 Preface 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 Kwame Genov. YouTube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. As introductory. I wish that everybody in the world would read this book. And my reasons are not due to any desire on my part that people should join any group of social philosophers or revolutionists. I desire that the book be widely read because the general and careful reading of it would definitely add to true civilization. It is a contribution to the writings which promote civilization for the following reasons. It is a human document. It is a difficult thing to be sincere. More than that, it is a valuable thing. To be so means unusual qualities of the heart and of the head. Unusual qualities of character. The books that possess this quality are unusual books. There are not many deliberately autobiographical writings that are markedly sincere. There are not many direct human documents. This is one of these few books. Not only has this book the interest of the human document, but it is also a striking proof of the power of the human soul. Alexander Berkman spent 14 years in prison under perhaps more than commonly harsh and severe conditions. Prison life tends to destroy the body, weaken the mind, and pervert the character. Berkman consciously struggled with these adverse, destructive conditions. He took care of his body. He took care of his mind. He did so strenuously. It was a moral effort. He felt insane ideas trying to take possession of him. Insanity is a natural result of prison life. It always tends to come. This man felt it, consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. That the prison affected him is true. It always does. But he saved himself, essentially. Society tried to destroy him, but failed. If people will read this book carefully, it will tend to do away with prisons. The public, once vividly conscious of what prison life is and must be, would not be willing to maintain prisons. This is the only book that I know, which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing psychology of prison life. It shows, in picture after picture, sketch after sketch, not only the obvious brutality, stupidity, ugliness, permeating the institution, but very touching, it shows the good qualities and instincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized, helplessly struggling for life. Beautiful tendencies basically expressing themselves. And the personality of Bergman goes through it all. Idealistic, courageous, uncompromising, sincere, truthful. Not untouched, as I have said, by his surroundings, but remaining his essential self. What lessons there are in this book? Like all truthful documents, it makes us love and hate our fellow men. Doubt ourselves, doubt our society, tends to make us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards life, and not be too quick to judge without going into a situation painfully, carefully. It tends to complicate the present simplicity of our moral attitudes. It tends to make us more mature. The above are the main reasons why I should like to have everybody read this book. But there are other aspects of the book which are interesting and valuable in a more special, more limited way. Aspects in which only comparatively few persons will be interested, and which will arouse the opposition in hostility of many. The Russian nihilistic origin of Bergman, his anarchistic experience in America, his attempt on the life of Frick, an attempt made at a violent industrial crisis, an attempt made as a result of a sincere, if fanatical belief that he was called on by his destiny to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the community. This part of the book will arouse extreme disagreement and disapproval of his ideas and his act. But I see no reason why this, with the rest, should not rather be regarded as an integral part of a human document, as part of the record of a life, with its social and psychological suggestions and explanations. Why not try to understand an honest man, even if he feels called on to kill? There too, it may be deeply instructive. There too, it has its lessons. Read it not in a combative spirit. Read to understand. Do not read to agree, of course, but read to see. Hutchins' Hapgood. End of the preface. Section one of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov, youtube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The Call of Homestead. Section one. Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. It is the 6th of July, 1892. We are quietly sitting in the back of our little flat, Fidia and I, when suddenly the girl enters. Her naturally quick, energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As I turn to her, I am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color. Have you read it? She cries, waving the half open newspaper. What is it? Homestead, strike your shot. Pinkertons have killed women and children. She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words ring like the cry of a wounded animal. The melodious voice tinged with the harshness of bitterness, the bitterness of helpless agony. I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement, I read the vivid account of the tremendous struggle, the homestead strike, or, more correctly, the lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the part of the Carnegie Company to crush the amalgamated association of iron and steel workers. The selection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick, whose attitude toward labor is emplacably hostile. His secret military preparations, while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with the amalgamated. The fortification of the homestead steelworks. The erection of a highboard fence, capped by barbed wire, and provided with loopholes for sharpshooters. The hiring of an army of Pinkerton thugs. The attempt to smuggle them and the dead of night into homestead. And, finally, the terrible carnage. I pass the paper to Fedya. The girl glances at me. We sit in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Only now and then we exchange a word, a searching, significant look. Section two. It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive of tobacco smoke. The boisterous talk of the men playing cards nearby annoys me. I turn to the window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma of fresh moan hay, is soothingly invigorating. Green woods and yellow fields circle in the distance. We're all nearer, close, than rush by, giving place to other circling fields and woods. The country looks young and alluring in the early morning sunshine, but my thoughts are busy with homestead. The great battle has been fought. Never before in all its history has American labor won such a signal victory. By force of arms, the workers of homestead have compelled 300 Pinkerton invaders to surrender, to surrender most humbly, agnominously. What humiliating defeat for the powers that be. Does not the Pinkerton Janissary represent organized authority, forever crushing the toilet in the interest of the exploiters? Will may the enemies of the people be terrified at the unexpected awakening? But the people, the workers of America, have joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of homestead. The steel workers were not the aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and suffered. Out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry. On their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie company. Yet patiently they had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were creating. