Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

They will not permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the Colonel threatens. Iams is not merely a militia man. He is a citizen, a native. He has the right to express his opinion regarding my deed. If he had condemned it, he would not be punished. May he not, then, voice a favorable sentiment? No, they can’t punish him. And he is surely very popular among the soldiers. How manfully he behaved as the Colonel raged before the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for “the assassin of Mr. Frick,” as the imbecile put it. Iams stepped out of the ranks, and boldly avowed his act. He could have remained silent, or denied it. But he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker. He even refused the Colonel’s offer to apologize.

Brave boy! He is the right material for a revolutionist. Such a man has no business to belong to the militia. He should know for what purpose it is intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of labor. After all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed. It will enlighten him. I must follow the case. Perhaps the negro will give me more clippings. It was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship. The Warden54 has expressly interdicted the passing of newspapers to me, though the other prisoners are permitted to buy them. He discriminates against me in every possible way. A rank ignoramus: he cannot even pronounce “Anarchist.” Yesterday he said to me: “The Anachrists are no good. What do they want, anyhow?” I replied, angrily: “First you say they are no good, then you ask what they want.” He flushed. “Got no use for them, anyway.” Such an imbecile! Not the least sense of justice—he condemns without knowing. I believe he is aiding the detectives. Why does he insist I should plead guilty? I have repeatedly told him that, though I do not deny the act, I am innocent. The stupid laughed outright. “Better plead guilty, you’ll get off easier. You did it, so better plead guilty.” In vain I strove to explain to him: “I don’t believe in your laws, I don’t acknowledge the authority of your courts. I am innocent, morally.” The aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept playing about his lips. “Plead guilty. Take my advice, plead guilty.”

      Instinctively I sense some presence at the door. The small, cunning eyes of the Warden peer intently through the bars. I feel him an enemy. Well, he may have the clipping now if he wishes. But no torture shall draw from me an admission incriminating the negro. The name Rakhmetov flits through my mind. I shall be true to that memory.

      “A gentleman in my office wishes to see you,” the Warden informs me.

      “Who is he?”

      “A friend of yours, from Pittsburgh.”

      “I know no one in Pittsburgh. I don’t care to see the man.”

      The Warden’s suave insistence arouses my suspicions. Why should he be so much interested in my seeing a stranger? Visits are privileges, I have been told. I decline the privilege. But the Warden insists. I refuse. Finally he orders me out of the cell. Two guards lead me into the hallway. They halt me at the head of a line of a dozen men. Six are counted off, and I am assigned to the seventh place. I notice that I am the only one in the line wearing glasses. The Warden enters from an inner office, accompanied by three visitors. They pass down the row, scrutinizing each face. They return, their gaze fixed on the men. One of the strangers makes a motion as if to put his hand on the shoulder of the man on my left. The Warden hastily calls the visitors aside. They converse in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass slowly back, till they are alongside of me. The tall stranger puts his hand familiarly on my shoulder, exclaiming:

“Don’t you recognize me, Mr. Berkman? I met you on Fifth Avenue, right in front of the Telegraph building.”55

      “I never saw you before in my life.”

      “Oh, yes! You remember I spoke to you—”

      “No, you did not,” I interrupt, impatiently.

      “Take him back,” the Warden commands.

      I protest against the perfidious proceeding. “A positive identification,” the Warden asserts. The detective had seen me “in the company of two friends, inspecting the office of Mr. Frick.” Indignantly I deny the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy to involve my comrades. He grows livid with rage, and orders me deprived of exercise that afternoon.

      The Warden’s role in the police plot is now apparent to me. I realize him in his true colors. Ignorant though he is, familiarity with police methods has developed in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of the fox seeking its prey. The good-natured smile masks a depth of malice, his crude vanity glorying in the successful abuse of his wardenship over unfortunate human beings.

This new appreciation of his character clarifies various incidents heretofore puzzling to me. My mail is being detained at the office, I am sure. It is impossible that my New York comrades should have neglected me so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. As a matter of due precaution, they would not communicate with me at once. But two or three days would be sufficient to perfect a Deckadresse.56 Yet not a line has reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is being detained.

      My reflections rouse bitter hatred of the Warden. His infamy fills me with rage. The negro’s warning against the occupant of the next cell assumes a new aspect. Undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there by the Warden, evidently. Little incidents, insignificant in themselves, add strong proof to justify the suspicion. It grows to conviction as I review various circumstances concerning my neighbor. The questions I deemed foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, I now see in the light of the Warden’s rôle as volunteer detective. The young negro was sent to the dungeon for warning me against the spy in the next cell. But the latter is never reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and talking. Specially privileged, evidently. And the Warden, too, is hand-in-glove with the police. I am convinced he himself caused the writing of those letters he gave me yesterday. They were postmarked Homestead, from a pretended striker. They want to blow up the mills, the letter said; good bombs are needed. I should send them the addresses of my friends who know how to make effective explosives. What a stupid trap! One of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike leaders in my act. In another, John Most was mentioned. Well, I am not to be caught with such chaff. But I must be on my guard. It is best I should decline to accept mail. They withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow. Yes, I’ll refuse all mail.

      I feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret. Not a single being here I may call friend; except the negro, who, I know, wishes me well. I hope he will give me more clippings,—perhaps there will be news of my comrades. I’ll try to “fall in” with him at exercise to-morrow.… Oh! they are handing out tracts. To-morrow is Sunday,—no exercise!

      VIII

      The Lord’s day is honored by depriving the prisoners of dinner. A scanty allowance of bread, with a tincup-ful of black, unsweetened coffee, constitutes breakfast. Supper is a repetition of the morning meal, except that the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. I force myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. It tastes like greasy dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of burnt bread.

      Exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. The atmosphere is pervaded with the gloom of unbroken silence. In the afternoon, I hear the creaking of the inner gate. There is much swishing of dresses: the good ladies of the tracts are being seated. The doors on Murderers’ Row are opened partly, at a fifteen-degree angle. The prisoners remain in their cells, with the guards stationed at the gallery entrances.

      All is silent. I can hear the beating of my heart in the oppressive quiet. A faint shadow crosses the darksome floor; now it oscillates on the bars. I hear the muffled fall of felt-soled steps. Silently the turnkey passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow, athwart a troubled soul. I catch the glint of a revolver protruding from his pocket.

      Suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in the corridor. Female voices swell the melody, “Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee.” Slowly the volume expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with the gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, “Nearer to Thee, to Thee.”

      The sounds die away. A deep male voice utters, “Let us pray.” Its metallic hardness rings like a command. The guards stand with lowered heads. Their lips mumble after the invisible speaker, “Our