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THE STORY OF A
PROLETARIAN
LIFE
By
BARTOLOMEO
VANZETTI
Translated from the Italian
By EUGENE LYONS
Foreword by
ALICE STONE BLACKWELL
—- x-fiéqQt-I?
Published by
SACCO-VANZETTI DEFENSE COMMITTEE
P. O. Box 37, Hanover Street Station
Boston, Massachusetts
1923

BARTOLOMEO VANZETTI
FOREWORD
The case of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti has
I attracted World-wide attention. Yet very few of our people,
except those immediately associated with the case, are at all
familiar with the'personalities of the two men whose fate has
aroused this strong international interest.
It has been my ‘privilege to know Vanzetti personally, .
and I have been struck by his simple-heartedness and sincerity. '
e The belief in his innocence,'widely held among those who fol-. _
lowed the trials, is strengthened'upon ‘personal acquaintance.
Though he has been living formore than two years under the
shadow of a death sentence,‘ he. has maintained an equable
temper and keen interest in world affairs, and his thirst for
knowledge is unabated. Each inmate of the Massachusetts
State prison at Charlestown- has‘to' do‘ daily an amount of
piece-work that is supposed to take eight hours; but Vanzetti,
by extra diligence, gets through histask ahead ‘of time, and
' uses the extra leisure to study English literature.
' Vanzetti’s autobiography is here presented in pamphlet.
form for the first time. It, is a remarkable human document._
Let the reader consider it with an open mind, and judge for
himself Whether it indicates'a character‘ of the criminal type.
ALICE STONE BLACKWELL
.[uly,_1923.
NOTE :—On April 15th, 1920, at 3 p. m., a group of four
or five men shot down Alexander Berardelli and Frederic A.
Parmenter who were carrying the payroll of Slater and Mor-
rill, at a point in front of the Rice & Hutchins factory. The
attacking party then escaped by automobile.
On May 5th, 1920, Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Van-
zetti were arrested at Brockton, Mass. They were convicted
of first degree murder on July 14th, 1921. Five motions for
new trial have been filed. They are at the present time un-
decided. All of these motions involve alleged newly dis-
covered evidence.
' July, 1923.
THE STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE
I.
a little of the light from-that dynamic thought
or ideal which is drawing humanity towards
better destinies.
I Was born on June 11, 1888, of G. Battista Vanzetti and
Giovanna Vanzetti, in Villafalletto, province of Cuneo, in Pied-
mont. The town, which rises on the right bank of the Magra,
in the shadows of a beautiful chain of hills, is primarily an
agricultural community. Here I lived until the age of thirteen
in the bosom of my ‘family. ' '
I attended the local schools, and loved study. My earliest
memories are of prizes won in school examinations, including
a second prize in the religious catechism. My father was un-
decided whether to let me prosecute studies or to apprentice
me to some artisan. One day he read in the Gazetta del Popolo
that in Turin forty-two lawyers had applied for a position
paying 35 lire monthly. The. news item proved decisive ‘in