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow. Wages were to be reduced. Peremptorly the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm challenged the amalgamated association by the submission of conditions which it knew the workers could not accept. For seeing refusal it flaunted war-like preparations to crush the union under the iron heel. Perfidus, Carnegie's shrink from the task having recently proclaimed the gospel of goodwill and harmony. I would lay it down as a maxim, he had declared, that there was no excuse for a strike or a lockout until arbitration of differences has been offered by one party and refused by the other. The right of the working men to combine and form trades unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to enter into association in conference with his fellows. And it must sooner or later be conceded. Manufacturers should meet their men more than halfway. With smooth words, the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to endorse the high tariff. Every product of his mills protected and drew Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets in return for his generous contribution to the Republican campaign fund. In complete control of the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a depression of prices as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. But the market price of billets was the sole standard of wages in the homestead mills. The wages of the workers must be reduced. The offer of the amalgamated association to arbitrate the new scale meant with contemptuous refusal. There was nothing to arbitrate. The men must submit unconditionally. The union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected Henry C. Frick, the bloody Frick of the Koch regions, to carry the program into execution. Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood of homestead rebelled. The mill men scorned the despotical tomato. Then Frick's hand fell. The war was on. Indignation swept the country. Throughout the land, the tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie company was bitterly denounced. The ruthless brutality of Frick universally executed. I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment was urgent. The toilets of homestead had defied the oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet, the steel workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of anarchism alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose. It alone could lend wings to the aspiration of labor. The dissemination of our ideas among the proletariat of homestead would illuminate the great struggle, help to clarify the issues and point the way to complete ultimate emancipation. My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring call, Labor Awaken, would fire the hearts of the disinherited and inspire them to noble deeds. It would carry to the oppressed the message of the new day and prepare them for the approaching social revolution. Homestead might prove the first blush of the glorious dawn. How I chafed at the obstacles my project encountered. Unexpected difficulties impeded every step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular English proved unavailing. It would endanger me to distribute such a fiery appeal, my friend demonstrated. Impatiently, I waved aside his objections, as if personal considerations could for an instant be weighed in the scale of the great cause. But in vain, I argued implanted. And all the while, precious moments were being wasted and new obstacles barred the way. I rushed frantically from printer to compositor, begging and pluring. None dared print the appeal. And time was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the news of the Pinkerton Carnage. The world stood aghast. The time for speech was passed. Throughout the land, the toilers echoed the defiance of the men of Homestead. The steelworkers had rallied bravely to the defense. The murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city, but loudly called the blood of Mammon's victims on the hanks of the Monogahela. Loudly it calls, it is the people calling. Ah, the people, the grand, mysterious, yet so near and real people. In my mind, I see myself back in the little Russian college town, admit the circle of Petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called nihilist. The rushing train, Homestead, the five years past in America, all turned into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries. And again, I say among superior beings, reverently listening to the impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the after-occurring refrain of Bazerov, Hegel, Liberty, Shenevsky, Vinnerod, to the people, to the beautiful, simple people, so noble in spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering. Like a clarion call, the note rings in my ears, admits the din of contending views and obscure phraseology, the people. My Greek mythology moods have often pictured him to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery. In his eye, the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for help. Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his burden. The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the hated student debate, the note rings clear. To the people, become one of them, share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is the solution, but what is that red-headed Misha from Odessa saying? It is all good and well about going to the people, but the energetic men of the deed, the Rimectovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by individual acts of revolt against. Ticket, please. A heavy hand is placed on my shoulder. With an effort, I realize the situation. The card players are exchanging angry words. With a deft movement, the conductor unhooks the board and calmly walks away with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets the players. Twitted by the other passengers, they soon subside, and presently the car grows quiet. I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quite clear to me. A tremendous struggle is taking place at Homestead. The people are manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My heart exalts. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American working man. Once aroused, he will brook no interference. He will fight all obstacles and conquer even more than his original demands. It is the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steelworkers of Homestead, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work. That is my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The people, the toilets of the world, the producers, comprise, to me, the universe. They alone count. The rest are parasites who have no right to exist. But to the people belongs the earth. By right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means are justifiable. Nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. The question of moral right in such matters often agitated the revolutionary circles I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme view. The more radical the treatment I held, the quicker the cure. Society is a patient. Sick constitutionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is often imperative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable. It is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. Human life is indeed sacred and unviolate. But the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the people, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. A revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of what is ordinarily called murder. In truth, murder and a tentat are to me opposite terms. To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the cause often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act. But it is the test of a true revolutionist. Nay, more his pride, to sacrifice all merely human feeling at the call of the people's cause. If the latter demand his life, so much the better. Could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime cause? Why, the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no significance whatever, safe to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved people. And what could be higher in life than to be a true revolutionist? It is to be a man, a complete man, a being who has neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the cause. One who has emancipated himself from being merely human and has risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all doubt, all regret. In short, one who in the very inmost of his soul feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards. Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed, far more so than even the extreme radicals of my own circle. My mind reverts to a characteristic incident in connection with the poet Edelstade. It was in New York about the year 1890. Edelstade, one of the tenderest of souls, was beloved by everyone in our circle, the pioneers of liberty, the first Jewish anarchist organization on American soil. One evening, the closer personal friends of Edelstade met to consider plans for aiding the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade to Denver, someone suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary treasury. I objected. Though a dear personal friend of Edelstade and his former roommate, I could not allow, I argued that funds belonging to the movement be devoted to private purposes, however good and even necessary those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments I met with this challenge. Do you mean to help Edelstade the poet and man or Edelstade the revolutionist? Do you consider him a true active revolutionist? His poetry is beautiful indeed and may indirectly even prove of some propagandistic value. Aid our friend with your private funds, if you will, but no money from the movement can be given except for direct revolutionary activity. Do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist? I was asked by Tikhon, a young medical student whom we playfully dubbed Ling because of his rather successful affection of the celebrated revolutionist's physical appearance. I am revolutionist's first man afterwards, I replied with conviction. You are either a nave or a hero, he retorted. Ling was quite right. He could not know me. To his bourgeois mind, for all his imitation of the Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded naivish. Well, someday he may know which I am, nave or revolutionist. I do not think in the term hero, for though the type of revolutionist I feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no significance for me. It merely means a revolutionist who does his duty. There was no heroism in that. It is neither more nor less than a revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov did more, too much. In spite of my great admiration for Trnevsky, who had so strongly influenced the Russian youth of my time, I could not suppress the touch of resentment I feel because the author of What's To Be Done represented his arch-revolutionist Rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable, self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. It was a sign of weakness. Does a real revolutionist need to prepare himself to steal his nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal insult, the suggestion of the revolutionist mere human clay. No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting preparations, for I know I do not need them. The feeling is quite impersonal, strange as it may seem. My own individuality is entirely in the background. I am not conscious of any personality and matters pertaining to the cause. I am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity. In short, a Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon my rival in Pittsburgh. The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. My first thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of Allegheny comrades, which I was trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep. The wallet is gone. For a moment, I'm overwhelmed with terror. What if it is lost? Suddenly, my foot touches something soft. I pick it up, feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe, the precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of Frick, and a dollar bill. My joy at recovering the wallet is not at a wit dampened by the meagerness of my funds. The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for the first night, and in the morning I'll look up knolled or bower. They will find a place for me to stay or a day or two. I won't remain there long, I think, with an inward smile. We are nearing Washington, D.C. The train is to make a six-hour stop there. I curse the stupidity of the delay, something may be happening in Pittsburgh or Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the Carnegie Company, the brutality of Frick. Yet, my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that greets my eye as I step from the train. The sun has risen, a large ball of deep red, pouring a flood of gold upon the capital. The cupola rears its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a living thing, the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. The amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on to right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees, dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the broad avenue, and ever-growing more golden and generous as they scatter. And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with newborn ecstasy, all nature heaves the contended sigh of bliss and nestles closer to the golden giver of life. At this moment, I realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the surpassing gladness of being, but in a trice the picture changes before my eyes rises the Monogahela River, carrying barges filled of armed men, and I hear a shot, a boy falls to the gangplank, the blood gushes from the center of his forehead, the hole plowed by the bullet yawns black on the crimson face, cries and wailing ring in my ears. I see men running toward the river and women kneeling by the side of the dead. The horrible vision revives in my head a similar incident lived through an imagination before. It was the sight of an executed nihilist. The nihilists, how much of their precious blood has been shed, how many thousands of them lined the road of Russia's suffering. Inexpressibly near and soul-kin, I feel to those men and women, the adored, mysterious ones of my youth, who had left wealthy homes at high station to go to the people, to become one with them, though despised by all whom they ever held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benighted objects of their great sacrifice. Clearly, there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of nihilist Russia. I had just passed my second year's gymnasium examinations. Overflowing with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to tell mother the joyful news. How happy it will make her. Next week will be my 12th birthday, but mother need give me no present. I have one for her instead. Mama, mama, I called, when suddenly I caught her voice, raised in anger. Something has happened, I thought. Mother never speaks so loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the door leading from the broad hallway to the dining room closed, contrary to custom. In perturbation, I hesitated at the door. Shame on you, Nathan, I heard my mother's voice to condemn your own brother because he is a nihilist. You are no better than, her voice fell to a whisper, but my straining ear distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hate and fear, a palach. I was struck with terror, mother's tone, my rich uncle Nathan's unwanted presence at our house, the feel for word palach. Something awful must have happened. I tiptoed out of the hallway and ran to my room. Trumbling with fear, I threw myself on the bed. What