wg cant
run away
from here

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We Can't Run
Away From Here
A NOVEL BY
ROBERT MARTIN SCREEN

T
VANTAGE PRESS New York
Washington Chicago Hollywood





12
We Can't Run Away from Here
do you mean—you don't know? You started this. You got us
into all this—and you don't know!"
"Please, John"
I cannot stop him. He is so full of his anger and his
fear that he is crying now.
"You don't care about us. All you care about is yourself.
You had to prove something to yourself. That's why you
made us come along with you today. You had to prove to
yourself that just because you aren't as black as we—you are
colored." He holds his arms up against mine. "Well, didn't
you? Why don't you say it's true? You know it's true!"
I do not answer John, for I know he does not mean this.
He is not himself. But my silence only infuriates him more.
I can feel a burning inside him. Before I am able to come
back with an answer, he raises his hand and swings in my
direction. The blow lands solidly on my mouth, and my lips
begin to bleed slowly. John looks at me with a foreign stare.
He throws his head on the table and begins to cry with
greater pain. His words are not strange to me.
"I don't want to die," he cries. "I don't want to die!"
I rest my hand on his head.
"None of us wants to die, John," I say, "but we must be-
lieve in what we have done."
John jerks his head from under my hand.
"What for?" he cries. "What's the good of believing in
anything if you're dead? Nobody's going to know what we've
done anyhow—no body!"
"That's where you're wrong, John," I say.
"Then who? You tell me then—who?"
"They will."
He pauses for a long moment as these words find their
way inside him. But nothing can fasten him securely, and
he turns to Emmett now.
"Emmett!" He raps him on the shoulder. "Tell me I'm
right, Emmett. Tell me we shouldn't've gone there today.
Tell me we ought to run out there and ask them to leave us
alone—that we won't go back again."


We Can't Run Away from Here
13
Emmett is silent.
"Answer me, Emmett! Answer me!"
Emmett is quiet, still.
John says, "Then why are you crying, Emmett? Why are
you crying?"
Emmett answers very softly, "Because I am afraid."
John's face widens with content. "Then come with me,
Emmett. It still isn't too late. We can tell them . . ."
Emmett trembles. "No," he says.
John is broken by this. "I thought you were afraid."
"I am," Emmett repeats.
"Then why won't you come with me?"
Emmett is slow in answering. "Because there is no substi-
tute for right," he says.
A feeling of great loss sweeps through John. He reaches
out at Emmett, trying to come back with words. But he is so
alone. He cannot find his words, because he is not strong
enough, because no words wise enough could replace the
principle we lay before him. He finds the chair again. He
sits down quietly and covers his head on the table. He is
throbbing. He is wounded by a feeling which absorbs him.
But he is not aware of it in full, because life has meant very
little to John besides living. He is typical of so many of my
people. I try to whisper something into his ears.
"We are all afraid, John," say I.
His eyes are very full. "You?"
"Yes. I, too."
John's lips tremble. He cannot put his lips together for
the words he wants. Then he says loudly, "Then why don't
you act like it? Why do you just sit there—looking the way
you do? . . ." He cannot finish. He does not fully understand
himself.
I say, "And would it help any if I cried, John?"
He does not answer me.
"No," I say to him. "It's just that we all react to fear dif-
ferently. You—violently; Emmett here—quietly; and I—
hardly at all. Yes, John. I am just as afraid of dying as you


16
We Can't Run Away from Here
"No, Emmett," I say. "I don't. Segregation to them is a
custom—a tradition—a way of life. It has no other implica-
tion. It has no relation even to the practice of Christianity."
Emmett thinks very hard. He has always been this way. He
says, "Then at school today, why didn't they bother us? Why
didn't they act then as they are acting now?"
"That is where our thinking is always wrong, Emmett,"
I say. "We always think that because they are a majority, and
we are a minority, they are always willing and anxious to
lose blood to subdue us. This is not true, Emmett. They
were just as afraid of us today as we are afraid of them."
Emmett smiles. This is the first smile I have seen all night.
"You are right," Emmett says. "What you say is so simple, so
clear and logical—and yet we never think of it that way."
"But that is just a thought, Emmett," I say. "I am not
saying it is the only reason they did not threaten us. You
must realize that we are older than they. I am nineteen,
and you and John are eighteen. We are older because we
have worked the land all our lives. But for what we have
done today, perhaps, too, they think us a bit wiser than the
rest—a different kind of Negro."
Emmett says, "I don't like to think of it in terms of their
wanting to threaten us all the time, Edward. The students
there—we know them. We have walked these country roads
with them. We have picked berries together. We have fished
on the river and in the creeks as one, and we swam in its
muddy waters naked, side by side. It is not easy for them to
strike up against us at once. If we were in a larger town—
just a town—it would be different, I know. But there are no
social barriers here. There is no fear of miscegenation, I be-
lieve their greatest fear. These people are innocent of all
this."
"You are right, Emmett," say I. "You are right."
We are quiet for a moment. Emmett looks at me with cal-
culating eyes, which I feel even in the darkness. He says,
"You like the South, don't you, Edward?"
"Yes, Emmett. I like it."


