Native Son

  Bigger’s black face rested in his hands and he did not move.

  “Son, promise me yuh’ll stop hatin’ long enuff fer Gawd’s love t’ come inter yo’ heart.”

  Bigger said nothing.

  “Won’t yuh promise, son?”

  Bigger covered his eyes with his hands.

  “Jus’ say yuh’ll try, son.”

  Bigger felt that if the preacher kept asking he would leap up and strike him. How could he believe in that which he had killed? He was guilty. The preacher rose, sighed, and drew from his pocket a small wooden cross with a chain upon it.

  “Look, son. Ah’m holdin’ in mah hands a wooden cross taken from a tree. A tree is the worl’, son. ’N’ nailed t’ this tree is a sufferin’ man. Tha’s whut life is, son. Sufferin’. How kin yuh keep from b’lievin’ the word of Gawd when Ah’m holdin’ befo’ yo’ eyes the only thing tha’ gives a meanin’ t’ yo’ life? Here, lemme put it roun’ yo’ neck. When yuh git alone, look at this cross, son, ’n’ b’lieve….”

  They were silent. The wooden cross hung next to the skin of Bigger’s chest. He was feeling the words of the preacher, feeling that life was flesh nailed to the world, a longing spirit imprisoned in the days of the earth.

  He glanced up, hearing the doorknob turn. The door opened and Jan stood framed in it, hesitating. Bigger sprang to his feet, galvanized by fear. The preacher also stood, took a step backward, bowed, and said,

  “Good mawnin’, suh.”

  Bigger wondered what Jan could want of him now. Was he not caught and ready for trial? Would not Jan get his revenge? Bigger stiffened as Jan walked to the middle of the floor and stood facing him. Then it suddenly occurred to Bigger that he need not be standing, that he had no reason to fear bodily harm from Jan here in jail. He sat and bowed his head; the room was quiet, so quiet that Bigger heard the preacher and Jan breathing. The white man upon whom he had tried to blame his crime stood before him and he sat waiting to hear angry words. Well, why didn’t he speak? He lifted his eyes; Jan was looking straight at him and he looked away But Jan’s face was not angry. If he were not angry, then what did he want? He looked again and saw Jan’s lips move to speak, but no words came. And when Jan did speak his voice was low and there were long pauses between the words; it seemed to Bigger that he was listening to a man talk to himself.

  “Bigger, maybe I haven’t the words to say what I want to say, but I’m going to try…. This thing hit me like a bomb. It t-t-took me all week to get myself together. They had me in jail and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what was happening…. I—I don’t want to worry you, Bigger. I know you’re in trouble. But there’s something I just got to say…. You needn’t talk to me unless you want to, Bigger. I think I know something of what you’re feeling now. I’m not dumb, Bigger; I can understand, even if I didn’t seem to understand that night….” Jan paused, swallowed, and lit a cigarette. “Well, you jarred me…. I see now. I was kind of blind. I—I just wanted to come here and tell you that I’m not angry…. I’m not angry and I want you to let me help you. I don’t hate you for trying to blame this thing on me…. Maybe you had good reasons…. I don’t know. And maybe in a certain sense, I’m the one who’s really guilty….” Jan paused again and sucked long and hard at his cigarette, blew the smoke out slowly and nervously bit his lips. “Bigger, I’ve never done anything against you and your people in my life. But I’m a white man and it would be asking too much to ask you not to hate me, when every white man you see hates you. I—I know my…. my face looks like theirs to you, even though I don’t feel like they do. But I didn’t know we were so far apart until that night…. I can understand now why you pulled that gun on me when I waited outside that house to talk to you. It was the only thing you could have done; but I didn’t know my white face was making you feel guilty, condemning you….” Jan’s lips hung open, but no words came from them; his eyes searched the corners of the room.

  Bigger sat silently, bewildered, feeling that he was on a vast blind wheel being turned by stray gusts of wind. The preacher came forward.

  “Is yuh Mistah Erlone?”

  “Yes,” said Jan, turning.

