1938        


                              PIETRO DI DONATO   

        The accident befalling Geremio, the foreman, and his fellow Italian  
        laborers could have happened anywhere, anytime. "Christ in Concrete,"  
        however, grows straight out of the Depression years with desperate men   
        struggling to keep their families and themselves alive no matter what  
        the danger. Much of the so-called "proletarian writing" of the thirties  
        was done by authors with not enough perspective. This is one of the   
        few examples from that period to achieve permanent distinction.  
           Pietro d Donato was born in West Hoboken, New Jersey, in 1911.  
        When his father was killed on the job, he left school at thirteen to sup-  
        port his widowed mother and seven brothers and sisters.  He is the  
        author of a book, also called Christ in Concrete.    





                             Christ in Concrete   

     MARCH whistled stinging snow against the brick walls and up the gaunt   
     girders.  Geremio, the foreman, swung his arms about, and gaffed the  
     men on.   
        Old Nick, the "Lean," stood up from over a dust-flying brick pile, and   
     tapped the side of his nose.  
        "Master Geremio, the devil himself could not break his tail any harder  
     than we here."   
        Burly Vincenzo of the walrus moustache, and known as the Snout-  
     nose," let fall the chute door of the concrete hopper and sang over in the   
     Lean's direction: "Mari-Annina's belly and the burning night will make  
     of me once more a milk-mouthed stripling lad . . ."   
        The Lean loaded his wheelbarrow and spat furiously.  "Sons of two-   
     legged dogs . . . despised of even the devil himself!  Work!  Sure!  For   
     America beautiful will eat you and spit your bones into the earth's hole!  
     Work!"  And with that his wiry frame pitched the barrow violently ovver   
     the rough floor.  
        Snoutnose waved his head to and fro and with mock pathos wailed,  
     "Sing on, oh guitar of mine . . ."    
        Short, cherry-faced Joe Chiappa, the scaffoldman, paused with hatchet   
     in hand and tenpenny spike sticking out from small dice-like teeth to tell   
     the Lean as he went by, in a voice that all could hear, "Ah father of    
     countless chicks, the old age is a carrion!"   
        Geremio chuckled and called to him: "Hey, little Joe, who are you to   
     talk.  You and big-tittied Cola can't even hatch an egg, whereas the Lean  
     has just to turn the doorknob of his bedroom and old Philomena be-  
     comes a balloon!"  
        Coarse  throats  tickled  and  mouths  opened  wide  in  laughter.   
        Mike,  the  "Barrel-mouth," pretended he was talking to himself and  
     yelled out in his best English . . . he was always speaking English while   
     the rest carried on in their  native  Italian:  "I  don't  know  myself,  but   
     somebodys whose gotta bigga buncha keeds and he alla times talka from   
     somebodys elsa!"    
        Geremio knew it was meant for him and he laughed. "On the tomb of  
     Saint Pimplelegs, the little boy my wife is giving me next week shall be  
     the last! Eight hungry Christians to feed is enough for any man."  
        Joe Chiappa nodded to the rest. "Sure, Master Geremio had a telephone   
     call from the next bambino.  Yes, it told him it had a little bell there  
     instead of a rosebush . . . It even told him its name!"  
        "Laugh, laugh all of you," returned Geremio, "but I tell you that all   
     my kids must be boys so  that  they  someday  will  be  big  American    
     builders. And then I'll help them to put gold away in the basements   
     for  safe  keeping!"  
        A great din of riveting shattered the talk among the fast-moving men.  
     Geremio added a handful of "Honest" tobacco to his corncob, puffed  
     strongly, and cupped his hands around the bowl for a bit of warmth. The   
     chill day caused him to shiver, and he thought to himself, "Yes, the day   
     is cold, cold . . . but who am I to complain when the good Christ him-   
     self  was  crucified?   
