Read Online Peekskill USA: Inside the Infamous 1949 Riots by Howard Fast - Free Book Online Page B

counted around it no less than forty used flashlight bulbs. That meant that at least forty pictures had been taken of the book-burning and of the insane demonstration which had accompanied it. But I do not recall haying seen even one picture of the incident published anywhere—that is, of the book-burning incident. What happened to those pictures? Have the plates been destroyed, or will they emerge some day as a silent witness to the infamous beginnings of American fascism?
    Up the slope from the hollow, toward the road, we found the remains of the fiery cross; and then, swinging toward the gulley and the embankment which we had chosen for defense, we found a great many empty liquor bottles, some thrown aside, some carefully broken to be used for weapons.
    But for the scene of a crime, an unbelievably despicable crime, the place was curiously deserted. It was an attempt which had failed, and thereby to be quickly forgotten. A small and inconsequential incident on the banks of the Hudson River.

Part Five
    The Golden Gate
    BUT PEEKSKILL WOULD not remain forgotten. At best, we Americans are a remarkably insular folk, and a taste of the country adds to that. All’s right with the world in the lovely fields and woods of our eastern country; nature created this properly, and what is illogical and insane penetrates with difficulty. I took the children swimming on Monday afternoon, and once again the world was at peace. I dwell on this because it was part and parcel of the amazing resistance the ordinary people of our land display toward the acceptance of an unmistakable phenomenon—the cultivation and growth of American fascism. We simply do not believe it. We no longer seem to be politically aware people. We live in a variety of small worlds, and while some of this is good, most of it is not good; for it wraps around us an incredible mantle of indifference, and this very indifference promotes our indifference toward what the men and the women of the whole world are coming to think of us. “It can’t happen here” is still deeply embedded in our conscience, and that salves us. When we do not hear the cries of the dying children in Korea, those of us with scruples explain it by saying that Korea is far away; but the truth is that we make our own measure of distance, and we hear precisely what we want to hear.
    I went swimming with my children, and Peekskill had faded into the place of dreams, where all things lack reality. This had happened before and it would happen again. But the fires lit by those burning books are not easily extinguished.
    A few minutes after we returned to the house that afternoon, the telephone rang. It was Bill Patterson of the Civil Rights Congress, that brave and tireless leader of almost every struggle for civil rights, calling from New York. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
    â€œI’m feeling fine. I’ve just been swimming.”
    â€œWell, dry yourself and come into New York tomorrow. We’re having a big mass meeting at the Golden Gate to protest this damned Peekskill business.”
    â€œIs there that much interest in it?”
    â€œThat much interest? For God’s sake, man, this is a world event of paramount importance. Do you know what a mass, organized attempt to lynch Paul Robeson means? Do you know what a mass, organized attempt to murder two hundred people means? Haven’t you seen the newspapers?”
    â€œI thought I knew what it meant,” I said. “But it’s true that I haven’t seen the papers.”
    â€œWell, look at them.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?”
    â€œBe one of the speakers.”
    I said, “All right. I’ll be there.” But I had no idea of the significance of his words until I arrived at the Golden Gate Ballroom in Harlem on the following day.
    The Golden Gate Ballroom, at 140th Street and Lenox Avenue, is, I imagine, the largest public auditorium in Harlem. At full capacity it