Peace, Peace

When an oilstove exploded and smoky flames began roaring up through a two-story house in a mean section of Newark, N. J. one afternoon last week, a passing coal truckman named John Wilson knew at once how to save the three Negroes he saw waggling their arms at an upstairs window. Backing his truck up to the house. Driver Wilson geared in the motor to start elevating one end of the body. When it was nearly level with the window, he scrambled up, broke the pane with his shovel. "Hey!" he bellowed, "Jump, jump into the coal!"

Three goggle-eyed blackamoors knelt by a bed, swaying and chanting: "Peace, peace, it is truly wonderful, Father. Peace, peace, Father. You will save us, Father. You are God, Father. Father Divine is God, God, God." When they heard the truck driver's voice, one of the Negroes walked to the broken window, firmly drew the shade.

His clothing smoking and his coal afire, Driver Wilson departed in bewilderment. Firemen later extinguished the blaze. By the smoldering bed they found the charred bodies of two Negro men, one Negro woman, all devout disciples of Harlem's bald little Rev. Major J. ("Father") Divine (TIME, May 27, March n, et ante).

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.