The Daily Worker Newspaper, August 27, 1927, Page 8

“It’s a Fine Day’”-- Said Gov. Fuller (Continued from Page One) Che test of his humanity came when Mrs. Sacco and the sister of Vanzetti were ushered in. He listened to them long and. politely, but with a set face. He catechised them, too, on the ¢rime, and pointed out various facts that had “convinced” him of the workers’ guilt. This was at nine o’clock in the evening. The two women were too sad and nerve-wracked to argue with the Governor. They repeated pitiful unan- swerable humiliating words; they asked for mercy. The Russian Soviets have granted mercy to thou- sands of White Guardists who threw bombs, who invaded the country, who burned villages and slaughtered babies and old men. When one’s enemy is no longer dangerous, one must be merciful. Revo- lutionsits are not sadists; revolutionists do not be lieve in murder; revolutionists kill only in defense of the workers’ cause; revolutionists have a great faith that some day there will be a red dawn on the world, and in the skies will be written the beautiful “word over all’: Reconciliation. But Governor Fuller was faintly annoyed at the two women, and would not discuss the matter of mercy. It is not a word in the legal books; it is not a word in the lexicon of capitalism. He sent the women out in tears. He said: “I am afraid I will have to go through with my duty.” There is a pious legend among the voter-boobs of Massachusetts that Governor Fuller “is a good man.” John Howard Lawson, in his satirical play, “Loud Speaker” strangely previsaged this by hay- ing his Babbitt hero run for governor on a platform with the single slogan: “Harry U. Collins Is a Good Man.” It sounds like a jokg, but in Massachusetts it is not a joke. Nearly. everyone there believes that Governor Fuller is a good man, and that’s why they vote for him. It is a legend that has been carefully built up. Plumbers, paupers and policemen of Boston will tell you with tears in their eyes how Governor Fuller has never accepted a cent of his salary since he has been Governor; how kind he is to his wife; how he loves his children; how genial he is to his workers; how democratically fond he is of poker and beer; what a firm churchman he is; how much he gives to charity every year. But this “good man” has for several years per- sisted in his determination that Sacco and. Vanzetti must die. And he has whipped up a storm of news- paper prejudice against the men; he has schemed and plotted and framed careful publicity campaigns; he has followed his murder plan through like an expert criminal, he has slept on it month after month, His mind was made up years ago. His investiga- tion wa8 a piece of political sadism. He knew he would find the men guilty; but he called in witness after witness, and taunted them, and jeered at them. One woman witness for the defense, it is said, left in tears. The Governor had hinted that she was the paid mistress of one of the lawyers for Sacco and Vanzetti. On this last day Fuller enjéyed torturing the des- perate friends of Sacco and Vanzetti who came be- fore him. Someone who went to see him said the Governor was radiant; his “mental attitude was that of a rooster flapping its wings.” He really enjoyed this last day, when sobbing women came to him and knelt for mercy. At precisely midnight Francis Fisher Kane, for- mer Federal Distrcit Attorney in Pennsylvania, was in the Governor’s office. He was telling the Gov- ernor of the tactics of the Department of Justice and its agents provocateurs, a situation he knows from the inside. He begged the Governor to re- prieve Sacco and Vanzetti until this federal angle of the case had been cleared up, and the files show- ing the part the Department of Justice had played in the Sacco case examined. The Governor went on listening with his polite, satisfied smile. He pretended to be affected by these pleas, impressed by Mr. Kane’s logic. He promised he would take the matter under advise- ment. A humorous murderer he is, a Massachusetts wit, an electric chair clown! For when Mr. Kane came into the street, his heart beating with a wild, last-minute hopefulness as a result of the Governor’s friendly smile, he was startled by the shouting of the newsboys, They were shouting: “Sacco, Executed at 12.19.” The execution had been going on a few miles away in Charlestown, all during those minutes when the Governor was politely pretending to listen to Mr. Kane’s appeal. The Governor had known all the time that the juice was being released into the electric chair. The Governor had been baiting Mr, Kane. The Governor, that good man, had been hay- ing his last delightful thrill