 CHAPTER XXIII. THE SCALES OF JUSTICE. 1. The summer fades into days of dull grey, the fog thickens on the Ohio, the prison house is dim and damp, the river sirens sound sharp and shrill, and the cells echo with coughing and wheezing, the sick line stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and dejected, the prisoner in charge of Tier K suffers a hemorrhage and is carried to the hospital. From assistant I am advanced to his position on the range, but one morning the levers are pulled, the cells unlocked and the men fed while I remain under key. I wander at the peculiar oversight and wrap on the bars for the officers, the block captain orders me to desist. I request to see the warden, but I'm gruffly told that he cannot be disturbed in the morning. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the cause of my punishment, I review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over each detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. Perhaps I have unwittingly offended some trustee, or I may be the object of the secret enmity of a spy. The chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter from the girl and glances in surprise at the closed door. �Not feeling well, my boy?� he asks. �I'm locked up, chaplain. �What have you done?� nothing that I know of. �Oh, well, you'll be out soon, don't fret my boy.� But the days pass and I remain in the cell. The guards look worried and vent their ill humour in profuse vulgarity. The deputy tries to appear mysterious, wobbles comically along the range and sputters at me. �You stay where you are!� Jasper, the coloured trustee, flits up and down the hall, tremendously busy, his black face more lustrous than ever. Numerous stools knows about the galleries, stop here and there in confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and whisper excitedly at the front desk. Assistant deputy Hopkins goes in and out of the block, repeatedly calls Jasper to the office, and hovers in the neighbourhood of my cell. The rangemen talking suppressed tones and air of mystery pervades the cell-house. �Finally, I am called to the warden, with unconcealed annoyance he demands, �What did you want?� The officer is locked me up. �Who said you're locked up?� he interrupts angrily. �You're merely locked in.� �Where's the difference,� I ask. �One is locked up for cause, you're just kept in for the present.� �On what charge?� �No charge.� �Non-whatever.� �Take him back, officers.� Close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal and dreary. By contrast with the spacious hall the cell grows smaller and narrower, oppressing me with a sense of suffocation. My sudden isolation remains unexplained. Notwithstanding the chaplain's promise to intercede in my behalf, I remain locked in and again return the days of solitary with all their gloom and anguish of heart. 2. A ray of light is shed from New York. The girl writes in a hopeful vein about the progress of the movement and the intense interest in my case among radical circles. She refers to Comrade Merlino, now on a tour of agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favourable labour sentiment toward me, manifested in the cities he had visited. Finally she informs me of a plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence and the promising outlook for the collection of the necessary funds. From Merlino I receive a sum of money already contributed for the purpose, together with a letter of appreciation and encouragement, concluding, �Good cheer, dear comrade, the last word has not yet been spoken.� My mind dwells among my friends, the breath from the world of the living fans, the smoldering fires of longing, the tone of my comrades reverberates in my heart with trembling hope, but the revision of my sentence involves recourse to the courts. The sudden realisation fills me with dismay. I cannot be guilty of a sacrifice of principle to gain freedom. The mere suggestion rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary traditions. In bitterness of soul I resent my friends, ill-advised, waking of the shades. I shall never leave the house of death. And yet, mail from my friends, full of expectation and confidence, arrives more frequently. Prominent lawyers have been consulted. Their unanimous opinion augurs well. The multiplication of my sentences was illegal. According to the statutes of Pennsylvania, the maximum penalty should not have exceeded seven years. The Supreme Court would undoubtedly reverse the judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the conviction on charges not constituting a crime under the laws of the state, and so forth. I am assailed by doubts. Is it consequent in me to decline liberty, apparently within reach? John Most appealed his case to the Supreme Court, and the girl also took advantage of illegal defence. Considerable propaganda resulted from it. Should I refuse the opportunity which would offer such a splendid field for agitation, would it not be folly to afford the enemy the triumph of my gradual annihilation? I would, without hesitation, reject freedom at the price of my convictions, but it involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire of its prey. We must, if necessary, fight the beast of oppression with its own methods, scourge the law with its own tracks, as it were. Of course, the Supreme Court is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretense of impartial right. It decided against most, sustaining the prejudiced verdict of the trial jury, they may do the same in my case, but that very circumstance will serve to confirm our arraignment of class justice. I shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends. But before long I am informed that an application to the higher court is not permitted. The attorneys, upon examination of the records of the trial, discovered a fatal obstacle, they said. The defendant, not being legally represented, neglected to take exceptions to the rulings of the court, prejudicial to the accused. Because of the technical omission, there exists no basis for an appeal. They therefore advise an application to the Board of Pardons on the ground that the punishment, in my case, is excessive. They are confident that the Board will act favorably, in view of the obvious unconstitutionality of the compounded sentences, the five minor indictments, being indispensable parts of the major charge, and as such not constituting separate offerings. The unexpected development disquietes me. The sound of pardon is detestable. What bitter irony that the noblest intentions, the most unselfish motives, need seek pardon? I of the very source that misinterprets and perverts them. For days the implied humiliation keeps agitating me. I recoil from the thought of personally affixing my name to the meek supplication of the printed form, and finally decide to refuse. An accidental conversation with the Attorney General disturbs my resolution. I learn that in Pennsylvania the applicant's signature is not required by the pardon board. A sense of guilty hope steals over me. Yet, I reflect, the pardon of the Chicago anarchists had contributed much to the dissemination of our ideas. The impartial analysis of the trial evidence by Governor Altgeld completely exonerated our comrades from responsibility for the Haymark tragedy and exposed the heinous conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and able representatives of the labour movement. May not a similar purpose be served by my application for a pardon? I write to my comrades, signifying my consent. We arrange for a personal interview to discuss the details of the work. Unfortunately, the girl, a persona non grata, cannot visit me. But a mutual friend, Miss Garrison, is to call on me within two months. At my request, the chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission, and I impatiently await the first friendly face in two years. 3. As unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary comes the relief of the expiration of three weeks, the Kay Hallboy is still in the hospital, and I resume the duties of Rangeman, the guard's IMU with suspicion and greater vigilance, but I soon unravel the tangled skein and learn the details of the abortive escape that caused my temporary retirement. The lock of my neighbour, Johnny Smith, had been tampered with. The youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily had the aid of another, it being impossible to reach the Key Hall from the inside of the cell. The suspicion of the warden centred upon me, but investigation by the stools discovered the men actually concerned, and Dutch Adams, Spencer, Smith, and Jim Grant were chastised in the dungeon, and are now locked up for cause on my range. By degrees Johnny confides to me the true story of the frustrated plan. Dutch, a repeater serving his fifth bit and favourite of Hopkins, procured a piece of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the machine shop where he was employed. He entrusted the rude instrument to Grant, a young reformatory boy for a preliminary trial. The guileless youth easily walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken in the lock. With disastrous results, the tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the provocateur, but Dutch is missing from the range. He has been removed to an upper gallery, and is assigned to a coveted position in the shops. The newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate attempt to escape from Riverside, and compliment Captain Wright and the officers for so successfully protecting the community. The warden is deeply affected, and orders the additional punishment of the offenders with a bread-and-water diet. The deputy walks with inflated chest, Hopkins issues orders curtailing the privileges of the inmates, and inflicting greater hardships. The tone of the guard sounds heartier, more preemptory, Jasper's face wears a blissful smile. The trusties look pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the prison. Four. I am standing at my cell, when the door of the rotunda slowly opens, and the warden approaches me. A lady just called, Miss Garrison, from New York. Do you know her? She is one of my friends. I dismissed her. You can't see her. Why? The rules entitle me to a visit every three months. I have had none in two years. I want to see her. You can't. She needs a permit. The chaplain sent her one at my request. A member of the board of inspector rescinded it by telegraph. What inspector? You can't question me. Your visitor has been refused admittance. Will you tell me the reason, warden? No reason. No reason. Whatever. He turns on his heel when I detain him. Warden, it's two years since I've been in the dungeon. I am in the first grave now. They point to the recently earned dark suit. I am entitled to all the privileges. Why am I deprived of visits? Not another word. He disappears through the yard door. In the galleries I hear the jeering of a trustee. A guard nearby brings his thumb to his nose and wriggles his fingers in my direction. Humiliated and angry I return to the cell to find the monthly letter sheet on my table. I pour out all the bitterness