_ my boyhood, for it left my father determined that I should
learn a trade and become a shop-keeper. '
And so in the year 1901 he conducted me to Signor Conino,
who ran a pastry shop in the city of Cuneo, and left me there
to taste, for the first time, the flavor of hard, relentless labor.
‘ I worked for about twenty months there—from seven o’clock
each morning until ten at night, every day, except for a three-
hour vacation twice a month. From Cuneo I went to Cavour
and found myself installed in the bakery of Signor Goitre,
a place that I kept for three years. Conditions were no better
than in Cuneo, except that the fortnightly free period was of
five hours duration. -
I did not like the trade, but I stuck to it to please my
father and because I did not know what else to choose. In
5
biography. Nameless, in the crowd of ,name- ~
less ones, I have merely caught and reflected :
THE STORY OF A'PROLETARIAN LIFE’
1905 I abandoned Cavour for Turin in the hope of, locating
work in the big city. Failing in this hope, I went on further
to Courgne where I remained working six months. Then back
to Turin, on a job as caramel-maker.
I In Turin, in February of 1907, I fell seriously ill. I
' was in great pain, confined indoors, deprived of air and sun
, mother.
and joy, like a “sad twilight flower.” But news of my plight
reached the family and my father’came from Villafalletto
to take me- back to my birthplace. At home,lhe 'told me,
Iwould be cared for by my mother, my good, my best-beloved
And so I returned, after six years spent in the fetid‘
atmosphere of bakeries and restaurant kitchens, with rarely-
a breath of God’s air or a glimpse of His glorious'world. Six
.years that might have been beautiful to a boy avid of learning
and thirsty for a refreshing draught of the simple country
life of his native village. 1 Years of the great miracle which
transforms the child into the man. Ah, that I might have
had leisure to watch the wonderful unfoldment!
-The_ three hours on the train I leave to- the imagination
1 ‘ of those who have suffered pleurisy. But even through the
‘ mist of .pain I saw the majestic country through which we
passed and became part of it in imagination. The deep green
of north Italian valleys which not even wintercan dull, is a
living thing-in my mind even today." /-
‘ My mother received me tenderly, weeping from the full-_
nessof her happiness and-her sorrow. She put me in bed—-
I had almost forgotten that hands could caress so tenderly.
There I remained for a month, and for two months more I
went about with the aid of a heavy walking stick. At last I
recoveredmy health. From'lthen until the day I parted for
‘ America I remained in the house of my father. That was
one of the happiest periods of my life. I was twenty years
old; the magic age of hopes and dreams, even to those who,
like myself, turn the pages of life’s book precociously. I made
many friends and gave freely of the love that was, in my heart.
I helped to cultivate the garden at home with an 'ardor that
'I had never felt in the cities. '
But that serenity was soon disturbed, and by the most
painful misfortune that can strike a' man.
6 .
THE STORY OF A PROLETARIAN' LIFE

One sad day my mother fell sick. What she, the family
and I suffered no pen can describe. The slightest noise caused
her atrocious spasms. Many times I ‘rushed towards the group
of young men approaching along the road of an evening and
singing gayly to the new-born stars, 'imploring them for the
love of God and their own mothers to be quiet. Many times
I begged the men on the street corner to go elsewhere for
their conversation; In the last few ‘weeks of-her life her suf-
ferings became so agonizing that neither my father, nor her-
relatives, nor her dearest friends had the courage to approach‘
her bedside. 'I remained alone to comfort her as best I could.
Day and night I remained with her, tortured by the sight of -
her suffering. For two months I did not undress. ' -'
’ Science did not avail, nor love. After-three months of
brutal illness she breathed her last in my’ arms. She died
without hearing ‘me weep. It was I who laid her in her coflin ;.
I who accompanied her to the final resting place; I who threw
the first handful of earth over ‘her bier. And it was right
that I should do so, for I was burying- part of myself . . . The
void left has never been filled.' ,
But it was too'much. Time, far from softening my loss,
made the pain more cruel. I watched my father get gray in
:a short time. I became more retiring, more silent; for days
at a time I uttered not a syllable and passed the days wander-
ing through the forests which border the Magra. Many times,
going to the bridge, I stopped long and looked down. at the
white. stones far below in a bed of sand, and thought of them
as a bed where there would be no more nightmare. _
This desperate state of mind decided me to abandon Italy
for America. 'On June 9, 1908, I left my dear ones. My sorrow
was so great at the parting that I kissed my relatives and
strained them to my bosom without being able to speak. 'My
father,too, was speechless in his profound sorrow, and my
sisters wept as they did ‘when my mother died. My going had
excited interest in the'village and the neighbors crowded the
house, each with a word of hope, a blessing, a tear. In a crowd _
they followed 'me .f'arv .out onthe road, as if a townsman were
being exiled forever.
An incident of the parting is vivid in my memory; several
hours before leaving I went to say farewell to an old woman‘
7
THE STORY OF A PROLETAR'IAN LIFE
‘who had for me a maternal feeling. since the death‘of my
' hind me.
mother. I found‘her ,on the threshold of her home, together
with the young Wife of her son. ' 4 ~ .
“Ah, thou hast come,” she said, ‘,‘I expected thee. Go‘, an
may the love of God follow thee. Never have I seen 'a son do
for a mother what thou hast done; blessingsupon thee,.my ‘
We kissed. Then-the young daughter-in-law spoke.‘
“Kiss me, too. I like you so much, you are so good,” she
said swallowing tears. 4 b
.8011
‘I kissed herland' fled, and could hear them Weeping be- ~
, Two days later I left Turin for the frontier-town Modena.
While the train carried me towards the border, some tears
fell from my eyes, so little used to crying; Thus I left my'
‘native land, a wanderer without 'a country! Thus have blos-"
somed the benedictions of. those simple souls, ‘those noble
hearts. . ' ' ' - '
. ‘ '11. - - - . .
IN PROMISED LAND ‘
After a two-day railway ride across France and more
4 , than ~seven days on‘ the ocean,. I arrived the Promised Land.
New ‘York loomed on the horizon in‘ all its_ grandness andv
illusion‘ of happiness. I strained my eyes from. the steerage
deck, trying to see through this mass of masonry that was
. at once inviting, and threatening the huddled men and women
in the‘third class. ~ -. I ‘ .
In the immigration station I had ‘my-first great surprise.
I saw the steerage passengers handled ‘by the ofiicials like so
many animals. Not a word of kindness, of encouragement, to
lighten the burden of fears. that rests heavily upon 'the newly
arrived on American shores. Hope, which lured these im-
migrants to the new land, withers under the touch of harsh
officia-ls. ‘Little children who should be alert‘ with expectancy,
cling instead to their mothers’ skirts, weeping with fright. _
Such is the unfriendly spirit that exists in the immigration
, barracks. '
_ How. well- I, remember “standing at the Battery, in lower
. > 8 .
THE’ STORY OiF'eA P'ROLE‘TA‘RIAN LIFE

