Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

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



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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!

      “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.”