of my heart to the girl, dwell on the warden's discrimination against me, and repeat our conversation and his refusal to admit my visitor. In conclusion I direct her to have a Pittsburgh lawyer apply to the courts to force the prison authorities to restore to me the privileges allowed by the law to the ordinary prisoner. The letter in the mailbox, hoping that my outburst and the threat of the law will induce the warden to retreat from his position. The girl will, of course, understand the significance of the epistol, aware that my reference to a court process is a diplomatic subterfuge for effect, and not meant to be acted upon. But the next day the chaplain returns the letter to me. Not so rash, my boy. He warns me not unkindly. Be patient. I'll see what I can do for you. But the letter chaplain, you've wasted your paper, Alec. I can't pass this letter. But just keep quiet, and I'll look into the matter. Weeks pass in evasive replies. Finally the chaplain advises a personal interview with the warden. The letter refers me to the inspectors. To each member of the board I address a request for a few minutes conversation, but a month goes by without a word from the high officials. The friendly runner, Southside Johnny, offers to give me an opportunity to speak to an inspector on the payment of ten plugs of tobacco. Unfortunately, I cannot spare my small allowance, but I tender him a dollar bill of the money the girl sent me, artfully concealed in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The runner is highly elated, and assures me of success, directing me to keep careful watch on the yard door. Several days later, passing along the range, engaged in my duties, I noticed Southside entering from the yard, in friendly conversation with a strange gentleman in citizen clothes. For a moment I do not realize the situation, but the next instant I'm aware of Johnny's violent efforts to attract my attention. He pretends to show the man some fancy work, made by the inmates. All the while drawing him closer to my door, with surreptitious nods at me. I approach myself. This is Berkman, Mr. Nevin, the man who shot Frick, Johnny remarks. The gentleman turns to me with a look of interest. Good morning, Berkman, he says pleasantly. How long are you doing? Twenty-two years. I'm sorry to hear that. It's rather a long sentence. You know who I am? Inspector Nevin, I believe. Yes, you have never seen me before? No, I sent a request to see you recently. When was that? A month ago. Strange. I was in the office three weeks ago. There was no note from you on my file. Are you sure you sent one? Quite sure. I sent a request to each inspector. What's the trouble? I inform him briefly that I have been deprived of visiting privileges. Somewhat surprised, he glances at my dark clothes and remarks, You are in the first grade, and therefore entitled to visits. When did you have your last visitor? Two years ago. Two years? He asks, almost incredulously. Did the lady from New York have a permit? The warden hurriedly enters from the yard. Mr. Nevin! He calls in anxiously. I've been looking for you. Berkman was just telling me about his visitor being sent away, Captain. Inspector remarks, Yes! Yes! The warden smiles, forcibly. For cause! Oh! The face of Mr. Nevin assumes a grave look. Berkman, he turns to me. You'll have to apply to the secretary of the board. Mr. Breed, I am not familiar with the internal affairs. The warden links his arm with the inspector, and they walk toward the yard door. At the entrance they are met by Dutch Adams, the shop messenger. Good morning, Mr. Nevin! The trustee greets him. Won't you issue me a special visit? My mother is sick. She wants to see me. The warden grins at the ready-fiction. When did you have your last visit? The inspector inquires. Two weeks ago. You are entitled to one only every three months. That is why I asked you for an extra, Mr. Inspector! Dutch reports boldly, I know you are a kind man. Mr. Nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the warden. Dutch is all right, the captain nods. The inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it, and hands it to the prisoner. End of Section 30, Recording by Stephen Harvey. Section 31 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Beau Wood. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. Section 31, Chapter 24, Thoughts That Stole Out of Prison April 2, 1896 My dear girl, I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a lover of horse flesh, promised to see this birdie through. I hope it will reach you safely. In my local correspondence, you have been christened the immutable. I realize how difficult it is to keep up letter writing through the endless years, the points of mutual interest gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the existence of a prisoner. K and G have almost ceased to expect mail, but I am more fortunate. The twin writes very seldom nowadays. The correspondence of other friends is pitful, but you are never disappointing. It is not so much the contents that matter. These increasingly sound like the language of a strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment, disturbing the calm of cell life. But the very arrival of a letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart to feel that he is remembered actively with that intimate interest which alone and support a regular correspondence. And then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our European comrades. Your letters are so much part of yourself. They bring me nearer to you and to life. The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various occasions have been withheld from me, nor are any radical publications permitted. I especially regret to miss solidarity. I have not seen a single copy since its resurrection two years ago. I have followed the activities of Charles W. Maubry and the recent tour of John Turner, so far as the press accounts are concerned. I hope you'll write more about our English comrades. I need not say much of the local life, dear, that you know from my official mail. And you can read between the lines. The action of the pardon board was a bitter disappointment to me. No less to you, also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic as to a favorable decision, but that they should so cynically evade the issue. I was hardly prepared for that. I had hoped they would at least consider the case. But evidently, they were averse to going on record, one way or another. The lawyers informed me that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their arguments. The board ruled that the wrong complained of is not actual. That is, that I am not yet serving the sentence we want remitted, a lawyer's quibble. It means that I must serve the first sentence of seven years before applying for the remission of the other indictments. Discounting commutation time, I still have about a year to complete the first sentence. I doubt whether it is advisable to try again. Little justice can be expected from those quarters. But I want to submit another proposition to you. Consult with our friends regarding it. It is this. There is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the board, whose president, the lieutenant governor, is indebted to the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. The attorney's name is K. D. of Pittsburgh. He has intimated to his client that he will guarantee my release for $1,000, a sum to be deposited in safe hands, and to be paid only in case of success. Of course we cannot afford such a large fee. And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering. Still, you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. I leave the matter in your hands. The question of my visit seems tacitly settled. I can procure no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure reason, the warden has conceived a great fear of an anarchist plot against the prison. The local trio is under special surveillance and constantly discriminated against. Though K and G are permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile terror of the authorities. It is brooded about that a certain anarchist lady, meaning you, I presume, in reality it was Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl, made a threat against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited Inspector Reed at his business place and requested to see me. The inspector refusing, she burst out, well, blow your dirty walls down. I could not determine whether there is any foundation for the story, but it is circulated here and the prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits. This is a characteristic instance of local conditions. Voluntarily I smile at Kennan's naive indignation with the brutalities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian prisons. He would find it almost impossible to learn the true conditions in the American prisons. He would be conducted the rounds of the show-cells, always neat and clean for the purpose. He would not see the basket-cell, nor the bull-rings in the dungeon where the men are chained for days, nor would he be permitted to converse for hours or whole evenings with the prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to revise his views of American penal institutions as he did in regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness the brutality that is practiced here as a matter of routine, the abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Unhumanity is the keynote of stupidity and power. Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible tortures in Montjuic. What is all indignation and lamenting in the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is there no nemesis in Spain? CHAPTER XXV. HOW SHALL THE DEPTS CRY? I. The change of seasons varies the tone of the prison. A cheerier atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house in the summer. The block is airier and lighter. The guards relax their stern look in anticipation of their vacations. The men hopefully count the hours till they're approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release someone going back to the world. But heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter. The windows are closed and nailed. The vitiated air, artificially heated, is suffocating with dryness. Smoke darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk. Tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. The officers look sullen, the men are morose and discontented. The ravings of the insane become wilder, suicides more frequent, despair and hopelessness oppress every heart. The undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute suffering and repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers. The severity of the authorities increases, methods of penalizing are more drastic, the prisoners fret, wax more quarrelous, and turn desperate with blind spasmodic defiance. But among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction manifests more coherent expression. The Lexau investigation in New York has awakened an echo in the prison. A movement is quietly initiated among the solitaries, looking toward an investigation of Riverside. I keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing the project. Great care must be exercised to guard against treachery. Only men of proved reliability may be entrusted with the secret and precautions taken that no officer or stool sent our design. The details of the campaign are planned on K-range, with Billy Ryan, Butch, Sloan, and Jimmy Grant as the most trustworthy in command. It is decided that the attack upon the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated from the outside. A released prisoner is to inform the press of the abuses, graft and immorality rampant in Riverside. The public will demand an investigation. The cabal on the range will supply the investigators with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the community and cause the dismissal of the warden and the introduction of reforms. A prisoner about to be discharged is selected for the important mission of enlightening the press. In great anxiety and expectation we await the newspapers the day following his liberation. We scan the pages closely. Not a word of the penitentiary. Unfortunately the released man has not yet had an opportunity to visit the editors. In the joy of freedom he may have looked too deeply into the cup that cheers. He will surely interview the papers the next day. But the days pass into weeks without any reference in the press to the prison. The trusted man has failed us. The revelation of the life at Riverside is of a nature not to be ignored by the press. This charged inmate has proved false to his promise. Bitterly the solitaries denounce him and resolve to select a more reliable man among the first candidates for liberty. One after another a score of men are entrusted with the mission to the press. But the papers remain silent. Anxiously, though every day less hopefully, we search their columns. Ryan cynically derides the faithlessness of convict promises. Which rages and at the traitors. But Sloan is sternly confident in his own probity and cheers me as I pause at his cell. Never mind them rats, Alec. You just wait till I go out. Here's the boy that'll keep his promise all right. What I won't do to old Sandy ain't worth mentioning. Why, you still have two years, Ed, I remind him. Not on your tin-type, Alec. Only one and a stump. How big is the stump? Well, he chuckles, looking somewhat diffident. It's one year, eleven months, and twenty-seven days. It ain't no two years, though, see? Jimmy Grant grows peculiarly reserved, evidently disinclined to talk. He seeks to avoid me. The treachery of the released men fills him with resentment and suspicion of everyone. He is impatient of my suggestion that the fault may lie with the servile press. But the mention of our plans he bursts out savagely. Forget it. You're no good, none of you. Let me be. He turns his back to me and angrily paces the cell. His actions fill me with concern. The youth seems strangely changed. Fortunately, his time is almost served. 2. Like wildfire the news circles the prison. The papers are giving Sandy hell. The air in the block trembles with suppressed excitement. Jimmy Grant, recently released, had sent a communication to the State Board of Charities, bringing serious charges against the management of Riverside. The press publishes startlingly significant excerpts from Grant's letter. Editorially, however, the indictment is ignored by the majority of the Pittsburgh papers. One writer comments ambiguously, in guarded language, suggesting the improbability of the horrible practices alleged by Grant. Another eulogizes Warden Wright as an intelligent and humane man who has the interest of the prisoners at heart. The detailed accusations are briefly dismissed as unworthy of notice because coming from a disgruntled criminal who had not found prison life to his liking. Certainly the leader and the dispatch consider the matter seriously, refer to the numerous complaints from discharged prisoners, and suggest the advisability of an investigation. They urge upon the Warden the necessity of disproving, once for all, the derogatory statements regarding his management. Within a few days the President of the Board of Charities announces his decision to look over the penitentiary. December is on the wane, and the Board is expected to visit Riverside after the holidays. 3. K&G Of course, neither of you has any more faith in alleged investigations than myself. The Lexau investigation, which shocked the whole country with its expose of police corruption, has resulted in practically nothing. One or two subordinates have been scapegoated. Those higher up went unscathed, as usual. The system itself remains in statue quo. The one who has mostly profited by the spasm of morality is Goff, to whom the Vice Crusade afforded an opportunity to rise from obscurity into the national limelight. Flockhurst also has subsided, probably content with the enlarged size of his flock and salary. To give the devil his due, however, I admired his perseverance and courage in face of the storm of ridicule and scorn that met his initial accusations against the glorious police department of the metropolis. But though every charge has been proved in the most absolute manner, the situation as a whole remains unchanged. It is the history of all investigations. As the Germans say, you can't convict the devil in the court of his mother-in-law. It has again been demonstrated by the congressional inquiry into the Carnegie Blowhole armor plate in the terrible revelations regarding Superintendent Brockway of the Elmira Reformatory, a veritable den for maiming and killing, and in numerous other instances. Warden Wright also was investigated about ten years ago. A double set of books was then found, disclosing speculation of appropriations and theft of the prison product. Brutality and murder were uncovered, yet Sandy has remained in his position. We can, therefore, expect nothing from the proposed investigation by the Board of Charities. I have no doubt it will be a whitewash. But I think that we, the anarchist trio, should show our solidarity and aid the inmates with our best efforts. We must prevent the investigation resulting in a farce, so far as evidence against the management is concerned. We should leave the Board no loophole, no excuse of a lack of witnesses or proofs to support grants charges. I am confident you will agree with me in this. I am collecting data for presentation to the investigators. I am also preparing a list of volunteer witnesses. I have seventeen numbers on my range and others from various parts of this block and from the shops. They all seem anxious to testify, though I am sure some will weaken when the critical moment arrives. Several have already notified me to erase their names, but we shall have a sufficient number of witnesses. We want, preferably, such men as have personally suffered a clubbing, the bullring, hanging by the wrists, or other punishment forbidden by the law. I have already notified the warden that I wish to testify before the investigation committee. My purpose was to anticipate his objection that there are already enough witnesses. I am the first on the list now. The completeness of the case against the authorities will surprise you. Fortunately my position as rangeman has enabled me to gather whatever information I needed. I will send you tomorrow duplicates of the evidence to ensure greater safety for our material. For the present I append a partial list of our exhibits. 1. Cigarettes and outside tobacco, bottle of whiskey and dope, dice, playing cards, cash money, several knives, two razors, postage stamps, outside mail, and other contraband. These are for the purpose of proving the warden a liar in denying to the press the existence of gambling in the prison, the selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the possession of weapons, and the possibility of underground communications. 2. Prison-made beer. A demonstration of the staleness of our bread and the absence of potatoes in the soup. The beer is made from fermented yeast stolen by the trustees from the bakery, also from potatoes. 3. Favoritism, special privileges of trustees, political jobs, the system of stool espionage. 4. Pennsylvania Diet, basket, dungeon, cuffing and chaining up, neglect of the sick, punishment of the insane. 5. Times and numbers of men maltreated and clubbed. 6. Data of assaults and cutting of phrase in connection with kid business, the existence of which the warden absolutely denies. 7. Special case of A-444, who attacked the warden in church because of jealousy of Lady Goldie. 8. Craft. A. Hojure department. Fake labels, fictitious names of manufacturer, false book entries. B. Broom shop, convict labor hired out, contrary to law, to Lang brothers, broom manufacturers of Allegheny, Pennsylvania. Goods sold to the United States government through sham middleman. Tables bear legend, union broom, sample enclosed. C. Matts, matting, mops, product not stamped. D. Shoe and tailor shops, prison materials used for the private needs of the warden, the officers and their families. E. $75,000 appropriated by the state, 1893, for a new chapel, the bricks of the old building used for the new, except one outside layer. All the work done by prisoners, architect, Mr. A. Wright, the warden's son. Actual cost of chapel, $7,000. The inmates forced to attend services to overcrowd the old church, after the desired appropriation was secured, attendance became optional. F. Library. The $0.25 tax, exacted from every unofficial visitor, is supposed to go to the book fund. About fifty visitors per day, the year round. No new books added to the library in ten years. Old duplicates donated by the public libraries of Pittsburgh are cataloged as purchased new books. G. Robbing the prisoners of remuneration for their labor, C. Copy of Act of 1883, P. L. 112. Law on Prison Labor and Wages of Convicts, Act of 1883, June 13, P. L. 112. Section 1. At the expiration of existing contracts, wardens are directed to employ the convicts under their control for and in behalf of the state. Section 2. No labor shall be hired out by contract. Section 4. All convicts under the control of the state and county officers, and all inmates of reformatory institutions engaged in the manufacture of articles for general consumption, shall receive quarterly wages equal to the amount of their earnings to be fixed from time to time by the authorities of the institution, from which board, lodging, clothing, and costs of trial shall be deducted and the balance paid to their families or dependents. In case none such appear, the amount shall be paid to the convict at the expiration of his term of imprisonment. The prisoners receive no payment whatever, even for overtime work, except occasionally a slice of pork for supper. K. G., plant this and other material I'll send you in a safe place. End of Section 32, Recording by Christine Lehmann, Recita, California. New Memoirs of An Anarchist by Alexander Berkman, Part 1, Chapter 26, Hiding the Evidence. It is New Year's Eve, an air of pleasant anticipation fills the prison, tomorrow's feast is the exciting subject of conversation, roast