Native Son (47 page)

He was tired, sleepy, and feverish; but he did not want to lie down with this war raging in him. Blind impulses welled up in his body, and his intelligence sought to make them plain to his understanding by supplying images that would explain them. Why was all this hate and fear? Standing trembling in his cell, he saw a dark vast fluid image rise and float; he saw a black sprawling prison full of tiny black cells in which people lived; each cell had its stone jar of water and a crust of bread and no one could go from cell to cell and there were screams and curses and yells of suffering and nobody heard them, for the walls were thick and darkness was everywhere. Why were there so many cells in the world? But was this true? He wanted to believe, but was afraid. Dare he flatter himself that
much? Would he be struck dead if he made himself the equal of others, even in fancy?

He was too weak to stand any longer. He sat again on the edge of the cot. How could he find out if this feeling of his was true, if others had it? How could one find out about life when one was about to die? Slowly he lifted his hands in the darkness and held them in mid-air, the fingers spread weakly open. If he reached out with his hands, and if his hands were electric wires, and if his heart were a battery giving life and fire to those hands, and if he reached out with his hands and touched other people, reached out through these stone walls and felt other hands connected with other hearts—if he did that, would there be a reply, a shock? Not that he wanted those hearts to turn their warmth to him; he was not wanting that much. But just to know that they were there and warm! Just that, and no more; and it would have been enough, more than enough. And in that touch, response of recognition, there would be union, identity; there would be a supporting oneness, a wholeness which had been denied him all his life.

Another impulse rose in him, born of desperate need, and his mind clothed it in an image of a strong blinding sun sending hot rays down and he was standing in the midst of a vast crowd of men, white men and black men and all men, and the sun’s rays melted away the many differences, the colors, the clothes, and drew what was common and good upward toward the sun….

He stretched out full length upon the cot and groaned. Was he foolish in feeling this? Was it fear and weakness that made this desire come to him now that death was near? How could a notion that went so deep and caught up so much of him in one swoop of emotion be wrong? Could he trust bare, naked feeling this way? But he had; all his life he had hated on the basis of bare sensation. Why should he not accept this? Had he killed Mary and Bessie and brought sorrow to his mother and brother and sister and put himself in the shadow of the electric chair only to find out this? Had he been blind all along? But there was no way to tell now. It was too late….

He would not mind dying now if he could only find out what this meant, what he was in relation to all the others that lived, and the earth upon which he stood. Was there some battle everybody was fighting, and he had missed it? And if he had missed it, were not the whites to blame for it? Were they not the ones to hate even now? Maybe. But he was not interested in hating them now. He had to die. It was more important to him to find out what this new tingling, this new elation, this new excitement meant.

He felt he wanted to live now—not escape paying for his crime—but live in order to find out, to see if it were true, and to feel it more deeply; and, if he had to die, to die within it. He felt that he would have lost all if he had to die without fully feeling it, without knowing for certain. But there was no way now. It was too late….

He lifted his hands to his face and touched his trembling lips. Naw…. Naw…. He ran to the door and caught the cold steel bars in his hot hands and gripped them tightly, holding himself erect. His face rested against the bars and he felt tears roll down his cheeks. His wet lips tasted salt. He sank to his knees and sobbed: “I don’t want to die…. I don’t want to die….”

Having been bound over to the Grand Jury and indicted by it, having been arraigned and having pled not guilty to the charge of murder and been ordered to trial—all in less than a week, Bigger lay one sunless grey morning on his cot, staring vacantly at the black steel bars of the Cook County Jail.

Within an hour he would be taken to court where they would tell him if he was to live or die, and when. And with but a few minutes between him and the beginning of judgment, the obscure longing to possess the thing which Max had dimly evoked in him was still a motive. He felt he
had
to have it now. How could he face that court of white men without something to sustain him? Since that night when he had stood alone in his cell, feeling the high magic which Max’s talk had given him, he was more than ever naked to the hot blasts of hate.

There were moments when he wished bitterly that he had not felt those possibilities, when he wished that he could go again behind his curtain. But that was impossible. He had been lured into the open, and trapped, twice trapped; trapped by being in jail for murder, and again trapped by being stripped of emotional resources to go to his death.

In an effort to recapture that high moment, he had tried to talk with Max, but Max was preoccupied, busy preparing his plea to the court to save his life. But Bigger wanted to save his
own
life. Yet he knew that the moment he tried to put his feelings into words, his tongue would not move. Many times, when alone after Max had left him, he wondered wistfully if there was not a set of words which he had in common with others, words which would evoke in others a sense of the same fire that smoldered in him.

He looked out upon the world and the people about him with a double vision: one vision pictured death, an image of him, alone, sitting strapped in the electric chair and waiting for the hot current to leap through his body; and the other vision pictured life, an image of himself standing amid throngs of men, lost in the welter of their lives with the hope of emerging again, different, unafraid. But so far only the certainty of death was his; only the unabating hate of the white faces could be seen; only the same dark cell, the long lonely hours, only the cold bars remained.

Had his will to believe in a new picture of the world made him act a fool and thoughtlessly pile horror upon horror? Was not his old hate a better defense than this agonized uncertainty? Was not an impossible hope betraying him to this end? On how many fronts could a man fight at once? Could he fight a battle within as well as without? Yet he felt that he could not fight the battle for his life without first winning the one raging within him.

