Full download ebook at ebookmass.

com

The Radical Right: Biopsychosocial Roots and

International Variations 1st ed. 2020 Edition
Klaus Wahl
For dowload this book click link below
https://ebookmass.com/product/the-radical-right-
biopsychosocial-roots-and-international-
variations-1st-ed-2020-edition-klaus-wahl/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWLOAD EBOOK

Download more ebook from https://ebookmass.com

More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

International Populism: The Radical Right In The

European Parliament 1st Edition Edition Duncan
Mcdonnell

https://ebookmass.com/product/international-populism-the-radical-
right-in-the-european-parliament-1st-edition-edition-duncan-
mcdonnell/

International Business 3rd Edition Klaus Meyer

https://ebookmass.com/product/international-business-3rd-edition-
klaus-meyer/

Media and Communications Policy Making: Processes,

Dynamics and International Variations 1st Edition
Robert G. Picard

https://ebookmass.com/product/media-and-communications-policy-
making-processes-dynamics-and-international-variations-1st-
edition-robert-g-picard/

The Right to Pain Relief and Other Deep Roots of the

Opioid Epidemic Mark D. Sullivan

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-right-to-pain-relief-and-other-
deep-roots-of-the-opioid-epidemic-mark-d-sullivan/
The European Union as International Mediator: Brokering
Stability and Peace in the Neighbourhood 1st ed. 2020
Edition Julian Bergmann

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-european-union-as-
international-mediator-brokering-stability-and-peace-in-the-
neighbourhood-1st-ed-2020-edition-julian-bergmann/

New Voices and New Perspectives in International

Economic Law 1st ed. 2020 Edition John D. Haskell

https://ebookmass.com/product/new-voices-and-new-perspectives-in-
international-economic-law-1st-ed-2020-edition-john-d-haskell/

China's Expansion in International Business: The

Geopolitical Impact on the World Economy 1st ed. 2020
Edition Peter Baláž

https://ebookmass.com/product/chinas-expansion-in-international-
business-the-geopolitical-impact-on-the-world-economy-1st-
ed-2020-edition-peter-balaz/

Peacebuilding and the Arts 1st ed. 2020 Edition Jolyon

Mitchell

https://ebookmass.com/product/peacebuilding-and-the-arts-1st-
ed-2020-edition-jolyon-mitchell/

The Radical Right: Report on the John Birch Society and

Its Allies Benjamin R. Epstein && Arnold Forster

https://ebookmass.com/product/the-radical-right-report-on-the-
john-birch-society-and-its-allies-benjamin-r-epstein-arnold-
forster/
 The Radical Right
Biopsychosocial Roots
and International Variations
Klaus Wahl
The Radical Right
 Klaus Wahl

The Radical Right

Biopsychosocial Roots and
International Variations
Klaus Wahl
Psychosocial Analyses and Prevention - Information System (PAPIS)
Munich, Germany

ISBN 978-3-030-25130-7    ISBN 978-3-030-25131-4 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-25131-4

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland
AG 2020
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether
the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and trans-
mission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication
does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant
protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book
are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or
the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any
errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
 Preface

A specter is haunting the world––the specter of the radical right. The

surge of social and political phenomena like xenophobia, racism, authori-
tarianism, nationalism, right-wing populism, radicalism, extremism, and
violence against asylum seekers, migrants and politicians in many coun-
tries makes citizens, journalists, scientists, and politicians concerned about
the stability of democratic societies. Some authors even consider the pos-
sibility of the abolition of democracy as a result of democratic elections.
What happened in the last years? In Hungary, the right-wing populist
party Fidesz of Viktor Orbán ruled from 1998 to 2002 and again since
2010. In Russia, nationalist propaganda played a role beyond the take-
over of the Crimea in 2014. During his tenure, President Vladimir Putin
has continued to use increasingly populist and nationalistic rhetoric. In
Poland, after being part of a coalition government from 2005 to 2007,
Jaroslaw Kaczyński’s nationalist party Law and Justice has led the coun-
try since 2015. In 2016, the world—including political scientists—was
surprised about the United Kingdom’s nationalistic vote for Brexit and
right-wing populist Donald Trump’s victory in the US presidential elec-
tion, which was accompanied by a wave of racist and anti-Muslim rheto-
ric, hate, and violence. In Austria, the presidential candidate of the
populist right Freedom Party of Austria, Norbert Hofer, won nearly half
of the votes. Marine Le Pen’s National Front (since 2018 National Rally)
has attracted a large part of the French population. In the 2017 German
v
vi Preface

federal election the nationalist party Alternative for Germany (AfD) was
the third largest party and the overall winner in parts of East Germany,
where there were also movements like the anti-Islamist PEGIDA
(Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamization of the Occident) with aggres-
sive gestures and slogans against parliamentarians and journalists. In
2017, too, a constitutional referendum in Turkey opened the way for an
autocratic system under nationalist President Recep Tayyip Erdogan. In
2018, the right-wing populist Italian party Lega formed a coalition gov-
ernment with the populist Five Star Movement in Italy. In 2019, Brazil’s
far-right president Jair Bolsonaro took office and several military officers
were appointed to his cabinet. In the same year, a right-wing extremist
in New Zealand killed 50 Muslim worshippers. This list could
be expanded.
The shadow of the radical right haunting the world feels like déjà vu.
There have been similar specters—from right wing populism to extrem-
ism—as parts of the history of many countries. To name but a few: the
nineteenth and twentieth century saw battles of the North American
right (Protestant groups, Ku Klux Clan, etc.) against racial, ethnic, and
cultural pluralism as well as against political, economic, and cultural
elites. In the twentieth century, Germany’s National Socialists left blood,
death, and devastation in many countries. Even after the Holocaust, rac-
ism and nationalism remained strong ideologies in large parts of the
world. In recent decades, somewhat more moderate forms of the radical
right have spread throughout both sides of the Atlantic—the populist
right. In the twenty-first century, in particular, the terrorist attacks dur-
ing and after 9/11, the financial and economic crises, and the flows of
refugees and immigrants to western countries seem to have been crucial
events that continue to shape the socio-political landscape on the right
side of the political spectrum with radical right-wing parties and move-
ments and influencing the whole political system.
There is a lot of media coverage of populist and radical right parties,
movements, anti-Semitism, anti-Islamism, hate speech, and racially
motivated crimes. Many scientists from history, political science, and
sociology present empirical studies on these phenomena. However, the
question remains—does this amount of research in different countries
(e.g., in Western, Central, and Eastern Europe and the United States)
 Preface vii

lead to converging theories and empirical results to explain these phe-

nomena? Unfortunately, there are diverging results and contradictory
theories. This shortcoming was one of the motives for writing this book.
Another motive was that there seem to be two rather separated types of
research. On the one hand, research of academic disciplines like history,
economy, sociology, and political science focus on historical, economic,
social, and political manifestations of the radical right like political par-
ties, movements, and ideologies. They are also interested in possible
causes of these political phenomena like nationalist traditions, economic
crises, immigration, or the failure of governments. On the other hand,
psychologists, behavior scientists, brain researchers, and so forth study
pre-political causes, conditions, catalysts, and triggers of radical right-­
wing phenomena like xenophobia, prejudices, and authoritarianism as
well as their roots in personality development, socialization, and evolu-
tion. Would it not be helpful to integrate all these findings into more
comprehensive explanations of political phenomena? Such interdisciplin-
ary (biopsychosociological) models could also disclose strategic factors that
could serve as starting points for preventive measures against xenophobia,
racism, and violence to make prevention more effective. There is a need
for such interdisciplinary, empirically based prevention programs given
that most of the existing measures seem to be primarily inspired by folk
psychology and an overly optimistic belief in political education and wel-
fare programs—and they are not very effective.
Therefore, this book offers a summary of up-to-date international and
interdisciplinary findings on the different forms of the radical right and
their (pre)conditions, causes, catalysts, reinforcers, and triggers.
In hindsight, these ideas would make it appear as if I were planning a
big publication. In fact, my initial aim was rather modest: when compil-
ing literature lists for my university students I did not find articles sum-
marizing the international and interdisciplinary state-of-the-art research
on factors causing radical right phenomena and their psychological cor-
relates, that is, combining findings from social sciences, psychology, and
the natural sciences. Therefore, I intended to write a journal article. But,
alas, I found more and more interesting results of research and I hoped
that my effort to bridge the gap between different sciences could be of
interest for more readers. As the radical right is found in many countries,
viii Preface

particularly in Europe and the United States, I was very glad to gain the
support of experts on these countries. Actually, Britta Schellenberg with
her profound knowledge of the European variations of the radical right
gave me so much helpful information for the chapter on Europe and
comments on other parts of the book that she should have been a co-­
author. I was also very glad to gain the support of Heather Painter with
her first-hand knowledge of the United States. She contributed to the
chapter on the United States and improved my English through-
out the book.
During the endless process of writing, authors are isolated at their desk
using a stack of books, papers, memos, a notebook, and the memory
areas of their brains. However, I also received many suggestions: to
explore the causes of political phenomena in a vertical or interdisciplinary
dimension, that is on the different layers of the psyche and societies, in my
research in recent decades I have been working with political scientists,
historians, sociologists, statisticians, psychologists, educationalists,
behavior scientists, brain researchers, and biologists in studies on xeno-
phobic and right-wing extremist violent offenders and on the develop-
ment of aggression and prejudice among children and adolescents. In
addition, in a horizontal or international dimension, lots of ideas, ques-
tions, and criticism from conferences and discussions with scientists,
politicians, ministry officials, police officers, representatives of NGOs,
from university seminars, courses for kindergarten and school teachers,
and social workers from Moscow to Washington, DC and from Stockholm
to Brasília have left their mark on this text. I am deeply grateful to Lerke
Gravenhorst, Uwe Haasen, Melanie Rhea Wahl, and the anonymous
reviewers for helpful comments on draft versions of parts of this book.
Last but not least, I want to thank Sharla Plant and Poppy Hull at Palgrave
Macmillan for supporting this project and for helping me throughout the
publishing stages from proposal to final publication.