New York, upon my arrival,“alone, with a few'poor belong-1
ings in the-way of clothes, and very little money.‘ Until yester-
day I was among folks who understood me. This morning I
seemed to have awakened in a land where my language meant
little more to the native (so far as’ meaning is concerned).
than the pitiful noises of a dumb animal. ‘Where was I to go?
What was I to do? Here was the promised land. The elevated
rattled by and did not answer. The automobiles and the trol-_
leys sped by, heedless of me. -
I had note of one address, and thither a fellow-passenger
conducted me. It was the house of a countryman of mine, on
street, near Seventh Avenue. Iremained there a- while,

but it became all too evident that there was no room for me '
in-his ,house, which was overstocked with .human beings, like _
all workingmen’s houses. In deep melancholy I left'the place,
towards eight in the evening to look for alplaceto sleep. I
retraced my steps to the Battery, where I took a bed 'fo'rrthe
night in a suspicious-looking establishment, the best I could
afford, Three days after my‘ arrival, the compatriot already
mentioned, who was ‘head cook in a rich club on West
street overlooking the Hudson River, ‘found me a post in his

kitchen‘ as dishwasher. I worked there three months. The - "
hours were long ;' the garret where we slept was suffocatingly
hot; and the vermin did not permit me to close ~an eye. Almost 1.. _
every night I sought escape the park.
Leaving this place, I foundthe same kind of employment
in the Mouquin Restaurant What the conditions there are
at present I do not know. 'But at that time, 13 years ago, the
‘ pantry was horrible. There was not a singl'e‘window in 'it. -
When the electric light for some reason was out, it was totally
. dark, so that one couldn’t move without running into things.-
The vaporv of the boiling water Where the plates, pans
and silver were washed'formed great drops of water on the
- ceiling, took uplall the dust and grime 'there, then fell slowly’
' one by one upon my head, as‘I worked below‘. During working ~
_ hours the heat was ‘terrific. The table, leavings amassed in
barrels near the pantry gave out nauseating exhalations. The '
sinks had no direct sewerage connection. Instead, the water
was permitted to overrun‘ to the floor. In the center of the,
room there was a drain. Every night'the pipe was clogged
. 9 '
THE."STORY‘OF ‘A PROLETARIAN LIFE