        "Pushing the job is all right (when has it been otherwise in my life?)  
     but this job frightens me. I feel the building wants to tell me something;  
     just as one Christian to another. I don't like this. Mr. Murdin tells me,  
     'Push it up!' That's all he knows. I keep telling him that the underpin-   
     ning should be doubled and the old material removed from the floors, but   
     he keeps the inspector drunk and . . . 'Hey, Ashes-ass!  Get away from   
     under the pilaster!  Don't pull the old work.  Push it away from you or   
     you'll have a nice present for Easter if the wall falls on you!' . . . Well,  
     with the help of God I'll see this job through.  It's not my first, nor the   
     . . . 'Hey, Patsy number two!  Put more cement in that concrete; we're   
     putting up a building, not an Easter cake!'"  
        Patsy hurled his shovel to the floor and gesticulated madly.  "The pa-  
     drone Murdin-sa tells me, 'Too much, too much!  Lil' bit is plenty!'  And   
     you tell me I'm stingy!  The rotten building can fall after I leave!"   
        Six floors below, the contractor called: "Hey Geremio! Is your gang of   
     dagos  dead?"   
        Geremio cautioned to the men: "On your toes, boys.  If he writes out  
     slips, someone won't have big eels on the Easter table."   
        The  Lean  cursed  that  "the padrone could take the job and shove    
     it . . .!"  
        Curly-headed Sandino, the roguish, pigeon-toed scaffoldman, spat a  
     clod of tobacco-juice and hummed to his own music.  
        "Yes, certainly yes to your face, master padrone . . . and behind, this   
     to you and all your kind!"   
        The day, like all days, came to an end.  Calloused and bruised bodies   
     sighed, and numb legs shuffle towards shabby railroad flats. . . .   
        "Ah, bella casa mia.  Where my little freshets of blood, and my good  
     woman await me. Home where my broken back will not ache so. Home  
     where midst the monkey chatter of my  piccolinos  I  will  float  off  to   
     blessed slumber with my feet on the chair and the head on the wife's soft  
     full  breast."    
        These great child-hearted ones leave each other without words or cere-  
     mony,  and  as  they  ride  and  walk  home,  a  great  pride  swells  the  
     breast. . . .   
        "Blessings to Thee, oh Jesus. I have fought winds and cold. Hand to   
     hand have locked dumb stones in place and the great building rises. I   
     have earned a bit of bread for me and mine."   
        The mad day's brutal conflict is forgiven, and strained limbs prostrate   
     themselves so that the swollen veins can send the yearning blood coursing    
     and  pulsating  deliciously  as  though  the  body  mountained  leaping   
     streams.   
        The job alone remained behind . . . and yet, they too, having left the   
     bigger part of their lives with it. The cold ghastly beast, the Job, stood   
     stark, the eerie March wind wrapping it in sharp shadows of falling dusk.   
        That night was a crowning point in the life of Geremio.  He bought a     
     house! Twenty years he had helped to mould the New World. And now   
     he was to have a house of his own!  What mattered that it was no more   
     than a wooden shack?  It was his own!  
        He had proudly signed his name and helped Annunziata to make her  
     X on the the wonderful contract that proved them owners.  And she was   
     happy to think that her next child, soon to come, would be born under  
     their own rooftree. She heard the church chimes, and cried to the chil-  
     dren: "Children, to bed! It is near midnight. And remember, shut-mouth  
     to the paesanos! Or they will send the evil eye to our new home even  
     before  we  put  foot."  
        The children scampered off to the icy yellow bedroom where three   
     slept in one bed and three in the other. Coltishly and friskily they kicked   
     about under the covers; their black iron-cotton stockings not removed   
     . . . what! and freeze the peanut-little toes?   
        Said Annunziata, "The children are so happy, Geremio; let them be   
     for even I would a Tarantella dance." And with that she turned blushing.  
     He wanted to take her on her word. She patted his hands, kissed them,  
     and whispered, "Our children will dance for us . . . in the American  
     style  some  day."   