Munich, Germany Klaus Wahl

September 2019
 Contents

1 The Radical Right: More than a Topic of Political Science  1

1.1 An Interdisciplinary and International Approach: Daring
the Impossible?  1
1.2 Problems of Definition: It’s All Greek to Me   4
1.2.1 Right and Left   4
1.2.2 Populism   6
1.2.3 Radicalism and Extremism   7
1.2.4 Xenophobia and Racism   9
1.2.5 Neoliberalism  10
1.2.6 Typologies and Working Definition  11
1.3 The Spectrum of the Political Right  14
References 16

2 Fear, Hate, and Hope: A Biopsychosociological Model of

the Radical Right 21
2.1 Basic Theoretical Assumptions: In the Beginning Was
Fear 21
2.1.1 The Emotional Appeal of the Radical Right  21
2.1.2 Politicization of Biopsychosocial Mechanisms  29
2.2 Elements of an Empirically Based Model: Step-by-Step  34

ix
x Contents

2.3 Political Manifestations and Psychological Syndromes:

Supply and Demand  37
2.3.1 Political Manifestations of the Radical Right:
The Supply Side (a)  37
2.3.2 Psychological Key Syndromes, Traits,
Mechanisms, and Behavior Patterns Associated
with the Radical Right: The Demand Side (b)  39
References 51

3 Psychological and Biological Factors: From Personality

Back to Evolution 61
3.1 Gender, Personality, Perception, and Reaction
Patterns (c)  61
3.2 Personality Development and Socialization (d)  69
3.3 Biotic Influences (e)  78
3.4 Evolution of Biopsychosocial Mechanisms (f )  83
References 92

4 Sociological and Historical Factors: From the Present

Society Back to History111
4.1 Demand Side: Current Socio-economic and Cultural
Factors (g1) 111
4.2 Supply Side: Political Factors (g2) 120
4.3 Media and Political Interpreters (h) 124
4.4 Socio-economic, Cultural, and Political History (i) 133
4.5 Social Circuits (k) 139
4.5.1 Reciprocal Effects: Ideology Strikes Back 139
4.5.2 Demand-Supply Interaction 141
4.6 Interim Results and the Alluring Double Promise of the
Radical Right 144
References150
 Contents xi

5 The Radical Right in Europe: Variations of a Socio-political

Phenomenon167
5.1 The Same and Yet Different? Contemporary
Manifestations of the Radical Right Across the
Continent (a) 167
5.2 Socially Anti-Modern Ideology 170
5.3 Attitudes, Discourses, and Actions 173
5.3.1 Racism, Anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, and Hate
Speech174
5.3.2 Political Attitudes 177
5.3.3 Violence and Terrorism 178
5.4 Social Formations: Political Parties, Movements, and
Groups181
5.4.1 Western Europe 181
5.4.2 Central and Eastern Europe 193
5.5 Elections 202
5.6 Transnational Political Contagion and Connections 202
References206

6 The Radical Right in Europe: Sociological and Historical

Causes and Conditions221
6.1 Demand Side (g1) 223
6.1.1 Western Europe 223
6.1.2 Central and Eastern Europe 235
6.2 Supply Side (g2) 239
6.2.1 Western Europe 239
6.2.2 Central and Eastern Europe 246
6.2.3 East-West Differences 251
6.3 Media and Political Interpreters (h) 254
6.3.1 Mass Media and the Internet 254
6.3.2 Political Parties and Leaders 258
6.4 The Two Histories of the Radical Right in Europe (i) 260
6.4.1 Western Europe: From the Old Extreme Right to
the New Populist Right 260
6.4.2 Central and Eastern Europe: From Old
Historical Remnants to Recent System Change 264
xii Contents

6.5 Interim Results: The Radical Right in Europe 270

References275

7 Making America Great Again? The Radical Right in the

United States285
7.1 Contemporary Manifestations of the Radical Right in
the United States 285
7.2 Current Socio-economic, Cultural, and Political Factors 290
7.2.1 Demand Side (g1) 290
7.2.2 Supply Side (g2) 298
7.3 Media and Political Interpreters (h) 300
7.4 History (i) 303
7.5 The Radical Right in the United States: What Next? 307
References309

8 Bundling Insights, Expanding Horizons, and Offering

Solutions319
8.1 What We Have Learned So Far 320
8.1.1 The Deep Roots of the Radical Right 320
8.1.2 The Radical Right on Both Sides of the Atlantic 323
8.2 Populism: Right, Left, and on Other Continents 329
8.2.1 The Double Face of Populism 329
8.2.2 Populism in Other Parts of the World 334
8.3 Common-Sense Assumptions Versus Interdisciplinary
Theories339
8.3.1 The Usual Suspects: Idealist and Economist
Explanations339
8.3.2 Economy, Society, Culture, and Emotions: Are
Soft Factors Harder than Expected? 341
8.4 Breaking the Vicious Cycle? 349
8.4.1 Reasons for Pessimism? 349
8.4.2 We Can Do Something 352
References357

Index369
 About the Authors

Klaus Wahl sociologist, conducted many interdisciplinary (biopsycho-

sociological) empirical studies on right-wing extremist offenders and the
development of xenophobia, aggression, and morality in children and
adolescents at the German Youth Institute (Munich), the Hanse Institute
for Advanced Study (Delmenhorst), and the Psychosocial Analyses and
Prevention – Information System (Munich). He was the head of the sci-
entific department of the German Youth Institute (DJI), one of the coun-
try’s largest social research institutes. In addition, he taught at the
University of Munich and other universities in several countries. Among
his most important books are Aggression and Violence (Aggression und
Gewalt, 2013), Skinheads, Neo-Nazis, Followers (Skinheads, Neonazis,
Mitläufer, ed. 2003), Xenophobia(Fremdenfeindlichkeit with Christiane
Tramitz and Jörg Blumtritt 2001); Critique of Sociological Reason (Kritik
der soziologischen Vernunft, 2000), and The Modernization Trap (Die
Modernisierungsfalle, 1989).

Heather Painter political scientist, worked at Washington & Jefferson

College and the Universities of Arkansas (USA), Munich (Germany), and
Vienna (Austria) on questions of the radical right before becoming legis-
lative assistant at the United States House of Representatives.

xiii
 List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 The populist triangle (based on Berbuir et al., 2015) 7

Fig. 1.2 Spectrum of the political right 15
Fig. 2.1 Biopsychosociological model of the radical right 36
Fig. 5.1 Historical-socio-economic-cultural-political model of the radi-
cal right in Europe 169
Fig. 5.2 Electoral success of populist to extreme right parties in Europe
Percentage of votes gained by populist to extreme right parties
in last national parliamentary elections (as at September 1,
2019): 30.0+ 20.0–29.9 10.0–19.9 <10.0 No
or very low vote share Data from: Parties and Elections in
Europe (2019) and Internet research. © K. Wahl 2019 203

xv
 1
The Radical Right: More than a Topic
of Political Science

1.1  n Interdisciplinary and International

A
Approach: Daring the Impossible?
The surge of xenophobia, nationalism, racism, authoritarianism, right-­
wing populism, and extremism in many countries aroused the interest of
social and political scientists. Even natural sciences’ flagship journal
Nature has expressed worry about the nationalist surge:

Waves of nationalist sentiment are reshaping the politics of Western

democracies in unexpected ways (…) Many economists see this political
shift as a consequence of globalization and technological innovation over
the past quarter of a century, which have eliminated many jobs in the West.
And political scientists are tracing the influence of cultural tensions arising
from immigration and from ethnic, racial and sexual diversity.” The long-­
running World Values Survey shows that people are increasingly disaffected
with their governments and more willing to support authoritarian leaders.
While the Nazis took advantage of the aftermath of World War I and a
global depression, today’s populist movements are growing powerful in
wealthy European countries with strong social programs. “What brings
about a right-wing movement when there are no good reasons for it?”
(Tollefson, 2016, p. 182)

© The Author(s) 2020 1

K. Wahl, The Radical Right, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-25131-4_1
2 K. Wahl

Some authors locate the dissatisfaction with the democratic system (Foa
& Mounk, 2017) in the larger development of a global recession of
democracies since 2006 and a deepening of authoritarianism (Diamond,
2015). Could it be that racist and authoritarian attitudes and political
preferences for populist right-wing parties have reached a critical mass in
quite a number of countries, a tipping point, whereby sufficiently large
minorities can change political cultures (Centola, Becker, Brackbill, &
Baronchelli, 2018)? Others criticize this pessimistic view (Levitsky &
Way, 2015).
For a long time, political science, history, sociology, psychology, and
even biological sciences have tried to find obvious conditions, not so
obvious preconditions, and deeper causes of these right-wing manifesta-
tions with divergent research paradigms and unconnected findings,
which have resulted in questionable proposals for prevention. Therefore,
this book has several aims:

• First, in view of the terminological confusion in the field of political,

public, and scientific discourse on phenomena of the radical right
(populism, radicalism, extremism, racism, etc.) will try some termino-
logical clarifications (Chap. 1).
• Second, in order to avoid simple theses such as “capitalism leads to fas-
cism” or “Eastern Europe’s authoritarian socialism resulted in right-­
wing radicalism” the book tries to integrate the current findings of the
historical, social, psychological, and biological sciences to explore the
complex and deep roots of radical right-wing phenomena in a system-
atic way. Usually handbooks include research results of various disci-
plines unconnected in separate chapters. In contrast, this book
attempts to show some connections between political, historical, socio-
logical, psychological, and biological factors and mechanisms. The
empirical findings of this vertical analysis shall fill a biopsychosociological
model of the radical right. In so doing, this review not only focuses on
the usual suspects like economic, social, and political factors, but also
on pre-political factors causing psychosocial syndromes (e.g., xeno-
phobia, authoritarianism) and their evolutionary roots and mecha-
nisms that make people susceptible to radical right ideologies. Some
processes between the different factor levels are reciprocal; therefore,
 1 The Radical Right: More than a Topic of Political Science 3

no simple reductionist explanation of “higher” by “deeper” factors is

sought. Such methodologically sophisticated studies on the develop-
ment of right-wing radicalism in individuals and in general are usually
carried out on limited populations in individual countries, cities, or
universities. This approach is comparable to the “biopsychosocial
model” in medicine (Needham et al., 2016), to evolutionary multi-­
level sociology (Bühl, 1982) and to the “depth-sociological” vertical
integration of multi-level causes, mechanisms, and their interactions
in social phenomena (Wahl, 2000). Of course, it is a long route from
evolution and genes to political preferences or “the individual steps by
which genetics connect to neurotransmitter systems which connect to
cognitive and emotional processing tendencies which connect to val-
ues and personality traits which connect to orientations to bedrock
principles which finally connect to preferences on specific political
issues of the day” (Smith, Oxley, Hibbing, Alford, & Hibbing, 2011,
p. 388). All these biotic and psychic processes are embedded in socio-­
economic and cultural environments (and their historical back-
grounds), which function as triggers and catalysts of those processes.
In addition, this review elucidates the radical right ideologies’ attrac-
tiveness for different personalities in different socio-economic and cul-
tural situations. A better knowledge of this psychosocial “demand” for
security and well-being, on the one hand, and the “supply” of radical
right-wing ideologies and politicians promising security and easy solu-
tions, on the other hand, could also inspire more effective prevention
programs (Chaps. 2, 3 and 4).
• Third, previous research was focused on political parties of the radical
right. Social movements and the interaction between electoral politics
and other forms of political mobilization (e.g., racist violence) have
received relatively little attention (Muis & Immerzeel, 2017).
Therefore, this book offers an international comparison of various polit-
ical phenomena of the radical right (political parties, movements,
groups, voters, prejudices, violence) in a horizontal perspective with foci
on Western, Central, and Eastern Europe and the United States, their
different histories, probable causes, and current developments. Such
international comparisons are based on political opinion polls, elec-
tion results, studies on the history, political systems, and political
4 K. Wahl

c­ ultures of the countries, but they usually do not cover deeper indi-
vidual psychological and biological factors (Chaps. 5, 6 and 7).
• Fourth, the book will confront empirical research findings with some
of the “usual suspects” of the causes of the radical right, which are fre-
quently discussed in public: are the main culprits only “hard” factors
such as globalization with the consequences of low wages, unemploy-
ment, or economic inequality? How important are “soft” factors like
emotions, views of life, and cultural change? To what extent do objec-
tive and subjective aspects affect political processes? In addition, there
are some short glances to other parts of the world and to the differ-
ences between the radical right and the radical left. Finally, the book
offers—along the various levels of our biopsychosociological model—
a sketch of possible approaches to political and pedagogical measures
for the prevention of xenophobia and right-wing ideologies (Chap. 8).

1.2  roblems of Definition: It’s All Greek

P
to Me
An initial question is if there is a common denominator or definition of
phenomena named right-wing populism, right-wing radicalism, right-­
wing extremism, or the far right for the past and the present? The phi-
losopher Friedrich Nietzsche warned that social phenomena, their
interpretations, and definitions are fluid in history, “only something
which has no history can be defined” (Nietzsche, 2006, p. 53).
Nevertheless, many attempts have been made to define radical right-wing
and similar ideologies and social entities. The result is “conceptual confu-
sion” in the “messy field” of studies on the European radical right
(Arzheimer, 2019).

1.2.1 Right and Left

Historically, the political distinction between left and right began with the
seating arrangements of the delegates in the National Assembly during
the French Revolution. For Lipset, Lazarsfeld, Barton, and Linz (1962,
 1 The Radical Right: More than a Topic of Political Science 5

p. 1135) “right-wing” means supporting a traditional hierarchical social

order and opposing change toward equality; “left-wing” means advocating
social change in the direction of greater equality. However, later left-wing
governments showed tolerance for inequality as well; many communist
countries had hierarchies of privilege (Greenberg & Jonas, 2003).
There was a lot of debate over the extreme forms of Fascism and
National Socialism, their common and their different features. For some
authors, National Socialism is a special case of Fascism, others point to
important differences like racism or the role of the state. To mention just
two ideas characterizing the fascist ideology in the broader sense: “The
first relates to the basic nature of the community. Fascism was primarily
concerned with building, or reviving the nation (…) The second part
relates more to socioeconomic policy (…) a ‘Third Way,’ neither left nor
right, neither capitalist nor communist.” Fascists “sought to achieve indi-
vidual prosperity, but linked to communal goals” (Eatwell, 2003, p. 14).
As for contemporary history, there are difficulties when attempting to
classify political positions on the traditional scales of right and left. In
Beyond Left and Right Giddens (1994) noticed that present-day conserva-
tism became radical and socialism became conservative. Conservatives
embrace what they once repudiated: competitive capitalism and neolib-
eralism stimulating processes of dramatic and far-reaching change. Many
conservatives are now active radicals against tradition, which they previ-
ously held most dear. Conservatism and neoliberalism are contradictory
because, on the one hand, neoliberalism is hostile to tradition as a result
of the promotion of market forces and an aggressive individualism. On
the other hand, it depends upon the persistence of tradition for its legiti-
macy and its attachment to conservatism in the areas of the nation, reli-
gion, gender, and the family. Without having a proper theoretical
rationale, its defense of tradition in these areas tends to take the form of
fundamentalism as, for example, in the debate about “family values”. In
contrast, the left seeks mainly to conserve, trying to protect, for example,
what remains of the welfare state (Giddens, 1994, pp. 2–9). Beyond the
traditional western classification of the political right versus the political
left, in some parts of the world other differences can be more important,
for example religious versus secular political parties or ethnic versus all-­
encompassing parties.
6 K. Wahl

1.2.2 Populism

Another widely discussed phenomenon or ideology is (right-wing and

left-wing) populism (from Latin populus, people). At first view, populism
as such seems to be the idea of the formal nucleus of democracy. It refers
to the people or citizens of a state in terms of demos, a political unit, hold-
ing the political power (sovereignty), for example, as a result of a revolu-
tion of underprivileged classes longing for equal rights. From this point
of view, the raise of political populism in the modern sense could indicate
problems of established democratic systems, measured by the degree of
“democracy” or political representation of the people’s interests, with
politicians and political parties alienated from the people.
However, when populism is restricted to an ideological, Manichean
and moralizing construction of good and evil in terms of “we, the people”
against a “conspiring elite”, many authors described it as a specific way of
seeing democracy that exalts the opinion of a romanticized common
sense of the majority as a volontè générale. This ideology is particularly
tempting as long as a populist party is not yet part of a government.
Populism is opposed to the pluralism of opinions and treats dissent as
suspect and dangerous. Whereas full ideologies like liberalism, socialism,
and conservatism were characterized as systems of thought offering spe-
cific, practical policy solutions to a broad range of aspects of life, popu-
lism was described as a “thin-centered ideology” representing an approach
to the political world that has only limited applicability and therefore can
be associated with different specific (right, left, etc.) ideologies (Freeden,
1998; Hawkins, Riding, & Mudde, 2012; Mudde, 2004, pp. 543–544,
2015, p. 433).
When the ideology of “we, the people” is restricted to one’s own ethnic
group (ethnos) seen as a homogeneous entity (“Volkskörper”) and defined
by a shared (real or constructed) ancestry or cultural heritage, emphasiz-
ing the distance to a “corrupt elite” as well as superiority to other groups,
minorities, or nations (“outsiders”) and arousing resentment against
them, it can be a threat to social and international peace. In this case, it
is right-wing populism. Figure 1.1 shows the relations in a “populist tri-
angle” based on a suggestion of Berbuir, Lewandowsky, and Siri (2015).
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
sniffling and crying with her mouth hidden behind her pocket
handkerchief. Big Sue chuckled out loud. Uncle Bill stepped forward
with a long-handled dipper and filling it brimming full handed it to
the Reverend, with a low bow, “Have de first drink, Reverend. I
know you’ throat’s dry after all de preachin’ an’ prayin’ you done to-
day! Gawd bless you, suh!”
The Reverend fell back a step, and shook his head and coughed
behind his hand.
“If you’ll excuse me——” He stammered it, then coughed again, and
walked over to where Big Sue stood with a broad smile on her face.
But April suddenly appeared.
“What’s all dis?” he asked, looking straight at the Reverend, with a
glitter in his eyes.
“Your wife—ah—Mistress Locust—has—ah—met with a little accident
——”
“Didn’ Uncle Bill hand you a dipper o’ lemonade?”
“Why, yes, Brother Locust.”
“How come you didn’ drink em? Don’ you be brotherin’ me, either.”
“Why—ah, I’m really not thirsty, Mr. Locust.”
“You ain’ thirsty, eh?”
“Why, ah, no.”
April’s Sunday clothes made him look even taller than usual. His hair
was newly cut, and his face shaved clean, except for a small
mustache. He made a fine-looking, powerful figure to Breeze’s wide-
stretched eyes.
His mouth smiled as he spoke to the preacher, but his words snarled.
It was plain that he was furiously angry. Breeze felt as if he’d choke
with excitement. The breath was squeezed out of his body as the
crowd pushed closer, and his bare feet were trod on until he felt his
toes were mashed too flat ever to walk again.
The stillness was broken only by Leah’s sniveling, and April’s hurried
breathing.
Uncle Bill put up a warning hand when April slowly took off his hat.
“Keep you’ hat on, April. Don’t you dare to butt dis servant of Gawd!
You’ll git struck dead, sho’ as you do!”
April smiled knowingly, then pulled his hat down tight on his head.
“I doubt if Gawd would knock me ’bout dat, but I don’ b’lieve I want
to dirty my skull on such a jackass, not no mo’. I butt him good de
last time we met. E ain’ fo’got.”
“Great Gawd! April, shut you’ mouth!”
“Did you cuss me for a jackass?” the preacher shrieked and darted
furiously at April.
Women screamed out. Children wailed. Men mumbled protests. But
before anybody suspected his intention April leaped forward and
seized the preacher’s head with two powerful hands, held it like a
vise, and bit a neat round mouthful out of the cheek next to him.
Making a horribly ugly face he spat out the morsel of flesh. Old
Louder, Uncle Bill’s faithful hound, caught it and swallowed it down.
A fearful outcry arose. Men groaned. Women shrieked and yelled.
Some went off into trances. The wounded preacher toppled, fell
over, limp as a rag, his high white collar reddening as it swallowed
the blood that streamed out of the hole in his face. Poor man. His
face would rot off now. Poison would swell it up, bloat it, then peel it
off.
Uncle Bill scolded Louder terribly and frailed him with a stick until
the poor dog cried out pitifully. Breeze felt sick and faint enough to
die. His hair stood on end. His flesh shook cold on his bones. God
would strike April sure as the world.
The people rushed forward, some calling for water, some threatening
April. Everybody shouted until the noise and confusion waxed loud
and frightful.
Leah and Big Sue vied with each other in stormy torrents of words
and weeping.
April’s fury spent itself with the bite. His strained muscles unbraced,
unbuckled, he cleared his throat and spat. “Dat meat taste too
sickenin’,” he grumbled. Then squaring his shoulders he walked
away. Cool. Master of himself. Alone.
 XV
FIELD WORK