and the greasy water rose higher and higher and we trudged
in the slime. . .
We worked twelve hours one day and fourteen the next,
with five hours off every other Sunday. Damp food hardly
' fit for dogs and five or six dollars a week was the. pay. After
eight months I left the place for fear of contracting consump-
tion.
That was a sad year. What toiler does not remember it?
The poor slept outdoors and rummaged the garbage barrels
to find a cabbage leaf or a rotten potato. For three months I
searched New York, its length and its breadth, without finding
‘work. One morning, in an employment agency, I met a young.
-man- more forlorn and unfortunate than‘ I. He had gone
without food the day before and was still fasting. I took him
to a' restaurant, investing almost all that remained to me of
mysavings in a meal which he ate with wo_lfish voracity. His
hunger stilled, my new friend declared that it was stupid to;
remain in New York. If he had the money, he said, he would
go to the country, where there was more chance of work,
Without counting the pure air and. the sun, which could be had
for nothing. With the money remaining in my possession
we took the steamboat for Hartford, ‘Connecticut, the. same
day. ' '
From Hartford we struck out fora small town where
my companion had been once‘ before, the name of which I
forget. We tramped along the road, and finally got up courage
enough to knock at a cottage door. An American farmer
opened to our knock. We asked for work. He had none wto
give us, but he was touched by our poverty and ourall too
evident hunger. He gave us food, then went through the whole‘
town with us, inquiring whether there was work. Not a
.stroke was to be found. Then, out of pity for us,~ he took us
on his farm, although he had no need of 'our assistance. He
kept us there two weeks. I shall always treasure the memory
of that American family—the first Americans who treated us '
as human despite the fact that we came from the land of
Dante and Garibaldi. ’
Space limitations do not permit me to trace in detail our
subsequent wanderings in search of some one who would give
us bread and water‘ in return for our labor. From town to
10 -
THE STORY'OF ‘A" PROLETARIAN LIFE

town, village to village, farm- to farm we ,went. We knocked
at factory doors and were sent away. . . “Nothing doing . . .
Nothing doing.’_’ We were literally without a penny between
the two of us, with hunger gnawing at our insides. We were
lucky whenwe found an abandoned stable where we could
pass the night in an effort to sleep. One morning we were
fortunate. In South Glastonbury a countryman from Pied-
mont treated us to breakfast. Need I tell how grateful we
were to him? But then we had to keep going in the disheart-
ening search. About three in the afternoon we arrived in
Middletown, Connecticut, tired, bruised, hungry, and dripping
from three hours’ walk in a rain.
' Of the first person that we met we inquired for some
North-Italian (my illustrious companion was excessively par-
tial to his own section of Italy) and were directed to a nearby
house. We knocked andwere received by two Sicilian women,
mother and daughter. We asked to be permitted to dry our
.-clothes at the stove, and this they did most. readily, despite
the fact that they were Southerners. And while we sat there
getting dried we asked about the chances for obtaining work
in that vicinity. They told us there was not.a stitch to be
had, and advised trying in Springfield, where there are three _
brick furnaces. '
Observing the pallor of our faces and the visible trem-
bling of our bodies, the good women inquired whether we were
hungry. We confessed that wehad not eaten since six in the
morning. Whereupon the younger of them handed us a short,
loaf of bread and a long knife.
“I can give you nothing else}? she said,- and her'eyesfilled
with honest tears. “I have five children and my old mother
to feed. My husband works on the railroad and earns no more
than $1.35 a day, and to make things worse,‘ I have been sick '
for a long time.”
While I cut the bread, she rummaged round the house _
in a desperate search and finally discovered, several apples,
which she insisted upon our eating. Refreshed, we set out in
the direction of the furnaces. ‘
“What can that be over there where the chimney is?”
asked my companion. ’
11
THE STORY OF A PROLETAIIRIIANILIFE
- the violin, ‘the accordion or some other instrument.

