Snohomish county and you ain’t goin’ to forget it… if you come here again some of you fellers is goin’ to die, that’s all there is about it…. All right, boys, let’s go.”
The deputies made two lines down towards the railroad track. They grabbed the wobblies one by one and beat them up. Three of them grabbed Ben. “You a wobbly?” “Sure I am, you dirty yellow…” he began. The sheriff came up and hauled off to hit him. “Look out, he’s got glasses on.” A big hand pulled the glasses off. “We’ll fix that.” Then the sheriff punched him in the nose with his fist. “Say you ain’t.” Ben’s mouth was full of blood. He set his jaw. “He’s a kike, hit him again for me.” “Say, you ain’t a wobbly.” Somebody whacked a rifle-barrel against his shins and he fell forward. “Run for it,” they were yelling. Blows with clubs and riflebutts were splitting his ears.
He tried to walk forward without running. He tripped on a rail and fell, cutting his arm on something sharp. There was so much blood in his eyes he couldn’t see. A heavy boot was kicking him again and again in the side. He was passing out. Somehow he staggered forward. Somebody was holding him up under the arms and was dragging him free of the cattleguard on the track. Another fellow began to wipe his face off with a handkerchief. He heard Bram’s voice way off somewhere, “We’re over the county line, boys.” What with losing his glasses and the rain and the night and the shooting pain all up and down his back Ben couldn’t see anything. He heard shots behind them and yells from where other guys were running the gauntlet. He was the center of a little straggling group of wobblies making their way down the railroad track. “Fellow workers,” Bram was saying in his deep quiet voice, “we must never forget this night.”
At the interurban trolley station they took up a collection among the ragged and bloody group to buy tickets to Seattle for the guys most hurt. Ben was so dazed and sick he could hardly hold the ticket when somebody pushed it into his hand. Bram and the rest of them set off to walk the thirty miles back to Seattle.
Ben was in hospital three weeks. The kicks in the back had affected his kidneys and he was in frightful pain most of the time. The morphine they gave him made him so dopey he barely knew what was happening when they brought in the boys wounded in the shooting on the Everett dock on November 5th. When he was discharged he could just walk. Everybody he knew was in jail. At General Delivery he found a letter from Gladys enclosing fifty dollars and saying his father wanted him to come home.
The Defense Committee told him to go ahead; he was just the man to raise funds for them in the east. An enormous amount of money would be needed for the defense of the seventyfour wobblies held in the Everett jail charged with murder. Ben hung around Seattle for a couple of weeks doing odd jobs for the Defense Committee, trying to figure out a way to get home. A sympathizer who worked in a shipping office finally got him a berth as supercargo on a freighter that was going to New York through the Panama canal. The sea trip and the detailed clerical work helped him to pull himself together. Still there wasn’t a night he didn’t wake up with a nightmare scream in his throat sitting up in his bunk dreaming the deputies were coming to get him to make him run the gauntlet. When he got to sleep again he’d dream he was caught in the cattleguard and the teeth were tearing his arms and heavy boots were kicking him in the back. It got so it took all his nerve to lie down in his bunk to go to sleep. The men on the ship thought he was a hophead and steered clear of him. It was a great day when he saw the tall buildings of New York shining in the brown morning haze.
… when in the course of development class distinctions have disappeared and all production has been concentrated in the hands of a vast association of the whole nation, the public power will lose its political character.…
Ben lived at home that winter because it was cheaper. When he told Pop he was going to study law in the office of a radical lawyer named Morris Stein whom he’d met in connection with raising money for the Everett boys, the old may was delighted. “A clever lawyer can protect the workers and the poor Jews and make money too,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Benny, I always knew you were a good boy.” Momma nodded and smiled. “Because in this country it’s not like over there under the warlords, even a lazy bum’s got constitootional rights, that’s why they wrote the constitootion for.” It made Ben feel sick talking to them about it.
He worked as a clerk in Stein’s office on lower Broadway and in the evenings addressed protest meetings about the Everett massacre. Morris Stein’s sister Fanya, who was a thin dark wealthy woman about thirtyfive, was an ardent pacifist and made him read Tolstoy and Kropotkin. She believed that Wilson would keep the country out of the European war and sent money to all the women’s peace organizations. She had a car and used to run him around town sometimes when he had several meetings in one evening. His heart would always be thumping when he went into the hall where the meeting was and began to hear the babble and rustle of the audience filing in, garment workers on the East Side, waterfront workers in Brooklyn, workers in chemical and metalproducts plants in Newark, parlor socialists and pinks at the Rand School or on lower Fifth Avenue, the vast anonymous mass of all classes, races, trades in Madison Square Garden. His hands would always be cold when he shook hands with the chairman and other speakers on the platform. When his turn came to speak there’d be a moment when all the faces looking up at him would blur into a mass of pink, the hum of the hall would deafen him, he’d be in a panic for fear he’d forgotten what he wanted to say. Then all at once he’d hear his own voice enunciating clearly and firmly, feel its reverberance along the walls and ceiling, feel ears growing tense, men and women leaning forward in their chairs, see the rows of faces quite clearly, the groups of people who couldn’t find seats crowding at the doors. Phrases like protest, massaction, united workingclass of this country and the world, revolution, would light up the eyes and faces under him like the glare of a bonfire.
After the speech he’d feel shaky, his glasses would be so misted he’d have to wipe them, he’d feel all the awkwardness of his tall gangling frame. Fanya would get him away as soon as she could, tell him with shining eyes that he’d spoken magnificently, take him downtown, if the meeting had been in Manhattan, to have some supper in the Brevoort basement or at the Cosmopolitan Café before he went home on the subway to Brooklyn. He knew that she was in love with him, but they rarely talked about anything outside of the movement.
When the Russian revolution came in February, Ben and the Steins bought every edition of the papers for weeks, read all the correspondents’ reports with desperate intentness; it was the dawning of The Day. There was a feeling of carnival all down the East Side and in the Jewish sections of Brooklyn. The old people cried whenever they spoke of it. “Next Austria, then the Reich, then England… freed peoples everywhere,” Pop would say. “And last, Uncle Sam,” Ben would add, grimly setting his jaw.
The April day Woodrow Wilson declared war, Fanya went to bed with a hysterical crying fit. Ben went up to see her at the apartment Morris Stein and his wife had on Riverside Drive. She’d come back from Washington the day before. She’d been up there with a women’s peace delegation trying to see the President. The detectives had run them off the White House lawn and several girls had been arrested. “What did you expect?… of course the capitalists want war. They’ll think a little different when they find what they’re getting’s a revolution.” She begged him to stay with her, but he left saying he had to go see them down at The Call. As he left the house, he found himself making a spitting noise with his lips like his father. He told himself he’d never go there again.