The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Well, there’s Hooverville on the edge of the river. There’s a whole raft of Okies there.

  He drove his old car to Hooverville. He never asked again, for there was a Hooverville on the edge of every town.

  The rag town lay close to water; and the houses were tents, and weed-thatched enclosures, paper houses, a great junk pile. The man drove his family in and became a citizen of Hooverville—always they were called Hooverville. The man put up his own tent as near to water as he could get; or if he had no tent, he went to the city dump and brought back cartons and built a house of corrugated paper. And when the rains came the house melted and washed away. He settled in Hooverville and he scoured the countryside for work, and the little money he had went for gasoline to look for work. In the evening the men gathered and talked together. Squatting on their hams they talked of the land they had seen.

  There’s thirty thousan’ acres, out west of here. Layin’ there. Jesus, what I could do with that, with five acres of that! Why, hell, I’d have ever’thing to eat.

  Notice one thing? They ain’t no vegetables nor chickens nor pigs at the farms. They raise one thing—cotton, say, or peaches, or lettuce. ’Nother place’ll be all chickens. They buy the stuff they could raise in the dooryard.

  Jesus, what I could do with a couple pigs!

  Well, it ain’t yourn, an’ it ain’t gonna be yourn.

  What we gonna do? The kids can’t grow up this way.

  In the camps the word would come whispering, There’s work at Shafter. And the cars would be loaded in the night, the highways crowded—a gold rush for work. At Shafter the people would pile up, five times too many to do the work. A gold rush for work. They stole away in the night, frantic for work. And along the roads lay the temptations, the fields that could bear food.

  That’s owned. That ain’t our’n.

  Well, maybe we could get a little piece of her. Maybe—a little piece. Right down there—a patch. Jimson weed now. Christ, I could git enough potatoes off’n that little patch to feed my whole family!

  It ain’t our’n. It got to have Jimson weeds.

  Now and then a man tried; crept on the land and cleared a piece, trying like a thief to steal a little richness from the earth. Secret gardens hidden in the weeds. A package of carrot seeds and a few turnips. Planted potato skins, crept out in the evening secretly to hoe in the stolen earth.

  Leave the weeds around the edge—then nobody can see what we’re a-doin’. Leave some weeds, big tall ones, in the middle.

  Secret gardening in the evenings, and water carried in a rusty can.

  And then one day a deputy sheriff: Well, what you think you’re doin’?

  I ain’t doin’ no harm.

  I had my eye on you. This ain’t your land. You’re trespassing.

  The land ain’t plowed, an’ I ain’t hurtin’ it none.

  You goddamned squatters. Pretty soon you’d think you owned it. You’d be sore as hell. Think you owned it. Get off now.

  And the little green carrot tops were kicked off and the turnip greens trampled. And then the Jimson weed moved back in. But the cop was right. A crop raised—why, that makes ownership. Land hoed and the carrots eaten—a man might fight for land he’s taken food from. Get him off quick! He’ll think he owns it. He might even die fighting for the little plot among the Jimson weeds.

  Did ya see his face when we kicked them turnips out? Why, he’d kill a fella soon’s he’d look at him. We got to keep these here people down or they’ll take the country. They’ll take the country.

  Outlanders, foreigners.

  Sure, they talk the same language, but they ain’t the same. Look how they live. Think any of us folks’d live like that? Hell, no!

  In the evenings, squatting and talking. And an excited man: Whyn’t twenty of us take a piece of lan’? We got guns. Take it an’ say, “Put us off if you can.” Whyn’t we do that?

  They’d jus’ shoot us like rats.

  Well, which’d you ruther be, dead or here? Under groun’ or in a house all made of gunny sacks? Which’d you ruther for your kids, dead now or dead in two years with what they call malnutrition? Know what we et all week? Biled nettles an’ fried dough! Know where we got the flour for the dough? Swep’ the floor of a boxcar.

  Talking in the camps, and the deputies, fat-assed men with guns slung on fat hips, swaggering through the camps: Give ’em somepin to think about. Got to keep ’em in line or Christ only knows what they’ll do! Why, Jesus, they’re as dangerous as niggers in the South! If they ever get together there ain’t nothin’ that’ll stop ’em.