beef will be served for dinner, with a goodly loaf of current bread, and two cigars for dessert. Extra men have been drafted for the kitchen, they flit from block to yard, looking busy and important. Yet, halting every passer-by to whisper with secretive mine, don't say I told you, sweet potatoes tomorrow. The younger inmates seem skeptical and strive to appear indifferent. The while they hover about the yard door, nostrils expanded, sniffing the appetizing laughs from the kitchen. Here and there are old-timer grumples, we should have had sweet Murphy's for Christmas. Too high-priced, Sandy said, they sneer in el humor. The new arrivals grow uneasy, perhaps they are still too expensive. Some study the market quotations on the delicacy. But the chief cook drops in to visit his boy and confides to the rangeman that the sweet potatoes are a sure thing, just arrived and counted. The happy news is whispered about with confident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety. Here is great rejoicing among the men, only soul, the lifer is powerless. He doesn't care a snap about the extra feet, stomachs still sore from the Christmas dinner, and anyhow it only makes the week a day grub more disgusting. The rules are somewhat relaxed, the hall men converse freely, the yard gangs lounge about in cluster and little groups that separate at the approach of a superior officer. Men from the bakery and kitchen run in and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously. What are you after, the doorkeeper halts them? Oh, just my cell, forgot my hinker chief. The guard answers the sly wink, with an indulgent smile, alright go ahead but don't be long. If Papa Mitchell is about, he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling with packages. What you got there, aye, big family of kids you have, Jim, first thing you know, you'll wipe the hinges off the kitchen door. The envy bakery and kitchen employees supply their friends with extra holiday tidbits, and the solitary's dancing glee at the sight of the savoury dainty, the fresh brown bread generously dotted with sweet currants. It is the prelude of the promised culinary symphony. The evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity, the prisoners at first converse and whispers, then become bolder and talk louder through the bars, as night approaches the cellhouse rings with unreserved hilarity and animation. Lighthearted chaff mingled with coarse jests and droll humour, a wag of upper-tiered bandage, the passing guards, his quips and sallies, setting the adjoining cells in roar, an inspiring imitation. Slowly, the babble of tongues subsides, as the gong sounds the order to retire. Someone shouts to a distant friend, hey Bill are you there, ye yes, stay there, it grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbour on the left sings songs, fellers who's going to set up with me to greet new years. A dozen voices gel with their acceptance, little Frenchie, the spirited greyhead on the top tier, vociferates shrilly, me two boys, I'm Viz, you all night, all is still in the cellhouse, saved for a wild Indian whip, now and then, by the vigil keeping voice. The block breeze in heavy sleep, loud snoring sounds from the gallery above, only the irregular thread of the felt sold, guards fall muffled in the silence. The clock on the upper return to strikes, the midnight hour, a siren on the Ohio end tones, its deep chest at base, another joins it, then another, shrill factory whistles pierced a boom of cannon, the sweet chimes of a nearby church ring in joyful melody between, instantly the prison is astir, tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors shaken fury, beds in chairs squeaking screech, pan slam on the floor, shoes crash against the walls with a dull thud and rebound noisily on the stone, unearthly yelling, shouting and whistling rend the air, an inventive prisoner beats a wild tattoo with a pin pan on the table. A veritable bedlam of frenzy has broken list in both wings, the prisoners are celebrating the advent of the new year, the voices grow hoarse and feeble, the tin clanks languidly against the iron, the grating of the doors sounds weaker, the men are exhausted with the unwanted effort, the guards stumbled up the galleries, their forms swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight, a modeling tones like man's silence, and bed the men retired to bed, the younger more daring challenged the order with husky howls and catcalls, a defiant shout, a groan and all is quiet. Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar, for twenty-four hours the long repressed animal spirits are rampant, no music or recreation hours honours the new year. The day is passed in the cell, the prisoners, security barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and sorrow, their yearnings and hopes, in a Saturnalia of tumult, part two, the month of January brings sigilus activity, shops and block are overhauled, every hook and corner is scarred, and a special squad detailed to whitewash the cells, the yearly cleanup not being due till spring, I conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected visit of the Board of Charities is approaching. The prisoners are agog with the coming investigation, the solitaries and prospective witnesses are on the cu-viv, anxious lines on their faces, some manifest fear of the ill will of the warden as the probable result of their testimony, I seek to encourage them by promising to assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw their previous consent, the safety of my data causes me grave concern in view of the increasing frequency of searches, deliberation finally resolves itself into the bold plan of searching my most valuable material in the cell set aside for the use of the officers, it is the first cell on the range, it is never locked and is ignored at searches because it is not occupied by prisoners, the little bundle protected with a piece of oil skin procured from the dispensary, some reposes in the depths of the waste pipe, a stout cord secures it from being washed away by the rush of water, when the privy is in use, I call Officer Mitchell's attention to the dusty condition of the cell and offer to sweep it every morning and afternoon, he exceeds in an offhand manner and twice daily I surreptitiously examine the tension of the watershed cord, renewing the string repeatedly, other material and copies of my exhibits are deposited with several trustworthy friends on the range, everything is ready for the investigation and we confidently await the coming of the Board of Charities, part three, the cell house rejoices at the absence of Scott Woods, the block captain of the morning has been reduced to the ranks, the disgrace is signalised by his appearance in the wall, pacing the narrow path in the chilly winter blasts, the guards look upon the assignment as punishment day for incurring the displeasure of the warden, the keepers smile at the indiscreet scout, interfering with the self-granted privileges of Southside Johnny, one of the warden's favourites, the runner who afforded me an opportunity to see Inspector Nevin, came out victorious in the struggle with Woods, the latter was up braided by Captain Wright in the presence of Johnny, who is now officially authorised in his prerequisites, sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid comment whereupon the officer was drawn from the block, I regret his absence, a severe disciplinarian, Woods was yet very exceptional among the guards in that he sought to discourage the spying of prisoners on each other, he frowned upon the trustees and strove to treat the men impartially, Mitchell has been changed to the morning chef to fill the vacancy made by the transfer of Woods, the charge of the block in the afternoon devolves upon Officer Michael Levain, a very corpulent man with sharp, steely eyes, he is considerably above the average warder in intelligence, but extremely fond of Jasper, who now acts as his assistant, the obese turn key rarely leaving his seat at the front desk, changes of keepers transfers from the shops to the two cell houses are frequent, the new guards are alert and active, almost daily the warden visits the ranges, leaving in his wake more stringent discipline, rarely do I find a chance to pause at the cells, I keep in touch with the men through the medium of notes, but one day several fights breaking out in the shops, the block officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the combatants in the punishment cells, the front is deserted and I improve the opportunity to talk to the solitaries, Jasper, Southside and Bob Runyon, the politicians also converse at the doors, Bob standing suspiciously close to the barge, suddenly Officer Michael Vain appears in the yard door, his face is flushed, his eyes filling with wrath as they fasten on the men at the cells, hey, you fellows get away from there, he shouts, confines you all, the old man just gave me the juice, too much talking in the block, I won't stand for it, that's all he adds, petulantly, within half an hour I am hauled, before the warden, he looks worried, deep lines of anxiety about his mouth, you are reported for standing at the doors, he snarls at me, what are you always telling the men? It's the first time the officer, nothing of the kind he interrupts, you are always talking to the prisoners, they are in punishment and you have no business with them, why was I picked out, others talk to you, yes he draws, sarcastically, then turning to the keeper he says, how is that officer, the man is charging you with neglect of duty, I am not charging, silence, what have you to say, Mr. Michael Vain, the guard reddens with suppressed rage, it isn't true captain he replies, there was no one except Berkman, you hear what the officer says, you're always breaking the rules, you're plotting I know you, pulling a dozen wires, you are inimical to the management of the institution, but I will break your connections, officers take him directly to south wing, you understand, he is not to return to his cell, have it searched at once thoroughly, lock him up, warden what for, I demanded, I have not done anything to lose my position, talking is not such a serious charge, very serious, very serious, you're too dangerous on the range, I'll spoil your infernal schemes by removing you from the north block, you've been there too long, I want to remain there, the more reason to take you away, that will do now, no it won't, I burst out, I'll stay where I am, remove him Mr. Michael Vain, I am taken to the south wing and locked up in a vacant cell neglected and ill smelling, it is number two range M, the first gallery facing the yard, a double cell, somewhat larger than those of the north block, and containing a small window, the walls are damp and bare, saved for the cupboard of printed worlds and the prison calendar, it is the 27th of February 1896, but the calendar is of last year, indicating that the cell has not been occupied since the previous November, it contains the usual furnishings, bedstead and soiled, straw mattress, a small table and a chair, it feels cold and