The Passion of Sacco and Vanzetti: A New England Legend (13 page)

“
Il Duce's
difficulty is understandable. Since the two men are Italian, it does present a question of national honor, which the communists there will make the most of. There have been a number of rather large demonstrations, Turin, Naples, Genoa, Rome.” The representative of the State Department ruffled through his papers. He had come well armed with index and reference. He explained that what he now read was from
Il Popolo
, and added, “not entirely an unofficial opinion, Mr. President—”

“I never really understood how close a hand he has on his press.”

“Quite close. Nothing like it in our experience. A newspaper editor who talks out of turn can shortcut the inevitability of what will follow, and blow out his brains. The fascists are very orderly, and he likes to keep a finger in everything. Well, here they say, ‘America has administered the justice of liberty, first among all goddesses, so the decision in court cannot and must not be discussed—' You see, orderly people; that is a signature of fascism, ‘but justice and liberty served, we believe an act of mercy now would be opportune, just and wise.' Well, one cannot simply take that at face value either. It strengthens
il Duce
to have such an editorial as that in his paper—makes the people say, well, there he is, for every Italian. On the other hand, he does not challenge the trial and decision—only mercy is pleaded for. It does sound a little hypocritical, when you think of how many communists he has put away, firing squads and prison, detention camps, and castor oil—”

The President was curious about the castor oil. “I keep hearing about it. Just what is it?”

“As nearly as we can find out, a way of treating reds. They are trussed up, their mouths are forced open, and a quart or so of castor oil is poured down their gullets. It sounds horrible, and probably feels like the very devil; but I suppose they had to resort to that kind of thing to shake them up a little.”

“He shook them up,” the President agreed. “He made the trains run on time. But none of them seem to understand us. A State is a State. A President can't interfere. Let him know that I can't interfere. It must run through, and tonight it will be over. I can't go into Massachusetts and tell the Governor what to do. They've had a fair trial and more than enough time to review the facts—”

His voice trailed away. He had said a good deal, for him. He didn't get angry, but the representative of the State Department knew that he didn't like reds of any description. They were all trouble makers, yet there had to be some significance to all the trouble that was being made anywhere and everywhere. He had to be informed. The crowd outside the American embassy in London right now must include ten or fifteen thousand people. He had a report on that only a few minutes before he came here.

“They don't like us,” the President said shortly.

“Demonstrations day and night in France, twenty-five thousand in Paris, Toulouse, Lyons, Marseilles. Germany—a very big demonstration in Berlin, and in Frankfort and Hamburg—”

The President seemed unconcerned. His face registered neither amazement nor disbelief. The thunder of a million marching workers, the shattering sound of their feet on the streets of Moscow and Peking and Calcutta and Brussels, the plea of their delegates, the fierce anger of their protest—all of it died to a whisper here.

“It is not a matter of concern for the administration,” the President said.

“The Secretary of State thought you ought to know about the situation in Latin America. They are very restive there.”

“I don't see what the devil concern of theirs it is,” the President remarked bluntly, causing the man from the State Department to wonder whether any human being could be so impervious to currents and forces; unconcern was one thing—this kind of indifference, however, passed belief. He detailed his report—strikes, protest meetings, marching anger, windows in embassies and consulates smashed, Colombia, Venezuela, Brazil, Chile, the Argentine—yes, and a devil of an outburst in South Africa.

“South Africa—really?” the President said.

“The reports from the legations are quite nervous. Suddenly the whole world is screaming at us in rage.”

Now the President smiled, not with humor but with the first evidence of disbelief he had yet exhibited. “Really? It's a most peculiar thing. I suppose the Russians are in it somewhere. Otherwise, how can you explain all this hue and cry over two agitators?”

“I can't explain it, sir. However, the British embassy feels that some effort should be taken with the Governor of Massachusetts to have the execution postponed.”

The President shook his head. “They've had a fair trial.”

“Yes—”

“I have no inclination to interfere.”