  Quote: In Lawrenceville a deputy sheriff evicted a squatter, and the squatter resisted, making it necessary for the officer to use force. The eleven-year-old son of the squatter shot and killed the deputy with a .22 rifle.

  *

  Rattlesnakes! Don’t take chances with ’em, an’ if they argue, shoot first. If a kid’ll kill a cop, what’ll the men do? Thing is, get tougher’n they are. Treat ’em rough. Scare ’em.

  What if they won’t scare? What if they stand up and take it and shoot back? These men were armed when they were children. A gun is an extension of themselves. What if they won’t scare? What if some time an army of them marches on the land as the Lombards did in Italy, as the Germans did on Gaul and the Turks did on Byzantium? They were land-hungry, ill-armed hordes too, and the legions could not stop them. Slaughter and terror did not stop them. How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can’t scare him—he has known a fear beyond every other.

  In Hooverville the men talking: Grampa took his lan’ from the Injuns.

  Now, this ain’t right. We’re a-talkin’ here. This here you’re talkin’ about is stealin’. I ain’t no thief.

  No? You stole a bottle of milk from a porch night before last. An’ you stole some copper wire and sold it for a piece of meat.

  Yeah, but the kids was hungry.

  It’s stealin’, though.

  Know how the Fairfiel’ ranch was got? I’ll tell ya. It was all gov’ment lan’, an’ could be took up. Ol’ Fairfiel’, he went into San Francisco to the bars, an’ he got him three hunderd stew bums. Them bums took up the lan’. Fairfiel’ kep’ ’em in food an’ whisky, an’ then when they’d proved the lan’, ol’ Fairfiel’ took it from ’em. He used to say the lan’ cost him a pint of rotgut an acre. Would you say that was stealin’?

  Well, it wasn’t right, but he never went to jail for it.

  No, he never went to jail for it. An’ the fella that put a boat in a wagon an’ made his report like it was all under water ’cause he went in a boat—he never went to jail neither. An’ the fellas that bribed congressmen and the legislatures never went to jail neither.

  All over the State, jabbering in the Hoovervilles.

  And then the raids—the swoop of armed deputies on the squatters’ camps. Get out. Department of Health orders. This camp is a menace to health.

  Where we gonna go?

  That’s none of our business. We got orders to get you out of here. In half an hour we set fire to the camp.

  They’s typhoid down the line. You want ta spread it all over?

  We got orders to get you out of here. Now get! In half an hour we burn the camp.

  In half an hour the smoke of paper houses, of weed-thatched huts, rising to the sky, and the people in their cars rolling over the highways, looking for another Hooverville.

  And in Kansas and Arkansas, in Oklahoma and Texas and New Mexico, the tractors moved in and pushed the tenants out.

  Three hundred thousand in California and more coming. And in California the roads full of frantic people running like ants to pull, to push, to lift, to work. For every manload to lift, five pairs of arms extended to lift it; for every stomachful of food available, five mouths open.

  And the great owners, who must lose their land in an upheaval, the great owners with access to history, with eyes to read history an
d to know the great fact: when property accumulates in too few hands it is taken away. And that companion fact: when a majority of the people are hungry and cold they will take by force what they need. And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed. The great owners ignored the three cries of history. The land fell into fewer hands, the number of the dispossessed increased, and every effort of the great owners was directed at repression. The money was spent for arms, for gas to protect the great holdings, and spies were sent to catch the murmuring of revolt so that it might be stamped out. The changing economy was ignored, plans for the change ignored; and only means to destroy revolt were considered, while the causes of revolt went on.

  The tractors which throw men out of work, the belt lines which carry loads, the machines which produce, all were increased; and more and more families scampered on the highways, looking for crumbs from the great holdings, lusting after the land beside the roads. The great owners formed associations for protection and they met to discuss ways to intimidate, to kill, to gas. And always they were in fear of a principal—three hundred thousand—if they ever move under a leader—the end. Three hundred thousand, hungry and miserable; if they ever know themselves, the land will be theirs and all the gas, all the rifles in the world won’t stop them. And the great owners, who had become through their holdings both more and less than men, ran to their destruction, and used every means that in the long run would destroy them. Every little means, every violence, every raid on a Hooverville, every deputy swaggering through a ragged camp put off the day a little and cemented the inevitability of the day.