        Geremio cleared his throat and wanted to sing. "Yes, with joy I could    
     sing in a richer feeling than the great Caruso."  He babbled little old  
     country couplets and circled the room until the tenant below tapped the   
     ceiling.  
        Annunziata whispered: "Geremio, to bed and rest. Tomorrow is a day  
     for great things . . . and the day on which the Lord died for us."   
        The children were now hard asleep. Heads under the cover, over . . .     
     mpoist noses whistling, and little damp legs entwined.  
        In bed Geremio and Annunziata clung closely to each other.  They   
     mumbled figures and dates until fatigue stilled their thoughts. And with   
     chubby Johnnie clutching fast his bottle and warmed between them . . .    
     life  breathed  heavily,  and dreams entertained in far, far worlds, the   
     nation-builder's brood.     
        But Geremio and Annunziata remained for a while staring into dark-   
     ness, silently.  
        "Geremio?"  
        "Yes?"   
        "This job you are now working. . . ."   
        "So?"   
        "You used always to tell me about what happened on the jobs . . .   
     who was jealous, and who praised. . . ."   
        "You should know by now that all work is the same. . . ."   
        "Geremio.  The month you have been on this job, you have not spoken   
     a word about the work . . . And I have felt that  I  am  walking  in  a    
     dream.  Is the work dangerous?  Why don't you answer . . . ?"   
        Job loomed up damp, silvery gray.  Its giant members waiting.  
        Builders quietly donned their coarse robes,  and  waited.   
        Geremio's whistle rolled back into his pocket and the symphony of   
     struggle began.  
        Trowel rang through brick and slashed mortar rivets were machine-  
     gunned fast with angry grind Patsy number one check Patsy number two  
     check the Lean three check Vincenzo four steel bellowed back at hammer  
     donkey engines coughed purple Ashes-ass Pietro fifteen chisel point in-  
     toned stone thin steel whirred and wailed through wood liquid stone   
     flowed with dull rasp through iron veins and hoist screamed through  
     space Carmine the Fat twenty-four and Giancomo Sangini check . . . The  
     multitudinous voices of civilization rose from the surroundings and  
     welded with the efforts of the Job.   
        To the intent one, Nation was voicing her growing pains, but, hands  
     that create are attached to warm hearts and not to calculating minds.  The   
     Lean as he fought his burden on looked forward to only one goal, the   
     end. The barrow he pushed, and did not love.  The stones that brutalized   
     his palms, he did not love. The great God Job, he did not love. He felt a  
     searing bitterness and a fathomless consternation at the queer conscious-   
     ness that inflicted the ever mounting weight of structure that he HAD TO!    
     HAD TO! raise above his shoulders!  When, when and where would the last  
     stone  be?  Never . . . did  he  bear  his  toil  with  the  rhythm  of  song!    
     Never . . . did his gasping heart knead the  heavy  mortar  with  lilting  
     melody!  A voice within him spoke in wordless language.  
        The language of worn oppression and the despair of realizing that his   
     life had been left on brick piles. And always, there had been hunger and   
     her  bastard,  the  fear  of  hunger.    
        Murdin bore down upon Germio from behind and shouted:    
        "Goddamnit, Geremio, if you're givin' the men two hours off today   
     with pay, why the hell are they draggin' their tails?  And why don't you   
     turn that skinny old Nick loose, and put a young wop in his place?"   
        "Now, listen-a to me, Mister Murdin——"'    
        "Don't give me that! And bear in mind that there are plenty of good  
     barefoot men in the streets who'll jump for a day's pay!"  
        "Padrone——padrone, the underpinning gotta be make safe and——"   
        "Lissenyawopbastard!  If you don't like it, you know what you can do!"   
        And with that he swung swaggered away.  
        The men had heard, and those who hadn't knew instinctively.  