  “Tha’ wuz a mighty fine thing you jus’ said, suh. Ef anybody needs he’p, this po’ boy sho does. Ah’m Reveren’ Hammon’.”

  Bigger saw Jan and the preacher shake hands.

  “Though this thing hurt me, I got something out of it,” Jan said, sitting down and turning to Bigger. “It made me see deeper into men. It made me see things I knew, but had forgotten. I—I lost something, but I got something, too….” Jan tugged at his tie and the room was silent, waiting for him to speak. “It taught me that it’s your right to hate me, Bigger. I see now that you couldn’t do anything else but that; it was all you had. But, Bigger, if I say you got the right to hate me, then that ought to make things a little different, oughtn’t it? Ever since I got out of jail I’ve been thinking this thing over and I felt that I’m the one who ought to be in jail for murder instead of you. But that can’t be, Bigger. I can’t take upon myself the blame for what one hundred million people have done.” Jan leaned forward and stared at the floor. “I’m not trying to make up to you, Bigger. I didn’t come here to feel sorry for you. I don’t suppose you’re so much worse off than the rest of us who get tangled up in this world. I’m here because I’m trying to live up to this thing as I see it. And it isn’t easy, Bigger. I—I loved that girl you killed. I—I loved….” His voice broke and Bigger saw his lips tremble. “I was in jail grieving for Mary and then I thought of all the black men who’ve been killed, the black men who had to grieve when their people were snatched from them in slavery and since slavery. I thought that if they could stand it, then I ought to.” Jan crushed the cigarette with his shoe. “At first, I thought old man Dalton was trying to frame me, and I wanted to kill him. And when I heard that you’d done it, I wanted to kill you. And then I got to thinking. I saw if I killed, this thing would go on and on and never stop. I said, ‘I’m going to help that guy, if he lets me.’ ”

  “May Gawd in heaven bless yuh, son,” the preacher said.

  Jan lit another cigarette and offered one to Bigger; but Bigger refused by keeping his hands folded in front of him and staring stonily at the floor. Jan’s words were strange; he had never heard such talk before. The meaning of what Jan had said was so new that he could not react to it; he simply sat, staring, wondering, afraid even to look at Jan.

  “Let me be on your side, Bigger,” Jan said. “I can fight this thing with you, just like you’ve started it. I can come from all of those white people and stand here with you. Listen, I got a friend, a lawyer. His name is Max. He understands this thing and wants to help you. Won’t you talk to him?”

  Bigger understood that Jan was not holding him guilty for what he had done. Was this a trap? He looked at Jan and saw a white face, but an honest face. This white man believed in him, and the moment he felt that belief he felt guilty again; but in a different sense now. Suddenly, this white man had come up to him, flung aside the curtain and walked into the room of his life. Jan had spoken a declaration of friendship that would make other white men hate him: a particle of white rock had detached itself from that looming mountain of white hate and had rolled down the slope, stopping still at his feet. The word had become flesh. For the first time in his life a white man became a human being to him; and the reality of Jan’s humanity came in a stab of remorse: he had killed what this man loved and had hurt him. He saw Jan as though someone had performed an operation upon his eyes, or as though someone had snatched a deforming mask from Jan’s face.

  Bigger started nervously; the preacher’s hand came to his shoulder.

  “Ah don’t wanna break in ’n’ meddle where Ah ain’ got no bisness, suh,” the preacher said in a tone that was militant, but deferring. “But there ain’ no usa draggin’ no Communism in this thing, Mistah. Ah respecks yo’ feelin’s powerfully, suh; but whut yuh’s astin’ jus’ stirs up mo’ hate. Whut this po’
boy needs is understandin’….”

  “But he’s got to fight for it,” Jan said.

  “Ah’m wid yuh when yuh wanna change men’s hearts,” the preacher said. “But Ah can’t go wid yuh when yuh wanna stir up mo’ hate….”

  Bigger sat looking from one to the other, bewildered.

  “How on earth are you going to change men’s hearts when the newspapers are fanning hate into them every day?” Jan asked.

  “Gawd kin change ’em!” the preacher said fervently.

