Unlike Sacco, Vanzetti had no personal goal. Returning to the United States at about the same time as Sacco, he wandered for a year: first to St. Louis; then Youngstown, Ohio; Farrell, Pennsylvania; and finally, in the summer of 1918, back to Plymouth. For a few months he stayed again with the Brinis, then Vincenzo found him a room with the Fortinis in Cherry Lane. But though Vanzetti no longer lived at the Brinis’, the old intimacy remained. For a year Vanzetti worked at various jobs. Then he bought his pushcart. He had no competitors in North Plymouth, and there were days when he would sell up to two hundred pounds of fish. The difficulty was the supply. Often the trawlers did not go out until April, and sometimes they came back with empty holds. During the slack summer of 1919 Vanzetti worked for the town, but in the autumn he again pushed his cart. Sometimes he had to go to the Boston docks for his fish. When he was in the city he would drop in to see his friend, the printer Aldino Felicani, in the press room of the Italian daily _La Notizia_, or else would take the one-cent ferry to East Boston to visit some of his anarchist comrades there. After the first of Attorney General Palmer’s Red raids in November, Vanzetti told Felicani they should plan to set up an underground press. * * * * * In 1917 the slogans that after the war came to seem as shabby as a last-season’s theater poster had rung taut and true. _Beat the Hun! Stand by the President! Keep the World Safe for Democracy!_ It had been a time of sauerkraut turned liberty cabbage, of Wagner turned John Philip Sousa, of the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Dr. Karl Muck, driven from the podium and dachshunds driven from the streets. Several states had even passed laws against speaking German. High schools dropped the language from their curricula. Upper-school boys of my school, Roxbury Latin, who were still allowed the choice between Greek and German, used to joke that it was better to choose Greek because you could study it on the streetcar. Except for the scapegoat Germans, all American racial and religious groups were welded into the unity of the war years. Only a meager minority, a few hundred thousand at most, continued to stand aside. What opposition to the war still remained came from the foreign-born of the big cities with their inherited dread of conscription, from the dwindling Socialist Party, the still belligerently confident Industrial Workers of the World—the Wobblies—and from the anarchists. War unity, seeming at the time to be forged in steel, has a way shortly afterward of showing its puttylike consistency—as 1919 soon demonstrated. In a soothing-syrup speech that year Senator Warren G. Harding coined _normalcy_, a word that has endured because it somehow expressed the common yearning to return to the idealized prewar period.