to order the FBI to act, but the local FBI claims they’ve been given no authority.”
Moses paused, absorbed in his own brooding.
a separate decision. His prophetic aura held me in thrall. And yet there was a sad beauty in his face that was almost childlike, reminding me of a bright, sensitive kid who is lost.
“When you come South,” Moses said, “you bring the rest of the country with you. You bring their concern, which usually doesn’t extend to Negroes. To accomplish something very real, we are going to try to do something very limited. Don’t expect big results. If we all go and come back alive, that will be an important accomplishment. If we can simply talk to Negroes and stay in their homes, that will be a huge job. We won’t engage in direct action—no sit-ins—nor will we encourage local people to do so. There’s no point in integrating a lunch counter if you can’t afford a hamburger. But we are willing to risk our lives so that Negroes can receive a better education and participate in free elections. Mississippi has been called a closed society. It is more than that; it is a padlocked police state. We think the key to opening it is the vote.”
As Moses laid down the basic ground rules for the summer, I scanned the faces of my fellow volunteers until I saw the dark-haired girl who caught my eye the day before. When she saw me look her way, I tried out my best trouble-is-my-business smile, but I don’t think she bought it.
“We will not allow any staff members or volunteers to carry a weapon,” Moses stressed. “This is absolutely bedrock. If the police thought we were armed, they would simply use that as an excuse to murder us.”
He gave us a hypothetical case:
“What would you do if you were in a farmhouse under attack and the owner, firing back in self-defense, had been shot, and his children were crying for help? You can’t walk away, say ‘I’m nonviolent,’ and find out what happened the next morning. You have to be a part of it. You’d have to make an on-the-spot decision. Should you pick up the gun? If you do, you violate our commitment to nonviolence; if you don’t, you leave yourself and the children exposed. What should you do? I can’t answer that. There is no clear answer. What I can say is be cautious, avoid arrest. The work we’re doing can’t be done in jail—or in the grave.”
I tried to picture what I would do in those circumstances. It was all too easy for me to simulate the fear I would feel, but what decisions would I make? How would I act? Would I meet the test?
“I see an analogy in Camus’s The Plague to what is happening in this country,” Moses continued. “The sickness pervades the whole society, but nobody will admit it. We are all victims of the plague of prejudice, but we refuse to diagnose our symptoms because recognition would make action necessary. Unless we have the courage and lucidity to face facts and openly and honestly discuss our own racism, the Summer Project could blow up in our faces. And unless this country . . .”
At that point Moses broke off in midsentence; one of the SNCC staff was motioning to him from the side of the stage. Moses walked over, bending down on one knee to hear what the man was urgently whispering. He remained there for a moment, rocking gently back and forth, then he rose wearily to his feet and stood silently before us, shrouded in thought. Finally, he looked up and spoke in a flat, inflectionless voice.
“Yesterday morning, three of our people left Meridian, Mississippi, to investigate a church bombing in Neshoba County. They haven’t come back, and we haven’t had any word from them. We spoke to John Doar in the Justice Department. He promised to order the FBI to act, but the local FBI claims they’ve been given no authority.”
Moses paused, absorbed in his own brooding.
Waves of shock and dismay swept the auditorium. Who was missing? Where was Neshoba? Are they already dead? Do they mean to kill us all? I sat stunned in my chair, paralyzed by a sudden surge of sheer terror.
A frail, birdlike woman in a sleeveless blouse and cutoff blue jeans took the stage. Her thin face was pale and distraught, and she fidgeted constantly with the filter tip in her hand, but her voice was composed.
“My husband, Michael Schwerner; a fellow CORE worker, James Chaney, of Meridian; and a Summer Project volunteer, Andrew Goodman, of New York, have to all present knowledge ‘disappeared’ on a mission to investigate a church burning in Neshoba County. A thorough check of all jails and hospitals produced no clue. Our appeals to local and federal officials—the FBI and the Justice Department—have been in vain. We were told the matter is ‘out of the province’ of federal concern. The Mississippi State Patrol told us bluntly, ‘Why should we care?’ Finally, at seven o’clock this morning, we were told by the jailor’s wife in Philadelphia, Mississippi, that the three were arrested for speeding Sunday afternoon and released at 6:00 P.M. after paying a fine. Sheriff Rainey has confirmed that his deputy, Cecil Price, made the arrest and saw them leave town.”
Rita Schwerner then went to the blackboard and wrote the names of the missing men over the map Moses had drawn of Mississippi.
James Chaney—CORE staff
Michael Schwerner—CORE staff
Andrew Goodman—Summer Project Volunteer
Neshoba County—Disappeared
“Go wire your congressman to do something,” she pleaded. “Demand that the FBI start searching for these men. Even though we have contacted them repeatedly, so far they’ve done nothing. If we can get some action from these law enforcement officials, there is still hope.”
Moses came back and said a few words about how crucial the first twenty-four hours were. We then broke up into groups according to states. In a daze, I drafted telegrams to Ohio legislators while I wished I were back in my room packing my bags. This is a mistake, my brain kept telling me. Leave now or you will die. All around me people were cursing and vowing a little too loudly that they were undaunted and more determined than ever to go.
As I walked across the campus on my way to the Western Union office on High Street, I saw Moses, sitting alone on the steps of the dining hall. When I returned an hour later, he was still there, lost in polar solitudes.
At lunch I picked at my food like most of my companions. Cigarette smoke hung in the room as thickly as storm clouds. Everybody talked about the disappearance, but nobody seemed to have any new information.
“Why won’t they tell us anything?” the girl sitting across from me asked. I could see her lips quivering.
“I don’t think they know very much,” I said.
“But I heard they were up all night calling people in Mississippi,” she replied. “They must know more than they’re saying.”
I glanced over to where the SNCC staff were gathered at one long table.
“I knew it was going to be bad,” I said, “but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Cheer up,” Lenny chipped in. “The worst is yet to come.”
Nobody laughed.
At two o’clock I went to a large meeting on the Freedom Schools. The person in charge was distant and disorganized, and everyone’s mind was on the missing civil rights workers anyway. Afterward we received our assignments. Lenny and I were being sent to McComb.
I broke out into a cold sweat and headed for the bathroom.
Our
