Chapter VI: White Terror (2)

In the morning Cornelia would go to court, and perhaps serve as a witness. Betty could do nothing but return to college and keep quiet, and hope that no one would report her to her parents. She had not meant to break her promise--but how could one know that going to a socialist meeting was disorderly conduct?

Judge Hayden was the magistrate presiding at the trials, a majestic gentleman, as they all tried to be. But under the strain of his intense patriotism, he forgot his dignity, and broke loose and delivered tirades--and not at the police for lending their clubs to be used in beating socialists. He did not punish a single one of the assailants, but sent the victims to jail for varying terms. “The uneducated and the overeducated,” was one of his sneers--which sounded peculiar in Boston.

It was to be expected that when the next lot of bombs went off, one of them should tear out the front of Judge Hayden’s home. In Constantinople under the rule of the sultans it was said that the state of social discontent could be ascertained from the number of fires which occurred in the city; when the number increased unduly, some grafting officials would be strangled, and the fires would grow fewer. But Boston is not an easy-going place like old Turkey; Boston is a Puritan stronghold, and its rulers are stiff-necked. The more numerous the bombs, the more they would increase the causes of bombs. The answer of the authorities to the bombing of Judge Hayden was to put Galleani on a steamer and ship him back to Italy; also to plant several spies among the Boston anarchists.

XI

This was while Betty was saying good-by to her friends, including these same anarchists. Without a word to the family, Betty and her grandmother stole away to visit a band of desperados who were at that time the theme of thousands of words in the files of the Department of Justice, the American Protective League, and the million-dollar detective agencies. They actually spent a night in an anarchist home in Plymouth, and listened to jokes about “bombe di pistacchio,” and heard Vanzetti’s story of old Galleani’s parting from his wife and four children.

This was one of the ingenious new methods of torture which the White Terror had devised. They would grab a man in the middle of the night and lock him up in a police cell, and badger him there until he admitted that he did not believe in government, or that he regarded government as an affair of violence--something they made it easy enough to admit! They would then present the confession to the immigration authorities, and a warrant of deportation would be signed, and the victim would be taken secretly on board a steamer--his wife and children left behind, with no money to follow him, and nothing but to beg or starve.

Vanzetti had given up his “picka shov’.” His friends had urged that the work was too hard for him, and he had invested his savings in a fish business belonging to an Italian who was going home. “Fish-business” sounded most impressive--until you learned that it consisted of a hand-cart, a pair of scales, and a route. Twice a week he got a barrel or two of fish, either from the docks or by express from Boston, and shoved his hand-cart about, ringing a bell and calling, “Pay-shee! Pay-shee!” He had had this same kind of business once before, said Alfonsina, but had not been successful, because he let everybody owe him money. This time he had promised to run it on a strictly cash basis. Vanzetti grinned, and said that it was a “mosta good business,” because he met all the Italian women and children in Plymouth, and they got to know him and feel friendly, and he would say a few words about “joostice,” and when there was to be a meeting or a “picanic,” no one could “distriboot” circulars or sell tickets so well as he.

Trando had saved up his money and bought himself a three-quarter size violin for ten dollars, and a bow for two and a half, and had had several lessons and learned to play a tune. Of course he was made to exhibit this accomplishment, with Bart serving as master, keeping the time with an erect forefinger, cocking his head on one side and judging critically the pitch of the notes, which were apt to vary slightly from the normal. It was “Old Black Joe,” a very sad tune, and there were tears in Alfonsina’s eyes at the finish--though perhaps they were tears of pride, that this marvelous thing should be coming from her precious little boy. Through the years that were to come Trando was to play that tune many times for Bart, under circumstances that would bring tears into the eyes of all who heard it.

XII

They climbed Castle Hill, and picked a few of the wild flowers, and watched the sail-boats on the bay. It was a parting for Betty and Bart, and both of them were moved, though Bart said, “Maybe I come see you in Europe pretty soon. I think I not be let in this countree mooch time; get shoore catched and sended home. Pretty soon it come trooble in Italy, maybe rivoluzione--make American afraid for have Italian here.”

“Well, you won’t mind going back to Italy.” It was Betty speaking.

“Shoore not, get free tickets, mooch pleas-èd. I glad for be lonely man, no family for suffer. I fraid for man like Vincenzo, like Nick Sacc’--they catch heem, send away--mooch trooble for family. Come mooch spy--come spy in cloob in East Boston--all time spy watch. But he not tell true story, tell bombe, make people hate anarchista.”