  Jan turned to Bigger.

  “Won’t you let my friend help you, Bigger?”

  Bigger’s eyes looked round the room, as if seeking a means of escape. What could he say? He was guilty.

  “Forget me,” he mumbled.

  “I can’t,” Jan said.

  “It’s over for me,” Bigger said.

  “Don’t you believe in yourself?”

  “Naw,” Bigger whispered tensely.

  “You believed enough to kill. You thought you were settling something, or you wouldn’t’ve killed,” Jan said.

  Bigger stared and did not answer. Did this man believe in him that much?

  “I want you to talk to Max,” Jan said.

  Jan went to the door. A policeman opened it from the outside. Bigger sat, open-mouthed, trying to feel where all this was bearing him. He saw a man’s head come into the door, a head strange and white, with silver hair and a lean white face that he had never seen before.

  “Come on in,” Jan said.

  “Thanks.”

  The voice was quiet, firm, but kind; there was about the man’s thin lips a faint smile that seemed to have always been there. The man stepped inside; he was tall.

  “How are you, Bigger?”

  Bigger did not answer. He was doubtful again. Was this a trap of some kind?

  “This is Reverend Hammond, Max,” Jan said.

  Max shook hands with the preacher, then turned to Bigger.

  “I want to talk with you,” Max said. “I’m from the Labor Defenders. I want to help you.”

  “I ain’t got no money,” Bigger said.

  “I know that. Listen, Bigger, don’t be afraid of me. And don’t be afraid of Jan. We’re not angry with you. I want to represent you in court. Have you spoken to any other lawyer?”

  Bigger looked at Jan and Max again. They seemed all right. But how on earth could they help him? He wanted help, but dared not think that anybody would want to do anything for him now.

  “Nawsuh,” he whispered.

  “How have they treated you? Did they beat you?”

  “I been sick,” Bigger said, knowing that he had to explain why he had not spoken or eaten in three days. “I been sick and I don’t know.”

  “Are you willing to let us handle your case?”

  “I ain’t got no money.”

  “Forget about that. Listen, they’re taking you back to the inquest this afternoon. But you don’t have to answer any questions, see? Just sit and say nothing. I’ll be there and you won’t have to be scared. After the inquest they’ll take you to the Cook County Jail and I’ll be over to talk with you.”

  “Yessuh.”

  “Here; take these cigarettes.”

  “Thank you, suh.”

  The door swung in and a tall, big-faced man with grey eyes came forward hurriedly. Max and Jan and the preacher stood to one side. Bigger stared at the man’s face; it teased him. Then he remembered: it was Buckley, the man whose face he had seen the workmen pasting upon a billboard a few mornings ago. Bigger listened to the men talk, feeling in the tones of their voices a deep hostility toward one another.

  “So, you’re horning in again, hunh, Max?”

  “This boy’s my client and he’s signing no confessions,” Max said.

  “What the hell do I want with his confession?” Buckley asked. “We’ve got enough evidence on him to put him in a dozen electric chairs.”

  “I’ll see that his rights are protected,” Max said.

  “Hell, man! You can’t do him any good.”

  Max turned to Bigger.

  “Don’t let these people scare you, Bigger.”

  Bigger heard, but did not answer.

  “What in hell you Reds can get out of bothering with a black thing like that, God only knows,” Buckley said, rubbing his hands across his eyes.

  “You’re afraid that you won’t be able to kill this boy before the April elections, if we handle his case, aren’t you, Buckley?” Jan asked.

  Buckley whirled.

  “Why in God’s name can’t you pick out somebody decent to defend sometimes? Somebody who’ll appreciate it. Why do you Reds take up with scum like this…?”

  “You and your tactics have forced us to defend this boy,” Max said.

  “What do you mean?” Buckley asked.

  “If you had not dragged the name of the Communist Party into this murder, I’d not be here,” Max said.

  “Hell, this boy signed the name of the Communist Party to the kidnap note….”