18
We Can't Run Away from Here
me the truth. Most of what I said has been in your mind be-
fore, hasn't it?"
"Yes," says Emmett, "but you say it so well it sounds new
again."
"That is because you are at war with yourself, Emmett—
trying to clear yourself."
"And you, Edward," Emmett says, "how did you clear
yourself?"
"It was my father," I say to Emmett. "He helped me to
clear myself. He was not like your father and John's father,
who worked on this land and were consumed by it. He fled
away from here. He rebuilt himself and became a doctor
and never returned again. Through him I could see how
our people could rise up from bondage—how years before us
there would have been those to do what we are doing now.
If only they could have seen my father, there would have
been a turning inside them, a yearning that would have set
them off, a realization of their eminence. But my father never
looked back. I have always denounced him for his selfish-
ness."
"You didn't hate him, Edward?"
"No, I didn't," say I. "I think I never could have—not since
I don't hate the others. You see, Emmett, he belonged to
another group—not to our people in the earth, nor our peo-
ple living under their disillusioned successes. He was from
the running class. All his life he ran and he never found a
stop. We are black, Emmett. We are black-black and white-
black and yellow-black and brown-black. But we are still
black. From this we can never hide. And wherever we go,
whatever we do, for better or worse, we will never be uncon-
scious of this until generations upon generations have passed.
My father found this out, I am sure, before he was killed in
the war. He was listed—not as a lieutenant, Emmett, but as
a Negro lieutenant."
Emmett is quiet for a moment, and now I feel him smiling.
His hand touches my arm and his voice comes with fulfill-


We Can't Run Away from Here
25
appear to be scattered about. Something new is in the mak-
ing. Something that I fear. But this feeling of horror which
pervades me now is so great that I am suddenly callous. That
which was fear has now turned to impatience. This is even
worse.
We wait for something to happen. An explosion. Stones
crashing through our windows again. Voices bursting in in-
dignation. Fire. But time falters in its lowest gear. It is for
us and against us. It is greater than life itself. It is like snow
on the peak of the highest mountain. It will remain long
after we have plunged from its sinking slopes. Time is es-
sence and truth and the gospel. Yet the only thing we fear
of it is time itself. We cannot win against time.
The earth is showered with red. There is a sinking inside
me that will not let me respond. I have a feeling that this
fire has some meaning for us. An end is drawing near. That
we should retreat is out of the question. But how shall we
defend ourselves? Or shall we defend ourselves at all? I can-
not think clearly any more.
John is awakened suddenly as he sees the great blaze out-
side. He leaps from the bed and runs halfway toward the
front; and he screams, "Edward! They're burning a cross.
Ed ward!" He staggers backward against the wall, delirious
with terror. I run toward him and grab him by the collar
and shove him against the wall.
"Stop it! Stop it, John!" I shout. But John screams in my
face and struggles with me and tries to get away. I am stronger
now than before. It is almost my duty. I strike him in the
face with my hand. I strike him again and again, until I feel
the flow of blood on my fingers, until I have ceased his mad-
dened screaming. His head falls over limply to one side and
I am frightened. "John!" I shout at him. "John!" I shake
him and try to recover his senses. Then, suddenly, he falls
upon me and grips me tightly as before.
"Help me, Edward," he cries. "Please don't let them bother
me!" He is on his knees.