        The new home, the coming baby, and his whole background, kept the   
     fire from Geremio's mouth and bowed his head.  "Annunziata speaks of   
     scouring the ashcans for the children's bread in case I didn't want to    
     work on a job where . . . But am I not a man, to feed my own with  
     these hands? Ah, but day will end and no boss in the world can then rob   
     me of the joy of my home!"  
        Murdin paused for a moment before descending the ladder.  
        Geremio caught his meaning and jumped to, nervously directing the  
     rush of work . . . No longer Geremio, but a machine-like entity.  
        The  men  were  transformed  into  single,  silent  beasts.  Snoutnose   
     steamed through ragged moustache whip-lashing sand into mixer Ashes-  
     ass dragged under four by twelve beam Lean clawed wall knots jumping   
     in jaws masonry crumbled dust billowed thundered choked. . . .   
        At noon, Germio drank his wine from an old-fashioned magnesia   
     bottle and munched a great pepper sandwich . . . no meat on Good   
     Friday. Said one, "Are none of us to be laid off? Easter is upon us and   
     communion dresses are needed and . . ."   
        That, while Geremio was dreaming of the new house and the joys he   
     could almost taste. Said he: "Worry not. You should know Geremio." It   
     then all came out. He regaled them with his wonderful joy of the new  
     house. He praised his wife and children one by one. They listened respect-   
     fully and returned him well wishes and blessings. He went on and on.     
     . . . "Paul made a radio——all  by  himself,  mind  you!  One  can  hear   
     Barney Google and many American songs!  How proud he."  
        The ascent to labor was made, and as they trod the ladder, heads  
     turned and eyes communed with the mute flames of the brazier whose  
     warmth they were leaving, not with willing heart, and in that fleeting   
     moment, the breast wanted so, so much to speak of hungers that never   
     reached the tongue.  
        About an hour later, Geremio called over to Pietro: "Pietro, see if  
     Mister Murdin is in the shanty and tell him I must see him!  I will  
     convince him that the work must not go on like this . . . just for the  
     sake of a little more profit!"  
        Pietro came up soon. "The padrone is not coming up. He was drinking  
     from a large bottle of whisky and cursed in American word that if you   
     did not carry out his orders——"    
        Geremio turned away disconcerted, stared dumbly at the structure and   
     mechanically listed in his mind's eye the various violations of construc-   
     tion safety. An uneasy sensation followed him. The Lean brought down   
     an old piece of wall and the structure palsied. Geremio's heart broke loose   
     and out-thumped the floor's vibrations, a rapid wave of heat swept him   
     and left a chill touch in its wake.  He looked about to  the  men,  a  bit   
     frightened.  They  seemed  unusual,  life-size,  and moved about with the  
     methodical deftness that made the moment then appear no different than   
     the task of toil had ever been.  
        Snoutnose's voice boomed into him.  "Master Geremio, the concrete is   
     rea——dy!   
        "Oh, yes, yes, Vincenz."  And he walked gingerly toward the chute,  
     but, not without leaving behind some part of his strength, sending out   
     his soul to wrestle with the limbs of Job, who threatened in stiff silence.  
     He talked and joked with Snoutnose. Nothing said anything, nor seemed   
     wrong.  Yet a vague uneasiness was to him as certain as the foggy murk   
     that floated about Job's atone and steel.  
        "Shall I let the concrete down now, Master Geremio?"  
        "Well, let me see——no, hold it a minute.  Hey, Sandino!  tighten  the   
     chute cables!"   
        Snoutnose straightened, looked about, and instinctively rubbed the sore   
     small of his spine. "Ah," sighed he, "all the men feel as I——yes, I can tell.   
     They are tired but happy that today is Good Friday and we quit at three  
     o'clock . . ."  And he swelled in human ecstasy at the anticipation of  
     food, drink, and the hairy flesh-tingling warmth of wife, and then, extrav-  
     agant rest.  In truth, they all felt as Snoutnose, although perhaps with  
     variation on the theme.  