dreary, in thought I picture the guards ransacking my former cell, they will not discover anything, my material is well hidden, the warden evidently suspects my plans, he fears my testimony before the investigation committee, my removal is to sever my connections, and now it is impossible for me to reach my data, I must return to north block, otherwise all our plans are doomed to fail, I can't leave my friends on the range in the lurch, some of them have already signified to the chaplain their desire to testify, their statements will remain unsupported in the absence of my proofs, I must rejoin them, I have told the warden that I shall remain where I was, but he probably ignored it as an empty boast, I consider the situation and resolve to break up housekeeping, it is the sole means of being transferred to the other shell house, it will involve the loss of the grade and a trip to the dungeon, perhaps even a fight with the keepers, the guards fearing the broken furniture will be used for defence, generally rush the prisoner with blackjacks, but my return to the north wing will be assured, no man and stripes can remain in the south wing, alert for an approaching step, I untie my shoes producing a scrap of paper, a pencil and a knife, I write a hurried note to Kay, briefly informing him of the new developments, and intimating that our data are safe, guardedly I attract the attention of the runner in the floor beneath, it is Bill Say, through whom Carl occasionally communicates with Jay, the note rolled into a little ball, a ship between the bars to the waiting prisoner, now everything is prepared, it is near suburb time, the men are coming back from work, it would be advisable to wait till everybody is locked in and the shop officers depart home, there will then be only three guards on duty in the block, but I am in the fever of indignation and anger, furiously snatching up the chair, I start wrecking up, end of section thirty three, recording by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in Caniantra Northern Ireland. Section thirty four of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, this is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Kristen Edwards January 20th 2020, Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman, Chapter 27, Loves Dungeon Flower The dungeon smells foul and musty, the darkness is almost visible, the silence oppressive, but the terror of my former experience has abated, I shall probably be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than on the previous occasion, my offense is considered very grave, three charges have been entered against me, destroying state property, having possession of a knife, and uttering a threat against the warden. When I saw the officers gathering at my back while I was facing the captain, I realized its significance, they were preparing to assault me. Quickly advancing to the warden, I shook my fist in his face crying, if they touch me I'll hold you personally responsible. He turned pale, trying to steady his voice he demanded, what do you mean, how dare you? I mean just what I say, I won't be clubbed, my friends will avenge me too. He glanced at the guard standing rigid in ominous silence, one by one they retired, only two remaining and I was taken quietly to the dungeon. The stillness is broken by a low muffled sound, I listen intently, it is someone pacing the cell at the further end of the passage. Hello, who's there? I shout. No reply, the pacing continues. It must be silent Nick, he never talks. I prepared to pass the night on the floor. It is bare, there is no bed or blanket, and I have been deprived of my coat and shoes. It is freezing in the cell. My feet grow numb, hands cold as I huddle in the corner, my head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the stone floor. I tried to think but my thoughts are wandering, my brain frigid. The rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor. Guards are descending into the dungeon. I wonder whether it is morning, but they pass my cell. It is not yet breakfast time. Now they pause and whisper. I recognize the mumbling speech of deputy Greaves as he calls out to the silent prisoner. Want a drink? The double doors open noisily. Here, give me the cup. The horse base resembles that of Crazy Smithy. His centurion voice sounds cracked since he was shot in the neck by Officer Dean. You can't have the cup, the deputy fumes. I won't drink out of your hand, god damn you. Think I'm a cur, do you? Smithy swears and curses savagely. The doors are slammed and locked. The steps grow faint and all is silent. Save the quick and footfall of Smith, who will not talk to any prisoner. I pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at times to strain my ear for every sound from the rotunda above, wondering whether day is breaking. The minutes drag in dismal darkness. The loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like sweet music. It is morning. The guards hand me the day's allowance. Two ounces of white bread and a quart of water. The wheat tastes sweet. It seems to me I've never eaten anything so delectable. But the liquid is insipid and nauseates me. At almost one bite I swallow the slice so small and thin. It wets my appetite and I feel ravenously hungry. At Smith's door the scene of the previous evening is repeated. The deputy insists that the man drink out of the cup held by a guard. The prisoner refuses with a profuse flow of profanity. Suddenly there is a splash followed by a startled cry and the thud of the cell bucket on the floor. Smith has emptied the contents of his privy upon the officers. In confusion they rush out of the dungeon. Presently I hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar. There is a hubbub of suppressed voices. I recognize the rasping whisper of Hopkins, the tones of woods, macklevin and others. I catch the words both sides at once. Several cells in the dungeon are provided with double entrances front and back to facilitate attacks upon obstreperous prisoners. Smith is always assigned to one of these cells. I shudder as I realize that the officers are preparing to club the demented man. He has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary confinement and his throat still bleeds occasionally from the bullet wound. Almost half his time he has been kept in the dungeon and now he has been missing from the range twelve days. It is involuntarily I shut my eyes at the fearful thud of the riot clubs. The hours drag on. The monotony is broken by the keepers bringing another prisoner to the dungeon. I hear his violent sobbing from the depth of the cavern. Who is there? I hail him. I call repeatedly without receiving an answer. Perhaps the new arrival is afraid of listening guards. Oh, man. I sing out. The screws have gone. Who are you? This is Alec. Alec Berkman. Is that you, Alec? This is Johnny. There is a familiar ring about the young voice broken by piteous moans, but I failed to identify it. What Johnny? Johnny Davis. You know, stocking shop. I've just killed man. In bewilderment, I listened to the story told with bursts of weeping. Johnny had returned to the shop. He thought he would try again. He wanted to earn his good time. Things went well for a while till Dutch Adams became shoprunner. He is the stool who got Grant and Johnny Smith in trouble with a fake key and Davis would have nothing to do with him. But Dutch persisted pestering him all the time and then, well, you know, Alec, the boy seems diffident. He lied about me like hell. He told the fellows he used me. Christ, my mother might hear about it. I couldn't stand it, Alec. Honest to God, I couldn't. I I killed the lying Kerr and now now I'll swing for it. He sobs as if his heart would break. A touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my voice as I strive to condole with him and utter the hope that it may not be so bad after all. Perhaps Adams will not die. He is a powerful man, big and strong. He may survive. Johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. He grows more cheerful and we talk of the coming investigation and local affairs. Perhaps the board will even clear him, he suggests. But suddenly, seized with fear, he weeps and moans again. More men are cast into the dungeon. They bring news from the world above. An epidemic of fighting seems to have broken out in the wake of recent orders. The total inhibition of talking is resulting in more serious offenses. Kid Tommy is enlarging upon his trouble. You see, fellas, he cries in a trouble. That skunk of a peat he pushes me into line. And I turns round to give him hell. But to screw pipes me. Got no chance to chew. So I turns and biffs him on to jaw, see? But he is sure, he says, to be let out at night or in the morning at most. Them fellas that were scrapping yesterday in the yard didn't go to the hole. They just put him into cell. Sandy knows the committee's coming all right. Johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire anxiously about Dutch Adams. And I share his joy at hearing that the man's wound is not serious. He was cut about the shoulders but was able to walk unassisted to the hospital. Johnny overflows with quiet happiness. The others dance and sing. I recite a poem from Nick Krasov. The boys don't understand a word but the sorrow laden tones appealed to them and they request more Russian pieces. But Tommy is more interested in politics and is bristling with the latest news from the McGee camp. He is a great admirer of quay. There's a smart guy for you fellas owns the whole Keystone shebang. All right. All right. He's boss quay. You bet you he dives into national issues rails at Brian 16 to one bill. You just listen to him. He'll give $16 to everyone. He will knit and the boys are soon involved in a heated discussion of the respective merits of the two political parties. Tommy staunchly siding with the Republican. My grandfather and my father was Republicans he vociferates and all my brothers vote the ticket. Me for the grand old party every time. Someone twits him on his political wisdom challenging the boy to explain the difference in the money standards. Tommy boldly appeals to me to corroborate him but before I have an opportunity to speak he launches upon other issues berating Spain for her atrocities in Cuba and insisting that this free country cannot tolerate slavery at its doors. Every topic is discussed with Tommy or rating at top speed and continually broaching new subjects. Unexpectedly he reverts to local affairs waxes reminiscent over former days and loudly smacks his lips at the great feeds he enjoyed on the rare occasions when he was free to roam the back streets of smoky city. Say Alec my boy he calls to me familiarly. Many a penny I made on you all right how why peddling extras of course. Say damn was fine days all right easy money papers went like hotcakes off the griddle wish you'd do it again Alec. Invisible to each other we chat exchange stories and anecdotes the boys talking incessantly as if fearful of silence but every now and then there is a lull we become quiet each absorbed in his own thoughts the pauses lengthen lengthen into silence only the fate