. -“It is‘ the brick ‘factory, no doubt' Let us go and ask
for a job.” w _ ~ ' ‘ a .
'“Oh, it is much too late now,” he demurred.
“Well, ‘then, let us go to. the home of -_ the owner,” was my»
" suggestion. '
“No, no, let’s go on elsewhere. Work of that kind wouldl
kill you. You’re not built that way,” he'countered.
It- became-evident enough that in the: long period of fruit-
less searching for work, the fellow had lost his taste for labor.
. It is a state of mind that is not ‘at all unusual.v In the repeated
impact of disappointment and insult, hunger and. deprivation,
the unemployed victim develops ‘a certain indifference to his \
'own fate. A terrible'state of mind'it is and one that makes
‘ "vaga'bonds forever of the weaker individuals among the un-v
fortunates. '
As I stood theretrying'to swing him back- to a healthjr
view of our predicament, I thought of the house we had left
a little While ago. I thought with apangof their slim evening." - '
meal; made slimmer because of the bread we had devoured.
The thought of my ‘own troubles blotted them out for a while.
_ The memory of the last night, the cold sleepless night, made:
,me' tremble. I took a look at myself; I was. almost in rags.
' _ Another ‘night coming on. . . . ‘ J
' WORK! WORK! WORK!
Almost by force I took my fellow-wanderer into town‘,
where both. of us secured work at the furnaces, one of the
most exacting jobs I know. He did not stand the test. In two
weeks he gave up the work. I remained .there ten months.
7 ' The workwas indeed above my strength, but there were many
joys after -'the'day’s labor. ' We. had quite 'a colony of natives.
from Piedmont, Tuscany and. Venice-and the little colony‘ .
became almost a family. In the: evenings, the sordidness of
theday was forgotten. Someone would strike up a tune 011
of us would dance—I, unfortunately, was-never-inclined to-
4 ..wards this art and sat aside watching‘. I have always watched
“ - 1 and'joyed in other folks’ happiness. ' '
There was considerable sickness in the little colony, I
' 112; ~
Some
' .
THE STORY OF A_ PROLETA‘RI-AN, LIFE’-

recall, with fevers attacking one after the other. Scarcely a-
day passed without someone’s teeth beginning to chatter. -
From now on I was a little more fortunate. _I went to
Meriden, Connecticut, where I worked in the stone pits. Two
years in- the stone pits, vdoing the hardest unskilled labor;
but I was living with an aged couple, bothl'Tuscans, and took
a great deal of joy in learning the beautiful Tuscan language.
During the years in Springfield and in Meriden I'learnedi
a great deal ‘besides the dialect of Tuscany._ I learned to love .
and sympathize with those others who, like myself, were
ready to accept any miserable wage'in order to. keep _body
and soul together. I learned that class-consciousness was not
a phrase invented ‘by propagandists, but ‘was a real, vital?
_ force, and that those who feltits significance were no longer
beasts of burden, buthuman beings.
I made friends everywhere, never by throwing myself’ -
at them, never consciously. - Perhaps they who worked beside
me in the pits ‘and at the furnaces saw in my eyesthe great. . .
pity I had for their lot, and the great dreams that were already
in my imagination for a-world where allof us would live a. .
cleaner, less animalexistence. ,-
My friends counseled me to get back ‘to my profession. >
as pastry cook. The unskilled worker, they-insisted, was the '
lowest animal there was inthe social system; I would have -
neither respect nor food if I remained such. A countryman
in New York added his. plea totheirs. So I went backt'o New '
. , York‘ and quickly found employment as assistant pastry chef _
in Sovarin’s Restaurant on Broadway. In six or eight months
I was discharged. At the time I did not know why. I imme-
diately got_relocated in a hotel on Seventh Avenue, in the
theater district.. In five'm'onths I [was discharged from here, .
too. Then I learned the reason for these strange discharges.
The chefs ‘were at that time in league with the employment -
_ agencies and got a divvy on‘ every man they placed. The more , ‘
often they sacked men, the more often they could get new ones
and their commission. -' ~ , . ~
The countrymen with whom~I was boarding beggedme
'not to despair. _“Stick to your trade,” they urged, “and so _ .
long as we have a house and bed and food to offer you, don't
worry. And when you need cash, don’t hesitate to tell us.”
' 13
'THE' STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE
Great hearts among the masses, 0 ye Pharisees!
-For five months I now trod the sidewalks of New York,
‘unable to get work at my trade, or even as a dishwasher.
Finally I fell into an agency on Mulberry Street, which looked
for men ‘to work with a pick and shovel. I offered 'myself
and was accepted. 'I was conducted together with a‘ herd
of other ragged men to a barracks in the woods near‘ Spring-
field, Massachusetts' where a railroad ‘was in‘ construction‘.
Here I worked until‘I had repaid the debt of “one hundred
dollars I‘had contracted during idle months, and had saved
a little bit besides. Then with a comrade I went to other
barracks near Worcester. In this,vicin'_i'ty I stayed more than
“a year, working in several of the factories. Here I made many
‘friends, whom I remember with the strongest emotion, with
'a love unaltered and unalterable. _ A few American workers
were among these.‘ ' ‘ -- ,
' From Worcester I' transferred to Plymouth (that was
_ :about seven years ago), which remained my home until the
time I was arrested. I learned to look upon the place with a
~real affection, because as time went on it held more and more
‘of the people dear to my heart, the folks I boarded with, the
'men who worked by my side, the women who later bought
the wares I had to offer as a peddler. . ‘
In passing, let me say how gratifying it is to realize
that my compatriots in Plymouth reciprocate the love I feel
. ~for them. Not only have they supported my defense—-
money is a slight thing after all—but they have expressed to
me directly and indirectly their faith in my innocence. Those
vwho rallied around my goodfriends of the defense committee,
‘were not only workers, but businessmen who knew me; not
~tonly Italians, but Jews, Poles, Greeks and Americans.
Well, I worked in the Stone establishment for more than
'a year, and then for the Cordage Company for about eighteen .
months. My active participation in the Plymouth cordage
strike made it certain that I could never get a job there. . . .
As a matter of fact, because of my more frequent appearance
-on the speaker’s platform in working class groups of every
kind, it became increasingly difi‘icult to get work anywhere.
So far as certain‘ factories were concerned I was definitely
'“blacklisted.” Yet, every one of my -many employers could
' 14
STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE’ _-