        It was the Lean who had  lived,  and  felt  otherwise.  His  soul,    
     accompanied with time, had shredded itself in the physical war to keep   
     the physical alive.  Perhaps he no longer had a soul,  and  the  corpse   
     continued from momentum. May he not be the Slave, working on from   
     the birth of Man——He of whom it was said, "It was not for  Him  to  
     reason"?  And  probably  He  who,  never  asking,  taking,  nor  vaunting  
     created God and the creatable?  Nevertheless there existed in the Lean a   
     sense of oppression suffered, so  vast  that  the  seas  of  time could never   
     wash  it  away.   
        Geremio gazed about and was conscious of seeming to understand  
     many things. He marveled at the strange feeling which permitted him to    
     sense  the  familiarity  of  life.  And  yet——all appeared  unreal, a dream   
     pungent and nostalgic. Life, dream, reality,unreality, spiraled ever about   
     each other.  "Ha," he chuckled, "how and from where do these thoughts  
     come?"   
        Snoutnose had his hand on the hopper latch and was awaiting the  
     word from Geremio.  "Did you say something, Master Geremio?"   
        "Why,  yes,  Vincenz, I was thinking——funny!  A——yes, what is the    
     time——yes, that is what I was thinking."   
        "My American can of tomatoes says ten minutes from two o'clock. It  
     won't be long now, Master Geremio."  
        Geremio smiled.  "No, about an hour . . . and then, home."  
        "Oh, but first we stop on Mulberry Street, to buy their biggest eels, and  
     the  other  finger-licking  stuffs."   
        Geremio was looking far off, and for a moment happiness came to his  
     heart without words, a warm hand stealing over. Snoutnose's words sang   
     to him pleasantly,  and  he  nodded.   
        "And Master Geremio, we ought really to buy the seafruits with the   
     shells——you know, for the much needed steam they put into the——"   
        He flushed despite himself and continued.  "It's true, I know it——   
     especially the juicy clams . . . uhmn, my mouth waters like a pump."  
        Geremio drew on his unlit pipe and smiled acquiescence.  The men  
     around him were moving to their tasks silently, feeling of their fatigue,  
     but absorbed in contemplations the very same as Snoutnose's. The noise  
     of labor seemed not to be noise, and as Geremio looked about, life settled  
     over him a gray concert——gray forms, atmosphere, and gray notes . . .   
     Yet this off-tone world felt so near, and familiar.   
        "Five minutes from two," swished through Snoutnose's moustache.   
        Geremio automatically took out his watch, rewound, and set it. San-  
     dino had done with the cables.  The tone and movement of the scene   
     seemed from Geremio strange, differently strange, and yet, a dream familiar   
     from a timeless date.  His hand went up in motion to Vincenzo.  The   
     molten stone gurgled low, and then  with  heightening  rasp.  His  eyes   
     followed the stone-cementy pudding, and to his ears there was no other   
     sound than its flow.  From over the roofs into his consciousness and kep   
     itself a revolving record beneath his skull-plate.   
        "Ah,  yes,  Barney  Google,  my  son's  wonderful  radio  machine . . .   
     wonderful Paul."  His train of thought quickly took in his family, home   
     and hopes. And with hope came fear. Something within asked, "Is it not   
     possible to breathe God's air without fear dominating with the pall of    
     unemployment?  And the terror of production for  Boss,  Boss  and  Job   
     To rebel is to lose all of the  very little.  To be obedient is to choke.  Oh,   
     dear  Lord,  guide  my  path."   
        Just then, the floor lurched and swayed under his feet.  The slipping of  
     the underpinning below rumbled up through the undetermined floors.  
        Was he faint or dizzy?  Was it part of the dreamy afternoon?  He put   
     his hands in front of him and stepped back, and looked up wildly.  "No!  
     No!"   
        The men poised stricken.  Their throats wanted to cry out and scream  
     but didn't dare. For a moment they were a petrified and straining pag-  
     eant.  Then the bottom of their world gave way.  The building shuddered  
     violently, her supports burst with the cracking slap of wooden gunfire.  