steps of crazy Smith disturbed the deep stillness late in the evening the young prisoners are relieved but Johnny remains and his apprehensions reawaken repeatedly during the night he rouses me from my drowsy turper to be reassured that he is not in danger of the gallows and that he will not be tried for his assault. I alay his fears by dwelling on the wardens aversion to giving publicity to the sex practices in the prison and remind the boy of the captain's official denial of their existence. These things happen almost every week yet no one has ever been taken to court from Riverside on such charges. Johnny grows more tranquil and we converse about his family history talking in a frank confidential manner. With a glow of pleasure I become aware of the note of tenderness in his voice. Presently he surprises me by asking friend Alec what do they call you in Russian? He prefers the fond sashenka enunciating the strange word with quaint endearment then diffidently confesses dislike for his own name and relates the story he had recently read of a poor castaway Cuban youth. Felipe was his name and he was just like himself. Shall I call you Felipe I offer? Yes please do Alec dear. No Sashenka. The springs of affection well up within me as I lie huddled on the stone floor cold and hungry with closed eyes I picture the boy before me with his delicate face and sensitive girlish lips. Good night dear Sashenka he calls. Good night little Felipe. In the morning we are served with a slice of bread and water. I am tormented with thirst and hunger and the small ration fails to assuage my sharp pangs. Smithy still refuses to drink out of the deputy's hand. His doors remain unopened. With tremulous anxiety Johnny begs the deputy warden to tell him how much longer he will remain in the dungeon but graves currently command silence applying a vile epithet to the boy. Deputy I call boiling over with indignation he asked you a respectful question I'd give him a decent answer. You mind your own business you hear he retorts but I persist in defending my young friend and berate the deputy for his language he hastens away in a towering passion menacing me with what Smithy got. Johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of the trouble the threat of the deputy disquietes him and he warns me to prepare. My cell is provided with a double entrance and I am apprehensive of a sudden attack but the hours pass without the deputy returning and our fears are elade. The boy rejoices on my account and brims over with appreciation of my intercession. The incidents cements our intimacy our first diffidence disappears and we become openly tender and affectionate the conversation lags we feel weak and worn but every little while we hail each other with words of encouragement Smithy incessantly paces the cell the gnawing of the river rats reaches our ears the silence is frequently pierced by the wild yells of the insane man startling us with dread foreboding the quiet grows unbearable and Johnny calls again what are you doing Sashenka oh nothing just thinking Felipe am I in your thoughts dear yes kitty you are Sasha dear I've been thinking too what Felipe you are the only one I care for I haven't a friend in the whole place do you care much for me Felipe will you promise not to laugh at me Sashenka I wouldn't laugh at you cross your hand over your heart got it Sasha yes well I'll tell you I was thinking how shall I tell you I was thinking Sashenka if you were here with me I would like to kiss you an unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart and I amused in silence what's the matter Sashenka why don't you say something are you angry with me no Felipe you foolish little boy you're laughing at me no dear I feel just as you do really yes oh I'm so glad Sashenka in the evening the guards descend to relieve Johnny he is to be transferred to the basket they inform him on the way past my cell he whispers hope I'll see you soon Sashenka a friendly officer knocks on the outer blind door of my cell that you there Berkman you want to behave to the deputy he's put you down for two more days for sass in him I feel more lonesome at the boys departure the silence grows more oppressive the hours of darkness heavier seven days I remain in the dungeon at the expiration of the week feeling stiff and feeble I taught her behind the guards on the way to the bathroom my body looks strangely emaciated reduced almost to a skeleton the pangs of hunger revived sharply with the shock of the cold shower and the craving for tobacco was overpowering at the site of the chewing officers I look forward to being placed in a cell quietly exulting at my victory as I am led to the north wing but in the cell house the deputy warden assigns me to the lower end of range a insane department exasperated by the terrible suggestion my nerves on edge with the dungeon experience I storm in furious protest demanding to be returned to the whole the deputy startled by my violence attempts to soothe me and finally yields I am placed in number thirty five the crank row beginning several cells further upon the heels of the departing officers the range man is at my door bursting with the latest news the investigation is over the warden whitewashed for an instant I am aghast failing to grasp the astounding situation slowly its full significance dawns on me as bill excitedly relates the story it is the talk of the prison the board of charities had chosen its secretary jay francis torrance an intimate friend of the warden to conduct the investigation as a precautionary measure I was kept several additional days in the dungeon mr torrance has privately interviewed dutch adams young smithy and bob runyon promising them their full commutation time not with standing their bad records and irrespective of their future behavior they were instructed by the secretary to corroborate the management placing all blame upon me no other witnesses were heard the investigation was over within an hour the committee of one retiring for dinner to the adjoining residents of the warden several friendly prisoners linger at my cell during the afternoon corroborating the story of the range man and completing the details the cell house itself bears out the situation the change in the personnel of the men is amazing dutch adams has been promoted to messenger for the front office the most privileged political job in the prison bob runyon a third timer and notorious kid man has been appointed a trustee in the shops but the most significant cue is the advancement of young smithy to the position of range man he is but recently been sentenced to a year's solitary for the broken key discovered in the lock of his door his record is of the worst he is a young convict of extremely violent temper who has repeatedly attacked fellow prisoners with dangerous weapons since his murderous assault upon the inoffensive praying andy smithy was never permitted out of his cell without the escort of two guards and now this irresponsible man is in charge of a range at supper young smithy steals up to my cell bringing a slice of cornbread i refuse the peace offering and charge him with treachery at first he stoutly protests his innocence but gradually weakens and pleads his dire straits in mitigation torrance had persuaded him to testify but he avoided incriminating me that was done by the other two witnesses he merely exonerated the warden from the charges preferred by james grant he had been clubbed four times but he denied to the committee that the guards practice violence and he supported the warden in his statement that the officers are not permitted to carry clubs or blackjack's he feels that an injustice has been done me and now that he occupies my former position he will be able to repay the little favors i did him when he was in solitary indignantly i spurn his offer he pleads his youth the torture of the cell and begs my forgiveness but i am bitter at his treachery and bid him go officer macklevin pauses at my door oh what a change what an awful change he exclaims pinningly i don't know whether he refers to my appearance or to the loss of range liberty but i resent his tone of commissuration it was he who had selected me as a victim to be reported for talking angrily i turned my back to him refusing to talk someone stealthily pushes a bundle of newspapers between the bars whole columns detail the report of the investigation completely exonerating warden edward s right the base charges against the management of the penitentiary were the underhand work of anarchist berkman mr torrance assured the press one of the papers contains a lengthy interview with right accusing me of fostering discontent and insubordination among the men the captain expresses grave fear for the safety of the community should the pardon board reduce my sentence in view of the circumstance that my lawyers are preparing to renew the application at the next session in great agitation i paced the cell the statement of the warden is fatal to the hope of a pardon my life in the prison will now be made still more unbearable i shall again be locked in solitary with despair i think of my fate in the hands of the enemy and the sense of my utter helplessness overpowers me end of section 34 section 35 of prison memoirs of an anarchist this is a libre vox recording all libre vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libre vox.org recording by josh kibby prison memoirs of an anarchist by alexander berkman part two chapter 28 for safety dear k i know you must have been worried about me give no credence to the reports you hear i did not try to suicide i was very nervous and excited over the things that happened while i was in the dungeon i saw the papers after i came up you know what they said i couldn't sleep i kept pacing the floor the screws were hanging about my cell but i paid no attention to them they spoke to me but i wouldn't answer i was in no mood for talking they must have thought something wrong with me the doctor came and felt my pulse and they took me to the hospital the warden rushed in and ordered me into a straight jacket for safety he said you know officer urwin he put the jacket on me he's a pretty decent chap i saw he hated to do it but the evening screw is a rat he called three times during the night and every time he tightened the straps i thought he cut my hands off but i wouldn't cry for mercy and that made him wild they put me in the full size jacket that winds all around you the arms folded they laid me tied in the canvas on the bed bound me to it feet and chest with straps provided with padlocks i was suffocating in the hot ward to hardly breathe in the morning they unbounded me my legs were paralyzed and i could not stand up the doctor ordered some medicine for me the head nurse he's in for murder and he's rotten taunted me with the black bottle every time he passed my bed he'd say you still alive wait till i fix something up for you i refused the medicine and then they took me down to the dispensary lashed me to a chair and used the pump on me you can imagine how i felt that went on for a week every night in the straight jacket every morning the pump now