Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

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      Between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he whispered mysterious, awe-inspiring words: Will of the People—tyrant removed—Free Russia.…

      XIII

      The nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude. Life is so remote, so appallingly far away—it has abandoned me in this desert of silence. The distant puffing of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens, accentuate my loneliness. Yet it feels so near, this monster Life, huge, palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted course. How unmindful of myself, flung into the darkness,—like a furnace spark belched forth amid fire and smoke into the blackness of night.

The monster! Its eyes are implacable; they watch every gate of life. Every approach they guard, lest I enter back—I and the others here. Poor unfortunates, how irritated and nervous they are growing as their trial day draws near! There is a hunted look in their eyes; their faces are haggard and anxious. They walk weakly, haltingly, worn with the long days of waiting. Only “Blackie,” the young negro, remains cheerful. But I often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. I am sure his eyes were moist when the three Italians returned from court this morning.81 They had been sentenced to death. Joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with a firm step. His brother Pasquale passed us with both hands over his face, weeping silently. But the old man, their father—as he was crossing the hallway, we saw him suddenly stop. For a moment he swayed, then lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his body falling limp to the floor. By the arms the guards dragged him up the stairway, his legs hitting the stone with a dull thud, the fresh crimson spreading over his white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. Suddenly he stood upright. His head thrown back, his arms upraised, he cried hoarsely, anguished, “O Santa Maria! Sio innocente, inno—”

      The guard swung his club. The old man reeled and fell.

      “Ready! Death-watch!” shouted the Warden.

      “In-no-cente! Death-watch!” mocked the echo under the roof.

      The old man haunts my days. I hear the agonized cry; its black despair chills my marrow. Exercise hour has become insupportable. The prisoners irritate me: each is absorbed in his own case. The deadening monotony of the jail routine grows unbearable. The constant cruelty and brutality is harrowing. I wish it were all over. The uncertainty of my trial day is a ceaseless torture. I have been waiting now almost two months. My court speech is prepared. I could die now, but they would suppress my explanation, and the People thus remain ignorant of my aim and purpose. I owe it to the Cause—and to the true comrades—to stay on the scene till after the trial. There is nothing more to bind me to life. With the speech, my opportunities for propaganda will be exhausted. Death, suicide, is the only logical, the sole possible, conclusion. Yes, that is self-evident. If I only knew the date of my trial,—that day will be my last. The poor old Italian,—he and his sons, they at least know when they are to die. They count each day; every hour brings them closer to the end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Perhaps they killed under great provocation, in the heat of passion. But the sheriff will murder them in cold blood. The law of peace and order!

      I shall not be hanged—yet I feel as if I were dead. My life is done; only the last rite remains to be performed. After that—well, I’ll find a way. When the trial is over, they’ll return me to my cell. The spoon is of tin: I shall put a sharp edge on it—on the stone floor—very quietly, at night—

      “Number six, to court! Num-ber six!”

      Did the turnkey call “six”? Who is in cell six? Why, it’s my cell! I feel the cold perspiration running down my back. My heart beats violently, my hands tremble, as I hastily pick up the newspaper. Nervously I turn the pages. There must be some mistake: my name didn’t appear yet in the court calendar column. The list is published every Monday—why, this is Saturday’s paper—yesterday we had service—it must be Monday to-day. Oh, shame! They didn’t give me the paper to-day, and it’s Monday—yes, it’s Monday—

      The shadow falls across my door. The lock clicks.

      “Hurry. To court!”

      43 Berkman would spend nearly two months in the Allegheny County Jail.

      44 Popular in the nineteenth century, a lorgnette is a pair of eyeglasses with an attached handle to hold them in place, rather than fitting over the ears or nose. They were used more as jewelry than to help vision, and were preferred by “fashionable ladies.”

      45 This would appear to be Frank Gavin who shot his wife in early September 1892, jealous of her supposed infidelity. Afterwards he attempted to kill himself. Gavin, a newspaper artist for the Pittsburgh Commercial Gazette was tried and, on November 17, 1892, sentenced to twelve years imprisonment for involuntary manslaughter due to temporary insanity. He had been married to his wife, Lora Redpath, for three days. Redpath had previously worked as a trapeze artist in P. T. Barnum’s circus.

      46 There is no Jack Tinford on the roll of the Homestead workers. There was, however, a Jack Clifford, a shear helper at Homestead, who led the attack on the Pinkerton boats and probably threw dynamite at them. He was imprisoned and charged with murder, treason, and riot/conspiracy and was later acquitted.

      47 A reference to Stepan Nikolayevich Khalturin (1857–1882), a member of Narodnaya Volya and co-founder of the Northern Union of Russian Workers, who had been taken on as a carpenter in the Winter Palace, where he planned to assassinate Tsar Alexander II. Khalturin constructed a mine underneath the Winter Palace that exploded in February 1880 missing its target but killing eight and wounding many others. He was eventually executed in March 1882 for taking part in the assassination of a police general in Odessa.

      48 Author’s note: Russian for “bridge.”

      49 Johann Most (1846–1906) was a Bavarian-born German anarchist orator and editor of Freiheit (Freedom) from 1879 until his death in 1906. Most moved to New York in 1882 where he continued to edit and publish Freiheit. He was highly influential in the German-American anarchist movement.

      50 Author’s note: Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg.

      51 On November 13, 1887, two days after the execution of the Chicago anarchists, Most gave a speech at Kraemer’s Hall in New York. In this speech, he described those who had not fought for the freedom of the Haymarket men as murderers. The list included Governor Oglesby, the judiciary, Terence Powderly of the Knights of Labor, and Henry George. He also described the executions as no more than “judicial murder.” The speech was considered incendiary by the authorities and Most was sentenced to a year in prison for delivering it. He was eventually imprisoned in Blackwell’s Island in June 1891. Berkman was one of the group who saw him off on his way to Blackwell’s Island to serve his sentence. Most was released in April 1892.

      52 A reference to the Haymarket anarchists.

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