The representative of the State Department put his papers back into his portfolio and left. The President dismissed his stenographer and sat alone for a little while. His thoughts moved in their courses, orderly courses. It was a very strange thing to be President of the United States. Here, even while he was on vacation, his desk remained full of business, and everything had to halt because there was such a commotion about a shoemaker and a fish peddler. Here he sat in a ranch house far from Washington, in the Black Hills of North Dakota, yet the world was at his fingertips, and at his back, a nation more prosperous and powerful than any ever dreamt of in all the history of mankind. A new prophet had arisen in this land; his name was Henry Ford, and he had devised a moving thing called an assembly line, and a Ford car dropped off the end of it every thirty seconds or so; and thoughtful men wrote essays concerning the replacement of Marxism with Fordism. In this land, there would be two cars in every garage and a chicken in every pot, and—as one bitter columnist put it—a slow and orderly development until the bathrooms had bathrooms. The hateful communist legend of cyclical depression had been hurled back into the pot of lies that spawned it; depression and crisis were gone, and the land was rich and powerful and fruitful beyond belief and, not impossibly, forever.

All this had been challenged by two ragged agitators, illiterate men thrown up by the Mediterranean Basin, that breeding place of dark folk with dark souls—so different from and unpleasant to the Anglo-Saxon—and these two men had come filled with hate and fury. Whereupon, the greatness of the land captured them without anger, submitting them to due process of law.

And yet the world was angry and dissatisfied; and the whole world rocked with sound about these two men. It was easy to dismiss it as
Russian-made;
but the label did not solve the puzzle for the dry and sour man in the Black Hills. Nor could he take solace in hatred; he hated indifferently, and he could not think of the shoemaker and the fish peddler as human folk deserving of hatred. Dogs were muzzled and cattle were slain without hatred.…

His thoughts moved in their courses, orderly—pursuing a certain thread of recollection. It was not long ago, in Washington, that his secretary had entered his office softly and easily, and said,

“The Justice is here.”

“Here?”

“Right outside. You had an appointment—”

“Never mind that! My word, don't you understand? Don't talk like a fool! The Justice is here—well, show him in.”

The Justice was one man, unmistakably, and of course he needed no other identification. It seemed, sometimes, to more people than just the President, that all of justice and law and the memory of justice and law were wrapped up in the dry old skin of the Justice.

Then the Justice came into the office of the President. The President rose, full of words of protest about the Justice's coming, but the old man waved him back to his seat. This was an old man, indeed—an old, old man. His skin was dry as parchment; his eyes were deep in his head; his voice was resonant, yet cracked with age, for he had far better than the three-score and ten years allotted to most men. Somewhere behind his eyes was a memory of many things; with those same eyes, he had seen the guns crash at Gettysburg, the hillside carpeted with the dead, and many an hour had he spent in talk with old Abraham Lincoln. From that time to this time, how many had lived and struggled and died—and all this he had witnessed, old, old man that he was. His presence impressed even the stolid executive; the old man was old New England, and all the ancient, distant times now gone forever—stretching away back to the days when Paul Revere kept his silver shop in little Boston Town. The President looked at him strangely; for even though he was the President, it was a singular thing for this old man to call upon him.

“Now won't you please sit down?” the President asked.

It was just as hot as blazes that day in Washington, and the Justice nodded and sat down alongside of the President's desk rather gratefully, placing his yellow straw hat upon the desk and balancing his cane between his bony knees.

“I decided to see you, sir,” the Justice said, treating the fact as a prerogative rather than a privilege, “because they came to me for a stay of execution. I refer to the
Case of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti versus the Commonwealth of Massachusetts
. They have at last been sentenced to death, and the Governor has announced a date for the execution. I was asked to stay the execution. I imagine you are acquainted with the facts in the case?”

“Sufficiently,” the President said.