All the cotton had been picked except scraps in the tip-top of the
stalks. When these were gathered, the last chance for the women to
make a little money would be over until early next spring when the
stables were cleaned out and the black manure put in piles for them
to scatter over the fields.
The sultry day was saturated with heat. The swollen sun shone
white through a fog that brought the sky low over the cotton field.
The cotton pickers swarmed thick, sweat poured off faces and hands
and feet. Slowly, steadily they moved, up and down the long rows of
tall rank stalks, carefully picking every wisp of staple out of the wide-
open brown burrs.
Everybody was barefooted, most of the boys and men wearing only
shirts and overalls, and the women had their skirts tied up almost to
their knees.
Not the smallest gust of wind stirred the steamy air. Sweat
blackened sleeves and shirts and dresses, yet the talk stayed bright
and chatty.
Breeze had picked all morning except for one little while when he
stopped to eat a piece of cold corn-pone and drink a few swallows
out of his bottle of sweetened water. He wanted to pick a good
weight, but the cotton was light and sparse. April was paying a
whole cent a pound instead of the half a cent he paid when the
cotton was green and heavy.
If Big Sue would pick faster instead of talking so much, together
they ought to get a hundred pounds. Maybe even a hundred and
twenty-five.
Side by side they trudged along, but too often Big Sue stopped and
straightened up her bent shoulders and stretched her arms for a
rest. Leaning over so long had her all but in a cramp. Yet when
Breeze stopped to eat she scolded him. This was no time for
lingering. Every pound picked meant a cent.
“Wha’ de news f’om Joy?” Leah called across the rows.
“Joy wa’n’t so well when I heared last.”
“Wa’n’t Joy kinder sickly all last summer?”
Big Sue admitted it grumly.
“I hear-say Joy have changed e boardin’ place since e went back to
school.”
Big Sue took her time to answer. After picking several stalks clean
she said Joy had changed, fo’ true. She was staying right on the
campus now. Right with the teachers and the professors and all the
high-up people.
Leah spat on the ground. “Lawd, Joy must be know ev’yt’ing by
now, long as e’s been off at school. How much years? Five or six?”
“Joy do know a lot, but ’e ain’ been off but four years. You know it
too, Leah.”
“Joy’s a stylish gal, Big Sue. Even if e is puny.” Zeda was plainly
siding against Leah.
“Joy ought to look stylish, much money as I spent on em. When e
went back to school dis fall, Joy’s trunk looked fine as a white lady’s
trunk. Not a outin’ gown in em! Not a outin’ petticoat! Even to de
shimmys, Joy had ev’yt’ing made out o’ pink and blue and yellow
crêpe. Joy is a fine seamster, if I do say it myse’f. Joy’s clothes is fine
as any store-bought clothes.”
“Wha’s Joy gwine do when e finish college?” Leah asked presently.
Big Sue was uncertain. Joy was working to get a depluma. When she
got that she could be anything she liked. Joy was sickly last summer
because she had so much learning stirring around in her head. Leah
laughed—innocently. There was no need to worry, as long as a girl
was sickly from things stirring in her head.
“Wha you mean by dat, Leah?” Big Sue stopped short and her
narrowed eyes gazed fixedly at Leah who went on picking.
“I ain’ say nothin’ to vex you, Big Sue! You’s too touchous! Joy ain’
gold neither silver.”
“You keep Joy’s name out you’ mouth, Leah!” Big Sue snapped the
words out in a stinging tone that cut through the heat.
Zeda stood still and gave a wide-mouthed yawn and a lazy laugh.
“Do hush you’ wranglin’. When it’s hot like dis, I can’ stan’ to hear
nobody tryin’ to start a brawl. You womens ain’ chillen! Joy’s a nice
gal. Fo’ Gawd’s sake, le’ em ’lone!”
She looked up at the sun hanging low in a whitish glow, then down
at the short shadows and the heat wilted leaves. Not a bird chirped.
Not a locust or grasshopper spoke.
“I bet Joy’ll marry some o’ dem fine professors or either preachers,”
Bina drawled.
“Joy might, fo’ true,” Big Sue bragged.
Zeda said nothing, but her eyes darted a sharp look at Big Sue, then
turned toward the rice-fields where the river crept up without a
murmur or a shimmer of light on its surface.
Breeze picked on and on long after his back was tired and his fingers
sore from the sharp points of the stiff burrs. The crocus sheets
spread out along the road at the side of the field were piled higher
and higher with cotton which was heaped up, packed down, running
over. The last picking yielded more than anybody expected.
Thank God, the sun was setting at last. Wagons were rattling in the
distance, coming to haul the cotton to the big gin-house! This year’s
crop was done.
 XVI
PLOWING

