Mac flopped down on my bed, threatening to collapse it, and tossed back to me my white-heat editorial, blithely titled “Roman Holiday.” “Afraid we can’t use it, Schulie. Nice piece of writing. But God almighty, if I ran this in the Scroll, The Quid would pee in his pants. We have to write it like this: All Deerfield mourns the untimely passing of one of her outstanding sons, Robert Murphy, etcetera etcetera. All quiet and dignified. Make it sound like an unfortunate accident that could happen in any activity. Not like a lynching—the way you wrote it—or as if the entire Bucknell team should be indicted for premeditated murder. I wish I could run it. It would be a hell of a lot of fun. But The Quid would get my old man on the phone, and the next thing I know I can’t even make it to Wesleyan.”
I was discouraged. “Roman Holiday” was the strongest piece of writing I had ever done. It combined my fascination with American football with my growing awareness of American violence. If I couldn’t score with a piece on a Deerfield boy dying for Fordham … “Look, Schulie, stop worrying about staying on the staff. Hell, you are the staff. You see the drool we get from all the others—” It was true that I had begun to rewrite all the limp leads and stodgy pieces in which whatever feeble news there was lay buried three or four paragraphs into the story. Mac turned to me more and more until he and I basically edited the paper together. But I had to be careful to keep a tight rein on my style, or Mac would be on my back for writing “Hollywood.”
Words and writing had begun to share equal time with football and track and the compulsion to make a team. Mac delighted in using words he thought others would not comprehend. “Schulie, I think your piece would be more efficacious if it were a little less polemical, as well as less quixotic,” he would say. I would nod wisely, and then secretly hurry to my dictionary to see what in hell he was talking about. Any word heard or read that I did not instantly recognize would be entered in my handwritten dictionary. In my first ten weeks at Deerfield it had grown to a thousand words I had not known on arrival. Instead of counting sheep to invite sleep I would mumble, “Salacious … euphemistic … diaphanous …” I began to realize that I had been talking and writing with a kindergarten vocabulary. Even with all the reading my parents had exposed me to, somehow I must have skipped over the words I did not know. Now they jumped up from the page and challenged me to understand them, and make them my own.
Later I would begin to understand the difference between English and American writing, learning how Mark Twain and Frank Norris and Sherwood Anderson had prepared the ground for Ernest the Strong. But in those early months at Deerfield I was happy with my elegiacs and anomalies. Already I had begun publishing short stories in the Deerfield monthly Stockade. A story about an old prizefighter and one about the ghosts of the victims of the Deerfield Massacre interviewed in the local cemetery established me as the school’s most distinguished author, an honor not unlike that of Robinson Crusoe’s winning the mayoralty of his island.
Heady with success, I decided to plunge on in the literary world. Before I left home, Mrs. Stanton, who taught English at U.S.C., had been sufficiently impressed with my story “Ugly” to suggest I try to write a book. And my parents, with their quite different styles of enthusiasm, had agreed. The pressure was on me. And time was running. I was closing in on eighteen. If I was to be a book writer, I had better get going.
45
BUT WHAT DID I have to write about? All I knew about was growing up in Hollywood. And even though I had made some notes on Von Stroheim and Von Sternberg, on Eisenstein and Clara Bow, I knew I wasn’t ready. What made me choose the subject I did remains one of those social mysteries. All I remember is that it was triggered by a book I happened to read, recommended by one of the writers who came to our house, the hard-drinking rebel Jim Tully, who liked to grouse to Mother about the honest books Hollywood was afraid to make into films. One of these was The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man by James Weldon Johnson.
It did what good books are supposed to do. I could not put it out of my mind. It made me want to write a book of my own. It is about a light-skinned “colored man,” a classical musician, a cultural aristocrat traveling in the South who follows a crowd to a lynching he is only able to watch because the redneck posse takes him for white. Johnson describes the victim dragged in between two horsemen, his eyes glazed with fear and pain, already more dead than alive. No mention is made of his crime; in this atmosphere of mindless violence, it doesn’t really matter. A primitive gallows is set up, but before the poor wretch can be dragged to it, an even more vicious idea takes possession of the mob: “Burn the nigger! Burn the nigger!”
