Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

words,” I remonstrate.

      With an impatient gesture he leaves me.

      “Oh, please, go on!” I cry in dismay.

      He returns hesitatingly.

      “Look at my paper,” I adjure him, “and translate each sentence as I read it.”

      The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is blind!

      “Let—us—continue,” he stammers.

      “We have heard enough,” the judge interrupts.

      “I have not read a third of my paper,” I cry in consternation.

      “It will do.”

      “I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to—”

      “We allow you five more minutes.”

      “But I can’t explain in such a short time. I have the right to be heard.”

      “We’ll teach you differently.”

      I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats, but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises.

      “Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?”

      “You would not let me speak,” I reply. “Your justice is a farce.”

      “Silence!”

      In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards lead me from the courtroom.

      “The judge was easy on you,” the Warden jeers. “Twenty-two years! Pretty stiff, eh?”

      82 The charges against Berkman were: felonious assault to kill H. C. Frick; felonious assault on J.G. Leishman, vice-chairman of Carnegie Steel; three counts of entering a building with felonious intent; and unlawfully carrying a concealed weapon. The three counts of entering a building were based on the testi­mony of an elevator operator who claimed Berkman had entered the building on three separate occasions. The trial began on Monday, September 19, 1892. The prosecutor was District Attorney Clarence Burleigh and the judge presiding was Samuel A. McClung. The trial lasted a total of four hours.

      83 Talesmen are those who wait to serve on a jury. They can be used as alternates if a defender or prosecutor challenges any of the pre-selected jury.

Part II: The Penitentiary84

      84 Berkman arrived at the Western State Penitentiary, known colloquially as Riverside, on September 19, 1892. He became Prisoner A7.

      Chapter I: Desperate Thoughts

      I

      “Make yourself at home, now. You’ll stay here a while, huh, huh!”

      As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel so weary, I long to be alone.

      Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. All is silent, and I am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow, my heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep.

      My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my eyelids. Now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a raging fire. Oh!

      I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face. Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture.

      “Get up and undress. What’s the matter with you, anyhow?”

      The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare. Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.

      “Now lay down and go to sleep.”

      Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. A terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed, the wall… I can’t see! With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my face. Oh, I can see! I can see!

      “What t’ hell’s the matter with you, eh? Go to sleep. You hear?”

      Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange horrors haunt me.… What a terrible place this must be! This agony— I cannot support it. Twenty-two years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I’ll die to-night.… With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead creaks. In affright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The guard did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull’s-eye even with closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are nauseating. …I cannot live here. I must die. This very night.… Something white glimmers in the corner. Cautiously I bend over. It is a spoon. For a moment I hold it indifferently; then a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die! I creep back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand feels for my heart. It is beating violently. I will put the narrow end of the spoon over here—like this— I will force it in—a little lower—a steady pressure—just between the ribs.… The metal feels cold. How hot my body is! Caressingly I pat the spoon against my side. My fingers seek the edge. It is dull. I must press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I only had my revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode. That’s why Frick is now well, and I must die. How he looked at me in court! There was hate in his eyes, and fear, too. He turned his head away, he could not face me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn’t crush him. Oh, I failed, I failed.…

      “Keep quiet there, or I’ll put you in the hole.”

The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning. I’ll draw the blanket over my head, so. What was I thinking about? Oh, I remember. He is well, and I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course, it does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda is there, as the result of my act. That was the main purpose. But I meant to kill him, and he lives. My speech, too, failed. They tricked me. They kept the date secret. They were afraid my friends would be present. It was maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept interrupting me. I did not read even a third of my statement. And the whole effect was lost. How that man interpreted! The poor old man! He was deeply offended when I corrected his translation. I did not know he was blind. I called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his screeching. I was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue. That judge! He acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern him. He must have known that the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years! As if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place! Yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example of me. The old villain! He has been doing it all his life: making an example of social victims, the victims of his own class, of capitalism. The brutal mockery of it—had I anything to say why sentence should not be passed? Yet he wouldn’t permit me to continue my statement. “The court has been very patient!” I am glad I told him that I didn’t expect justice, and did not get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang to my lips. No, it was best that I controlled my anger. Else they would have rejoiced to proclaim the Anarchists vulgar criminals. Such things help to prejudice the People against us. We, criminals? We, who are ever ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals? And they, our accusers? They break their own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the charges against me. They made six indictments out of one act, as if the minor “offences” were not included in the major, made necessary by the deed itself. They thirsted for blood. Legally, they could not give me more than seven years.85 But I am an Anarchist. I had attempted the life of a great magnate; in him capitalism felt itself attacked. Of course, I knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented. Twenty-two years! The judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge. Well,