Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander
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Название: Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist

Автор: Berkman Alexander

Издательство: Ingram

Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары

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isbn: 9781849352536

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СКАЧАТЬ sent the maid to call me, but I refused to go till Rosa promised not to tell.… The sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the little imp couldn’t keep the secret. She told Tatanya, the cook of our neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day he teased me about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor would open and swallow me. I was so mortified.

      “Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!” the trusty shouts into the door. Suddenly he whispers, “Grab it, quick!” A long, dark object is shot between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a white object comes to view. A towel! There is something round and hard inside—it’s a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my heart, as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it’s some one I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here—the language, the guards.… I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. I ought to wash up—my head feels so heavy—I haven’t washed since I got here. When did I come? Let me see; what is to-day? I don’t know, I can’t think. But my trial—it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September. They brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. And that guard—he frightened me so with the bull’s-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday? Why, it seems such a long time! Can this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I’ll ask the trusty the next time he passes. I’ll find out who sent this towel, too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him; or may be there is some here—

      My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy; near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot over a narrow, circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it feels refreshing. The rub-down with the towel is invigorating. The stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle. Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. There’s a pin in the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A note! With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing:

      Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it’s from a friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along, we know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit at night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls. Dump is full of them and don’t have nothing to say. So long, will see you tomorrow. A true friend.

      I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me. Vaguely I surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. My heart beats violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could escape.… Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven’t I thought of it before? What a glorious thing it would be! Of course, they would ransack СКАЧАТЬ