While the author looks on in numb horror, the limp black body is chained to the post, drenched with gasoline, and set on fire. Cheers and sadistic laughter mingle with the screams and groans of the dying man. Johnson looks around at the fiends who accept his terrified passivity for compliance, and there and then decides on a coward’s escape. He will cease to be a black man. It is too dangerous and too degrading. He will go north and pass as a member of the ruling majority. This he does successfully until he falls in love with a beautiful white girl attracted to him by his sensitivity and his classical musicianship. He feels he cannot marry her without revealing his racial secret. When he does, she leaves him, bereft. Eventually they are reunited, and he lives a life of white respectability. But in the end, seeing “a small but gallant band of colored men publicly fighting for their race,” he is made to feel small, weak, selfish, and empty. He has, in the final line of the book, which went into my diary and indelibly into my impressionable young mind, “sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.”
The closest I had ever been to a lynching was the playful if sometimes spiteful goosing of Oscar the Bootblack at Paramount Studio. And Oscar would not scream in pain but in feigned, obsequious delight. But as I read the nightmare episode in the Johnson autobiography, I pictured Oscar chained to a stake and writhing in agony as the fire devoured his flesh. And I decided to try writing a story about it. Aware that I lacked the details of a firsthand observer, I chose to tell it through the eyes of a child carried on the shoulders of his father and not really comprehending what he is seeing. When the Stockade rejected it as unfit material for our precious magazine, I sent it to Mrs. Stanton, who thought it quite well done but of course in need of rewriting. With this meager encouragement, I decided on a bolder course. I would write a book about lynching, and about the persecution of the Negroes in the South. With the courage of my ignorance and the benign arrogance of youth, I wrote to Clarence Darrow. I had not yet read any of his books, but I had heard of him through my parents as a fighter for the right and a defender of underdogs.
Whatever private doubts Clarence Darrow may have had about the abilities of a prep-school teenager to write a book on lynching and the virulence of white supremacy, he answered promptly in his own handwriting:
You can get all the information there is by writing Mr. Walter White, 69 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Sec., National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. (The N.A.A.C.P.) I am glad you are doing this work. More power to you.
A letter to Walter White also brought a quick response. One pamphlet enlightened me as to the makeup of the N.A.A.C.P. My James Weldon Johnson was a vice-president, W. E. B. DuBois edited the Crisis, its principal publication, and Roy Wilkins assisted Mr. White. Another pamphlet listed the recorded lynchings over the past forty years. Averaging as many as one a week, in the first six months of 1931 there had been twenty-nine. Although rape of white women was the accepted justification, fewer than 25 percent had interracial sexual implications. “Rape,” according to eyewitness reports, could be anything from a familiar greeting to a questionable glance. Negroes had been lynched for arguing with white landowners over their share of the crops, for daring to strike back at their tormentors, or simply for being “uppity.”
The statistics shook the mind, but the case histories told in down-home language by the families of victims stabbed the heart. Klans
men and night raiders had gone out on “nigger hunts,” torturing their victims before burning them or tying ropes to their necks and throwing them over the sides of bridges. A 12-year-old had been hacked to death because a white woman had complained that he had talked to her “disrespectfully.” The few whites who dared stand up to the fury of the mob were treated with equal brutality. The N.A.A.C.P. believed in fighting for justice in the courts, inside the system. But the lawyers they sent down to defend the victims of legal lynching—the thousands of blacks railroaded to Death Row and to chain gangs for life without even the trappings of a fair trial—were themselves threatened by lynch mobs not in the hate-ridden hamlets of Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi, but even in the courtrooms themselves. Redneck judges openly sympathized with the white prosecutors, while the white audience booed and hissed the northern lawyers as if they were attending a 50-cent melodrama.