i am back in the block in 6a a peculiar coincidence it's the same cell i occupied when i first came here don't trust bill say the warden told me he knew about the note i sent you just before i smashed up if you got it bill must have read it and told sandy only dear old horse thief can be relied upon how near the boundary of joy is misery i shall never forget the first morning in the jacket i passed a restless night but just as it began to dawn i must have lost consciousness suddenly i awoke with the most exquisite music in my ears it seemed to me as if the heavens had opened in a burst of ecstasy it was only a little sparrow but never before in my life did i hear such sweet melody i felt murder in my heart when the convict nurse drove the poor birdie from the window ledge a end of section 35 section 36 of prison memoirs of an anarchist this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org prison memoirs of an anarchist by alexander berkman part two chapter 29 dreams of freedom like an endless misery are the days in the solitary no glimmer of light cheers the tomorrows in the depths of suffering existence becomes intolerable and as of old i see refuge in the past the stages of my life reappear as the acts of a drama which i cannot bring myself to cut short the possibilities of the dark motive compel the imagination and halt the thought of destruction misery magnifies the estimate of self the vehemence of revolt strengthens to endure despair engenders obstinate resistance in its spirit hope is trembling slowly it assumes more definite shape escape is the soul salvation the world of the living is dim and unreal with distance its voice reaches me like the pale echo of fantasy the thought of its turbulent vitality is strange with apprehension but the present is bitter with wretchedness and gasps desperately for relief the efforts of my friends bring a glow of warmth into my life the indefatigable girl has succeeded in interesting various circles she is gathering funds for my application for a re-hearing before the pardon board in the spring of 98 when my first sentence of seven years will have expired with a touch of old time tenderness i think of her loyalty her indomitable perseverance on my behalf it is she almost she alone who was kept my memory green throughout the long years even fedya my constant chum has been swirled into the vortex of narrow ambition and self-indulgence the plaything of commonplace fate resentment at being thus lightly forgotten tinges my thoughts of the erstwhile twin brother of our ideal kissed youth by contrast the girl is silhouetted on my horizon as the sole personification of revolutionary persistence the earnest of its realization beyond all is darkness the mystic world of falsehood and sham that will hate and persecute me even as its brutal high priests in the prison here and there the gloom is rent an unknown sympathiser or comrade sends a greeting i pour eagerly over the chirrography and from the clear decisive signature volterine de claire strive to mold the character and shape the features of the writer to the girl i apply to verify my reading and rejoice in the warm interest of the convent educated american a friend of my much-admired comrade dyadilum who is aiding the girl in my behalf but the efforts for a re-hearing wake no hope in my heart my comrades far from the prison world do not comprehend the full significance of the situation resulting from the investigation my underground connections are paralyzed i cannot enlighten the girl but nold and bower are on the threshold of liberty within two months carl will carry my message to new york i can fully rely on his discretion and devotion we have grown very intimate through common suffering he will inform the girl that nothing is to be expected from legal procedure instead he will explain to her the plan i have evolved my position as rangeman has served me to good advantage i have thoroughly familiarized myself with the institution i have gathered information and explored every part of the cellhouse offering the least likelihood of an escape the prison is almost impregnable tom's attempt to scale the wall proved disastrous in spite of his exceptional opportunities as kitchen employee and the thick fog of the early morning several other attempts also were doomed to failure the great number of guards and their vigilance precluding success no escape has taken place since the days of paddy mcgraw before the completion of the prison entirely new methods must be tried the road to freedom leads underground but digging out of the prison is impracticable in the modern structure of steel and rock we must force a passage into the prison the tunnel is to be dug from the outside a house is to be rented in the neighborhood of the penitentiary and the underground passage excavated beneath the eastern wall towards the adjacent bath house no officers frequent the place save at certain hours and i shall find an opportunity to disappear into the hidden opening on the regular bi-weekly occasions when the solidaries are permitted to bathe the project will require careful preparation and considerable expense skilled comrades will have to be entrusted with the secret work the greater part of which must be carried on at night determination and courage will make the plan feasible successful such things have been done before not in this country it is true but the act will receive added significance from the circumstance that the liberation of the first american political prisoner has been accomplished by means similar to those practiced by our comrades in russia who knows it may prove the symbol and precursor of russian idealism on american soil and what tremendous impression the consummation of the bold plan will make what a stimulus to our propaganda as a demonstration of anarchist initiative and ability i glow with the excitement of its great possibilities and enthused carl with my hopes if the preparatory work is hastened the execution of the plan will be facilitated by the renewed agitation within the prison rumors of a legislative investigation are afloat diverting the thoughts of the administration into different channels i shall foster the ferment to afford my comrades greater safety in the work during the long years of my penitentiary life i have formed many friendships i have earned the reputation of a square man and a good fellow have received many proofs of confidence and appreciation of my uncompromising attitude towards the generally executed management most of my friends observe the unwritten ethics of informing me of their approaching release and offer to smuggle out messages or to provide me with little comforts i invariably request them to visit the newspapers and to relate their experiences in riverside some express fear of the warden's enmity of the fatal consequences in case of their return to the penitentiary but the bolder spirits and the accidental offenders who confidently bid me a final goodbye unafraid of return call directly from the prison on their pittsburgh editors presidentally the leader and the dispatch begin to voice their censure of the hurried whitewash by the state board of charities the attitude of the press encourages the guards to manifest their discontent with the humiliating eccentricities of the senile warden they protest against the whim subjecting them to military drill to improve their appearance and resent captain right's insistence that they patronize his private tailor high priced and incompetent serious friction has also arisen between the management and mr sawhill superintendent of local industries the prisoners rejoice at the growing irascibility of the warden and the deeper lines on his face interpreting them as signs of worry and fear expectation of a new investigation is at high pitch as judge gordon of philadelphia severely censures the administration of the eastern penitentiary charging inhuman treatment abuse of the insane and graft the labor bodies of the state demand the abolition of convict competition and the press becomes more assertive in urging an investigation of both penitentiaries the air it's charged with rumors of legislative action the breath of spring is in the cell house my two comrades are jubilant the sweet odor of may wafts the resurrection but the threshold of life is guarded by the throws of new birth a tone of nervous excitement permeates the correspondence anxiety tortures the sleepless nights the approaching return to the living is tinged with the disquietitude of the unknown the dread of the renewed struggle for existence but the joy of coming emancipation the wine of sunshine and liberty tingles in every fiber and hope flutters its disused wings our plans are complete carl is to visit the girl explain my project and serve as the medium of communication by means of our pre-arranged system investing apparently innocent official letters with sabrosa meaning the initial steps will require time meanwhile k and g are to make the necessary arrangements for the publication of our book the security of our manuscripts is a source of deep satisfaction a much merriment at the expense of the administration the repeated searches have failed to unearth them with characteristic daring the faithful bob had secreted them in a hole in the floor of his shop almost under the very seat of the guard one by one they have been smuggled outside by a friendly officer whom we have christened schraube by degrees nold has gained the confidence of the former mill worker with the result that 60 precious booklets now repose safely with a comrade in alagany i am to supply the final chapters of the book through mr schraube whose friendship carl is about to bequeath to me the month of may is on the wane the last note is exchanged with my comrades dear bob was not able to reach me in the morning and now i read the lines quivering with the last pangs of release while nold and bower are already beyond the walls how i yearned for a glance at carl to touch hands even in silence but the customary privilege was refused us only once in the long years of our common suffering have i looked into the eyes of my devoted friend and stealthily pressed his hand like a thief in the night no last greeting was vouchsafed me today the loneliness seems heavier the void more painful the routine is violently disturbed reading and study are burdensome my thoughts will not be compelled they revert obstinately to my comrades and storm against my steel cage trying to pierce the distance to commune with the absent i seek diversion in the manufacture of prison fancy work ornamental little fruit baskets diminutive articles of furniture picture frames and the like the little mementos constructed of tissue paper rolls of various design i sent to the girl and i'm elated at her admiration of the beautiful workmanship and attractive color effects but presently she laments the wrecked condition of the goods and upon investigation i learned from the runner that the most dilapidated cardboard boxes are selected for my product the return to turnkey in charge of the shipments is hostile and i appeal to the chaplain but his well-meant intercession results in an