has the palach done? I moaned. Your brother, she had said to uncle, her own youngest brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has happened to him? My excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. There stood the powerful figure of the giant palach, all in black, his right arm bare to the shoulder, and his hand the uplifted axe. I could see the glimmer of the sharp steel as it began to descend slowly, so torturingly slowly, while my heart seized beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched the glowing black coals in the palach's head. Suddenly, the two fiery eyes fused into a large ball of flaming red. The figure of the fearful one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and everywhere was the giant. On all sides of me was he. Then a sudden flash of steel, and in his monster hand I saw raised ahead, cut close to the neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark red blood gushing from the mouth and ears and throat. Something looked ghastly familiar about the head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and sad. Oh, Maxim, Maxim, I cried, terror stricken, the next moment a flood of passionate hatred of the palach seized me, and I rushed, head bent towards the one-eyed monster. Nearer and nearer I came, another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck him in the very center, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me, and I felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head. Sasha, Sushenka, what is the matter, Golubchik? I recognized the sweet tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then coming closer and growing more soothing. I opened my eyes, mother is kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears. Passionately, she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating, Golubchik, what is it? Mama, what happened to Uncle Maxim, I ask, breathlessly watching her face. Her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. She turns ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and her eyes grow large and round with terror. Mama, I cry, throwing my arms around her. Her lips move and I feel her warm breath on my cheek, but without uttering a word, she bursts into vehemient weeping. Who told you? You know, she whispers between sobs. The pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. The house is oppressively silent. Everybody walks about in slippers and the piano is kept locked. Only monosyllables and undertone are exchanged at the dinner table. Mother's seat remains vacant. She is very ill, the nurse informs us, no one is to see her. The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what has happened to Maxim, was my vision of the palachia pre-sentiment or the echo of an accomplished tragedy? Vaguely, I feel guilty of mother's illness. The shock of my question may be responsible for her condition, yet there must be more to it. I try to persuade my troubled spirit. One afternoon, finding my eldest brother, Maxim, named after mother's favorite brother, in a very cheerful mood, I call him aside and ask in a boldly assumed, confidential manner. Maximushka, tell me, what is a nihilist? Go to the devil, malacosos you. He cries angrily. With the show of violence quite inexplicable to me, Maxim throws his paper on the floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting the chair and leaves the room. The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the question of nihilism unsolved. I am absorbed in my studies, yet a deep interest, curiosity about the mysterious and forbidden slumbers in my consciousness, when quite unexpectedly, it is roused into keen activity by a school incident. I am 15 now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno. By direction of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious instruction is being introduced in the state schools. Special classes have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of Jewish pupils. The parents of the latter resent the innovation, almost every Jewish child receives religious training at home or in Chedar. But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasias of Jewish faith to attend classes in religion. The roll call at the first session finds me missing. Summoned before the director for an explanation, I state that I failed to attend because I have a private Jewish tutor at home, and anyway, I do not believe in religion. The prime director looks inexpressibly shocked. Young man, he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects on solemn occasions. Young man, when permit me to ask, did you reach so profound a conclusion? His manner disconcerts me, but the sarcasm of his words and the offensive tone rouse my resentment. Impulsively, defiantly, I discover my chair is secret. Since I wrote the essay, there is no God. I reply with secret exultation, but the next instant I realize the recklessness of my confession. I have a fleeting sense of coming trouble at school and at home, yet somehow I feel I have acted like a man. Uncle Maxim, the nihilist, would act so in my position. I know his reputation for uncompromising candor and love him for his bold, frank ways. Oh, that is interesting. I hear him as in a dream, with the unpleasant guttural voice of the director. When did you write it? Three years ago. How old were you then? 12. Have you the essay? Yes. Where? At home. Bring it to me tomorrow, without fail, remember. His voice grows stern. The words fall upon my ears with the harsh metallic sound of my sister's piano, that memorable evening of our musical whim. In a spirit of mischief, I hid a piece of gas pipe in the instrument tuned for the occasion. Tomato them, you are dismissed. The educational board and conclave assembled reads the essay. My disposition is unanimously condemned. Exemplary punishment is to be visited upon me for precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies and insubordination. I am publicly reprimanded and reduced to the third class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a year and forces me to associate with the children my senior class looks down upon with undisguised contempt. I feel disgraced, humiliated. Thus, vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory, while the interminable hours creep towards the afternoon and the station clock drones like an endless old woman. Section three. Over at last, all aboard. On and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing me nearer to my destination. The conductor drawing out the stations, the noisy going incoming produce almost no conscious impression on my senses. Seeing and hearing every detail of my surroundings, I am nevertheless oblivious to them. Faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my thoughts of the past. But how different is the present? I am speeding towards Pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of America. I dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. Why in America? And again, unfold pictures of old scenes. I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place in a fashionable suburb of St. Petersburg, where the family generally spends the summer months. As I pass the veranda, Dr. Samanov, the celebrated physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me. Alexander Ossibovich, he addresses me in his courtly manner. Your mother is very ill. Are you alone with her? We have servants and two nurses are in attendance, I reply. To be sure, to be sure, the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners of his delicately chiseled lips. I mean of the family. Oh, yes, I am alone here with my mother. Your mother is rather restless today, Alexander Ossibovich. Could you sit up with her tonight? Certainly, certainly, I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar request. Mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. My presence at her bedside might prove irksome to her. Our relations have been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose, our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented mother's right to inflict physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and haughty, facing me across the dinner table, her eyes ablaze with indignation. You forget you are speaking to your mother, Alexander. She pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when angry with me. You have no right to strike the girl, I retort defiantly. You forget yourself, my treatment of the menial is no concern of yours. I cannot suppress the sharp apply that springs to my lips. The low-servant girl is as good as you. I see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next instant a sharp pain pierces my left hand. Our eyes meet, her arm remains motionless, her gaze directed to the spreading bloodstain on the white tablecloth. The ladle falls from her hand, she closes her eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair. Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her assistance. Without uttering a word, I pick up the heavy salt cellar and fling it violently against the French mirror. At the crash of the glass, my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and leave the house. My heart beats fast as I enter mother's sick room. I fear she may resent my intrusion, the shadow of the past stands between us. But she is lying quietly on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my entrance. I sit down at the bedside. A long time passes in silence. Mother seems to be asleep. It is growing dark in the room, and I settle down to pass the night in the chair. Suddenly, I hear Sasha called in a weak faint voice. I bend over her, drink of water. As I hold the glass to her lips, she slightly turns away her head, saying very low, I swat her, please. I start to leave the room. Sasha, I hear behind me, and, quickly tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely to hers, to catch the faint words. Help me turn to the wall. Tenderly, I wrap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg for her forgiveness. I feel so near to her. My heart is overflowing with compassion and love, but I dare not kiss her. We have become estranged. Affectionately, I hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second, dreading less she suspect the storm of emotion raging within me. Caressingly, I turn her to the wall, and as I slowly withdraw, I feel as if some mysterious, yet definite something has at the very instant left her body. In a few minutes, I return with a glass of ice water. I hold it to her lips, but she seems oblivious to my presence. She cannot have gone to sleep so quickly, I wonder. Mother, I call softly. No reply. Little mother, Mamochka, she does not appear to hear me. Dearest Golubchik, I cry in a paradoxeme of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips upon her face. Then I become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder and hear the measured voice of the doctor. My boy, you must bear up. She is at rest. Section four. Wake up, young feller. What's your sign for? Bewildered, I turn around to meet the course, yet not unkindly face of a swarly laborer in the seat back of me. Oh, nothing, just dreaming, I reply, not wishing to encourage conversation. I pretend to become absorbed in my book. How strange is the sudden sound of English. Almost as suddenly had I been transplanted to American soil. Six months passed after my mother's death, threatened by the educational authorities with a wolf's passport on account of my dangerous tendencies, which would close every professional avenue to me in spite of my otherwise very satisfactory standing, the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel with my guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America. There, beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free country where men walked erect in the full stature of manhood, the very realization of my youthful dreams. And now I am in America, the blessed land, the disillusionment, the disappointments, the vain struggles. The kaleidoscope of my brain unfolds them all before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my roommates. The night wind sweeps across the cheerless park, chilling us to the bone. I feel hungry and tired, fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. My heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends. Nothing, H. had morosely reported at our nightly meeting, after the day's weary tramp. Fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his legs, and took the ends underneath. But a sudden blast tears the paper away and whirls it off into the darkness. As I press Fedya's hat down on his head, I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks have changed the plump, rosy cheeked youth. Poor fellow, no one wants his labor. How his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully-reared boy passes the nights in the... What is that pain, I feel? Someone is bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. Half dazed, I see an arm swing to and fro with short, semi-circular backward strokes, and with every movement I feel a sharp sting as of a lash. Oh, it's in my soul's. Bewildered, I spring to my feet. A rough hand grabs me by the throat and I face a policeman. Are you thieves, he bellows? Mikhail replies, sleepily. We Russians, want work. Get out of here, off with you. Quiggling silently, we walk away. Fedya and I in front, Mikhail limping behind us. The dimly-lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, are caught up by the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards to be followed by another wave of choking dust. From somewhere, a tantalizing odor rages my nostrils. The bakery on Second Street, Fedya remarks. Unconsciously, our steps quicken. Shoulders raised, heads bent, and shivering. We keep on to the lower bowery. Mikhail is steadily falling behind. Damn it, I feel bad, he says, catching up with us as we step into an open hallway. A thorough inspection of our pockets reveals the possession of 12 cents all around. Mikhail is to go to bed. We decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased for the remaining two cents are divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the fourth in the box. Fedya and I sleep on the steps of the city hall. Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh. The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock. Inpatient as I am of the long journey, the realization that I've reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming move the dread of unpreparedness. In a flirting, I gather up my things, but noticing that the other passengers keep their places, I precipitantly resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. To hide my confusion, I turn to the open window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is heavy with soot and cinders, the smell is nauseating. In the distance, giant furnaces vomit pillars of fire. The lurid flashes, it's enduating a line of frame structures, dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the workers who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh, reared its millionaires, its carnages and fricks. The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns the needs of mankind into an infernal of brutalizing toil. It drops man of his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the beasts, in between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmits human lives into gold, gold, countless gold. The great noble people, but is it really great and noble to be slaves and remain content? No, no, they are awakening, awakening. End of section one. Section two of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov. YouTube.com forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The Seat of War. Contentedly peaceful, the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters lazily rippling in the sunlight and softly crooning to the murmur of the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a highboard fence, topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by war-like watchtowers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies the name of Fort Frick. Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of many voices. Men carrying Winchester's are hurrying by, their faces grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the millyard gape the black mouths of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages and the ground is strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace stacks and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath of a sangunary conflict, the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless struggle in which the stronger, the sturdy men of labor is always the victim because he acts weakly. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton barges at the landing place and the blood-bleased battered gangplank bear mute witness that for one, the battle went to the really strong, to the victim who dared. A group of working men approaches me, big stalwart men, the power of conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a weapon, some Winchester's, other shotguns. In the hand of one, I notice the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver. Who are you? The man with the revolver sternly asks me. A friend, a visitor. Can you show me credentials or a union card? Presently satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed. In one of the milliards, I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of various types. The short, broad-faced love, elbowing his tall American fellow striker, the swarthy Italian, heavy mustached, gesticulating and talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The people are surging about a raised platform on which stands a large, heavy man. I press forward. Listen, gentlemen, listen. I hear the speaker's voice. Just a few words, gentlemen. You all know who I am, don't you? Yes, yes, Sheriff, several men cry. Go on. Yes, continues the speaker. You all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the Sheriff of Allegheny County of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Go ahead, someone yells impatiently. If you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, I'll go ahead. Shh, order. The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. Men of Homestead, it is my sworn duty as Sheriff to preserve the peace. Your city is in a state of lawlessness. I have asked the Governor to send the militia, and I hope, no, no, many voices protest. To hell with you! The tumult drowns the words of the Sheriff, shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the platform. He shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the general uproar. O'Donnell, O'Donnell, comes from several sides. The cries swelling into a tremendous chorus. O'Donnell. I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. The assembly becomes hushed. Brothers, O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner. We have won a great noble victory over the company. We have driven the Pinkerton invaders out of our city. Damn the murderers! Silence, order! You have won a big victory, O'Donnell continues. A great significant victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor struggle for better conditions. Vosiferous cheering interrupts the speaker. But, he continues, you must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along with your rights. The Pinkerton's were invaders. We defended our homes and drove them out, rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You respect the law and the authority of the state. Public opinion will uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends. He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm. Now is the time. Welcome the soldiers. They're not sent by that man Frick. They're the people's militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them as friends. Applause, mixed with cries of inpatient disapproval, greets the exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument and the crowd sways back and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently, a tall, dark man appears on the platform. His tentorian voice gradually draws the assembly closer to the front. Slowly, the tumble subsides. Don't you believe it, men? The speaker shakes his finger at the audience as if to emphasize his warning. Don't you believe that the soldiers are coming as friends? Soft words these, Mr. O'Donnell, though cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers? The soldiers are no friends of ours. I know what I am talking about. They are coming here because that damned murderer Frick wants them. Here, here. Yes, the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion. I can tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a sheriff, they're asked the governor for troops, and that damned Frick paid the sheriff to do what I say. No, yes, no, the clamor is renewed, but I can hear the speaker's voice rising above the dim. Yes, bribed him. You all know this cowardly sheriff. Don't you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First they'll come, then the black legs. You want them? No, no roars the crowd. Well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiers, you understand? If you don't, they'll drive you out from the homes you have paid for with your blood. You and your wives and children, they'll drive out, and out you will go from these, the speaker points in the direction of the mills. That's what they'll do, if you don't look out. We have sweat and blood in these mills. Our brothers have been killed and maimed there. We have made the damned company rich, and now they send the soldiers here to shoot us down like the Pinkerton thugs have tried to. And you want to welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out, I tell you. Admits shouts and yells, the speaker leaves the platform. McLucky, honest McLucky, a voice is heard on the fringe of the crowd, and as one man, the assembly takes up the cry. Honest McLucky. I am eager to see the popular burgers of Homestead, himself a poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company. A large boned, good-natured-looking working men elbows his way to the front, the men readily making way for him with nods and pleasant smiles. I haven't prepared any speech, the burgers begins haltingly, but I want to say, I don't see how you are going to fight the soldiers. There was a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said, but if you stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing, the how. How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? That's what I'd like to know. I'm afraid it's bad to let them in. The black legs might be hiding in the rear, but then again, it's bad not to let the soldiers in. You can't stand up against them. They're not Pinkertons, and we can't fight the government of Pennsylvania. Perhaps the governor won't send in the militia, but if he does, I reckon the best way for us will be to make friends with them. Guess it's the only thing we can do. That's all I have to say. The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited. End of section two. Section three of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov, YouTube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The Spirit of Pittsburgh. Section one. Like a gigantic hive, the Twin Cities strut out on the banks of the Ohio, heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity and permeating the atmosphere with the rage of life. Seaslessly