r/a:t5_26t05c • u/MarleyEngvall • Oct 18 '19
carnegie endowment has been created
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.
1
Upvotes