Breeze was to do his first plowing, but instead of being up and

dressed and ready to go to the fields when dawn first streaked the
sky he lay sobbing underneath the clean bright quilts, which were all
rumpled up over his bed, the big, high, soft feather-bed in the shed-
room where Big Sue’s Lijah used to sleep.
He was wretched and lonely and sore from head to heels. The
feather-bed hurt wherever it pressed its fat cushiony sides against
his naked body, although that feather-bed was made out of the
finest down of wild ducks and geese. Big Sue liked to tell how she
took years to save so many, for she wanted her Lijah to have the
finest feather-bed on the whole plantation. Whenever the hunters
brought wild fowls to the kitchen for her to roast in the big oven
there, she carefully picked the softest pinless feathers off the
breasts, and put them in a bag and kept them until she finally had
enough for Lijah’s bed. Lijah liked a soft bed. He was like her.
Joy was different. A feather-bed made Joy hot and unrestful, and
she liked to sleep on a mattress filled with cotton tacked tight to
keep it firm and hard and in place. Joy and Lijah were different
altogether. But Lijah left his feather-bed soon after it was made, and
went away to a far country. Big Sue was not sure whether the
country was named “Fluridy” or “Kintucky.” Sometimes she called it
“Kintucky-Fluridy.”
The fine softness of Lijah’s bed meant little to Breeze, for he was
homesick and unhappy. He’d a lot rather go back to his mother’s
cabin, on Sandy Island, and sleep on a pallet made out of a ragged
quilt spread on the splintery hard floor, than to stay here with Big
Sue and sleep in this nest of down feathers that had once warmed
and comforted other children with bill and wings and webbed feet.
He turned and twisted and heaved with mute sobs. He felt all alone
in the world. He had learned not to cry out loud. Big Sue had taught
him that people with manners cry low and easy. Manly boys never
cry at all. If Big Sue would only take time to beat him right away
when he did wrong, he could somehow bear the pain better, but to
be waked up before daylight, and stripped naked, and made to
stand still under the cuts of a strap, or a switch, that’s hard.
When she waddled home at night, after the day’s work and pleasure
were done, she was too weary to do anything but drop down in a
chair and rest. Breeze had to undo the wide-strung-up shoes and
take them off her fat feet, and fill up her pipe and light it. She’d
smoke a little while and go to bed, worn-out, too tired to whip
Breeze, no matter how much he needed a licking. She always waited
until next morning, when she woke up fresh and strong, ready to
raise Breeze and teach him manners. Her usual morning greeting
was, “Git up, Breeze. Git up and strip. I want to git down to you’
rind,” his rind meaning his naked skin.
She declared that licking Breeze hurt her as much as it hurt him. She
hated to have to do it, but Breeze was a poor, ignorant, no-manners
boy. She had to beat him to do her duty by him.
A long, thin, black leather strap stayed up on the mantel-shelf, ready
to give lickings. It had a black-snake’s hiss, and a crack as sharp as a
pistol-shot. But this morning Big Sue couldn’t lay her hands on it, so
she broke a switch off the plum tree growing beside the cabin’s front
door. There were all kinds of switches outside. Big Sue could easily
have got a smoother, better one, but she was in a hurry and the
plum switch was in easy reach of her hand.
In the weak morning light she didn’t see that thorns stayed on it
when she pulled off its limbs. Those thorns had sharp teeth, and Big
Sue drove them deep into Breeze’s back and thighs. Now as he
stroked his hurts with both hands he felt blood warm and wet on
them.
Breeze’s mother had never talked to him about manners. Big Sue
said she didn’t know them. At Blue Brook plantation, manners are
the most important things in the world, but they stand between you
and everything you want to do. Nobody ever eats the first sweet
black walnuts that fall on the ground, for eating green walnuts
makes lice in your head, and it is bad-mannered to be lousy.
To play with the funny hop-toadies, whose little black hands look just
like a tiny baby’s thumbs and all, makes warts come on your hands,
and it’s bad-mannered to have warts.
If you drink goat’s milk, although it is sweeter than cow’s milk, you’ll
hate water, just like goats hate it. You won’t want to wash. And it’s
bad-mannered not to like soap and water.
If your feet get cold as ice and you can’t get them warm any other
way, you must not put them on the warm black pots on the hearth,
because the soot on the pots will stick to your feet, and it’s bad-
mannered to have sooty feet.
To put a finger in your mouth is bad-mannered. Everything is bad-
mannered!
Breeze’s reflections and sobs were checked by a call from Big Sue to
get up! To make haste too! He hopped up and pulled on his clothes,
and taking a piece of cold bread in his hand, hurried to the barnyard.
Daylight had already spread through the sky, and was creeping over
the earth. The fall day smelled like spring. One old apple tree in the
orchard had been fooled into blooming by the drowsy warmth. Poor
silly thing!
The creek babbled low as the tide swelled it high up near the bank,
and a cow, followed by her new-born calf, ventured in knee-deep,
and sucked up the water noisily. As she lifted her head to look at
Breeze, drops falling from her mouth were suddenly shot through
with a streak of light. The sun was up! He was late! Lord, he must
run! Every flower had its face turned eastward to meet the day.
They knew it had come.
Cocks began a fresh crowing. Jay-birds chahn-chahned. Partridges
whistled. A mocking-bird trilled. Tiny brown birds fluttered through
the thickets like dead leaves come back to life. Wagon wheels
rumbled on a road out of sight, the pop of a whip cracked out.
Everything was astir, ready for the day’s work.
In the barnyard a lively confusion of men and beasts made a thick
din that filled Breeze’s heart with excitement. To-day he would begin
doing a man’s work. On Saturday he’d get his pay, like Sherry and all
the other farm-hands.
He could hear the men hailing one another. The mules neighed.
Trace-chains tinkled between shouts of “Whoa” and “Gee” and
“Haw” and “Git up.” On the near side of the barnyard fence a long-
legged funny mule colt went staggering behind old Sally, Uncle Bill’s
old bay mare. When he lagged she whinnied to him to come on.
A litter of pigs huddled around a lean black sow wallowing
comfortably in a filthy mud-hole. They squealed to her to lie still and
let them feed, but she grunted lazily, and rolled still deeper in the
mire. Near by an old dominecker hen clucked sharply to her biddies
and scratched eagerly for worms in the rich black earth. She’d better
mind. That old sow would eat her up, feathers and all, and swallow
the biddies down like raw oysters.
The fine fall day felt like spring. Men and mules stepped briskly, glad
to go to work.
For the first time since the boll-weevils came and pestered the
cotton, the crop had been abundant, and now the field must be
cleared of old stalks for the winter.
The summer’s dry weather had been a big help. No rain came to
wash the poison off. Sherry ran the poison machine over the fields at
night when the cotton was wet with dew and the thirsty weevils
drank poisoned dew and died. It was a scary thing to see these
great white clouds of poison dust rising and settling to kill. The
people scarcely dared to look.
Now, every lock of cotton was picked, and the plows were to turn
the stalks under so deep in the earth the boll-weevils would not have
as much as one lone cotton leaf to eat during the winter. April was
planning already to make such a big crop next year, the gins would
have to run day and night when fall came, to get the cotton packed
into bales by Christmas! Money would be plentiful one more time!
A score of men were plowing, most of them tall strong fellows,
straight and slender as tree-trunks. Their ease and skill made Breeze
almost despair, for plowing was a hard job to him. But Sherry was
chaffing them, calling them scary ladies who stayed at home and
slept with the women and children while he and April fought boll-
weevils all night long.
He wouldn’t hold it against them if they’d work well in the daytime
and plow the crop fast and keep the ground-crust broken and the
grass killed. He and April could attend to the weevils next summer,
all by themselves. With that big poison machine and three mules, he
could poison forty acres a night. Instead of resenting what Sherry
said, the men laughed good-naturedly and declared they were
satisfied to leave the boll-weevils to Sherry and April. Let the devils
fight the devils.
Leah’s Brudge was there, right in among the men. He plowed last
year and showed he felt important. At first he scarcely noticed
Breeze who struggled and strove to hold his unruly plow steady and
straight like Sherry’s.
Each man had his own mule, taught to his ways. Sherry’s mule,
Clara, was a beauty. Sleek and trim and spry, she understood every
word Sherry spoke. Brudge had Cleveland, an old brown mule with
sprung fore-knees, but with a steady gait and a nice coat of hair.
Breeze had old Cæsar, a shaggy, logy beast, mouse-colored, except
where bald spots marked his hide black. One blind eye was like a
hard-boiled egg and the other had an uncertain peep, but Sherry
said Cæsar had sense like a man. All Breeze needed to do was hold
the lines and the plow handles together and walk straight behind.
Cæsar would do the rest. Breeze wished he might have had a
handsomer beast, but even old Cæsar made his heart thrill.
The earth had been dried out by the warm autumn sunshine and it
sent up clouds of dust as the sharp steel of the plows cut it deep,
and long rows of rank stalks were uprooted and turned under and
carefully covered with dark smooth soil.
April stood alone, watching the men and mules walking sturdily
across the field, then back. When they neared him, their talking
hushed except for words spoken to the mules.
Overhead a blue sky looked down; the breath of the stirred earth,
scented strong with life, rose and brimmed up, filling the air.
When the plowmen reached the far side of the field again, turning
slowly they moved along, side by side, talking and laughing. Their
gay racket hushed in a hurry when April’s voice floated to them from
where he stood, a tall speck by the trees in the distance. Clear and
sharp his words fell through the sunshine.
“Hey dere! Yunnuh quit so much talkin’ and laughin’. I want all dem
cotton stalks covered up deep!”
Every man of them stepped a little slower, every plowstock was
gripped with a tighter hold after the correction. Merry chatter
changed to stern shouts that chided the patient mules. “Hey, mule!”,
“Watch you doin’s!”, “Gee!”, “Haw!”, “Come up!” The mules pulled
harder and the crunching of the earth as the plows cut deeper took
the place of laughter and gay bantering words.
The day moved on, warm and drowsy, with yellow sunshine still hot
enough to cast black shadows, and draw sweat out of both men and
beasts. April stood watching, hour after hour, while the swarm of
mules and men trudged back and forth from the water’s edge to the
woods and then back again, never stopping for even a breathing
spell. The sun rode high in the sky. Shadows shortened. Breeze
longed for the noon hour, time to stop and eat and drink and rest.
Once or twice as Brudge passed Breeze and Cæsar, he looked at the
old mule and giggled. Then he called out, “Breeze is plowin’ a spring
puppy!” When he had gone a little way past he looked back and said
something that made the plow-hands laugh out. But Sherry stopped
Clara short in her tracks.
“You better shut you’ mouth, Brudge!” he warned. “You gits too big
for your breeches sometimes. Breeze can’ lick you, but I kin an’ I
will.”
Breeze couldn’t hear Brudge’s answer, but he caught up in time to
hear the end of Brudge’s outburst of abuse of Sherry. The other men
went on plowing, except one of the older ones, who stopped to
shame Brudge for the vile words he had used.
“What de matter ail yunnuh?” April called.
Nobody answered, so he started walking leisurely toward them.
Sherry stuck his plow’s point deep in the earth, dropped his plow
lines on the ground, then undid the trace-chains and hung them up
on Clara’s collar.