order from the warden into dieting the expressage of my work on the ground of probable notes being secreted therein i protest against the discrimination suggesting the dismembering of every piece to disprove the charge but the captain derisively remarks that he is indisposed to take chances and i am forced to resort to the subterfuge of having my articles transferred to a friendly prisoner and addressed by him to his mother in beaver pennsylvania thence to be forwarded to new york at the same time the return to keeper detains a valuable piece of ivory sent to me by the girl for the manufacture of ornamental toothpicks the local wear made of kitchen bones bleached in the lime turns yellow in a short time my request for the ivory is refused on the plea of submitting the matter to the warden's decision who rules against me i direct the return of it to my friend but i'm informed that the ivory has been mislaid and cannot be found exasperated i charge the guard with the theft and serve notice that i shall demand the ivory at the expiration of my time the turnkey cheers at the wild impossibility and i am placed for a week on pennsylvania diet for insulting an officer end of section 36 recording by kate m section 37 of prison memoirs of an anarchist this is a libra fox recording all libra fox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librafox.org prison memoirs of an anarchist by alexander berkman part two chapter 30 whitewashed again christmas 1897 my dear carl i have been despairing of reaching you sabrosa but the holidays brought the usual transfers and at last my friend shrubby is with me dear caroless i am worn out with the misery of the months since you left and the many disappointments your official letters were not convincing i fail to understand why the plan is not practicable of course you can't write openly but you have means of giving a hint as to the impossibilities you speak of you say that i have become too estranged from the outside and so forth which may be true yet i think the matter chiefly concerns the inside and of that i am the best judge i do not see the force of your argument when you dwell upon the application at the next session of the pardon board you mean that the other plan would jeopardize the success of the legal attempt but there is not much hope of favorable action by the board you have talked all this over before but you seem to have a different view now why only in a very small measure do your letters replace in my life the heart to heart talks we used to have here though they were only on paper but i am much interested in your activities it seems strange that you so long the companion of my silence should now be in the very Niagara of life of our movement it gives me great satisfaction that your experience here has matured you and helped to strengthen and deepen your convictions it has had a similar effect upon me you know what a voluminous reader i am i have read in fact studied every volume in the library here and now the chaplain supplies me with books from his but whether it be philosophy travel or contemporary life that falls into my hands it invariably distills into my mind the falsity of dominant ideas and the beauty the inevitability of anarchism but i do not want to enlarge upon this subject now we can discuss it through official channels you know that tony and his nephew are here we are just getting acquainted he works in the shop but as he is also a coffee boy we have an opportunity to exchange notes it is fortunate that his identity is not known otherwise he would fall under special surveillance i have my eyes on tony he may prove valuable i am still in solitary with no prospect of relief you know the policy of the warden to use me as a scapegoat for everything that happens here it has become a mania with him think of it he blames me for johnny davis's cutting dutch he laid everything at my door when the legislative investigation took place it was a worse sham than the previous whitewash several members called to see me at the cell unofficially they said they got a hint of the evidence i was prepared to give and one of them suggested to me that it is not advisable for one in my position to antagonize the warden i replied that i was no toady he hinted that the authorities of the prison might help me to procure freedom if i would act discreetly i insisted that i wanted to be heard by the committee they departed promising to call me as a witness one senator remarked as he left you are too intelligent a man to be at large when the hearing opened several officers were the first to take the stand the testimony was not entirely favorable to the warden then mr. sawhill was called you know him he is an independent sort of man with an eye upon the wardenship his evidence came like a bomb he charged the management with corruption and fraud and so forth the investigators took fright they closed the sessions and departed for harrisburg announcing through the press that they would visit moiaming sing footnote the eastern penitentiary of philadelphia pennsylvania and footnote and then returned to riverside but they did not return the report they submitted to the governor exonerated the warden the men were gloomy over the state of affairs a hundred prisoners were prepared to testify and much was expected from the committee i had all my facts on hand bob had fished out for me at the bundle of material from its hiding place it was in good condition in spite of the long soaking i am enclosing some new data in this letter for use in our book now that he is cleared the warden has grown even more arrogant and despotic yet some good the agitation in the press has accomplished clubbings are less frequent and the bull ring is temporarily abolished but his hatred of me has grown venomous he holds us responsible together with dem cnbd for organizing the opposition to convict labor which is culminated in the mule brawner law it is to take effect on the first of the year the prison administration is very bitter because the statute which permits only 35 percent of the inmates to be employed in productive labor will considerably minimize opportunities for graft but the men are rejoicing the terrible slavery in the shops has driven many to insanity and death the law is one of the rare instances of rational legislation its benefit to labor in general is nullified however by limiting convict competition only within the state the inspectors are already seeking a market for the prison products in other states while the convict manufacturers of new york ohio illinois etc are disposed of in pennsylvania the irony of beneficent legislation on the other hand the inmates need not suffer for lack of employment the new law allows the unlimited manufacture within the prison of products for local consumption if the wine of the management regarding the detrimental effect of illness on the convict is sincere they could employ five times the population of the prison in the production of articles for our own needs at present all the requirements of the penitentiary are supplied from the outside the purchase of a farm following the example set by the workhouse would alone afford work for a considerable number of men i have suggested in a letter to the inspectors various methods of which every inmate of the institution could be employed among them the publication of a prison paper of course they have ignored me but what can you expect of a body of philanthropists who have the interest of the convict so much at heart that they delegated the president of the board george a kelly to oppose the parole bill a measure certainly along advanced lines of modern criminology owing to the influence of inspector kelly the bill was shelved at the last session of the legislature though the prisoners have been praying for it for years it has robbed the moneyless lifetimers of their last hope a clause in the parole bill held out to them the promise of release after 20 years of good behavior dark days are in store for the men apparently the campaign of the inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the bill browner law by raising the hue and cry of insanity and sickness they are actually causing both by keeping half the population locked up you know how quickly the solitary drive certain classes of prisoners insane especially the more ignorant element whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their personal troubles and pain speedily fall victims think of men who cannot even read put in communicato for months at a time for years even most of the colored prisoners and those accustomed to outdoor life such as farmers and the like quickly develop the germs of consumption in close confinement now this willful murder for it is nothing else is absolutely unnecessary the art is big and well protected by the 30 foot wall with armed guards patrolling it why not give the unemployed men air and exercise since the management is determined to keep them idle i suggested the idea to the warden but he berated me for my habitual interference in matters that do not concern me i often wonder at the enigma of human nature there's the captain a man 72 years old he should be think himself of death of meeting his maker since he pretends to believe in religion instead he is bending all his energies to increase insanity and disease among the convicts in order to force the repeal of the law that has lessen the flow of blood money it is almost beyond belief but you have yourself witnessed the effect of a brutal atmosphere among new officers right has been warden for 30 years he has come to regard the prison as his undisputed dominion and now he is furious at the legislative curtailment of his absolute control this letter will remind you of our bulky notes in the good old days when k g was here i miss our correspondence there are some intelligent men on the range but they are not interested in the thoughts that see within me and call for expression just now the chief topic of local interest after of course the usual discussion of the grub women kids and their health and troubles is the spanish war and the new dining room in which the shop employees are to be fed en masse out of chinaware think of it some of the men are tremendously patriotic others welcome the war as a sign cure affording easy money and plenty of excitement you remember young butch and his partners mirtha tommy etc they have recently been released to wasted and broken in health to be fit for manual labor all of them have signified their intention of joining the insurrection some are enrolling in the regular army for the war butch is already in cuba i had a letter from him there is a passage in it that is tragically characteristic he refers to a skirmish he participated in we shot a lot of spaniards mostly from ambush he writes it was great sport it is the attitude of the military adventurer to whom a sacred cause like the cube and uprising unfortunately affords the opportunity to satisfy is less for blood butch was a very gentle boy when he entered the prison but he has witnessed much heartlessness and cruelty during his term of three years letter growing rather long goodnight end of section 37