  The men squatted on their hams, sharp-faced men, lean from hunger and hard from resisting it, sullen eyes and hard jaws. And the rich land was around them.

  D’ja hear about the kid in that fourth tent down?

  No, I jus’ come in.

  Well, that kid’s been a-cryin’ in his sleep an’ a-rollin’ in his sleep. Them folks thought he got worms. So they give him a blaster, an’ he died. It was what they call black-tongue the kid had. Comes from not gettin’ good things to eat.

  Poor little fella.

  Yeah, but them folks can’t bury him. Got to go to the county stone orchard.

  Well, hell.

  And hands went into pockets and little coins came out. In front of the tent a little heap of silver grew. And the family found it there.

  Our people are good people; our people are kind people. Pray God some day kind people won’t all be poor. Pray God some day a kid can eat.

  And the associations of owners knew that some day the praying would stop.

  And there’s the end.

  Chapter 20

  The family, on top of the load, the children and Connie and Rose of Sharon and the preacher were stiff and cramped. They had sat in the heat in front of the coroner’s office in Bakersfield while Pa and Ma and Uncle John went in. Then a basket was brought out and the long bundle lifted down from the truck. And they sat in the sun while the examination went on, while the cause of death was found and the certificate signed.

  Al and Tom strolled along the street and looked in store windows and watched the strange people on the sidewalks.

  And at last Pa and Ma and Uncle John came out, and they were subdued and quiet. Uncle John climbed up on the load. Pa and Ma got in the seat. Tom and Al strolled back and Tom got under the steering wheel. He sat there silently, waiting for some instruction. Pa looked straight ahead, his dark hat pulled low. Ma rubbed the sides of her mouth with her fingers, and her eyes were far away and lost, dead with weariness.

  Pa sighed deeply. “They wasn’t nothin’ else to do,” he said.

  “I know,” said Ma. “She would a liked a nice funeral, though. She always wanted one.”

  Tom looked sideways at them. “County?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Pa shook his head quickly, as though to get back to some reality. “We didn’ have enough. We couldn’ of done it.” He turned to Ma. “You ain’t to feel bad. We couldn’ no matter how hard we tried, no matter what we done. We jus’ didn’ have it; embalming, an’ a coffinan’ a preacher, an’ a plot in a graveyard. It would of took ten times what we got. We done the bes’ we could.”

  “I know,” Ma said. “I jus’ can’t get it outa my head what store she set by a nice funeral. Got to forget it.” She sighed deeply and rubbed the side of her mouth. “That was a purty nice fella in there. Awful bossy, but he was purty nice.”

  “Yeah,” Pa said. “He give us the straight talk, awright.”

  Ma brushed her hair back with her hand. Her jaw tightened. “We got to git,” she said. “We got to find a place to stay. We got to get work an’ settle down. No use a-lettin’ the little fellas go hungry. That wasn’t never Granma’s way. She always et a good meal at a funeral.”

  “Where we goin’?” Tom asked.

  Pa raised his hat and scratched among his hair. “Camp,” he said. “We ain’t gonna spen’ what little’s lef’ till we get work. Drive out in the country.”

  Tom started the car and they rolled through the streets and out toward the country. And by a bridge they saw a collection of tents and shacks. Tom said, “Might’s well stop here. Find out what’s doin’, an’ where at the work is.” He drove down a steep dirt incline and parked on the edge of the encampment.

