The Passion of Sacco and Vanzetti: A New England Legend Read Free Page A

whole life in jail.
    Now he came to the death house. He chose Vanzetti to speak to, and that was natural, for it was never difficult to speak to Vanzetti. He walked up to Vanzetti’s cell, rubbing his hands together, cheerful, brisk, business-like, determined that he would not make any funereal occasion out of this, but would go at it straightforwardly and directly, with no fuss or bother.
    Vanzetti, who had been sitting on his bed, fully dressed, rose to meet the Warden, and they shook hands gravely.
    â€œGood morning, Bartolomeo,” the Warden said. “I am very pleased to see you looking well. I am, indeed.”
    â€œPerhaps better than I feel.”
    â€œYou couldn’t be expected to feel very good. In your place, no one would feel very good.”
    â€œI suppose that’s true,” Vanzetti nodded. “I don’t suppose that you think too much before you say something like that, but that doesn’t change it. It remains a very true thing. So often, there are things that you say in such a fashion without thinking too much about them, and they remain very true and very direct.”
    The Warden observed him with interest. The Warden understood that if he himself were in Vanzetti’s place, he could not have behaved in this way. He would have been very afraid, very frightened, his voice would have choked up, his throat would have tightened, his skin would have become wet, and he would have trembled from head to foot. The Warden knew himself, and he knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was the case with him; but it was not the case with Vanzetti. Vanzetti seemed quite calm. His deep-set eyes looked at the Warden appraisingly. His heavy mustache added a quizzical note to his appearance, and his strong, high-boned, melancholy face seemed to the Warden no different from what it had been at any other time.
    â€œHave you seen Sacco yet this morning?” Vanzetti asked the Warden.
    â€œNot yet. I will see him a little later.”
    â€œI am worried about him. He is very weak because of the hunger strike. He is sick. I worry a good deal about him.”
    â€œI worry about him, too,” the Warden said.
    â€œYes, of course. Anyway, I think you should see him and speak to him.”
    â€œAll right, I’ll do that. What else would you like me to do?”
    Suddenly, Vanzetti smiled. He looked at the Warden suddenly as a grown, mature man would smile at a child.
    â€œDo you really want to know what I would like you to do?” Vanzetti asked.
    â€œWhat I can do,” the Warden answered. “I can’t do everything. Whatever I can do, Bartolomeo, I will be very happy to do. Today you have some privileges. You can have whatever you want to eat. You can have the Priest whenever you want him.”
    â€œI would like to spend some time with Sacco. Can you arrange that? There is a great deal that I want to say to him, but somehow it has never been said. If you can arrange for me to spend some time with him, a few hours, I would be very grateful for that.”
    â€œI think that can be arranged. I will try. But don’t be disappointed if it can’t be.”
    â€œYou must understand, it is not because I am stronger or braver than he is. Perhaps I am able to give that impression. But the appearance is a superficial one. Inside, he is as strong as I am, and braver than I am.”
    â€œYou are both very brave and good people,” the Warden said. “I am terribly sorry that all this has to happen.”
    â€œThere is nothing you can do about it. It wasn’t your fault.”
    â€œAnyway, I’m sorry,” the Warden said, “and I regret it. I wish it could be different.”
    The Warden didn’t want to talk any more. There was nothing more he could think of saying, and he also realized that this kind of talk was having a profoundly upsetting effect upon him. He asked Vanzetti to excuse him, explaining that today was a day when he had a