Tresca recalls a tragic episode from his incredibly rich agitator’s life in which a Christmas-time police hunt for him leads to the death of an old friend from Italy…

‘A Wartime Christmas’ by Carlo Tresca from New Masses. Vol. 5 No. 7. December, 1929.

I.

War! Khaki clad “boys” marching. Red Cross officials making collections with self-satisfied efficiency. “Allegiance to the Flag” sworn at every public gathering. Ships loaded with human flesh crossing the dangerous waters of the Atlantic. The German “bloodhounds” described as man-eating brutes. News of torpedoed steamers. News of battles. Our dear “Allies” suddenly become shining paragons of virtue. Our own soldiers, the bravest, the cleanest, the most upright, the most idealistic, the most freedomloving in the world. The spirit of crusading is abroad. Everything is turned into a crusade: even feeding the soldiers sandwiches in the Y.M.C.A. huts; even knitting gloves and sweaters for our heroes “over there;” even kissing the boys goodbye to make the reminiscence tingle in their blood while it is oozing out into the frozen ground in the vicinity of Ypres. Women suddenly leaping into the glaring light of heroism accompanied by all the trumpets of publicity; women driving ambulances; women offering their “all” for the Cause; women doing astute work for the Liberty Loan; chorus girls in scant clothing mounted on three elephants marching in line through the noisy traffic of New York to advertise the Liberty Loan. All for the Cause; all for Democracy!

And while the great learned president, who had been elected because “he kept us out of war,” was uttering his beautifully worded sonorous phrases about democracy, freedom and humanity, the Department of Justice, in cooperation with the War Department, is efficiently and grimly extinguishing every expression of questioning, independent thinking, not to speak of protest. Radical papers are either shut down or made colorless. The censor is raging. “Radicals” are being deported by the scores. The system of espionage has been put on a basis of unusual efficiency. “Sedition,” “criminal anarchy,” “criminal syndicalism” are so many magic formulae to place behind iron bars both innocent and guilty. An insistent, albeit silent war is being waged against every dissension, however slight. Hounding one’s neighbor had become an act of patriotic rectitude.

II. MERRY CHRISTMAS, DOCTOR!

And just at that moment, my friends, the Italians from Sault St. Marie, Ontario, Canada, asked me to go there to deliver three lectures on the war. My personal status was rather awkward. I was a prisoner in the United States, that is to say I was permitted to live in the country as a resident alien, but as persona non grata; were I to go out of the country, the authorities might not allow me to return. It was therefore necessary for me to take precautions in order that I might be enabled to come back, I travelled under an assumed name. My friends met me in Sault St. Marie, Michigan, on this side of the frontier, and helped me enter the English Dominion under the guise of a sportsman.

On our return to the United States we were met on the platform by an agent of the United States Immigration Bureau who questioned every one as to his habitat, business, and so on. The friends accompanying me stated that they were going back to Canada, and were left unmolested. Upon my declaring that I was going to Detroit for Christmas to visit relatives, I was requested to accompany the immigration officers into one of the rooms in the station building.

I was supposed to be a teacher in Sault St. Marie, in an Italian school. I was supposed to go to Detroit to study during my Christmas vacation the Italian colony there, with the intention of settling down in the United States and opening a school. I was supposed to be a loyal and upright leader of the young generation. I was supposed to be a man who loves the Christmas holiday as a religious festival. The chairman was visibly impressed; his questions became ever friendlier. He kept silent for a while as if meditating, then he bent over to his assistant, whispered something to them; the three seemed to agree; then the chairman stood up and the unexpected happened. The austere immigration official shook hands with me.

“Before we release you,” he said, “permit me to ask you the last question. In case you decide to remain in Detroit, do you intend to become an American citizen?”

By that time I was on my feet as well, and with great earnestness I replied, “This is the great ambition of my life.” To which he:

“Well, Doctor, I hope you like Detroit and remain there, because we need citizens like you in this country. Good luck and merry Christmas to you.” He gave me a cigar. I shook hands with every one and departed.

In the street I was surrounded by the anxiously waiting Italians who began to shower me with questions. I said:

“I have fifteen minutes before the train leaves. Please, let’s go to the station, don’t look back here.” Those ardent radicals could have spoiled the whole game. Soon I was safely installed in a train going for Detroit, and heaved a sigh of relief.

III. POLICE AND SPAGHETTI

I was tired and nervously exhausted.

In the train I fell asleep and when I woke I found myself at the Pittsburgh station. Nothing remained for me but to wait for a return train to go back to Beaver Falls. As the train halted at Rochester, Pennsylvania, which is located between Pittsburgh and Beaver Falls, a big, husky fellow, a countryman of mine, stepped into the car. I did not know him, but he recognized me and I learned that he was going to attend the meeting at Beaver Falls. He also imparted to me the cheerful news that I was going to be arrested in Beaver Falls and that his mission was to arrange with the other Italians for bail if necessary.

