And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit.
A million people hungry, needing the fruit—and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains.
And the smell of rot fills the country.
Burn coffee for fuel in the ships.
Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire.
Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out.
Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.
There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation.
There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize.
There is a failure here that topples all our success.
The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit.
And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange.
And coroners must fill in the certificates—died of malnutrition—because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.
The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed.
And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath.
In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.
Chapter 26
In the Weedpatch camp, on an evening when the long, barred clouds hung over the set sun and inflamed their edges, the Joad family lingered after their supper.
Ma hesitated before she started to do the dishes.
“We got to do somepin,” she said. And she pointed at Winfield. “Look at ’im,” she said. And when they stared at the little boy, “He’s a-jerkin’ an’ a-twistin’ in his sleep.
Lookut his color.” The members of the family looked at the earth again in shame. “Fried dough,” Ma said. “One month we been here.
An’ Tom had five days’ work.
An’ the rest of you scrabblin’ out ever’ day, an’ no work.
An’ scairt to talk.
An’ the money gone.
You’re scairt to talk it out.
Ever’ night you jus’ eat, an’ then you get wanderin’ away.
Can’t bear to talk it out. Well, you got to.
Rosasharn ain’t far from due, an’ lookut her color.
You got to talk it out.
Now don’t none of you get up till we figger somepin out.
One day’ more grease an’ two days’flour, an’ ten potatoes.
You set here an’ get busy!”
They looked at the ground.
Pa cleaned his thick nails with his pocket knife.
Uncle John picked at a splinter on the box he sat on.
Tom pinched his lower lip and pulled it away from his teeth.
He released his lip and said softly,
“We been a-lookin’, Ma.
Been walkin’ out sence we can’t use the gas no more.
Been goin’ in ever’ gate, walkin’ up to ever’ house, even when we knowed they wasn’t gonna be nothin’. Puts a weight on ya. Goin’ out lookin’ for somepin you know you ain’t gonna find.”
Ma said fiercely,
“You ain’t got the right to get discouraged.
This here fambly’s goin’ under.
You jus’ ain’t got the right.”
Pa inspected his scraped nail.
“We gotta go,” he said. “We didn’ wanta go.
It’s nice here, an’ folks is nice here.
We’re feared we’ll have to go live in one a them Hoovervilles.”
“Well, if we got to, we got to.