flow the streams of human ants, beating and diverging, the paths crossing and recrossing, leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure, peaked and domed. The huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the shore, now hiding in a fright, and again timidly stretching its arms towards the wrathful monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of the giant hive. And over the hole is spread the gloom of thick fog, oppressive and dispiriting, the symbol of our existence with its darkness and cold. This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism, whose spirit molds the life of the great nation, the spirit of Pittsburgh, the iron city, cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote of the great republic, dominating all other courts, sacrificing harmony to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is a furnace fire, consuming, destroying, devastating, a country-wide furnace in which the bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health and blood are cast into besammer steel, rolled into armor plate, and converted into engines of murder to be concentrated to mammon by his high priests, the carnages, the fricks. The spirit of the iron city characterizes the negotiations carried on between the Carnegie Company and the Homestead men. Henry Clay Frick, in absolute control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace, is the living emblem of his trade. The olive branch held out by the workers after their victory over the Pinkerton's has been refused. The ultimatum issued by Frick is the last word of Cesar. The union of the steel workers is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even at the cost of shedding the blood of the last man in Homestead. The company will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms offered without question or discussion. He, Frick, will operate the mills with non-union labor, even if it should require the combined military power of the state and the union to carry the plan into execution. Millman disobeying the order to return to work under the new schedule of reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith and evicted from the company houses. Section two. In an obscure alley in the town of Homestead, there stands a one-story frame house, looking old and forlorn. It is occupied by the widow Johnson and her four small children. Six months ago, the breaking of a crane buried her husband under 200 tons of metal. When the body was carried into the house, the distracted woman refused to recognize and the mangled remains her big, strong jack. For weeks the neighborhood resounded with her frenzied cry, my husband, where's my husband? But the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the poor woman's reason. A company by her four little orphans, she recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick. On her knees, she implored him not to drive her out of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she pleaded. She could not pay off the mortgage. The children were too young to work. She herself was hardly able to walk. Frick was very kind, she thought. He had promised to see what could be done. She would not listen to the neighbors urging her to sue the company for damages. When the crane was wrought in, her husband's friends informed her. The government inspector had condemned it. But Mr. Frick was kind and surely he knew best about the crane. Did he not say it was her poor husband's own carelessness? She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for extending the mortgage. She had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home where dear John had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away and her children driven into the street. She must never forget to ask the Lord's blessing upon the good Mr. Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors the story of her visit to the great man, how kindly he received her, how simply he talked with her, just like us folks, the widow says. She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor Mary, the hunchback, who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the 20th time. It reflects such importance to know someone that had come in intimate contact with the Iron King, why, into his very presence and even talk to the great magnate. Dear Mr. Frick says I, the widow is narrating. Dear Mr. Frick, I says, look at my poor little angels. A knock on the door interrupts her. Must be one eyed Kate, the widow observes. Come him, come him, she calls out cheerfully. Poor Kate, she remarks with a sigh. Her man's got the consumption. Well, last long I fear. A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. Behind him appear two others. Frightened, the widow rises from the chair. One of the children begins to cry and runs to hide behind his mother. Beg your pardon, ma'am, the tall man says. Have no fear, we are deputy sheriffs, read this. He produces an official-looking paper. Order to dispossess you. Very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. Quick, got a dozen more of, there is a piercing scream. The deputy sheriff catches the limp body of the widow in his arms. Section three. East end, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh lies basking in the afternoon sun. The broad avenue looks cool and inviting. The stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road, gently nodding their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of ecopages fills the avenue. A richly-comparisoned horses and uniform flunkies lending color and life to the seam. A calvocate is passing me. The laughter of the lady sounds joyous and carefree. Their happiness irritates me. I am thinking of homestead. At mind I see the sombre fence, the fortifications in canon. The piteous figure of the widow rises before me, the little children weeping, and again I hear the anguish cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain. And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen seem pleased. The ladies are happy. Why should they concern themselves with misery and want? The common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them, build these beautiful palaces and be content with the charitable crust. Take what I give you, Frick commands. Why, here is his house, a luxurious place with large garden, barns and stable. That stable there, it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's home. Ah, life could be made livable, beautiful. Why should it not be? Why so much misery and strife? Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around me. That is life, joy and peace. No, there can be no peace with such as Frick and these parasites and carriages riding on our backs and sucking the blood of the workers, Fricks, vampires, all of them. I almost shout aloud, they are all one class, all in a cabal against my class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy perhaps, but a conspiracy nevertheless. And the fine ladies on horseback smile and laugh. What is the misery of the people to them? Probably they are laughing at me. Laugh, laugh, you despise me. I am of the people, but you belong to the Fricks. Section four of Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov, youtube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The attend tat. The door of Frick's private office to the left of the reception room swings open as the colored attendant emerges and I catch a flitting glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of the room. Mr. Frick is engaged. He can't see you right now, sir, the negro says, handing back my card. I take the pace board, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the reception room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate separating the clerks from the visitors and, brushing the astounded attendant aside, I step into the office