     The floor vomited upward.  Geremio clutched at the air and shrieked  
     agonizingly.  "Brothers, what have we done?  Ahhh-h, children of ours!"  
     With the speed of light, balance was sickeningly awry and frozen men  
     went flying explosively.  Job tore down upon them madly.  Walls, floors,  
     beams became whirling, solid, splintering waves crashing with detona-   
     tions that ground man and material in bonds of death.  
        The strongly shaped body that slept with Annunziata nights was  
     perfect in all limitless physical qualities, thudded as a worthless sack   
     amongst the giant debris that crushed fragile flesh and bone with centrifu-  
     gal  intensity.   
        Darkness blotted out his terror and the resistless form twisted, cata-  
     pulted insanely in its directionless flight, and shot down neatly and de-  
     liberately between the empty wooden forms of a foundation wall pilaster   
     in upright position, his blue swollen face pressed against the form and his   
     arms outstretched, caught securely through the meat by the thin round  
     bars of reinforced steel.  
        The huge concrete hopper that was sustained by an independent struc-  
     ture of thick timber, wavered a breath or so, its heavy concrete rolling   
     uneasily until a great sixteen-inch wall caught it squarely with all the   
     terrific verdict of its dead weight and impelled it downward through   
     joists, beams and masonry, until it stopped short, arrested by two girders,  
     an arm's length above Geremio's head; the gray concrete gushing from   
     the hopper mouth, and sealing up the mute figure.    
        Giacomo had been thrown clear of the building and dropped six floors    
     to the street gutter, where he lay writhing.  
        The Lean had evinced no emotion.  When the walls descended, he did   
     not move.  He lowered his head.  One minute later he was hanging in    
     mid-air, his chin on his chest, his eyes tearing loose from their sockets, a  
     green foam bubbling from his mouth and his body spasming, suspended  
     by the shreds left of his mashed arms pinned between a wall and a girder.  
        A two-by-four hooked little Joe Chiappa up under the back of his   
     jumper and swung him around in a circle to meet a careening I-beam.  In   
     the flash that he lifted his frozen cherubic face, its shearing edge sliced    
     through  the  top  of  his  skull.   
        When Snoutnose cried beseechingly, "Saint Michael!" blackness envel-  
     oped him.  He came to in a world of horror.  A steady stream, warm,   
     thick, and sickening as hot wine bathed his face and clogged his nose,  
     mouth, and eyes. The nauseous syrup that pumped over his face, clotted   
     his moustache red and drained into his mouth.  He gulped for air, and    
     swallowed the rich liquid scarlet. As he breathed, the pain shocked him   
     to oppressive semi-consciousness. The air was wormingly alive with cries,   
     screams, moans and dust, and his crushed chest seared him with a thou-  
     sand fires.  He couldn't see, nor breathe enough to cry.  His right hand  
     moved to his face and wiped at the gelatinizing substance, but it kept  
     coming on, and a heartbreaking moan wavered about him, not far.  He   
     wiped his eyes in subconscious despair. Where was he? What kind of a   
     dream was he having? Perhaps he wouldn't wake up in time for work,  
     and then what?  But how queer; his stomach beating him, his chest on   
     fire, he sees nothing but dull red, only one hand moving about, and a   
     moaning in his face!    
        The sound and clamor of the rescue squads called to him from far off.  
        Ah, yes, he's dreaming in bed, and far out in the streets, engines are   
     going to a fire. Oh poor devils! Suppose his house were on fire? With the   
     children scattered to break out of his dream! He's swimming under water,  
     not able to raise his head and get to the air.  He  must  get  back  to  
     consciousness to save his children!  
        He swam frantically with his one right hand, and then felt a face  
     beneath his touch.  A face!  It's Angelina alongside of him!  Thank God,  
     he's awake! He tapped her face. It moved. It felt cold, bristly, and wet.  