  There was no order in the camp; little gray tents, shacks, cars were scattered about at random. The first house was nondescript. The south wall was made of three sheets of rusty corrugated iron, the east wall a square of moldy carpet tacked between two boards, the north wall a strip of roofing paper and a strip of tattered canvas, and the west wall six pieces of gunny sacking. Over the square frame, on untrimmed willow limbs, grass had been piled, not thatched, but heaped up in a low mound. The entrance, on the gunny-sack side, was cluttered with equipment. A five-gallon kerosene can served for a stove. It was laid on its side, with a section of rusty stovepipe thrust in one end. A wash boiler rested on its side against the wall; and a collection of boxes lay about, boxes to sit on, to eat on. A Model T Ford sedan and a two-wheel trailer were parked beside the shack, and about the camp there hung a slovenly despair.

  Next to the shack there was a little tent, gray with weathering, but neatly, properly set up; and the boxes in front of it were placed against the tent wall. A stovepipe stuck out of the door flap, and the dirt in front of the tent had been swept and sprinkled. A bucketful of soaking clothes stood on a box. The camp was neat and sturdy. A Model A roadster and a little home-made bed trailer stood beside the tent.

  And next there was a huge tent, ragged, torn in strips and the tears mended with pieces of wire. The flaps were up, and inside four wide mattresses lay on the ground. A clothes line strung along the side bore pink cotton dresses and several pairs of overalls. There were forty tents and shacks, and beside each habitation some kind of automobile. Far down the line a few children stood and stared at the newly arrived truck, and they moved toward it, little boys in overalls and bare feet, their hair gray with dust.

  Tom stopped the truck and looked at Pa. “She ain’t very purty,” he said. “Want to go somewheres else?”

  “Can’t go nowheres else till we know where we’re at,” Pa said. “We got to ast about work.”

  Tom opened the door and stepped out. The family climbed down from the load and looked curiously at the camp. Ruthie and Winfield, from the habit of the road, took down the bucket and walked toward the willows, where there would be water; and the line of children parted for them and closed after them.

  The flaps of the first shack parted and a woman looked out. Her gray hair was braided, and she wore a dirty, flowered Mother Hubbard. Her face was wizened and dull, deep gray pouches under blank eyes, and a mouth slack and loose.

  Pa said, “Can we jus’ pull up anywheres an’ camp?”

  The head was withdrawn inside the shack. For a moment there was quiet and then the flaps were pushed aside and a bearded man in shirt sleeve
s stepped out. The woman looked out after him, but she did not come into the open.

  The bearded man said, “Howdy, folks,” and his restless dark eyes jumped to each member of the family, and from them to the truck to the equipment.

  Pa said, “I jus’ ast your woman if it’s all right to set out stuff anywheres.”

  The bearded man looked at Pa intently, as though he had said something very wise that needed thought. “Set down anywheres, here in this place?” he asked.

  “Sure. Anybody own this place, that we got to see ’fore we can camp?”

  The bearded man squinted one eye nearly closed and studied Pa. “You wanta camp here?”

  Pa’s irritation arose. The gray woman peered out of the burlap shack. “What you think I’m a-sayin’?” Pa said.

  “Well, if you wanta camp here, why don’t ya? I ain’t a-stoppin’ you.”

  Tom laughed. “He got it.”

  Pa gathered his temper. “I jus’ wanted to know does anybody own it? Do we got to pay?”

  The bearded man thrust out his jaw. “Who owns it?” he demanded.

  Pa turned away. “The hell with it,” he said. The woman’s head popped back in the tent.

  The bearded man stepped forward menacingly. “Who owns it?” he demanded. “Who’s gonna kick us outa here? You tell me.”

  Tom stepped in front of Pa. “You better go take a good long sleep,” he said. The bearded man dropped his mouth open and put a dirty finger against his lower gums. For a moment he continued to look wisely, speculatively at Tom, and then he turned on his heel and popped into the shack after the gray woman.

  Tom turned on Pa. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

  Pa shrugged his shoulders. He was looking across the camp. In front of a tent stood an old Buick, and the head was off. A young man was grinding the valves, and as he twisted back and forth, back and forth, on the tool, he looked up at the Joad truck. They could see that he was laughing to himself. When the bearded man had gone, the young man left his work and sauntered over.

  “H’are ya?” he said, and his blue eyes were shiny with amusement. “I seen you just met the Mayor.”