Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

Читать онлайн.
Название Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist
Автор произведения Berkman Alexander
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Серия
Издательство Биографии и Мемуары
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781849352536



Скачать книгу

      “Like hell you do!” some one shouts from the upper gallery. There is suppressed giggling in the cells. Pellmell the officers rush up the stairs. The uproar increases. “Order!” Yells and catcalls drown the Warden’s voice. Doors are violently opened and shut. The thunder of rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all is quiet: the guards have reached the galleries. Only hasty tiptoeing is heard.

      The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the supper hour. The prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee.

      “Give the s—— of b—— no supper! No supper!” roars the Warden.

      Sabbath benediction!

      The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night.

      IX

      In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn’t die! He has almost recovered. I have positive information: the “blind” prisoner gave me the clipping during exercise. “You’re a poor shot,” he teased me.

      Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,—our propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers are but a very small part of the American working class. Important as this great struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere sentimentality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, but we know the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can save the world.

      As to myself—my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I wanted to die for the Cause. But now they will send me to prison—they will bury me alive.…

      Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the police station, on the third day after my arrest.… Rough hands seize my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat.

      “Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!”

      Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling.…

      “Now, Doc, quick!”

      There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise, and my mouth is torn open.

      “What d’ye think of that, eh?”

      The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge.

      “What’s this?” he demands, with an oath.

      “Candy,” I reply, defiantly.

      X

      My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am “wanted at the office.” There is a letter for me, but some postage is due on it. Would I pay?

      “A trap,” it flits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail.

      “More letters from Homestead?” I turn to the Warden.

      He quickly suppresses a smile. “No, it is post-marked, Brooklyn, N. Y.”

      I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman’s, but the chirography is smaller than the Girl’s. I yearn for news of her. The letter is from Brooklyn—perhaps a Deckadresse!

      “I’ll take the letter, Warden.”

      “All right. You will open it here.”

      “Then I don’t want it.”

      I start from the office, when the Warden detains me:

      “Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must