Vanzetti paused, and watched the sail-boats for a while. “Sooch a lovely place, is hard to t’ink so ugly thing can be in the world. You meet Yankee man, he is a good feller; you laugh, you make joke, he is please, he think wop is all right, pretty good. But next day he take you, put you in jail, beat you with rubber hose, hang you up by finger, torture you terrible. Is hard to believe, but it happens all time, plenty fellers in cloob can tell. I say, I not give up, not stand sooch thing, I fight. I keep gun all the time now.” And Bart patted his hip, where a large lump was evident.

“Have you shot that gun off yet?” inquired Betty.

“Shoore, I take it in wood, I practice, he shoot pretty good.”

“Well, it’s not only the gun, it’s the gunner. You need a lot of practice, Bart, if you’re going to shoot it out with the police.” It was Betty again, and her grandmother was dismayed. Where on earth did she pick up slang--“shoot it out!” And where had she acquired that matter-of-fact smile, discussing the mad idea of resisting arrest? Truly, the new generation was traveling fast, and their elders had to “keep on the jump.”

Cornelia knew that if you objected to what the new generation did or said, it would refrain from arguing with you, but would relegate you to the storeroom of the “has-beens,” and forbear to take you in its confidence. But in her own head she pondered and worried. Betty’s pacifist convictions had apparently not been able to stand the strain of that “May Day riot” in Boston.

One of the children came up to report that there were men at the house to see Bart. There were two Italians with a motorcycle and a side-car. Cornelia recollected their faces, from the night of the dramatic performance in Stoughton. She was introduced to them again, Coacci and Orciani, workingmen and anarchist propagandists. The former had just recently been arrested for deportation, and was now under a thousand-dollar bond. They talked in Italian, and then drove off, and Bart brought in from another room a package which the two had left; he laughed and told Betty and Cornelia that it was a bomb, and these two had advised him not to let the strange Yankee ladies into the secret, because, after all, who could say they might not be spies?

The package was big enough for a bomb, to blow up a whole cordage-plant. It was heavy; and when Bart cut the string and opened it, they saw what his joke meant--it contained what he liked to call “mental dinnameet.” There were a dozen copies of a book, bound in red paper covers, brilliant enough to send a man to jail for ten years in Massachusetts. Bart handled the books with loving pride, because they were published by the “Gruppo Autonomo di East Boston,” and he had helped raise the money to make the enterprise possible. “Faccia à Faccia col Nemico” was the title, “Face to Face with the Enemy.” It was a series of biographies of the anarchist martyrs, with their pictures. It was needed in this crisis, to remind the comrades how the heroes of past times had been able to withstand torture and persecution, almost as bad as the White Terror in America. Bart had taken orders for this book among the Plymouth comrades, and now he said, “I take heem queeck, I get him distriboot, never let policeman catch heem, giammai!”

XIII

Cornelia went back to Boston to raise funds for the families of the May Day victims; while Betty and Cousin Letitia went to New York, accompanied by Deborah, and with a proper amount of tears and handkerchief-waving were started on their grand tour. The Thornwell clan breathed a sigh of relief when the young madcap was actually at sea.

For the first month it seemed all right. Betty was in London. “And Mother,” she wrote, “it is quite like Boston; New England is really Old England. I look out of my hotel window and see thousands of brick buildings stained with smoke, and chimney-pots and dormer-windows through a haze--I might be looking north from Beacon Hill. I really do not see that one has to leave Boston to get culture, but I am doing what you wish. We are going to-night to study the British labor party at a big mass-meeting in Albert Hall. I am assured that the police will not club the audience as it comes out. It was kind of you not to tell Aunt Letitia too much about my ‘redness’; she is so gentle and innocent, everything is educational to her. I am going to learn a lot, and only hope you and father won’t mind if I study live people instead of dead ones.”

That was a hint of trouble; but it was nothing to what came a week later from Cousin Letitia. “Dear Cousin Deborah: We are having a _most delightful_ time in London--I will _never_ be able to find words to express my gratitude to _you_ and _Cousin Rupert_ for affording me this greatest and _undreamed_ of opportunity--for such it was, I assure you--though perhaps in some _secret_ corner of my soul I did cherish the _dream_. Betty is the _dearest_ child, and _most_ companionable, and tractable in every way. To add to the _perfection_ of our happiness, who should turn up in London yesterday but dear Aunt Cornelia Thornwell! It was Betty who saw her, in the lobby of our hotel. ‘It is _Grannie_!’ she exclaimed; and at first I could hardly believe my _eye-sight_. _Imagine_ such a coincidence--here in far-off London! _Truly_ the world _is_ getting smaller. She was called over here unexpectedly upon business. We have decided to go to Paris, and put off seeing London Bridge and the Tower until later.”