Now remember that I was coming into Beaver Falls, not from Canton, but from Pittsburgh, that is to say, I was on the other side of the station. As I stepped out of the train I saw on the opposite side, next to the tracks leading from Canton, a crowd of policemen in uniforms, deputy sheriffs and comrades. I realized that I was stepping into a hornet’s nest (we Italians say “stepping into a hot bath”). My companion, the big fellow from Rochester, took my suitcase and we dashed down into the street unnoticed. We hailed a taxi and told the chauffeur to drive very slowly around the hall where the meeting was to be held. I did this in order to survey the situation and to find out what could be done both for myself and my comrade involved.

It was dark already, the streets were deserted. A strange silence seemed to be brooding in the air. We drove up in front of the hall waiting in the cab. We saw the silhouettes of people passing. Three silhouettes approached the cab and I recognized one of my followers. We quickly opened the door and my Rochester companion grabbed the fellow and forced him into the cab—all this being done quickly and silently. We held a conference. The man told me that the hall was packed with policemen, that a big crowd of angry Italians was waiting in the hall indignant over the action of the authorities and failing to understand why they should not be allowed to hear their lecturer. In fact, the man had left the hall because he felt that any moment something tragic might happen, since the feeling between the Italians and the police was becoming more and more tense.

It was obvious to me that I could not go to the hall. I quickly made my decision and ordered the cabman to drive us to the house of De Cicco, a friend who had organized the meeting and was exchanging letters with me.

We landed safely in the house, 310—11 St. I sent one comrade back to the hall to tell the chairman that the meeting was off because the speaker had been arrested in Canton (that was a ruse to throw the police off my track). Having thus disposed of the business of the day, I hoped I would be able to enjoy a quiet conference with the host and a few very trusted workers who had gathered in the meantime.

There was a friendly home atmosphere in the house. The woman, a buxom wench of about thirty, was busily cooking, making ready for the ritual of spaghetti, and though it was obvious that she was pregnant, she moved around very quickly, hardly able to conceal her pleasure at having good company for supper. The fire was burning lustily; the odor of cooking was tickling our nostrils; the lights shone in a friendly way; a decanter of wine (without which no spaghetti has any real kick for the Italian) was waiting modestly under cover of a white napkin; our conference seemed to be approaching its natural end with the table about to be spread, when we heard a knock on the door.

IV. THE PEASANT OF PACENTRO

De Cicco, the host, said with a gloomy voice, “The cops.” But it was not the cops. Instead a man with a child in his arms stepped in to extend me his greetings. He was John Terracciano, an Italian who had not seen me for twenty years. In the old country John was a peasant cultivating a patch of vineland near Sulmona and one of the first to join the Peasant League organized by myself in Pacentro; in fact, he was even elected president of that first peasant’s organization in Italy. Now he could not stay away. He had come to greet his old organizer and friend.

It soon became apparent that our political views differed radically. John was no more the revolutionary peasant he had been in his youth. True he was still proud of the day when he marched under the red banners through the streets of Sulmona and Pacentro. But those were only youth reminiscences to him. He had in the meantime migrated into the United States, had settled down on the land, had become a good American citizen, loyal to his adopted country and bristling with all the superstitions one hundred percent Americanism could imbue him with. As a matter of fact, he was a man of good standing in his community and had recently been instrumental in collecting no less than one hundred thousand dollars for the Red Cross. What brought him to me was just an irresistible desire to see his “Carluccio.”

How did this prosperous farmer find the way to my host? Here you have a bit of small-town psychology. His wife had been visiting Mrs. De Cicco late in the afternoon. Mrs. De Cicco had bought provisions and was about to prepare a dinner for several persons. Since it was known that I was to be speaking in Beaver Falls that evening, John put two and two together and decided that probably I would be the guest of honor at that feast, and so he tried his luck.

He was certainly glad to see me. He embraced me and planted two big kisses on my cheeks. Then he sat down and, as is the habit of a prosperous man, he wanted me all for himself. In fact he was even out on a missionary venture. In a paternalistic way he tried to persuade me that I had done enough for the cause, that it was my duty to make peace with my mother and all my friends who were worried over my fate, and that it was high time for me to quit fooling around with revolutionary ideas. He offered me, in a sincere and big-hearted fashion, all possible assistance, financial and other, were I to enter the big and glorious field of Business, where there are such splendid opportunities for every one, especially for a man of my abilities.

I was gently resisting John’s expostulations, cautious at the same time not to offend a friend bound to me with ties of old homeland experiences, when the door flew open violently, shouts, “Hands up!” reverberated through the room, and a score of policemen and detectives, guns in hand, stepped in. The squad was headed by the chief of police who looked around angrily and asked, “Where is the suitcase?” My first impression was that the gentleman was looking for bombs, but he shouted in high rage, “The books; where are the books?” De Cicco began to explain that no books had been brought into his house; all comrades present were somewhat alarmed, and just at that moment it occurred to me that I had Canadian money in my hip pocket which would serve as evidence of my having travelled across the frontier.