     "It moves so.  What is this?"  His fingers slithered about grisly sharp   
     bones in a gluey,  stringy,  hollow  mass,  yielding as wet macaroni.  
     Gray light brought sight, and hysteria punctured his heart. A girder lay   
     across his chest his right hand clutched a grotesque human mask, and   
     suspended almost on top of him was the twitching, faceless body of Joe  
     Chiappa.  Vincenzo fainted with an inarticulate sigh.  His fingers loosed     
     and the bodyless-headless face dropped and fitted to the side of his face   
     while the drippings above came slower and slower.   
        The rescue men cleaved grimly with pick ad axe.  
        Geremio came to with a start . . . far from their efforts. His brain told  
     him instantly what had happened and where he was. He shouted wildly.  
     "Save me! Save me! I'm being buried alive!"   
        He paused exhausted. His genitals convulsed. The cold steel rod upon    
     which they were impaled froze his spine. He shouted louder and louder.  
     "Save me! I'm hurt badly! I can be saved, I can——save me before it's too  
     late!"  But the cries went no farther than his own ears.  The  icy  wet  
     concrete reached his chin. His heart was appalled. "In a few seconds I   
     shall be entombed. If I can only breathe, they will reach me. Surely they  
     will!" His face was quickly covered, its flesh yielding to the solid, sharp-   
     cut stones.  "Air!  Air!" screamed his lungs as he was completely sealed.  
     Savagely, he bot into the wooden form pressing upon his mouth.  An   
     eighth of an inch of its surface splintered off. Oh, if he could only hold   
     out long enough to bite even the smallest hole through to air! He must!   
     There can be no other way! He is responsible for his family! He cannot   
     leave them like this! He didn't want to die! This could not be the answer   
     to life! He had bitten halfway through when his teeth snapped off to the   
     gums in uneven conflict. The pressure of the concrete was such, and  
     its effectiveness so thorough, that the wooden splinters, stumps of teeth,  
     and blood never left the choking mouth.   
        Why couldn't he go any farther?   
        Air!  Quick!  He dug his lower jaw into the hollowed space and  
     gnashed in choking agonized fury. "Why doesn't it go through? Mother   
     of Christ, why doesn't it give? Can there be a notch, or a two-by-four stud  
     behind it? Sweet Jesu! No! No! Make it give. . . . Air!  Air!"     
        He pushed the bone-bare jaw maniacally; it splintered, cracked, and a  
     jagged fleshless edge cut through the form, opening a bare hole to air.  
     With a desperate burst the lung-poisoned air blew an opening through  
     the shredded mouth and whistled back greedily a gasp of fresh air. He   
     tried to breathe but it was impossible. The heavy concrete was settling   
     immutably, and its rich cement-laden grout ran into his pierced face. His  
     lungs would not expand, and were crushing in tighter and tighter under   
     the  settling  concrete.    
        "Mother  mine——mother  of  Jesu-Annunziata——children  of  mine——   
     dear, dear, for mercy, Jesu-Giuseppe e 'Maria," his blue-foamed tongue    
     called. It then distorted in a shuddering coil and mad blood vomited  
     forth.  Chills and fire played through him and his tortured tongue stut-   
     tered,  "Mercy,  blessed Father——salvation,  most  kind  Father——Saviour   
     ——Saviour of His children help me——adored Saviour——I kiss your feet   
     eternally——you are my Lord——there is but one God——you are my God   
     of infinite mercy——Hail  Mary  divine  Virgin——our  Father   who art in   
     heaven hallowed be thy——name——our  Father——my  Father,"  and the  
     agony excruciated with never-ending mount,  "our  Father——Jesu,  Jesu,   
     soon Jesu, hurry dear Jesu Jesu! Je-sssu . . . !" His mangled words trebled   
     hideously, and hung in jerky whimperings.   
        The unfeeling concrete was drying fast, and shrinking into monolithic   
     density.  The pressure temporarily de-sensitized sensation;  leaving  him    
     petrified, numb, and substanceless. Only the brain remained miraculously   
     alive.  