26
We Can't Run Away from Here
"Stand up, John," I say. "Stand up." But then I realize
that my words are wasted. John is not well enough for this.
I lean over and look at him and I say, "Then I'll help you,
John. I'll help you to stand. I'll show you how to be as strong
as you want to be."
He fights against me still. He tries to break away again.
But I am determined this time to hold on. If I don't, it will
mean the end of us. I am standing with him now and I am
holding his wrists with a firm grip. We struggle toward the
bedpost, where I want him, and I call, "Emmett! Your belt!"
But Emmett does not respond to me, and I feel myself losing
strength. I call him again, "Quickly, Emmett—your belt!" I
feel as though I am trying to manage an army and the army
is out of control. Emmett has not answered yet. And I can-
not see him in my struggle with John. He must have gone
and left us. It is hopeless. Their weaknesses have defeated
us. I will release my hold on John.
"No, Edward, no! Don't let him go!"
"Emmett—"
He falls over John as John is about to get up from the
bed. My strength is renewed. I hold John firmly now, and I
place his hands around the bedpost, and say to Emmett,
"Now tie him, Emmett—hurry!" Emmett ties him soundly,
and he takes the belt from my trousers and we strap his waist
to the bedpost. Suddenly, his convulsions are gone. He does
not have the strength. Nor have I. I am tired. I am dizzy. I
feel that I have lost something, or that I have never had it—
some strength of character or purpose. But that is the way it
is when you are fighting for something and are trying to be
a leader. You weaken—almost to the breaking point. But
once your end is revived in you, once you remember what
you have given up already, you have to hold on again. Your
losses—just your losses—would make it impossible for you to
turn back, away from yourself and your end.
I feel a strange sensation—like insects crawling over my
bare skin. I try to regain my balance. Emmett holds on to
me. "Here, Edward, let me help you," says Emmett. He helps


We Can't Run Away from Here
27
me to the table and I sit there, holding my head in my hands,
feeling at once the impact, the seriousness, the nearness to the
end we just escaped.
Emmett says, "It would be better if John and I were dead."
"Don't say that, Emmett."
"But it's true," says Emmett. "We are beginning to take
some of the strength out of you. I can see it in your eyes."
I touch Emmett's arm. "Strength, Emmett? Only physical
strength, and we all expect to weaken physically when we
are in war. But not in courage—not in faith. If you and John
were not here with me now, what cause would I have to
stay?"
"You are a good leader, Edward," says Emmett. "You will
draw respect and fear from them wherever you go when you
leave here."
"I am not a good leader," I say.
Emmett says, "You are modest."
"No," I say to him. "I am not. I am speaking frankly."
Emmett says, "Then explain it to me, Edward. Why aren't
you a good leader?"
"Because I am not the type," I say. "I am poor. I am de-
pendent. I have nothing to stand on if the bottom fell from
under me."
"But what difference would that make, Edward, as long as
the people would follow you?"
"But that's just it, Emmett, they wouldn't follow me. It's
lopsided thinking, I know, but economics means that much.
What security could I offer them? What protection? Even to
my own people I would be just another youngster trying to
make a name for himself. Our leaders must be strong men,
Emmett—independent men—men who are free of economic
reprisal—men whose words can reach the great masses of
people—men who know that a strong basis for our fighting,
for our victory, must be love. Yes, love is the answer. We
must win with love."
Emmett is confused. "Then who, Edward? Who?"
"Our ministers," I say. "We must fight through our min-


28
We Can't Run Away from Here
isters. We must win through them. They are free of economic
reprisal, pressures of the South, and they hold in their hands
the great masses of the people—the washwomen and maids
and cooks and porters and gardeners. They hold in their
hands the people who will fight, once they know what they
are fighting for. Their voices are big down here. Their back-
grounds, developed in an atmosphere of love, will carry us
through."
Emmett is calmer now. He says, "It is sad, Edward, that we
cannot depend on our educators to carry us through—our
teachers and our principals. I often wonder how many of
them would be willing to sacrifice their jobs to fight for the
practice of the principles of this land."
"I wonder, too, Edward, and it isn't easy. Jobs are not all
that they sacrifice. They would sacrifice the children they
teach, and learning would cease. Learning is our biggest
weapon. We must never cease to learn. And they would sacri-
fice their homes and their lives, and be forced into an exist-
ence so low that their fighting would be useless. You can
fight better when you are equal. At least the fight is shorter.
If there were more professional people among my people
down here—more doctors and lawyers—if my people owned
some of the land instead of just working on it—or even if
we were hired in industry—but they keep us back, lagging
behind. They deprive us of our rights. They force us into a
livelihood dependent on them and use it against us when
they tell the world that we are content with things the way
they are."
Emmett is saddened. "Sometimes I am so beaten, Edward
—so depressed—I want to cover my face. I want to run away
and vanish from the earth. We hear so much about democ-
racy and we see so little of it. In my prayers I ask for God's
hand, but He seems so far away. I feel so helpless, Edward—
so guilty of being—of being born black. Sometimes I think
it's a sin."
"Yes—yes, I know exactly how you feel, Emmett," I say.