And then, a week after that, another letter from Betty. “I hope you and Father will not be too much annoyed by Grannie’s following us to Europe. She says she just got too lonesome and couldn’t stand it. The older generation is very stubborn, I find, and difficult to control. I will try hard to keep her out of trouble. She has letters of introduction to leading statesmen, but we are going to see the Eiffel Tower first, so as to be regular tourists. It was very good of you to leave our itinerary to our own choice, and we are availing ourselves of this freedom. Next week we leave for Buda-Pesth. There are some officials whom Grannie wishes to meet, and they may not be there long, because governments change swiftly in Europe nowadays. Cousin Letitia has read that there are very fine gypsy orchestras in Hungary, and this thrills her repressed Puritan soul. I hope you and Father will not blame this poor dear lady for anything that may go wrong with our tour, because she is really as good as gold, though too naïve to cope with the present world situation. She is invited to lunch with a prominent editor or member of the house of deputies, and it does not occur to her to ask whether he is royalist or communist. She says, ‘I suppose it is not the custom for these European men to trim their beards or their finger-nails.’ But do not worry about us, because we are learning a great deal.”

That letter alarmed Deborah, but it seemed worse yet when Rupert came home that evening and read it and told her about Hungary. There had been a Bolshevik revolution in that country, and the “officials” whom Cornelia and Betty were going to meet were no doubt some blood-thirsty “commissars,” Jews and ex-convicts who were slaughtering the men and nationalizing the women of several empires. Rupert knew all about it, because he had before him a proposition for financing the overthrow of these “officials” in the interest of European stability; he had that very day been investigating the prospects for having the bonds of a new counter-revolutionary government absorbed by the Hungarian population of New England. He had lunched with a man who had explained the details of the plan, and had prepared a schedule of the subsidies required to obtain the support of the Hungarian-American press. The world was growing more and more complicated, and the tasks of a leader of high finance made him sit up nights and study geography.

“My God,” said the tormented father, “I suppose there’s only one thing left--they’ll be going to Russia!” Which showed what a great mind he had. For two weeks later came another communication from Mistress Betty, as follows:

“I suppose you poor dears are going to be truly shocked by this
news, and I am sorry, but there is no helping it. Grannie and I are
leaving to-morrow for Saratov, which is in Southern Russia. It is
the place where that crazy yarn about the nationalizing of women
got its start, and we are going to see for ourselves. We had the
extraordinary good fortune to run into a man whose head Grannie
bandaged up after it was broken by the police in the Plymouth
cordage strike. Now he is to take charge of the railroads in a
province as big as the whole of New England, and says he has an
underground way to get through the allied lines without danger. It
is just like Boston here, you can do anything if you have money.
It is going to be a most educational experience, and you must not
worry about us. The world is changing rapidly, and nothing could be
more important than to watch the new political forms in the act of
evolving. When these changes come to America, somebody will have to
understand them.

“Please do not worry about Cousin Letitia, who is perfectly safe
and happy in Buda-Pesth. We have taken the precaution to introduce
her to influential people on both sides, so she will be all right
whichever comes out on top. Meantime she is handing out half
loaves of bread to the starving children of war-refugees. That
is charity, and she understands it. In the evenings she hears a
gypsy orchestra, in company with an elderly Hungarian playwright
who speaks fluent English, and has become completely absorbed in
the maiden-lady from Boston. I think she is the first one he ever
met, and he has the idea she will be wonderful in a play; the only
trouble is that European audiences would consider it a fairy-tale.
I do hope you will not blame Cousin Letitia because of Grannie. She
could not possibly have the idea there is anything wrong about a
grandmother. When she was in school, she was taught to admire the
revolutionary leaders of New England, and now that she meets those
in Europe, she finds them highly educated men.

“We only plan to stay in Russia one or two months. Grannie has
promised to return in the fall, to teach a course in the causes of
modern war at the labor college which will be opened in Boston if
the police do not smash it. I expect to come back to Buda-Pesth
and take a job with some relief organization--any one that will
accept a person who has been in Russia. At present the Interallied
Food Mission is refusing all aid to the starving children of Red
Hungary. That is Mr. Herbert Hoover’s amiable method of bringing
back the Whites, and it should earn him everlasting infamy in
American and Hungarian history.

“I hope you won’t mind if I find some way to earn my own keep;
there is a hard time in the relation between parents and children,
when the parents have to realize that their little ones are grown
up. I will continue to let Father send me money if he wants to;
I will not refuse a dollar that will keep some child alive for
a month. The suffering in all Eastern Europe is atrocious--I
have seen sights that would make any darling of luxury grow up
in a hurry. Be patient with Grannie and me, and realize that we
love you all, in spite of not doing what you want; we are acting
according to the dictates of our consciences, and where would New
England be in history if some people had not done that?

“Affectionately your daughter,
“Elizabeth.”