Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

Claus Timmerman who had been editor of the Autonomist newspaper Der Anarchist in St. Louis from 1889 to 1891.

      18 Author’s note: Hangman.

      19 Uncle Nathan was Nathan Natanson who was a successful businessman in Kovno. Uncle Maxim was Mark Andreevich Natanson (1850–1919) who was a founder of the radical Chaikovsky circle as well as the Zemlya I Volya society, the largest Russian populist group in the 1870s. He also helped mastermind Peter Kropotkin’s escape from prison in 1876. The incident that Berkman describes took place in November 1882 when the family heard that Natanson, who had been exiled to Siberia for ten years in 1879, had now, apparently, also been sentenced to death for his activities. The sentence was not carried out.

      20 Golubchik is a Russian term of endearment.

      21 Author’s note: Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to inexperienced youth.

      22 A classical gymnasium school, of the type Berkman attended, had a curriculum that was based around the teaching of Greek and Latin as well as an examination of classical culture and philosophy. It usually was given the right to send its pupils on to university. Pupils attended from ages eleven to eighteen.

      23 Author’s note: Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.

      24 On release from Russian prison one could be given a wolf’s passport instead of the normal internal passport. It limited residency to certain areas and, in consequence, often limited employment prospects. Presumably authorities could also punish “troublemakers” like Berkman, who had not been to prison, in a similar way.

      25 “Mikhail” was Michelman, a Russian immigrant and member of the Pioneers of Liberty. At the time of Berkman’s attempt on Frick’s life, The New York World of July 25, 1892 reported that he had moved to Boston sometime before.

      Chapter II: The Seat of War

      Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board fence, topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike watch-towers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies the name of “Fort Frick.” Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of many voices. Men carrying Winchesters are hurrying by, their faces grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the black mouths of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace stacks, and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath of a sanguinary conflict,—the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless struggle in which the stronger, the sturdy man of labor, is always the victim, because he acts weakly. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered gangplank, bear mute witness that for once the battle went to the really strong, to the victim who dared.

      A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stalwart men, the power of conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a weapon: some Winchesters, others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver.

      “Who are you?” the man with the revolver sternly asks me.

      “A friend, a visitor.”

      “Can you show credentials or a union card?”

      Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed.

In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of various types: the short, broad-faced Slav, elbowing his tall American fellow-striker; the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen.26 The people are surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man.

      I press forward. “Listen, gentlemen, listen!” I hear the speaker’s voice. “Just a few words, gentlemen! You all know who I am, don’t you?”

      “Yes, yes, Sheriff!” several men cry. “Go on!”

“Yes,” continues the speaker, “you all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the Sheriff of Allegheny County, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”27

      “Go ahead!” some one yells, impatiently.

      “If you don’t interrupt me, gentlemen, I’ll go ahead.”

      “S-s-sh! Order!”

The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. “Men of Homestead! It is my sworn duty, as Sheriff, to preserve the peace. Your city is in a state of lawlessness. I have asked the Governor to send the militia and I hope—”28

      “No! No!” many voices protest. “To hell with you!” The tumult drowns the words of the Sheriff. Shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the platform, he shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the general uproar.

“O’Donnell! O’Donnell!” comes from several sides, the cry swelling into a tremendous chorus, “O’Donnell!”29

      I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. The assembly becomes hushed.

      “Brothers,” O’Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, “we have won a great, noble victory over the Company. We have driven the Pinkerton invaders out of our city—”

      “Damn the murderers!”

      “Silence! Order!”

      “You have won a big victory,” O’Donnell continues, “a great, signifi­cant victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor’s struggle for better conditions.”

      Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. “But,” he continues, “you must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along with your rights. The Pinkertons were invaders. We defended our homes and drove them out; rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You respect the law and the authority of the State. Public opinion will uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends!” He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, “Now is the time! Welcome the soldiers. They are not sent by that man Frick. They are the people’s militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them as friends!”

      Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice gradually draws the assembly closer to the front. Slowly the tumult subsides.

      “Don’t you believe it, men!” The speaker shakes his finger at the audience, as if to emphasize his warning. “Don’t you believe that the soldiers are coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O’Donnell. They’ll cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers. The soldiers are no friends of ours. I know what I am talking about. They are coming here because that damned murderer Frick wants them.”

      “Hear! Hear!”

      “Yes!” the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion, “I can tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a Sheriff there asked the Governor for troops, and that damned Frick paid the Sheriff to do it, I say!”

“No! Yes! No!” the clamor is renewed,