Brudge stood looking at him, then back at April. “I ain’ botherin’ you,
Sherry. You better left me ’lone,” he whined.
If Sherry heard him he gave no sign, but stepped lightly over the
furrows toward Brudge, who gave an outcry and started to run.
Sherry’s long arm reached out and caught him, drew him up close,
held him fast, while Sherry’s words fell fast and hard as fire-heated
rocks.
“I ain’ gwine butt you fo’ what you called me. No. I’m gwine crack
you’ skull for dat what you call my mammy.” Sherry tilted his head
back, and Brudge gave a shrill yell.
“Don’ butt me, Sherry!” The words were scarcely out when Sherry’s
slender powerful body swayed lightly forward from the hips, and his
forehead crashed down right on Brudge’s skull.
For a second or two after the terrible blow fell home, Brudge made
no sound. Sherry turned him loose, and he staggered a few paces
and fell, screaming at the top of his lungs. Sherry had killed him! His
head was broken to pieces. Prone on the soft plowed ground Brudge
twisted and writhed, like a fish out of water.
Sherry paid no attention to him at all, but went back to Clara,
hitched the trace-chains, took up the rope lines, and clicked his
tongue. “Git up, Clara!” he said quietly, and the mule stepped off.
To Breeze, April was the very greatest man on earth, but all of a
sudden Sherry seemed to grow. His limbs became taller, straighter,
his shoulders broader, his supple waist slenderer. His eyes were
terrible when they flashed at Brudge, ashine with furious light, and
his strong white teeth ground together as if they could bite Brudge’s
body in two.
April was coming toward them. A little faster now. What would he
say when he got there? The plow-hands stopped and waited. One
shamed Brudge for his lack of manners, then turned his head away
and spat on the ground with disgust.
April’s long legs strode leisurely across the soft new furrows, his
stout hickory stick stepping lightly beside him. When his eyes looked
at Brudge there on the ground, holding his head in both hands,
rolling up his body and rocking it back and forth, then falling on the
ground again, howling with pain and shame and anger, April’s lips
curled up from his big yellow teeth in a scornful smile.
“What kind o’ plow-hand is you, Brudge? Is dat de way you does a
man’s work?”
“Sherry butt me!—E broke my skull!—I got a bad headache!”
“Do shut you’ mouth, an’ git up off de ground! Unhitch you’ mule an’
go on home to Leah. Baby!”
Brudge got up slowly, and moaning low but steadily did what he was
told. With April, he was very humble. His trembling fingers fumbled
at the lines and trace-chains, but he kept up a furious sobbing all the
time he worked at knots and links.
“Help him, Breeze!” April’s order cracked out like the snap of a whip.
Breeze hurried forward obediently, not that April had ever mistreated
him, or even scolded him, but because he knew that April ruled
everybody and everything on the plantation with a heavy hand.
People, beasts, even plants and insects, had to bend to his stubborn
will, or suffer.
“Hey, Sherry!” April called. “Come dis way! Left Clara whe’ e is! Git a
move on you, too!”
April was rarely unjust, and sometimes he was almost gentle, but
now his voice stung the air. Sherry had better not vex him further, or
there’d be trouble.
Although Sherry walked without hurry, he was out of breath when
he reached April. His hands shook a little as men do when a chill is
about to seize them.
“How come you butt Brudge?” April asked him coldly.
“You ought to be glad I butt em. Brudge is a no-manners scoundrel.”
“If he done wrong, whyn’ you tell me?”
“I ain’ no news carrier.”
April’s eyes glittered as he shifted his hickory stick from one hand to
the other.
“You ain’ Brudge’s daddy, you know?”
“No.” And Sherry smiled. “I ain’ nobody’s daddy, not yet.”
“Wha’ you mean by dat?” April’s voice rose, and in a sudden burst of
anger he seized Sherry by the shoulder. “You can’ sass me, Sherry!
You know it too! If you wanted to butt somebody, whyn’ you come
try my head, instead o’ mashin’ up a li’l’ half-grown boy like Brudge?
I got a mind to make mush out o’ you’ brains right now. You ever
was a’ impudent black devil!”
Sherry’s eyes gleamed, his fists clenched, and he drew closer to
April. “I didn’ had no cause to butt you, dat’s why! But I just as soon
butt you as anybody else.”
April smiled. “I hate to kill you, Sherry. You’s a good plow-hand, an’ I
need you.”
Sherry’s answer didn’t lag one iota, and he met April’s eyes with a
steadfast look. “Come try me! Just stick you’ neck out! One time!
Just one time! You t’ink you’s de onliest man got a skull on dis whole
plantation. I got a bone in my head, too. Come try em! I’ll butt you’
brains out same as if you wasn’ my daddy!” Sherry’s eyes glared, his
head crouched between his shoulders, he came forward with a rush.
But April jerked him clear up off his feet, and his big head came
down on Sherry’s forehead with a butt that brought the blood
streaming from both men’s nostrils.
Sherry staggered back a step, then leaped forward, but April’s
powerful outstretched arms hurled him toward the plow-hands, who
caught him and held him fast, for April warned them.
“Yunnuh hold dat boy. If e comes back at me I’ll kill em. An’ we ain’
got time to be diggin’ a grave, not till de cotton’s all plowed under.”
“You mens lemme go, I tell you! I ain’ scared o’ April. Lemme go!”
“Yunnuh ain’ to fight! Great Gawd! Yunnuh’d kill one anudder. You
can’ git loose, Sherry. No, suh!”
Sherry struggled fruitlessly. Then he stood still. April wiped his nose
on his shirt-sleeve, picked his ragged hat up off the ground, set it
straight on his head, then quietly buttoned up the neck of his shirt,
for a sudden gust of wind came up cool from the rice-fields.
Casting his eyes up at the sky where a flock of small ragged clouds
hung high and white, he said calmly, “Yunnuh better git back to
plowin’. It’s gwine rain in a few days an’ we must git dis big field
finished befo’ den.”
He tried to speak coolly. Quietly. To hold up his head triumphantly.
But his shoulders had a dejected droop, as he turned his back and
went toward the woods.
After a few steps, he turned around, “Sherry, you an’ me can’ live on
de same place. Not no mo’. I’ll kill you sho’ as we try it. For a little
I’d kill you now. You git on off. I don’ care whe’ you go, just so I
don’ see you, not no mo’! Git outen de field! Right now, too.”
Breeze felt hot, then cold. The blood rose in his throat and choked
him. If he could only help Sherry kill April! But he stood shaking,
shivering, with lips twitching, until April asked, “What is you cryin’
about?” And Breeze stammered weakly, in a thin reedy voice, “I ain’
cryin’, suh.” The glare April gave him made him dizzy like a blow
between his eyes.
“Den git at you’ work! Don’ be wastin’ good time on a mawnin’ like
dis!”
Sherry held up his head and fastened his look on April, but the tears
that ran down his cheeks belied his hard reckless smile. In a voice
broken by hate and fury he cried out:
“You stinkin’ ugly devil—— Quit scarin’ dat li’l’ boy! You’s got a
coward-heart even if you’ head is too tough fo’ Hell! I hope Gawd’ll
rot all two o’ you feets off! I hope E will——” Sherry stretched out a
fist and shook it helplessly, then broke into sobs.
“Hush, Sherry! You better left April alone now. You done said
enough,” warned one of the men, but April strode away. If he heard
Sherry’s cursing he made no sign of it. And Sherry walked across the
field to Clara, who stood, still hitched to the plow, waiting for him to
come back. He patted her nose. “Good ol’ Clara. I’m gwine. Breeze’ll
take you to de barnyard, won’t you, Breeze?”
Breeze tried to answer a loud “Yes, Sherry!” but a dumb sob shook
his words.
“Good-by, mens!”
“Good-by, Sherry!”
That was all. Sherry walked away toward the Quarters. As Breeze
watched him go the sunshiny noon grew dim. The plows went on
cutting down stalks, burying them, but the men were silent as death.
Birds kept singing in the forest trees, but their notes had a doleful
sorrowful sound. The day had paled. The rice-fields meeting the sky
yonder, so far away, were hazy and sad. The wind itself wept
through the trees. A flock of crows passed overhead, croaking out
lonesome words to one another.
The field lay dark. Dismal. Its rich earth changed to dry barren land.
The men who plowed it walked in a distressful silence.
Sherry was gone. Zeda’s Sherry. The most promising young man on
the whole plantation. April’s big-doings bullying had run him off. April
would pay for it. He’d poison cotton by himself next summer. He
could make the men do almost anything else, but he’d never get
them to poison boll-weevils. They knew better than to fight
Providence. April wasn’t God. No.
From the Quarters a scream rose and swelled until its long, weird,
melancholy note went into a death-cry! Zeda’s grieving! Breeze had
to clench his teeth to keep from bursting out crying himself. Suppose
April got mad with him some time, and butted him? What would he
do? He couldn’t do anything but stand still and take it and die.
He went on plowing, side by side with the rest in the painful silence
that hung on stubbornly. The soft flat-footed pattering of the men’s
bare feet, the dead flat thudding of mule steps, the sullen waving of
the branches in the wind, the low murmuring of the water, all fell
together into a dull batch of doleful sound.
Flocks of field larks rose up and cried out plaintively as their feeding-
ground was turned under. Old Louder chased them in a slow trot,
sniffed at them, then at some smell in the earth. Coming up to
Breeze, he rubbed against his legs and whined. Breeze gave him
nothing in return, only a low word or two, and a furtive pat on the
head, so he trotted off to one side, and sat on his haunches,
watching the plowmen with sorrowful eyes. He missed Sherry too.
When the bell rang for noon, Breeze was near the rice-fields side.
His mule stopped short and seized a mouthful of grass, as he gazed
toward Sandy Island. It was far away to-day. The haze had every
sign of it hidden. A broad sheet of water sparkled and glittered, as
bright reflections of white clouds floated softly, silently on its shining
surface. All the channels were buried. What was his mother doing
now? And Sis? He swallowed a sob and turned the mule’s head
toward home, and saw Big Sue waddling across the field. She didn’t
follow any path, but came on straight toward him, over the soft
plowed earth. Why was she coming to the field at noon? He had his
breakfast long ago, and he always went home for dinner. Maybe she
wanted to talk about Sherry. She stopped and said a few words to
April but she came on to Breeze.
She gave Breeze a hand-wave as she got nearer, but her face was
solemn, without any show of a smile. “April says you kin come
straight on home, Breeze. Somebody else’ll take de mules to de lot.”
Giving his shoulder a gentle pat, she drew Breeze up to her with a
little hug. She didn’t say a word, and her eyes looked wet.
April was waiting at the path, and he walked on home beside them.
Tall, solid as a tree, rugged, tough-sinewed, double-jointed, yet the
cruel look in his deep-sunk eyes that blazed out when they looked at
Sherry, had given way to something else. They glowed bright as he
turned back and looked across the rice-fields toward Sandy Island,
and said gently:
“Sandy Island is way back behind de clouds to-day.” His anger with
Sherry had passed.
His voice sounded unsteady, his features were haggard and ashy.
Big Sue looked at him, then at Breeze. “You break de news to
Breeze, April. I ain’ got de heart.”
April shook his head. “Me neither.”
Big Sue’s small eyes blinked. “Son,” she hesitated strangely, and laid
a hot fat hand gently on his shoulder, “you t’ink you got a mammy,
enty?”
Of course Breeze thought so. He was so sure of it. What on earth
was Big Sue aiming at?
“No, son.” She shook her head slowly. “You ain’ got none. You’
mammy went out on de tide befo’ day dis mawnin’.”
What did Big Sue mean? Breeze felt confused. Where had his
mother gone on that before-day-tide? He didn’t understand what Big
Sue was talking about.
Marsh-hens cackled gaily out in the rice-fields. A crane croaked. A
fish-hawk circled high, then halted to poise himself for a swoop.
Taking Breeze by the hand Big Sue led him on through the greenish
shade cast by the live-oaks over the road and the cabin’s yard. Her
bright cold eyes peeped out sidewise at him now and then. She was