Most of these lawyers, it seemed to me, were from New York and had Jewish names. As I read the press accounts of their attempts to speak out for their illiterate and terrified clients, I tried to put myself in their place. After all, if I were going to write my book on lynching, the first of its kind—for amazingly I could find no single volume devoted entirely to this grisly subject—I really should attend one of those trials, and get the smell and feel of the subhuman mobs who terrorized the rural South and made a mockery of the Emancipation Proclamation and the 14th, 15th, and 16th Amendments.
In Father’s projection room we had run Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, that twisted epic glorifying the Klan in the days of Reconstruction. But I had thought of burning crosses and charred black bodies as part of the dark history of the post-Civil War period. Until I happened upon that lynch scene in the Johnson book and then reinforced it by reams of material on this year’s atrocities, I had not imagined that the practice was just as prevalent in the early 1930s as it had been in the late 1860s. Lynch “law,” I discovered, was simply a way of circumventing the abolitionist victory in the Civil War. And if the Negro dared complain about his condition, he was marked as a “bad nigger,” inviting the treatment that had terrified James Weldon Johnson into going north and passing for white.
The N.A.A.C.P. reports made it clear that the fifty-odd lynchings every year were only the bloody tip of a gruesome iceberg, for local sheriffs in league with the night riders were not disposed to cite the lynchings to higher authorities. And the families of the black victims were almost always terrified into silence for fear of receiving the same treatment.
But, I learned from this extracurricular reading, a new case was scandalizing the Negro, liberal/radical, and literary communities, and the European intelligentsia, even though it had been largely ignored in our regular press. The latest victims were called the Scottsboro Boys, and although I had never heard of them until that fall, they were to become a cause célèbre of the Thirties as polarizing as Sacco-Vanzetti in the Twenties. Indeed, many of the writers speaking out in support of the nine teenage Scottsboro prisoners had also protested the execution of the two Italian immigrants. I recognized Heywood Broun, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Theodore Dreiser, Lincoln Steffens, Dorothy Parker, Sherwood Anderson, Sinclair Lewis…. To Mother’s and Father’s credit I was already aware of all these writers, and had met at least half of them.
I sent for everything available on the Scottsboro Boys. They were nine black back-country youths aged thirteen to nineteen, jobless and destitute, who rode a freight car in search of work in a larger town. A fistfight between them and young white hoboes who objected to sharing the boxcar had resulted in one of the white boys either jumping off or being thrown off the train and phoning the local police. When the nine “Scottsboro Boys” were taken off the train and arrested at the next stop, it was revealed that two of the “white boys” were girls dressed in baggy overalls like their fellow rod-riders.
Apparently this was all the evidence necessary to build a case that the nine black boys had raped the two white girls. The black youths had tried to explain that they did not even know the girls had been masquerading as boys. Accused of rape, the nine boys were rushed to trial in the usually sleepy Alabama hamlet of Scottsboro, while a mob of ten thousand outraged rednecks shouted for their blood. In three days they were convicted by an all-white jury and sentenced to death. Even when one of the girls—both of them had police records for prostitution—wrote a letter to a boyfriend: “Those policemen made me tell a lie … those Negroes did not touch me … I wish those Negroes are not burnt on account of me …,” the death sentence stood.
Mother was confident that I was working my way toward a social classic like Uncle Tom’s Cabin or The Jungle, Sinclair’s seminal exposé of the Chicago stockyards. But she thought I should confine my research to the pamphlets and clippings from the N. A. A.C.P. Jews were only one step up from “niggers” in the lizard eyes of the K.K.K., and she hoped I wasn’t serious about attending the next Scottsboro trial, for an appeal was already underway. I may have sounded like a teenage John Brown, but except for confiding my interest in the lynching book to the maverick Mac MacConaughy, I had been careful to keep my project to myself. I was already considered peculiar enough by the “good” boys of the school. In fact, one of them had set off a stink-bomb in my room just before Christmas vacation, and the odor it gave off smacked as much of anti-Semitism as it did of rotten eggs.