We Can't Run Away from Here
29
"It saddens all of us. But you must remember this; they are
the ones who are in sin—not us."
Emmett says, "That's not easy to believe, Edward, when
we are persecuted the world over."
"I know," I say. "Nothing is easy to believe when you are
hurt and everything goes against you. But what has happened
to us is not a sin, our being born black—but rather, a growth,
an association that developed with the years. As far as we can
remember, being black has been associated with inequality;
therefore, everything we attempt to achieve will be difficult,
if not for any other reason. And even if this were not true,
the word 'race' itself carries a kind of lingering curiosity that
causes people to wonder, that causes you to be conspicuous.
It sets up a block that shapes various forms of acceptance and
rejection even before people can present themselves. Only
time can change this, Emmett."
Emmett's voice is breathy. "Yes, Edward. You have said
this before. Time! And I am afraid of it. I am faithless of it
because the only time I can perceive is that within my own
life span. My foresight is shallow and narrow, Edward. I
wish I could look beyond."
The cross continues to bum. A wind blows in from the
north and mixes in with the flames, and the flames begin to
grow. They are wild now—spreading and out of control.
They close in on us with a pumping sound that beats against
the wind, reaching for our porch and our rooftop, reaching
for our lives. It is not a strong wind, but strong enough. One
flame upon this house and we are through. This wood is dry
and old.
They scatter away from the cross. They are afraid at first
for themselves. Then they are aware suddenly of the danger
for us. Their horror is lessened and transformed suddenly
into a buoyant joy which overcomes them. It is strange to
see them frightened; and once they escape their fear, rejoice
when it falls upon us. You wonder what they are made of.


so
We Can't Run Away from Here
A tree catches fire—the only tree in our yard. Its dry and
dying limbs hang over the edges of our roof. There is noth-
ing we can do. We watch the blaze spread up the dry limb
until we cannot see it any more. We wait. Soon our roof will
fall in, and our porch; then we will follow. A thudding,
cracking sound hits the ground. The limb has fallen, and it
still burns. It was so dry that it collapsed before the fire
reached the top. We are saved for a while. We are lucky. But
we are not out of this yet. The flames are still reaching toward
us. The wind. If only the wind would change its direction!
The wind is our only hope.
It is hot in here—hot from the fear and the tension—hot
from the angry flames that surround us. Our perspiration
hangs from our foreheads and condenses on our upper lips
in great, thick beads, and is sour on our tongues. We need
air that is fresh and we need it quickly, as the hot air that is
pushed in by the flames is not good for our lungs. We look
toward the windows, knowing there is something beyond—
some life. And this is the thing that aches inside us, that
tears us away inside and causes us to lose our faith—faith in
ourselves and in our country and in our God. Freedom and
justice and liberty and equality! How vague these things
seem to us! No boldness is required to say this. Only the
greatest remorse.
John is coughing. He has not moved since he collapsed
from his convulsions. He is prostrate in body and spirit. Even
if we did not tie him, he could not move. I want to help him,
to strengthen him again, as it is almost unbearable to see him
suffer. But I cannot. It is not against my will, but it is against
my duty. John will not change. It is far too late for that.
Rather than see him any other way, I'd prefer to have him
dead.
There is but a thin line that separates life from death. It
is a line made by time, for time makes everything. We see
the truth in this now, the mark of it—for as quickly as the
wind had come from the north, it dies. The flames back away
from our house, their angry and painted edges dying among


32
We Can't Run Away from Here
"They burn themselves pure," I say. "It is a symbol. They
cleanse their race by burning all the evil exposed to them—
all that is un-white in color and principle is unpure to them.
All that refutes the myth of their supremacy. Mainly, you
would say, Negroes, Jews and Catholics. They burn them-
selves pure of these—of us."
Emmett says, "And it purifies? ..."
"No, Emmett," I say. "It doesn't. It contaminates. It is like
the water that sweeps in from the ocean when the tide comes
in. We think of the water as a purifying agent—an agent that
purifies the shore. But it doesn't purify the shore. It con-
taminates it. It brings with it the algae and other slimy in-
gredients and waste from the bottom of the ocean; and they
find their place on the embankments and remain there, never
to move until the tide comes in again, and they are replaced
with their likeness. The same is true with this cross-burning,
Emmett. They do not purify their race. They contaminate
it! They sweep ugliness into it—and injustice—a stain that
spreads from land to land and brings with it ridicule and
animosity and hatred; a stain that is a target for communism
and a weak defense for democracy."
"But they believe in it, Edward," says Emmett.
"Yes," I say to Emmett. "It is this myth in which they be-
lieve."
The cross is not burning well. As its slow and even burn-
ing is about to die, we can see the rushing of the hours, shown
to us by a thick black sky. We wonder what time it is. We
have no watches here. Surely it must be ten—or at least nine
by now. If so, that is good for us. We can breathe freshly and
think of freedom. Their men must go to work tomorrow.
Their children must go to school. But midnight? Suppose
the time is midnight, or shortly before or shortly after? We
would not hope much longer. Their intentions would be
clear to us.
The humidity grows in here. We are reeking with our
own sweat. We are gasping for breaths of fresh, clean air.


