Jailbird - Kurt Vonnegut [77]
According to Labor’s Untold Story, Capone said, “Bolshevism is knocking at our gates…. We must keep the worker away from red literature and red ruses.”
Which reminds me of a story written by Dr. Robert Fender, my friend back in prison. The story was about a planet where the worst crime was ingratitude. People were executed all the time for being ungrateful. They were executed the vay people used to be executed in Czechoslovakia. They were defenestrated. They were thrown out of altitudinous windows.
The hero in Fender’s story was finally thrown out of a window for ingratitude. His last words, as he went sailing out of a window thirty floors up, were these: “Thanks a miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillionnnnnnnnn!”
Before Sacco and Vanzetti could be executed for ingratitude in the Massachusetts style, however, huge crowds turned out in protest all over the world. The fish peddler and the shoemaker had become planetary celebrities.
“Never in our full life,” said Vanzetti, “could we hope to do such work for tolerance, for justice, for man’s understanding of man, as now we do by accident.”
If this were done as a modern Passion Play, the actors playing the authorities, the Pontius Pilates, would still have to express scorn for the opinions of the mob. But they would be in favor rather than against the death penalty this time.
And they would never wash their hands.
They were in fact so proud of what they were about to do that they asked a committee composed of three of the wisest, most respected, most fair-minded and impartial men within the boundaries of the state to say to the world whether or not justice was about to be done.
It was only this part of the Sacco and Vanzetti story that Kenneth Whistler chose to tell—that night so long ago, when Mary Kathleen and I held hands while he spoke.
He dwelt most scornfully on the resonant credentials of the three wise men.
One was Robert Grant, a retired probate judge, who knew what the laws were and how they were meant to work. The chairman was the president of Harvard, and he would still be president when I became a freshman. Imagine that. He was A. Lawrence Lowell. The other, who according to Whistler “… knew a lot about electricity, if nothing else,” was Samuel W. Stratton, the president of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
During their deliberations, they received thousands of telegrams, some in favor of the executions, but most opposed. Among the telegraphers were Romain Rolland, George Bernard Shaw, Albert Einstein, John Galsworthy, Sinclair Lewis, and H. G. Wells.
The triumvirate declared at last that it was clear to them that, if Sacco and Vanzetti were electrocuted, justice would be done.
So much for the wisdom of even the wisest human beings.
And I am now compelled to wonder if wisdom has ever existed or can ever exist. Might wisdom be as impossible in this particular universe as a perpetual-motion machine?
Who was the wisest man in the Bible, supposedly—wiser even, we can suppose, than the president of Harvard? He was King Solomon, of course. Two women claiming the same baby appeared before Solomon, asking him to apply his legendary wisdom to their case. He suggested cutting the baby in two.
And the wisest men in Massachusetts said that Sacco and Vanzetti should die.
When their decision was rendered, my hero Kenneth Whistler was in charge of pickets before the Massachusetts State House in Boston, by his own account. It was raining.
“Nature sympathized,” he said, looking straight at Mary Kathleen and me in the front row. He laughed.
Mary Kathleen and I did not laugh with him. Neither did anybody else in the audience. His laugh was a chilling laugh about how little Nature ever cares about what human beings think is going on.
And Whistler kept his pickets before the State House for ten more days, until the night