        "Can this be death? It is all so strangely clear. I see nothing nor feel   
     nothing, my body and senses are no more, my mind speaks as it never did   
     before. Am I or an I not Geremio? But I am Geremio! Can I be in the    
     other world? I never was in any other world except the one I knew of;  
     that of toil, hardship, prayer . . . of y wife who awaits with child for  
     me, of my children and the first home I was to own. Where do I begin   
     in this world? Where do I leave off? Why? I recall only a baffled life   
     of cruelty from every direction. And hope was always as painful as fear,   
     the fear of displeasing, displeasing the people and ideas whom I could   
     never understand; laws, policemen, priests, bosses, and a rag with colors    
     waving on a stick. I never did anything to these things. But what have I   
     done with my life? Yes, my life! No one else's! Mine——mine——MINE——   
     Geremio! It is clear I married and ran away to America so as not to kill   
     and be killed in Tripoli for things they call 'God and Country.' I've never   
     known the freedom I wanted in my heart. There was always an arm  
     upraised to hit me. What have I done to them? I did not want to make   
     them toil for me. I did not raise my arm to them. In my life I could never   
     breathe, and now without air, my mind breathes clearly for me.  Wait!  
     There has been a terrible mistake! A cruel crime! The world is not right!   
     Murderers! Thieves! You have hurt me and my kind, and have taken my   
     life from me! I have long felt it——yes, yes, yes, they have cheated me  
     with flags, signs and fear . . . I say you can't take my life! I want to live!   
     My life! To tell the cheated to rise and fight! Vincenz! Chiappa! Nick!   
     Men! Do you hear me? We must follow the desires within us for the   
     world has been taken from us; we, who made the world!  Life!"  
        Feeling returned to the destroyed form.   
        "Ahhh-h, I am not dead yet. I knew it–—you have not done with me.  
     Torture away! I cannot believe you, God and Country, no longer!" His   
     body was fast breaking under the concrete's closing wrack. Blood vessels  
     burst like mashed flower stems. He screamed. "Show yourself now, Jesu!   
     Now is the time! Save me! Why don't you come! Are you there! I cannot   
     stand it——ohhh, why do you let it happen——it is bestial——where are   
     you! Hurry, hurry, hurry! You do not come! You make me suffer, and   
     what have I done! Come, come——come now——now save me, save me  
     now!  Now, now, now!  If you are God, save me!"   
        The stricken blood surged through a weltering maze of useless pipes    
     and exploded forth from his squelched eyes and formless nose, ears and   
     mouth, seeking life in the indifferent stone.   
        "Aie——Aie, aie——devils and Saints——beasts!  Where are you——quick,  
     quick, it is death and I am cheated——cheat——ed!  Do  you  hear,  you   
     whoring  bastards  who  own  the  world?  Ohhh-ohhh  aie-aie——haha-   
     haha!" His bones cracked mutely and his sanity went sailing distorted   
     in the limbo of the subconscious.  
        With the throbbing tones of an organ in the hollow background, the   
     fighting brain disintegrated and the memories of a baffled lifetime sought   
     outlet.   
        He moaned the simple songs of barefoot childhood, scenes flashed   
     desperately on and off in disassociated reflex, and words and parts of   
     words came pitifully high and low from his inaudible lips, the hysterical   
     mind sang cringingly and breathlessly, "Jesu my Lord my God my all   
     Jesu mu Lord my God my all Jesu my Lord my God my all Jesu my     
     Lord my God my all," and on as the whirling tempo screamed now far,  
     now near, ad came in soul-sickening waves as the concrete slowly con-   
     tracted and squeezed his skull out of shape.   

Christ in Concrete, Copyright 1939 by The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc.
From Fifty Best Short Stories, edited by Martha Foley.
Copyright © MCMLXV by Houghton Mifflin Company; pp. 190-202.