Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

the ribs.…

      One, two, three—the deep metallic bass floats upon the silence, resonant, compelling. Instantly all is motion: overhead, on the sides, everything is vibrant with life. Men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. In the distance sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. It grows nearer and louder. I hear the officers’ sharp command, the familiar click of locks, doors opening and shutting. Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With a moan the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. A guard unlocks the door. His eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a small loaf of bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before the door is closed and locked.

      “Want coffee? Hold your cup.”

      Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin can. In the semi-darkness of the cell the steaming liquid overflows, scalding my bare feet. With a cry of pain I drop the can. In the dimly-lit hall the floor looks stained with blood.

      “What do you mean by that?” the guard shouts at me.

      “I couldn’t help it.”

      “Want to be smart, don’t you? Well, we’ll take it out of you. Hey, there, Sam,” the officer motions to the trusty, “no dinner for A 7, you hear!”

      “Yes, sir. Yes, sir!”

      “No more coffee, either.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in his face. Involuntarily I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my naked feet.

      “Ain’t you got no shoes?”

      “Yes.”

      “Yes-e-s! Can’t you say ‘sir’? Got shoes?”

      “Yes.”

      “Put ’em on, damn you.”

      His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. “Damn you, put ’em on.”

      The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. All is still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flit by, silent, ghostlike.

      II

      “Forward, march!”

      The long line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep, resembles an undulating snake, wriggling from side to side, its black-and-gray body moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. A thousand feet strike the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising and falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or malicious leer. Here and there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look of the ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and gray, the men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert.

      The measured beat grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the last footfall, behind the closed double door leading into the prison yard. The pall of silence descends upon the cell-house. I feel utterly alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron. The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. I am buried within the narrow walls; the massive rock is pressing down upon my head, my sides. I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Oh, I can’t, I can’t live here! I can’t suffer this agony. Twenty-two years! It is a lifetime. No, it’s impossible. I must die. I will! Now!

Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed. My eyes wander over the cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall: the whitewashed walls, yellow with damp—the splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the bed—the clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall—the small table and the rickety chair—the filthy floor, black and gray in spots.… Why, it’s stone! I can sharpen the spoon. Cautiously I crouch in the corner. The tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly, till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches and scrapes. With the pillow I deaden the rasping sound. The metal is growing hot in my hand. I pass the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of blood trickle down to the floor. The wound is ragged but the blade is keen. Stealthily I crawl back into bed. My hand gropes for my heart. I touch the spot with the blade. Between the ribs—here—I’ll be dead when they find me.… If Frick had only died. So much propaganda could be made—that damned Most, if he hadn’t turned against me! He will ruin the whole effect of the act. It’s nothing but cowardice. But what is he afraid of? They can’t implicate him. We’ve been estranged for over a year.86 He could easily prove it. The traitor! Preached propaganda by deed all his life—now he repudiates the first Attentat in this country. What tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now he denies me, he doesn’t know me. The wretch! He knew me well enough and trusted me, too, when together we set up the secret circular in the Freiheit office. It was in William Street.87 We waited for the other compositors to leave; then we worked all night. It was to recommend me: I planned to go to Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something important there. Why didn’t I go? What was it? Well, I can’t think of it now. It’s peculiar, though. But America was more important. Plenty of revolutionists in Russia. And now… Oh, I’ll never do anything more. I’ll be dead soon. They’ll find me cold—a pool of blood under me—the mattress will be red —no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak through the straw … I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from my heart—I must strike right here—strong and quick—it will not pain much. But the edge is ragged—it may catch—or tear the flesh. They say the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against the blade? No, the tin may bend. I’ll grasp it close—like this—then a quick drive—right into the heart—it’s the surest way. I must not wound myself—I would bleed slowly—they might discover me still alive. No, no! I must die at once. They’ll find me dead—my heart—they’ll feel it—not beating—the blade still in it—they’ll call the doctor—“He’s dead.” And the Girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it—she’ll be sad—but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad—they couldn’t torture me here—she’ll know I cheated them—yes, she.… Where is she now? What does she think of it all? Does she, too, think I’ve failed? And Fedya, also? If I’d only hear from her — just once. It would be easier to die. But she’ll understand, she —

      “Git off that bed! Don’t you know the rules, eh? Get out o’ there!”

      Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly, damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive smile. Oh, it’s the officer of the morning!

      “Foxy, ain’t you? Gimme that spoon.”

      The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the spoon. I cannot afford to lose it—not to this brute—

      “Cap’n, here!”

      I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face.

      “Look, Cap’n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp’rate, eh?”

      “Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings.”

      III

      In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.

      “Who is this?”

      The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like face and figure. The contrast is startling.

      “A 7.”