for bringing them to this. Most were Southern migrants. Within their lives until this moment the extent of their hatred had been toward Negroes. Now it was as if against their wills they were being forced to hate rich white men whom they had always feared, still feared. But they did not want to appear as cowards. So they hated the union for maneuvering them into this unacceptable position.

“Did you get word from the army forbidding the rally?” Lee asked to break the silence.

“No, that was just newspaper talk.”

Now Lee saw a group of Negro workers standing in sullen silence behind the white. He was struck by the similarity of these workers of two races. Now that both faced a common enemy with equal reluctance, there seemed no difference but color. And why should there be ? Lee Gordon thought. All had been born on the same baked share-croppers’ farms, steeped in the same Southern traditions, the objects of the same tyranny that, together, they had not only permitted but upheld. They were bound together by their own oppression rendered by the same oppressors—their fears and their superstitions and their ignorance indivisible. Only their hatred of each other separated them, like idiots hating their own images.

“Is it doing any good?” Smitty asked.

“They’re listening. Maybe they’ll fall in when Joe breaks the line.”

“Brothers, take up your banners and march for your union,” Smitty tried again—“your union, brother workers of America. Do not be coerced or confused or threatened. You have free choice in the selection of your union. This free choice is guaranteed by the laws of the United States Government. The National Labor Relations Act gives you the right to join unions. The law says yes, brother workers—”

And now a few more came into the line.

“It’s taking hold,” Lee said.

He saw Joe Ptak grab two fellows bodily and shove them toward the line. The fellows drew back and said something, and Lee could see the hard uncompromising gesture of Joe’s rejection. He should be out there with Joe, he thought. That was where he belonged. Then he saw a tiny group of a dozen or more come from between the cars and move toward the rear of the line.

“Some more are coming—” He broke off as he read the forward placard : “The Communist Party Supports Labor!”

His thoughts ran bitter. After all that they had done to undermine the campaign, they would come! While the rank and file trembled in the indecision they had helped inspire, they themselves would be on hand. They must be seen. It must be known. It was the line—not right, but revolution !

Words of Rosie’s tugged at his memory and cut loose his thoughts in strange omniscience. “Time, and the profound progression of materialistic change, will make all men communists.” And from some minor chord of memory echoed its root in Marx, “The victory of the proletariat is inevitable.” It struck him as a funny time to recall it.

“Keep on, Smitty, you’re doing good!” he said aloud.

“In union there is strength,” Smitty began again. “Without a union, you are helpless. It is too easy to cut wages of unorganized employees. It is too easy to ignore or violate seniority rules. It is too easy to misuse the speed-up. This is true, whether your particular employer is a basically fair employer, or basically unfair to labor. Without a union, even the fair employer, under pressure from without, will make mistakes costly to his employees and costly in the long run to himself and the industry. Vote for your union. It is the only practical step you can take today toward bettering your present condition and safeguarding your future—”

But if the rally failed, they would not vote the union in, Lee Gordon knew. These workers would not vote for failure.

His flitting, hunted gaze picked Rosie from the crowd and watched him stand at the edge of the parking lot and look about. He knew that Rosie was looking for him. From where he knelt within the truck, he could see the disappointment come into Rosie’s face when he failed to find him there. And now he wondered what effect his arrest would have on Rosie. It would probably cause him to perjure himself into prison. And this was what he had for everyone it seemed—the Gorgon touch.

“In the midst of this war for justice and liberty—” the voice of Smitty carried on. “For fraternity and equality—we bring you the manifestation of the democracy for which we fight—”

But through Lee Gordon’s mind kept running one refrain. What was this thing that made meaning ? This thing that brought change? What could he do for all these people who had befriended him ?—for Ruth ? for the union ? for Rosie’s simple faith in him ? What could he do to avoid the hurt he held in store for them ?

Overhead the metallic voice blared persistently : “What do you want ?—a job ? security ? the right to live decently ? to live without fear ? to educate your children ? to fulfill your democratic heritage ? Your union offers you this future!”

And what future had Lee Gordon ever offered anyone? Lee Gordon thought.

Smitty glanced at his watch. “It’s past time for Joe to start.”

“He’s starting now,” Lee said as he saw Joe Ptak step to the head of the line.

“Let’s hope, Lee, let’s hope, boy.” Now Smitty leaned toward the microphone with new life in his voice, “Line up, brothers! Line up ! March for your union !—”

Lee saw the deputy sheriffs close in before the line of workers.

“Have no fear. You have the right to march. The law says yes f—”

For a moment the tableau held, two suspended lines caught in that moment of time. It seemed suddenly like a battlefield before the battle has begun, with two opposing forces arrayed against each other. Lee sensed the drama of the moment. It made him bite down into his lip and tightly clench his fists. Then suddenly in that telescoped instant in history the zero hour sounded on which the future of the world might hang.

But what kept ringing in Lee Gordon’s mind like some forgotten liberty bell was not the words of Rosie nor the words of Marx, but the words of Jesus Christ: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

Then Joe Ptak began to move. In one hand he carried a long-handled union banner. The other hand hung free. His iron-gray head bobbed slightly above the indomitable hunch of his shoulders. Behind him the others began to move. A slight wave of motion swept across the parking lot, stirring the first faint signs of action. The deputies shifted on their feet. One drew his gun, then quickly holstered it. Each stark detail showed with photographic clarity in the California sun.