trying to be kind. Once she said, “I’se gwine to be you’ mammy now,
since you’ own mammy’s dead and gone.”
Breeze felt as if he was in a dream, walking in his sleep. His legs
were numb and heavy.
“Hurry up, son! You must walk faster. We got to dress an’ go to de
buryin’, cross de river in a boat. April’ll let Sherry take we across de
river in de boat, enty, April?”
“No, not Sherry. Somebody else’ll take you. Sherry’s done gone off.
To stay.”
“Wha’ dat you say, April? Sherry’s gone?”
“I run em off de place a while ago.”
“Great Gawd! What is dis! April, don’t you know Zeda’s gwine kill
you? Man! I’m glad I ain’t you. You might be strong, but you ain’
strong as dat conjure Zeda’s gwine put on you.”
Louder had followed them from the field, and now sat on his hind
quarters, listening, watching, snapping at a fly now and then. As a
squirrel ran down the trunk of a tree and across the yard, he jumped
up and ran a few paces, then came back and sat down again, as
though he had done his duty.
“Come on in de house an’ dress, Breeze. I don’ believe you got it
straight in you’ head yet. You’ ma is dead, son! Dead! De people is
gwine put em in a grave soon as dis same sun goes down.”
Breeze looked up at each of the grown people. He felt hurt, as if his
mother had abandoned him just when he wanted to see her most,
to go back home to her. Sherry was gone away. She was dead.
Nobody was left, but Uncle Bill. Leaning toward Big Sue he hid his
face in the folds of her skirt and wept.
“Don’ cry, son,” she soothed him. “Come on an’ eat some dinner. You
got to go wid me to de buryin’. Enty, April?”
She led him inside and made him sit in a chair beside April, while
she fried links of sausage to eat with the bread and cups full of
sweetened water. The sausage had a savory smell, and Breeze bit
into it and chewed it a long time, but he could scarcely swallow it for
the choking lump in his throat. His mother was dead. She was no
longer yonder at Sandy Island with Sis and the other children. She
had flown up into the sky, where Heaven was, and Jesus and all the
angels. April washed his food down with great swallows of water.
How dumb he was.
“Lawd!” Big Sue grunted as she came out of the shed-room with her
Sunday dress on her arm. “Ain’ it awful to die in sin? It pure scares
me half to death when I think on Breeze’s mammy a hoppin’ in Hell
right now! Great Gawd! Wid fire a scorchin’ em!”
“How you know?” April thundered out.
“How I know? I know e was a’ awful sinner. You know so too. E got
dis same Breeze right here at Blue Brook whilst a revival meetin’ was
gwine on. You don’ call dat sin?”
April didn’t so much as crack his teeth, and she looked at him with
narrowed eyes.
“You an’ her all two better had got religion dat summer.”
“You better keep you’ mouth shut, now, Big Sue. You’s a-talkin’ out
o’ turn. Better help Breeze dress. E’s a settin’ yonder on de floor wid
jaws hangin’ open! Boy, you’s gwine swallow a fly if you don’ mind.”
Breeze was trying to think. His mother, his dear, kind, good mother,
was hopping in Hell. Burning in a fire nine times hotter than the fire
on earth!
“April!” Big Sue called out, “you ought to buy Breeze a nice pair o’
shoes an’ stockin’s to wear to de buryin’.”
“Brudge is got a pair Breeze kin borrow an’ wear. I ain’ got time to
go to de sto’ now.”
“Please go git ’em fo’ me.”
April got up stiffly and walked away. In a little while Brudge came
bringing a pair of Leah’s shoes. He had lost one of his own, but Leah
sent her slippers instead. April said they would do. They were low-
cut and shiny, with high heels and a strap across the instep. Breeze
made such a poor out at walking in them, Big Sue couldn’t help
laughing, although she declared she was not making sport of him.
“Take ’em off, son. Tote ’em in you’ hand till we git to Sandy Island,”
she suggested, and Breeze did.
Uncle Bill rowed the boat that took them to Sandy Island, and
although he pulled hard with his oars, the sun was almost down
when they reached the cabin up on the hill above the river.
Mules and oxen hitched to carts filled the yard, and the house was
crowded with people.
Big Sue made Breeze sit down on the ground and put on Brudge’s
stockings and Leah’s shoes. They made his feet stumble about
miserably, but Big Sue said that made no difference, since they
looked nice.
He was terribly excited, but as he walked hand in hand with Big Sue
up the steep path into the yard he could hear people say:
“Lawd, Breeze is grow fo’ true. Looka e fine clothes!”
Seeing his old home made him forget to be polite.
Big Sue whispered, “When de ladies an’ gentlemens speaks to you,
bow an’ pull you’ foot an’ say, ‘Good evening.’ Don’ grin at ’em like a
chessy-cat! Be mannersable!”
When Sis came to the door Breeze broke away from Big Sue’s hand
and ran, half falling up the steps. Sis grabbed him and held him
tight. He put his arms around her and squeezed her, and they
laughed and cried together. Poor Sis! Her body felt like a pack of
bones! Where was the baby? Where were all the other children? Sis
whispered they’d been sent off to a neighbor’s house until after the
burying was over. She didn’t have time to feed them and look after
everything else.
Big Sue interrupted the tight hug Breeze was giving Sis: “Come on
in, boy, an’ look at you’ ma. Dey’s ready to put em in de box.”
The cabin was full of a queer smell. Breeze hated to go inside, but
Big Sue held him fast by the arm and drew him toward the shed-
room door. The room was dim, for the one wooden shutter was
closed so that very little light could filter through. Breeze saw only a
few solemn-looking black women standing around the bed. He
couldn’t bear to go any farther. But Big Sue’s firm hand urged him
on, its strong jerks making it useless to draw back.
“Don’t you cut no crazy capers wid me, Breeze. You got to come
look at you’ ma. I want de people to see I raised you to have respect
fo’ you’ parents. Open de window, Sis!”
The small room looked even smaller on account of the low ceiling,
and the bed, the only piece of furniture, was pushed out from the
wall leaving a narrow way all around it.
Sis undid the window latch and flung the shutter back. The sun
flooded the white bed with blood-red light, and marked a long slim
thing under a sheet. One of the black women turned the sheet
slowly down and exposed a pinched face. A chin bound with a white
cloth. Two bony black hands crossed on a sunken breast. Two feet
whose black skin showed through thin white stockings. The feet
were still, not hopping.
That strange stiffness could not be his mother! Breeze shut his eyes
tight to keep from seeing it.
“Open you’ eyes, Breeze. Stand ’side you’ ma an’ look at em good fo’
de last time. You ain’ never gwine see em no mo’.”
“No! No! Cun Big Sue! Don’ make me look at em! Please, Cun Big
Sue!”
Breeze began screaming in spite of himself. He wanted to be good.
To please Big Sue. To have manners. But that thing on the bed was
too fearful.
He felt himself lifted in Big Sue’s strong arms. Her hot breath puffed
on him as she bore him close to the bed. The terrible scent filling the
house rose in his nostrils. Screams split his throat. He couldn’t hold
them in to save his life. Although his eyelids squeezed tighter shut,
tears poured through them.
Big Sue’s determined fingers tugged at them, pulling them apart,
until his eyes, naked, except for tears, were held over his mother’s
face. Her two dead eyes peeped out from half-closed lids, her black
lips cracked open over a grin of cold white teeth. He strove wildly to
get away, but Big Sue held him until a soft darkness swallowed
everything.
When Breeze came to himself he was flat on the ground, so near the
cape jessamine bush that a cool clean blossom touched his cheek.
Where were Big Sue and Sis?
He raised up, and saw men with white gloves on their hands
bringing a long new pine box through the door. They came down the
steps and went toward a wagon. As they passed an old mule, the
beast tried to break his tether and run. A man yelled at him, another
jerked him by the bit, a third got a stick and frailed him, but Uncle
Bill called out, “Don’ lick em, son. Dat mule smell death and it fret
em. Pat em. Talk easy to em. Death kin scare people, much less a
mule.”
Everybody was leaving the house. They had forgotten Breeze. He
couldn’t stay here by himself, with nothing to keep him company but
that strange smell that followed the box out of the shed-room and
settled right in the cape jessamine bush. It drowned the scent of the
blossoms.
Hopping to his feet he ran humbly to Big Sue, and slipped a hand in
hers, “Lemme go wid you, Cun Big Sue. I ain’ gwine holler no mo’.”
Big Sue gave his hand a painful squeeze, “I’m dat provoke’ wid you,
Breeze, I can’ talk. But you wait till I git you home. You’s de
kickin’est nigger I ever did see. But you wait till I git you home. I
bu’sted one sleeve clean out o’ my new dress a-tryin’ to hold you.”
With his heart tingling Breeze tottered on. His eyes blurred. His legs
scarcely could carry him down the sandy road toward the graveyard
under the tall trees.
The afterglow fell clear from the sky on an open grave with dark
earth piled high on each side of it. It was outlined by flaming
smoking torches held in the hands of the mourners, who marched
slowly around it, singing a funeral dirge. One man, dressed in a long
white robe, stood at the head of the grave, his deep voice chanting
the solemn burial service. Breeze’s mother belonged to the Bury
League, and all the members carried a white lily. When the leader
gave the sign they held the flowers, arm high, and yelled, “Christ is
Risen!” but the leader was a strange man, not his stepfather.
A hymn, or spiritual, was raised, and the whole crowd joined in with
great questioning waves of sound, sometimes harmony, sometimes
dissonance. Breeze’s heart ached. He wanted to cry out too, to the
great Creator of Life. He felt bewildered when Sis gave a piercing
shrill wail, that rose high and sharp above the somber death chant.
Her cry had scarcely died away before an answer came echoing from
the opposite side of the grave. Big Sue looked at Uncle Bill with a
mischievous grin that shocked Breeze. How could anybody laugh
here? The very woods reechoed the unearthly death-cries!
The mournful singing gradually changed into a confused din, a
whirlwind of grief. Men and women shrieked and shouted. They
shook and shimmied their shoulders, and jerked their arms and
gyrated about in a frenzy of grief and excitement. Some of the
women went wild. They beat their breasts and cried above the
roaring hubbub. But all the time Sis’ shrill, piercing, falsetto wailing
kept steadily calling across the grave. Her screams rose high and
then melted into the life of the air.
The tall brown trunks of pine trees around them loomed up until
their plumy tops touched the sky. They waved gently, mysteriously,
above the confused group of people. Red sweaters and blue overalls,
green and purple and yellow dresses, wide white aprons and turban-
bound heads, black hands and faces, were all tinged with a rosy
glow dropped over them by the sky as night began creeping out of
the forest.
The strong damp odor of the woods freshened, and mosquitoes
stung Breeze’s face and hands and ankles. He was unhappy.
Wretched. When Big Sue said, “De mosquitoes is too bad. Dey got
me in a fever! Le’s go,” he felt a relief to get away from it all.
Not even Sis paid them any attention as they turned around, facing
homeward. She was too absorbed in grief, in the terrible thought of
Death, that strange mystery which had just stricken Breeze’s mother.
Breeze hurried along the road, fearing snakes less than the sound of
that inferno of mourning which followed behind him.
Sandy Island was quiet; the cabin on the hill empty; the dusk on the
river so deep that the boat was scarcely outlined against the water;
but Breeze could see the old dead pine down on the white sand. It’s
head had fallen. Its whole length rested on the ground.
His brain whirled in his skull. Cold tremors ran through his body. His
mother had buried all her money at the foot of that tree. So had old
man Breeze. But nothing less than strong iron chains could have
dragged the boy one step nearer it.
Uncle Bill helped Big Sue to her seat in the boat’s stern, where she
sat solemn and stiff and ruffled like a sitting hen.
They went in silence. The water whispered in bubbles, but the wind
had died out of the trees.