testify that I' was an ‘industrious, dependable workman, that
. my chief fault ‘was in trying so hard to bring a .little light of"
understanding into the dark lives of my fellow-workers. . For
‘some time I did manual work of the hardest kind in the con-
‘ 'fstruction undertakings of Sampson & Douland, for the city“
I can almost say that‘ I have participated in all thev principal
public works in Plymouth. Almost any Italian in the town or
any of my foremen of my various jobs can attest my in*
dustry and modesty of life during this period. I was deeply
interested by this’ time in the things of the intellect, in the
great hope that animates me even here in the dark cell of a
‘prison while I await death for a crime I did not commit-
' - My health was not good. The years of toil and the more
terrible periods of unemployment had‘ robbed me of much of'
my original vitality. I was casting about for some salutary
means of eking out my livelihood. About eight months before:
my arrest a friend of mine who'was planning to return to
the home country said to me: “Why don’t you buy- my cart,
my knives, my scales, and go to selling fish instead of remain~
ing under the yoke of the bosses?” I grasped the opportunity,
and so became a fish-vender, largely out of love for independ-
ence. - .
At that time, 1919, the desire to see once more my dear‘
ones at home, the nostalgia for my native land had entered
my heart. My father, who never wrote a ‘letter without in-- '
viting me home, insisted more than ever, and my good sister"
Luigia joined in his pleas. Business was none too fat, but
I worked like a beast of burden, without halt orstay, day
after day. ~ ' . _ .
December 24, the day before Christmas, was the last day'
I sold fish that year. A brisk day of business I had, since all
Italians buy eels that day for the Christmas Eve feasts. Read-
ers may recall that it was a bitter-cold Christmas, and the
harsh weather did not let up after the holidays; and pushing;
a cart along is not warming work. I went for a short period’.
to more vigorous, evenif no‘ less freezing work. I got a job
a few days after Christmas cutting ice for Mr. Peterseni. One
day, when he hadn’t work enough to go round, I shoveled coaI
for the Electric House. When the ice, job was finishedI got.
employment with Mr. Howland, ditch-digging, until a‘ snow
15
‘THE STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE
~~ was with me.

.storm made me a man of leisure again. Not for longer than
a few hours. I hired myself out to the town, cleaning the
streets of the snow, and this work done, I helped clean the
snow from the railroad tracks. Then I was taken on again by
the Sampson Construction people who were laying a water
main for the Puritan Woolen Company. I stayed on the job
until it was finished.
Again I found no job. The railroad strike difliculties had
cut off the cement supply, so that there was no more construc-
tion work going on. I went back to my fish-selling, when I
‘could get fish, because the supply of that also was limited.
When I could get none, I dug for clams, but the profit on these
was lilliputian, the expenses being so high that they left no
margin. In April I reached an agreement with a fisherman
for a partnership. It never materialized, because on May 5,
while I was preparing a mass meeting to protest against the
death of Salsedo at the hands of the Department of Justice,
‘I was arrested. My good friend and‘comrade Nicola Sacco
“Another deportation case,” we said to one another.
But it wasn’t. The horrible charges of which the ‘whole
world now knows were brought against us. I was accused of
‘a crime in Bridgewater, convicted after eleven days of the most
tl’arcical trial I have ever witnessed, and sentenced to fifteen
' years’ imprisonment. Judge Webster Thayer, the same man
‘who later presided at the murder trial, imposed the sentence.
There was not a vibration of sympathy in his tone when
_'he did so. I wondered as I listened to him, why he hated me
so. Is not a Judge supposed to be impartial? But now I think
‘I know—I must have looked like a strange animal to him,
being a ‘plain worker, an alien, and a radical'to boot. And
why was it that all my witnesses, simple people who were
anxious to tell the simple truth, were‘ laughed at and disre-
'garded? No credence was given their'words because they, too,
were merely aliens. . .. The testimony of human beings is
:acceptable, but aliens . . . pooh!
16
THE STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE

‘ 1v. , _
MY INTELLECTUAL LIFE AND CREED‘ '
I want to retrace my steps in memory for a while. I have
glven the physical facts of my story. The deeper, truer story
is not in the outward circumstances of a man’s life, but in-
This inner growth, in mind and soul, and universal conscious-
mess. Q ~ '
I went to school from the age of six to the age of thirteen.
I loved study with a real passion. ‘During the three years-
‘passed in Cavour I had the good luck to be near a certain
‘learned person. With his help I read all the publications that
'came in my hands. My superior was a subscriber to a Catholic
periodical in Genoa. I thought that lucky, because I was then '
:a fervent Catholic. .
In Turin I had no companions except fellow workers,
_young store clerks and laborers. My fellow workers declared
themselves socialists and made fun of my religious streak,
‘calling me a hypocrite and bigot. One day it led to a fist fight
with one of _them.
Now that I am more or less familiar with ‘all the
:schools of socialism, I realize that they did not know even the
meaning of the ‘word. They called themselves socialists out '
of sympathy for DeAmicis (then in the flush of his ‘career
~as a writer) and for the spirit of the place and the time. So
real was the effect of the environment thatI, too, soon com-
menced to love socialism without knowing it, or believing
myself a socialist. '
All things‘ considered, the stage of evolution of those
people was beneficent for me and improved me greatly. The
principles of- humanism and equality of rights began to make
a breach in my heart. I read the Game of ‘DeAmicis, and
later his Voyages and Friends.
In the house there was a book-of St. Augustine. From
that, this sentence remains indelibly in my mind: “The blood
‘of martyrs is the seed of liberty.” I also found the Promessi
.Sposi and read it twice. Finally I laid hands on a dusty
Divine Comedy. Ah. me! my teeth were not made for such a
bone; nevertheless I proceeded to gnaw it desperately, and I
‘believe not uselessly. '
' 17
TTHSE’STDO'RY OF A‘ PROLETARIAN LIFE

In the last days of my stay in the land of my birth I
learned much from Dr. Francis, the chemist Scrimaglio and.‘
the veterinarian Bo. Already I began to understand that the
> plague which besets humanity most cruelly is ignorance and
the degeneracy of natural sentiments. My religion soon needed’
no temples, altars and formal prayers. God-became for me
a perfect spiritual Being, devoid of any. human attributes.
Although my father told me often that religion was necessary
in order to hold in check human passions, and to console the
human being in tribulation, I felt in my own heart the yea
and nay of things. In this state of mind I crossed the ocean.
Arrived in America, I underwent all the sufferings, the
(lisillusions and the privations that come inevitably to one who
lands at the age of twenty, ignorant of life, and something
of a dreamer. Here I saw all the brutalities of' life, all the-
injustice, the corruption in which humanity struggles trag-
ically. ' - '
But despite everything I succeeded in fortifying myself‘
physically and intellectually. Here I studied the works of
Peter Kropotkin, Gorki, Merlino, Malatesta, Reclus. I read’
Marx’s Capital, and the worksof Leone di Labriola, the poli-
tical Testament of Carlo vPisacane, -Mazzini’s Duties of Man,
and many other writings of social import. Here I read the-
journals of every socialist, patriotic and religious faction-
Here I studied the Bible, The Life of Jesus (Renan), and
Jesus- Christ Has Never Existed by Miselbo. Here I read'.
Greek and Roman history, the story of the United States, of
the French Revolution and of the Italian Revolution. I studied‘
‘ Darwin and Spencer, Laplace and Flammarion. I returned to’
the Divine Comedy and to J eritselem Liberated. I re-read Leo-
pardi and wept with him. I read the works of Hugo, of Leo‘
Tolstoi. of Zola, of Cantu, the poetry of Giusti, Guerrini,.
Rapisardi and Carducci.
Do not believe me, my dear reader, a prodigy of science ;:
that would be a mistake. My fundamental instruction was-
too incomplete, my mental powers insufficient, to assimilate
all this vast material. Then itmust be remembered that I
studied while doing hard work all. day, and without any con-
genial accommodations. Ah, how many nights I sat over some-
volume by- a flickering gas jet, far into‘the morning hours l.‘
18
THE STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE

Barely had I laid my head on thepillow when the whistle
sounded and back I went to the. factory or the stone pits.
But I brought to the studies a cruel, continuous and in-.
exorable observation of men, animals and plants—of every-
thing, in a word, that surrounds man. The Book of Life: that
is the Book of Books! All the others merely teach how to read
this one. The honest books, I mean; the dishonest ones have
an opposite purpose. .
Meditation over this great book determined my actions
and my principles. I denied that “Every man for himself and
God for all!” I championed the weak, the poor, the oppressed,
the simple and the persecuted. I admired heroism, strength
and sacrifice when directed towards the triumph of justice.
I understood that in the name of God, of Law, of the Patria, of
Liberty, of the purest’ mental abstractions, of the highest
human ideals, are perpetrated and will continue to be perpet-
rated, the most ferocious crimes; until the day when by the
acquisition of light it will no longer be possible for the few,
in the name of God, to do wrong to the many.
I understood that man cannot trample with immunity
upon the unwritten laws that govern his life, he cannot vio-
late the ties that bind him to the universe. I understood that
the mountains, the seas, the rivers called “natural boundaries”
"were formed before man, by a complexity of physical and
chemical processes, and not for the purpose of dividing peoples.
I grasped the concept of fraternity, of universal love. I
maintained that whosoever benefits or hurts a man, benefits or
hurts the whole species. I sought my liberty in the liberty
of all; my happiness in the happiness of all. I realized that the
equity of deeds, of rights and of duties, is the only moral basis
upon'which could be erected a just human society. I earned
my bread by the honest sweat of my brow. I have not a drop
of blood on my hands, nor on my conscience.
I understood that the supreme goal ‘of life is happiness.
That the eternal and immutable bases of human happiness
are health, peace of conscience, the satisfaction of animal
needs, and a sincere faith. I understood that every individual
had two I ’s, the real and the ideal, that the second is the source
of all progress, and that whatever wants to make the first
seem equal to the second is in bad faith. The difference in
19
U
THE STORY OF A PROLETARIAN LIFE

any one person between his two egos is always the same, be-
cause whether in perfection or in degeneration, they keep
the same distance between them.
I understood that man is never sufiiciently modest towards
himself and that true wisdom is in tolerance. _
I wanted a roof for every family, bread for every mouth,
education for every heart, the light for every intellect.
I am convinced that human history has not yet begun;
that we find ourselves in the last period of the prehistoric.
I see with the eyes of my soul how the sky is ‘suffused with
the rays of the new millennium. _ '
I maintain that liberty of conscience is as inalienable as
life. I sought with all my power to direct the human spirit to
the good of all. I know from experience that rights and priv-
ileges are still won and maintained by force, until humanity
shall have perfected itself.
In the real history of future humanity—classes and pri-
vileges, the antagonisms of interest between man and man
abolished—progress and change will be determined by intel-
' ligence and the common convenience.
If we and the generation which our women carry under
‘their bosoms do not arrive nearer to that goal, we shall not
have obtained anything real, and humanity will continue to
be more miserable and unhappy.
I am and shall be until the last instant (unless I should
discover that I am in error) an anarchist-communist, because
I believe that communism is the most humane form of social
contract, because I know that only with liberty can man rise,
become noble, and complete. ' ‘
Now? At the age of thirty-three—the age of Christ and,
according to certain learned alienists, the age of offenders
generally—I am scheduled for prison and for death. Yet, were
I to recommence the “journey of life,” I should tread the same
road, seeking, however, to lessen the sum of my sins and er-
rors and to multiply that of my good deeds.
I send to my comrades, to my friends, to all good men fraternal embrace, love and fervent greetings!
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