My cause had not been helped greatly by Mother’s visit to Deerfield on her return from Russia, and her willingness to address the student body on the subject of “The Russian Experiment.” There was something delicious about a Dvinsk-to-Rivington-Street-to-Hollywood socialite leading that precious New England student body and its rather stuffy faculty through the minefields of Soviet reality. But I’m not sure I appreciated the humor of the situation. I was apprehensive that her favorable reaction to Comrade Stalin’s Great Experiment would further alienate the Coolidge-minded Mr. Boyden.
But I must say this for Mom, she began with a charming anecdote. Sentimental about her first visit to her Latvian relatives since her forced departure as an infant, she pictured herself as a Lady Bountiful bestowing riches among the impoverished. Leaving behind her expensive gowns, furs, and jewels, and “dressing down” appropriately for her reunion with these backwater relations, she brought boxes of discarded coats and clothes, and bags of canned goods, cheeses, and salamis to help her poor relatives through the winter.
Arriving at the railroad station in Riga, she was approached by a uniformed chauffeur who led her to a Rolls-Royce limousine. She was driven to a 19th-century mansion far more imposing than the one she had left at 525 Lorraine. A uniformed footman greeted her at the door and helped her in with her baggage, including the hand-me-down clothes and the food packages. To her amazement, her relatives, the Schiffs, turned out to be one of the wealthiest families in the Latvian capital. The finest caviar was served before dinner, the finest wines poured by a brace of butlers for each course, and five-star cognac in the spacious paneled den. By this time it was Mother who was feeling like the poor relation as she lamely tried to explain that the secondhand clothes and tins of food were brought along as gifts for the indigent on the other side of the Russian border.
Indeed, in this Adeline-in-Wonderland turnabout, Mrs. Schiff offered Mother one of her own fur coats because she was afraid her American cousin would not be warm enough!
Mother was an exotic figure as she stood there in front of the Deerfield assembly talking of her self-propelled tour of unknown Russia, where no American civilians traveled in 1931. “I have always been something of a socialist,” she began, and I could feel Mr. Boyden wince a little. That was one of the few winces I ever shared with him. And then she adopted that vague, slightly superior tone she always employed when she ventured into subjects she had not really mastered. She mentioned her socialist friends like George Sokolsky on the Lower East Side, seemingly unaware that George had swung so far to the right that he was even in favor of Japanese aggression in China. And somehow she had convinced herself
that she had met Leon Trotsky when he was a New York refugee from the 1905 Revolution. That Stalin had cast out Trotsky in a bitter power struggle did not seem to deter Mother from her feeling of identification with what might be called the Sokolsky-Trotsky-Lenin-Stalin Revolution.
And yet, she did bring us a firsthand impression of the new Russia that none of us had had before. In the Old Russia of her infancy, she explained, in the days of the Czar and the Russian nobility, there were mainly two classes, the Haves and the Have-nots—on one side the city rich and the great landowners, on the other the proletarians and the serfs. Now the upper class had been swept away. The cities of Moscow and Leningrad looked rather drab, but no one seemed to be starving. And in this year when so many of our own people were out of work, everybody there did seem to have a job. She had visited some of their homes, and while people lived in one room or two at the most, almost everyone she talked to seemed to think life was much better than in the days of the Czar. One of the things that impressed her was the condition of women, who had been treated like chattel before the Revolution and now were able to work in factories or get office jobs on the basis of their ability. Here Mother’s old suffragist blood beat a little faster, as she spoke of having tea with a woman doctor, and also with a film technician who assured her that women were now being encouraged to follow their own careers in a way that was still denied them in capitalist countries.
Of course (Mother warmed to her subject), if you go to Russia expecting luxuries or even the middle-class comforts we take for granted, you would think life is still very hard and harsh. People have to queue up even to buy necessities, and if you travel to Russia you should bring your own cigarettes because they are impossible to buy, and also matches, soap, and even (she put it gently) sanitary tissue. But the main quality she found in Russia was hope. They had embarked on a great Five Year Plan to industrialize and modernize the country, and the people seemed to understand and accept that they would all have to sacrifice now in order to have a better life later.