In the cabin, a big fire blazed up the chimney, and a delicious scent
of food came to meet them.
“Who dat in my house?” Big Sue cried out, when April came to the
door.
“You got company.”
“Who? You?”
“No. You guess again.”
“I dunno, an’ I’m too weak to walk, much less talk.”
“It’s Joy. E come on de boat dis evenin’.”
Big Sue stopped short in her tracks, dumb-struck. “Great Gawd! You
don’ mean it! Whe’ is Joy?”
Instead of hurrying forward she gazed at the cabin with black
dismay as if she turned some terrible thought over and over in her
mind, but a warm laugh gurgled out, and a low voice called:
“What did you tell Ma for, Cun April? I been want to fool em!”
A girl in a bright red dress and with red-stockinged legs came
bounding across the yard to meet them.
“How you do, Ma? I bet you is surprised to see me!” She held her
mouth up to meet Big Sue’s, their kiss made a loud smack, then
Uncle Bill hurried to shake her hand.
“Lawd, Joy! Just de sight o’ you would cure de sore eyes! Honey,
you looks sweet enough to eat!” Breeze stared at her. Deep down in
his heart he felt Uncle Bill spoke the truth. He had never seen any
one like Joy before.
She leaned to pull up one red stocking tighter over a knee, but she
grinned up into Uncle Bill’s face. “Do listen at Uncle Bill! A-sweet-
talkin’ me right here befo’ ev’ybody!” Her eyes beamed, her low soft
drawl was full of friendliness, and she turned to Breeze with a blithe
greeting:
“How you do, son? I’m sho’ glad to see you here wid Ma!” A small
bold hand shot out to meet his, but Breeze cast his eyes down,
bashful and afraid. The hand gave his shoulder a light pat, took one
of his and led him toward the house.
“You ain’ scared o’ me, is you, son? Come on in by de fire. I want to
see you good.”
Breeze couldn’t say a word, but as they walked in April threw a fat
pine knot on the fire to make a better light. The fire blazed up,
crackling merrily, making the room hot and bright, but shyness kept
Breeze’s face turned away from Joy, until with a quick laugh she
wheeled him around and lifted his chin.
“How come you won’ look at me, son?” Her face was so close Breeze
could feel her breath when she laughed again, but his eyes were
riveted on her twinkling shoe-buckles.
“Left de boy ’lone, Joy. E don’ feel like playin’. His ma was just buried
dis evenin’. Come unstring my shoes, son. I ain’ gwine let Joy plague
you.”
As he knelt to unlace the shoes Joy appealed to him: “I ain’ plaguin’
you, is I, Breeze? Me an’ you is gwine be buddies, enty?” Breeze
looked up and met her slanting eyes, and the smile that lit them
seemed to him so lovely, so gentle, he fairly tingled all over. He had
never seen anybody like Joy before. Her slight body in its scant, red
satin dress was not tall, but it had the straight, swift, upward thrust
of a pine sapling. Her slim black arms, bare from the elbows, and
held akimbo, came out from shoulders lean as his own. Her short
skirt gave a flirt and Breeze’s glance darted to the skinniness of her
red-stockinged legs. But her smile had thrilled the fear out of him,
and given him confidence enough to feast his eyes on her gay over-
ripe little figure, from the bright buckles on her shiny black slippers
to the short coarse straightened hair on her small head.
“Set down, honey. Talk to Uncle Bill an’ you’ Cun April whilst me an’
Breeze fixes supper.” Big Sue’s bare feet pattered back and forth
from the hearth to the four-legged safe against the wall, mixing
bread, and smoothing it on a hot griddle, slicing meat and dropping
it on a hot spider, once in a while scolding Breeze for dawdling, or
asking Joy a question about the town or the school. April smiled and
joined pleasantly in the talk Joy led. A necklace of blue glass beads
clinked against the smooth black skin of her neck, gold bracelets
glittered on her slim wrists. Breeze was bewildered, rapt with the
glamour of her. Her sparkling eyes strayed from one face to another
until they met April’s, bold and staring. Joy’s flickered and fell and
her laughter chilled. Like everybody else, she feared him, and his
shining gaze, fixed on her alone, withered all the fun out of her and
put something sober in its place.
Except for the fire’s crackling a hush filled the room. Big Sue
suddenly straightened up from bending over the pots and, looking
over her shoulder, said, “Git de plates out o’ de safe, Breeze. How
come yunnuh is so quiet? Dis ain’ church!”
April laughed and shifted in his chair and his eyes turned from Joy to
her mother. “De victuals smells so good, I’m gone got speechless!”
“Me too,” Joy chimed, but Uncle Bill got up to go. He had already
stayed longer than he intended. He must go see if everything at the
barnyard was in order.
April stood up to say good night, tall, straight-limbed, broad-
shouldered, hawk-eyed.
“Stay an’ eat wid us, Cun April, you too, Uncle Bill! What’s you’
hurry?”
Uncle Bill had to go. He had left Jake to see about feeding the stock,
and Jake was mighty forgetful and careless. Nobody could depend
on him.
In spite of the fineness of her red satin dress, Joy took the plates
from Breeze and piling two of them with the collards dripping with
pot liquor, and chunks of fat meat and pieces of the newly baked
corn-bread, she gave Big Sue and April each one.
“Yunnuh must eat all dis I put on you’ plates,” Joy bade them gaily,
but silence had fallen over them. Both their faces wore a troubled
look. April’s eyes held both darkness and light, and a kind of sadness
Breeze had seen sometimes in Sis’ eyes.
“How was de buryin’?” April asked when the edge of his appetite
was dulled.
“Fine! Fine! All but dat fool boy Breeze. E made me pure shame.” Big
Sue’s words were smothered by food in her mouth, but Breeze felt
the sharp sting of their bitter contempt. He longed to get up and go
back into the dark shed-room and hide, but shame chained his feet
to the floor and made his neck so limp his head drooped lower and
lower.
“Wha’ dat Breeze done so bad?”
April leaned his head against the mantel-shelf, and listened without
a word to Big Sue’s story. Most of the time he looked into the fire,
deep in thought, forgetting to eat his supper.
When Big Sue’s tale was done, Breeze listened for April’s abuse, but
instead of scolding him, April spoke kindly, gently.
“Don’ be too hard on de boy, Big Sue. Death kin scare bigger people
dan Breeze. I don’ like to look on em myself. Gawd made people so.
Mules too. When Dukkin put pizen in de spring last summer and
killed Uncle Isaac’s old mule, Lula, I had a time gittin’ em dragged
off to de woods. Sherry said he could hitch Clara to em, but Clara
was so scared, e reared up and kicked an’ tried to run away. Sherry
had to blindfold Clara wid a cloth over both eyes befo’ she’d go