We Can't Run Away from Here
43
I try to calm myself. "I am not angry, Emmett. I love my
country too well, and I am too aware of the strength of its
foundations ever to become angry. I am just blind—and weak
and futile—so that it makes me want to lash out at someone.
But I am too full of sorrow and pain to be angry. I am just—
helpless. I feel now that whatever I do or believe is so little
to aid our cause that it would not matter if I existed at all.
Everything seems an ideal; but nothing ever—is!"
"But you are the ideal, Edward. You are what seems. You
are the hope of our people. You are the new Negro. But you
must begin here first and then go on, so that what you are
made of will root itself in the smallest of us."
"But who can see such an ideal? Who can see what seems?
My own people are afraid of me. They make me doubt my-
self."
"You have said it before," says Emmett. "They can! That
is why you are here."
We were never young. Youth is cheerful and strong and
striving, rich with wild passion and new discovery and animal
freeness. Youth is like a carousel, whirling and spinning and
singing, unaware of the fulfillment it brings to squealing
children, of its inevitable defeat when it is old and worn and
rusty and out of use. Youth is ever-spring and never-autumn.
It is something—forever! It is a rising hill with no falling
sides. It is the sky, the clouds, the birds fluttering through the
air, the wind blowing. Youth is a poem, a feeling! It is end-
less 1
How much of this we have missed! Instead of the feel of
the water that came from the green pools, our bodies reeked
with sweat. Our hands are swollen and sore with labor, while
theirs are made painful only by the thorns of a rose. We have
watched them picnic on sloping lawns, play in vast fields with
high, brick fences, play on long green fields with small holes
and flags and sand traps, and on courts of moon-yellow clay
. . . while we have stolen, barefooted, to the creeks and
swamps and fished on the stumps. And that was our fun.


We Can't Run Away from Here
45
most indistinguishable sound. But it is there, outside in the
dark, slowly mounting in volume. Scraping, shuffling, it
moves closer. It is as though someone or something is slid-
ing over the loosely packed earth in front of the house. The
muffled plop of feet mingles with the sliding sound, and it
becomes distinct that two or three men are approaching. But
what is that sliding, dusty sound that comes with them?
Emmett hears the movements and stands upright. His feet
begin unconsciously backing away from the door. He re-
treats to the wall and melts to the floor, his mouth open in
terror at the approaching unknown.
I sit rigid in the chair, rooted by fear, by an overwhelming
sense of duty that will not let me run. I tense and watch the
door with fixed horror.
Then, suddenly, the footsteps and the sound stop. A dull
thud on the porch reverberates through the empty house and
is felt in the rotting planks of the floor; it is absorbed in our
bodies and becomes a part of us. As the footsteps fade, silence
comes flooding back, stronger and more powerful than be-
fore.
Emmett comes to me and clutches at my shoulder. He
knows, as I do, that something has been dropped on our
porch. His eyes are closed. He has learned to expect the worst
without panic. I touch his hand. I say, "It has come, Emmett.
This is our sentence."
Silently, I arise and walk to the door. I stand and listen,
cautiously aware of the silence and the lack of movement on
the other side of the door.
Emmett stands frozen and then he cries, "No, Edward, no!
Don't leave me here alone."
"It is the only way, Emmett. They have come because it
is me they want—not you. They believe that if they destroy
me, they will destroy everything; but you must prove them
wrong, Emmett. You must. That is why you must stay here."
He comes toward me slowly. His lips part, and I hear the
faint sound of my name in his voice. He holds his hand out
to mine. We stand here a part of one another. We stand here


VI
He died just before dawn. When the sun rose, a deafen-
ing silence hung over the land. A rooster crowed and the
earth moved. And the earth had forgotten. The day . . . went
on.
55