  “I realize that,” Max said. “The boy got the idea from the newspapers. I’m defending this boy because I’m convinced that men like you made him what he is. His trying to blame the Communists for his crime was a natural reaction for him. He had heard men like you lie about the Communists so much that he believed them. If I can make the people of this country understand why this boy acted like he did, I’ll be doing more than defending him.”

  Buckley laughed, bit off the tip of a fresh cigar, lit it and stood puffing. He advanced to the center of the room, cocked his head to one side, took the cigar out of his mouth and squinted at Bigger.

  “Boy, did you ever think you’d be as important a man as you are right now?”

  Bigger had been on the verge of accepting the friendship of Jan and Max, and now this man stood before him. What did the puny friendship of Jan and Max mean in the face of a million men like Buckley?

  “I’m the State’s Attorney,” Buckley said, walking from one end of the room to the other. His hat was on the back of his head. A white silk handkerchief peeped from the breast pocket of his black coat. He paused by the cot, towering over Bigger. How soon were they going to kill him, Bigger wondered. The breath of warm hope which Jan and Max had blown so softly upon him turned to frost under Buckley’s cold gaze.

  “Boy, I’d like to give you a piece of good advice. I’m going to be honest with you and tell you that you don’t have to talk to me unless you want to, and I’ll tell you that whatever you say to me might be used against you in court, see? But, boy, you’re caught! That’s the first thing you want to understand. We know what you’ve done. We got the evidence. So you might as well talk.”

  “He’ll decide that with me,” Max said.

  Buckley and Max faced each other.

  “Listen, Max. You’re wasting your time. You’ll never get this boy off in a million years. Nobody can commit a crime against a family like the Daltons and sneak out of it. Those poor old parents are going to be in that court room to see that this boy burns! This boy killed the only thing they had. If you want to save your face, you and your buddy can leave now and the papers won’t know you were in here….”

  “I reserve the right to determine whether I should defend him or not,” Max said.

  “Listen, Max. You think I’m trying to hoodwink you, don’t you?” Buckley asked, turning and going to the door. “Let me show you something.”

  A policeman opened the door and Buckley said,

  “Tell ’em to come in.”

  “O.K.”

  The room was silent. Bigger sat on the cot, looking at the floor. He hated this; if anything could be done in his behalf, he himself wanted to do it; not others. The more he saw others exerting themselves, the emptier he felt. He saw the policeman fling the door wide open. Mr. and Mrs. Dalton walked in slowly and stood; Mr. Dalton was looking at him, his face white. Bigger half-rose in dread, then sat again, his eyes lifted, but unseeing. He sank back to the cot.


  Swiftly, Buckley crossed the room and shook hands with Mr. Dalton, and, turning to Mrs. Dalton, said:

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, madam.”

  Bigger saw Mr. Dalton look at him, then at Buckley.

  “Did he say who was in this thing with him?” Mr. Dalton asked.

  “He’s just come out of it,” Buckley said. “And he’s got a lawyer now.”

  “I have charge of his defense,” Max said.

  Bigger saw Mr. Dalton look briefly at Jan.

  “Bigger, you’re a foolish boy if you don’t tell who was in this thing with you,” Mr. Dalton said.

  Bigger tightened and did not answer. Max walked over to Bigger and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “I will talk to him, Mr. Dalton,” Max said.

  “I’m not here to bully this boy,” Mr. Dalton said. “But it’ll go easier with him if he tells all he knows.”

  There was silence. The preacher came forward slowly, hat in hand, and stood in front of Mr. Dalton.

  “Ah’ma preacher of the gospel, suh,” he said. “’N’ Ah’m mighty sorry erbout whut’s done happened t’ yo’ daughter. Ah knows of yo’ good work, suh. ’N’ the likes of this should’na come t’ yuh.”

  Mr. Dalton sighed and said wearily,

  “Thank you.”

  “The best thing you can do is help us,” Buckley said, turning to Max. “A grave wrong has been done to two people who’ve helped Negroes more than anybody I know.”

  “I sympathize with you, Mr. Dalton,” Max said. “But killing this boy isn’t going to help you or any of us.”