His mother and Vera and Buddy had come to visit him and again he had lied to them, telling them that he was praying, that he was at peace with the world and men. But that lie had only made him feel more shame for himself and more hate for them; it had hurt because he really yearned for that certainty of which his mother spoke and prayed, but he could not get it on the terms on
which he felt he had to have it. After they had left, he told Max not to let them come again.

A few moments before the trial, a guard came to his cell and left a paper.

“Your lawyer sent this,” he said and left.

He unfolded the
Tribune
and his eyes caught a headline: TROOPS GUARD NEGRO KILLER’S TRIAL. Troops? He bent forward and read: PROTECT RAPIST FROM MOB ACTION. He went down the column:

His eyes caught phrases: “sentiment against killer still rising,” “public opinion demands death penalty,” “fear uprising in Negro sector,” and “city tense.”

Bigger sighed and stared into space. His lips hung open and he shook his head slowly. Was he not foolish in even listening when Max talked of saving his life? Was he not heightening the horror of his own end by straining after a flickering hope? Had not this voice of hate been sounding long before he was born; and would it not still sound long after he was dead?

He read again, catching phrases: “the black killer is fully aware that he is in danger of going to the electric chair,” “spends most of his time reading newspaper accounts of his crime and eating luxurious meals sent to him by Communist friends,” “killer not sociable or talkative,” “Mayor lauds police for bravery,” and “a vast mass of evidence assembled against killer.”

Then:

Bigger dropped the paper, stretched out upon the cot and closed his eyes. It was the same thing over and over again. What was the use of reading it?

“Bigger!”

Max was standing outside of the cell. The guard opened the door and Max walked in.

“Well, Bigger, how do you feel?”

“All right, I reckon,” he mumbled.

“We’re on our way to court.”

Bigger rose and looked vacantly round the cell.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Bigger sighed. “I reckon I am.”

“Listen, son. Don’t be nervous. Just take it easy.”

“Will I be setting near you?”

“Sure. Right at the same table. I’ll be there throughout the entire trial. So don’t be scared.”

A guard led him outside the door. The corridor was lined with policemen. It was silent. He was placed between two policemen and his wrists were shackled to theirs. Black and white faces peered at him from behind steel bars. He walked stiffly between the two policemen; ahead of him walked six more; and he heard many more
walking in back. They led him to an elevator that took him to an underground passage. They walked through a long stretch of narrow tunnel; the sound of their feet echoed loudly in the stillness. They reached another elevator and rode up and walked along a hallway crowded with excited people and policemen. They passed a window and Bigger caught a quick glimpse of a vast crowd of people standing behind closely formed lines of khaki-clad troops. Yes, those were the troops and the mob the paper had spoken of.

He was taken into a room. Max led the way to a table. After the handcuffs were unlocked, Bigger sat, flanked by policemen. Softly, Max laid his right hand upon Bigger’s knee.

“We’ve got just a few minutes,” Max said.

“Yeah,” Bigger mumbled. His eyes were half-closed; his head leaned slightly to one side and his eyes looked beyond Max at some point in space.

“Here,” Max said. “Straighten your tie.”

Bigger tugged listlessly at the knot.

“Now, maybe you’ll have to say something just once, see….”

“You mean in the court room?”

“Yes; but I’ll….”

Bigger’s eyes widened with fear.

“Naw!”

“Now, listen, son….”

“But I don’t want to say nothing.”

“I’m trying to save your life….”

Bigger’s nerves gave way and he spoke hysterically:

“They going to
kill
me! You
know
they going to kill me….”

“But you’ll
have
to, Bigger. Now, listen….”

“Can’t you fix it so I won’t have to say nothing?”

“It’s only a word or two. When the judge asks how you want to plead, say guilty.”

“Will I have to stand up?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t you realize I’m trying to save your life? Help me just this little bit….”

“I reckon I don’t care. I reckon you can’t save it.”

“You mustn’t feel that way….”

“I can’t help it.”

“Here’s another thing. The court’ll be full, see? Just go in and sit down. You’ll be right by me. And let the judge see that you notice what’s going on.”

“I hope Ma won’t be there.”

“I asked her to come. I want the judge to see her,” Max said.

“She’ll feel bad.”

“All of this is for you, Bigger.”

“I reckon I ain’t worth it.”

“Well, this thing’s bigger than you, son. In a certain sense, every Negro in America’s on trial out there today.”

“They going to kill me anyhow.”

“Not if we fight. Not if I tell them how you’ve had to live.”

A policeman walked over to Max, tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and said,

“The judge’s waiting.”

“All right,” Max said. “Come on, Bigger. Let’s go. Keep your chin up.”

They stood and were surrounded by policemen. Bigger walked beside Max down a hallway and then through a door. He saw a huge room crowded with men and women. Then he saw a small knot of black faces, over to one side of the room, behind a railing. A deep buzzing of voices came to him. Two policemen pushed the people to one side, making a path for Max and Bigger. Bigger moved forward slowly, feeling Max’s hand tugging at the sleeve of his coat. They reached the front of the room.

“Sit down,” Max whispered.

As Bigger sat the lightning of silver bulbs flashed in his eyes, they were taking more pictures of him. He was so tense in mind and body that his lips trembled. He did not know what to do with his hands; he wanted to put them into his coat pockets; but that would take too much effort and would attract attention. He kept them lying on his knees, palms up. There was a long and painful
wait. The voices behind him still buzzed. Pale yellow sunshine fell through high windows and slashed the air.