I was not so much interested in the ravings of the police as in the problem of how to get rid of that bit of evidence. I had long noticed that in confusion, when there is a sufficient number of people present, the activities of the individual remain mostly unnoticed. So I, using my legal mind, and the caution born out of long practice, stepped backward to the stove, gently extracted the bundle from my hip pocket and sent it down into the flaming coal. Eighty dollars of .very good Canadian was money was turned into ashes. In the meantime the chief of police was insisting on searching the house, while De Cicco, an American citizen, was lecturing him on the Bill of Rights and the Constitutional guarantees of Americans and demanding a search warrant which, of course, was absent.

At that moment the eyes of the chief of police met mine. The man stopped arguing with De Cicco for a while as if trying to collect his thoughts. Suddenly, using the gun which he held in front of De Cicco’s face, he fired a shot at me. First we thought that De Cicco was shot. Mrs. De Cicco screamed wildly. There was a great hubbub in the room; a detective pushed her aside, poking his elbow in her stomach. The woman fainted. The shouts of those present made a bedlam. I stepped forth and said to the chief of police, “I am Tresca. If you are looking for me, why don’t you get me and leave these people in peace?” A man in civilian clothes (of whom I learned later that he was the head of the county detectives) pointed a gun at my breast saying, “Yes, you are the man we want. Come along, you S.O.B.”

V. CHRISTIAN BROTHERHOOD

The situation seemed to be clearing. They had gotten the man they were looking for. I told my friends to remain quiet and wait. Nothing could be done for the time being but follow orders. Still, a friend of mine from Latrobe, Pennsylvania, who was also present in the room, considered it improper to let me go alone. On account of his sharp remarks addressed to the police, he was also seized.

It was wartime. The practice of tarring and feathering, the practice of hanging had even revived. My mind involuntarily began to travel in this direction. I was therefore relieved when I found myself in a good old jail, behind iron bars. The other fellow was with me, which meant that I could while away the tedium with friendly conversation. Before long the chief who had fired the shot came to question me. It was all about the suitcase, about the books. That black bulky suitcase had caught his imagination. Feeling quite safe in my involuntary retreat, I was just joshing him along, telling all sorts of crazy stories and observing that the stern keeper of the Law was relenting.

In a moment, however, the door of the adjoining room flew open. We heard the trampling of feet and frantic shouts. “Where is the chief? Where is the chief? I’ll kill him.” The chief grew very pale and moved to the door where he was confronted by De Cicco crying angrily, “You beast. You’ve killed him. You’ve killed him.”

I stepped forth and asked for an explanation. De Cicco could only mutter that John was dead. De Cicco grabbed the chief, shaking him, in anger. A group of policemen had their hands full tearing him away. There was confusion in the jail. We two prisoners were left alone, speechless. Who killed John? Why was he killed? How strange it all was! A leaden gloom settled on us.

Shortly the chief came back with two policemen. He opened the door, saying: “Get out of here. Take the train and go, but never come back.” That was all he said. Two policemen accompanied us to the station and from there to Pittsburgh with orders to see that we “kept on going.”

At the station we found the big, husky fellow from Rochester who was going back home. From him I learned the facts. It appears that the bullet intended for me had entered John’s stomach; that John, realizing the seriousness of the situation thought it wise to keep still until the gang took me away; that the man was afraid of a massacre in case he screamed. As soon, however, as we went, he silently fell over the table, still holding the six month old baby in his arms. Only then did De Cicco and others realized that he was badly wounded. An ambulance was called, the man was taken to the hospital and quickly operated on, but there was little hope for his life.

Poor John! Poor respectable and prosperous citizen of his prosperous adopted country. When, finally, I reached New York, the day before Christmas, I found a telegram at home stating laconically that John was dead. He left a wife and nine children behind.

Wartime Christmas was entering the big city of New York. There was a rejoicing in spite of, or perhaps even on account of the war. The priests were talking about the charm of Christian brotherhood. Bells were tolling. Everybody was bringing gifts to his little ones. And there, way up in Pennsylvania, a father of nine children lay dead. Why?

That was a sad Christmas for me.

The New Masses was the continuation of Workers Monthly which began publishing in 1924 as a merger of the ‘Liberator’, the Trade Union Educational League magazine ‘Labor Herald’, and Friends of Soviet Russia’s monthly ‘Soviet Russia Pictorial’ as an explicitly Communist Party publication, but drawing in a wide range of contributors and sympathizers. In 1927 Workers Monthly ceased and The New Masses began. A major left cultural magazine of the late 1920s and early 1940s, the early editors of The New Masses included Hugo Gellert, John F. Sloan, Max Eastman, Mike Gold, and Joseph Freeman. Writers included William Carlos Williams, Theodore Dreiser, John Dos Passos, Upton Sinclair, Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Day, John Breecher, Langston Hughes, Eugene O’Neill, Rex Stout and Ernest Hemingway. Artists included Hugo Gellert, Stuart Davis, Boardman Robinson, Wanda Gag, William Gropper and Otto Soglow. Over time, the New Masses became narrower politically and the articles more commentary than comment. However, particularly in it first years, New Masses was the epitome of the era’s finest revolutionary cultural and artistic traditions.

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