of sadism. Yes, Governor Fuller is a good man. Yes, Mas- sachusetts is a good state, and America is a good country. And all over the world there are millions who will never forget Sacco and Vanzetti, nor for- give the good people who murdered them, MURDER AT MIDNIGHT . By A. B. MAGIL In Memoriam Nicola Sacco and Bartelomeo Vanzetti, Betrayed and Murdered In The American Class War, August 22, 1927. r. “Both are dead.” Dead. Press the button. Turn on the juice. Dead. Waiting, waiting. For what? Two wops to sit down in a chair And be dead. Show’s over. @ Time to go home, go to hed. Time to forget, put it out of your head. Dead. (Death. Grim Reaper. Symbolic. Cloak. Hood. Sevthe. Skull.) Dead. Both. * * * 1 walked out into the huge soft night. No light. Someone had strangled the stars. ¢ £. Seven years to make a shroud. Seven years to make it strong enough To hold the whole of life. (Wonder how long it takes to make an electric chair?) Seven years for two wops. Dying. Dead. ™ “Massachusetts is too proud Pe Seven years to’ make a shroud TIT. CITY JAIL HUNGER WORKER SUBWAY : DEMPSEY BABE RUTH JESUS STRIKE STARVATION MURDER DEATH IV. Three men in frock coats playing dice. Three men and a fourth playing with skulls. Fingers weblike and precise, Caressing calmly the fluttering dice. Harvard accents glide like gulls From lips like nooses: hard and strong. What are the stakes? How long, how long? Four men in frock coats playing dice. Dice. Are they loaded? Loaded. Bloated. Four bloated frock coats playing with skulls, y. And on two faces hangs the mask Of the immobile anguish of the years. This is the honorable task e Of those unbitten by subtle doubts or fears. Climb, you lousy wops, into your holes. The god of the Fullers and Thayers will care for your souls. VE Nights are made black for deeds like this. Nights are made black, muffled and secret. Press the button. Turn on the juice. Show’s over. And the corroding dawn, Waiting, Steals like a thief, trembling and ghastly white, Through the thick, bolted night. The job is done. Whistles shriek in factory and mill. And the implacable sun, Climbing, Hangs splendid and terrible and ‘still. Vil. Go hack, slaves, go back. Go back to the factories, the dancing machines. Go back, dancing slaves. " Noon. (The sun is a big round brass spittoon). Life seethes, blown tp. Collapses “like a pricked balloon. Night. “Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves.” VIII. Too intelerably blue, empty. shining, remote the sky. Too intolerably serene, calm the tall, greatwinded trees. Too green every leaf, every grass. Seared by no sadness, no blight even of the cool keen panting autumn, The brown stain of the taking away. Nothing to mar, ne hunger of stamped-out growing, no cry Out ef denial. Trees lift strenuous leanness, Faise petulant hands, drag darkness To them. Nothing, nothing to mar. TX. Hach sound is their sound. Life demands life. Beyond the pathos and the pain That humans martyr humans with Their blood shouts dver all the earth. Blood, red blood. My brothers’ blood is on my hands. My brothers’ agony burns my flesh. Agony. Blood. On my hands. me Pity the wretches that will sit in the cells Of Charlestown and of Dedham Jails. Pity the peor stiffs that will come after To live a while in those exquisite hells, To live and hear always two voices, always the tread Of Feet always. always dead. Pity the fellows that will scrub the floors and walls Of Charlestown and of Dedham Jails, And never be able to wash away The great trembling stain Of Sacco’s and Vanzetti’s pain.’ (“The men of this dying old society they brutally have pulled me away from the embrace of your brother and your poor mother.”) Pity the rats that will gnaw the moldy crumbs Of Charlestown and of Dedham Jails, And smell the smell of their blood And gasp. CT would not wish to a dog or to a snake, to the most low and misfortunate creature of the earth—I would not wish to any of them what I have had to suffer for things that I am not guilty of.”) Pity them, pity them all. ; an Sacco And Vanzetti Must Not Die! Shrill signs hurl the workers’ cry. Strike. Protest. Telegram. Massachusetts doesn’t give a damn. A million-throated workers’ crying. Sacco and Vanzetti dying, dying. Sacco and Vanzetti dead. Dead. WE SHALI, NOT SOON FORGET! XII. Hang up your justice on the sour-apple tree of your pride. Hand it up, I say, for vultures to feed on, For soft worm fattening, for the gladdening of all gnawing, ravenous things. Hang it up where its resonant stink will fill every corner and crack of the earth. Swing it, swing it. {ang up your justice on *the sour-apple tree of your pride, —Drawing by WM. GROPPER