“Yes. I have not read it too carefully, but I glanced through an essay on the case, written by a teacher of law in Boston. Usually, I frown upon such monographs which try to influence the bench with public opinion, but this one is rather cleverly done. The case has many points of interest, and it has raised something of a national and international furor. There are forces which seem desirous of presenting the two defendants as saints. When they came to me today for the stay of execution, I pointed out to them that a State legal decision may well be set aside by the Supreme Court of the United States, if the record of the case clearly shows that the Constitution has been infringed upon in certain ways. In this case, the defense has already filed an application for a
writ of certiorari
on grounds of Constitutional infringement. They also presented a
writ of habeas corpus
, which was denied. Whereupon, they approached me to grant them a stay of execution until the application for
certiorari
has been considered by the entire court. Naturally, the court cannot be convened in the summer, regardless of how extraordinary the circumstances may appear to be; yet since the execution is set for the month of August, in the normal course of things the defendants will be dead when the court considers the application. Thereby, the request for the stay. The situation, you recognize, is most unusual; and I cannot think of any precedent which could be used as a guiding principle. I can only surmise as to whether or not I possess such power under the Constitution—yet I think if the occasion demanded, I would exercise it. On my part, I cannot imagine circumstances where the court would reverse or set aside the verdict. I cannot believe it possible. Therefore, my inclination is not to grant a stay of execution. However, the matter is one of such gravity that I decided to have your opinion, and to see whether you, perhaps, might not be aware of some facts or circumstances unknown to me which would recommend a stay of execution.”

“I am aware of none, sir,” the President said.

“You do not feel it would bring honor to the land, as an act of judicial mercy?”

“I do not.”

The old man rose to go, gravely thanking the President for his opinion—and now the President recalled this, recalled mention of the monograph written by a teacher of law in Massachusetts.

“Now where did I see his name?” the President wondered, and sought among his papers for a telegram which had come this same day. He found it, and read again,

“I humbly and respectfully beg you, sir, to consider the fact that I have seen—and this I will swear to—with my own eyes, proof of the innocence of these two men. If there is even a faint chance of the validity of such evidence, must we not test it? I do not ask for mercy, but for a full measure of the law. If the law should go, what is left to us? What shield have we to defend us? What wall to shelter us? I beg you to wire the Governor of Massachusetts, asking him to postpone the day of execution. Even twenty-four hours will help—”

It was the persistence of the telegram that annoyed the President, and then he saw the name at the bottom, a name so obviously Jewish. Wasn't that the name the Justice had referred to? And why were Jews so insensitively persistent?

He put the telegram aside, handling it with distaste. It was one of dozens of telegrams he had received today. He had not replied to any, nor would he, being, as a matter of fact, sick and tired of the whole affair.

Chapter 10

T
HE
P
ROFESSOR
of Criminal Law was late. His appointment with the Writer from New York City had been for three o'clock in the afternoon; but here already it was past three o'clock, and he had missed him at the office of the Defense Committee. When he had inquired there, they thought that possibly the Writer had gone over to join the picket line in front of the State House, or on Temple Street, and that was where the Professor of Criminal Law went to look for him, walking down Beacon Street, and conscious—ever more so as the day lengthened—of the two men in the State Prison only a stone's throw away.

What a diversity of moods and what a variety of experiences he had gone through today! So much had already happened, and without doubt so very much more was due to happen! The consequential mixed most strangely with the inconsequential—to a point where he sometimes thought that every single motion, action and moment of this singular and awful day was weighted with specific meaning in itself. Such thoughts were not too clear, but he was aware that he was no longer thinking very clearly; he was becoming a part of this day, and the motion, the heat, the brutality, the anger and the heartsickness had all had a profound and disturbing effect upon him—to a point where now, hurrying along through the hot summer afternoon, he found himself reciting days and dates. His experiences of the past hours had given him a feeling known to many who go through the adventure of highly concentrated events; time had telescoped; and it seemed that weeks and even months were crowded into what the calendar specified as days. Here it was only Monday afternoon, but already the Sunday of twenty-four hours ago existed in an almost forgotten past.