on the left and find myself facing Frick. For an instant, the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me. I discern two men at the further end of the long table. For it, I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless. It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. He understands, it flashes through my mind. With a quick motion, I draw the revolver. As I raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the chair and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. Perhaps he wears armor, I reflect. With a look of horror, he quickly averts his face as I pull the trigger. There is a flash, and the high ceiling room reverberates as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry and see Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm and possessed and tent upon every movement of the man. He is lying head and shoulders under the large arm chair without sound or motion. Dead, I wonder. I must make sure. About 25 feet separate us. I take a few steps toward him when suddenly the other man, whose presence I had quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks slender and small. I would not hurt him. I have no business with him. Suddenly, I hear the cry. Murder, help. My heart stands still as I realize that it is Frick shouting. Alive, I wonder. I hurl the stranger aside in fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck my hand. I have missed. He grapples with me and we wrestle across the room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and body, I thrust the revolver between his side and aim at Frick, cowering behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click, but no explosion. By the throat, I catch the stranger, still clinging to me when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp pain shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of the weapon slipping from my hands. Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter. Confused voices ring in my ears. Painfully, I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing on me. Now, it's Frick's voice. Not dead. I crawl in the direction of the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger from my pocket. I have it. Repeatedly, I strike with it at the legs of the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain. There is much shouting and stamping. My arms are pulled and twisted and I am lifted bodily from the floor. Police, clerks, workmen and overalls surround me. An officer pulls my head back by the hair and my eyes meet Frick's. He stands in front of me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray. The black beard is streaked with red and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant, a strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me. But the next moment, I am filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With defiant hatred, I look him full in the face. Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant? Frick nods weakly. The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian dress who is accompanying the police inquires, not unkindly. Are you hurt? You're bleeding. I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there's a peculiar sensation about my eyes. I've lost my glasses, I remark, involuntarily. You'll be damned if you don't lose your head and officer retorts. End of Section 4. Section 5 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov, youtube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The third degree. Section 1. The clinking of the keys grows fainter and fainter. The sound of footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone. Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and threats, how disgusting and tiresome it all is. A sense of complete indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench, running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep. I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it night? My hand grips blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy touches my cheek. Inside in a fright I draw back. This cell is damp and musty. The foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor, drawing my body forward. All my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars. The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring. My throat is dry to cracking. I cannot swallow. Water, I want water. The voice frightens me. Was a dye that spoke. The sound rolls up. It rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the roof. Now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and abruptly seizes. Hello there. What you're in for? The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the sound relieves me. Now the air feels better. It is not so difficult to breathe. I begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite mine. There are dark forms at the doors. The men within look like beasts, restlessly pacing their cages. What you're in for? It comes from somewhere alongside. Can't talk, gay? Sort of, yes. What am I in for? Oh, yes, it's frick. Well, I shall not stay here long anyhow. They will soon take me out. They will lean me against a wall, a slimy wall like this perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and the soldiers there. No, they're going to hang me. Well, I shall be glad when they take me out of here. I am so dry, I'm suffocating. The upright irons of the barred door grow faint and melt into a single lime. It adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side sills. It resembles a scaffold, and there's a man sinking the beam into the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall and picks up a spade. Now he stands with one foot in the hole. It is the carpenter. He hit me on the head, from behind to the coward. If he only knew what he had done. He is one of the people. We must go to them, enlighten them. I wish he'd look up. He doesn't know his real friends. He looks like a Russian peasant with his broad back. What hairy arms he has, if he would only look up. Now he sinks the beam into the ground. He is stamping down the earth. I will catch his eye as he turns around. Ah, he didn't look. He has his eyes always on the ground, just like the mosaic. Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the crosspiece looks. The horizontal beam seems too long, out of proportion. I hope it won't break. I remember the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. Underneath was inscribed, the execution of Stankarizim. Did in the branch break, I asked. No, Sasha, mother replied. Stankar. Well, he weighed nothing. And I wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with Maxine. But mother smiled sadly at me, and wouldn't explain. Then she turned to my brother. Maxine, you must not bring Sashenko such pictures. He is too young. Not too young, Memochka, to learn that Stankarizim was a great man. What? You young fool, father bristled with anger. He was a murderer, a common writer. But mother and Maxine bravely defended Stankarizim. And I was deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion. Not another word now. I won't hear any more of that peasant criminal. The peculiar diversions of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why couldn't they agree? He must have been a good man, I finally decided. Mother wouldn't cry over a hanged murderer. I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked at that picture. Yes, Stankarizim was surely a noble man. I cried myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how I could ever forgive them the killing of the good Stankarizim. And why the weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. Why didn't it break? The scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my weight. They'll hang me like Stankarizim. And perhaps a little boy will someday see the picture. And they will call me a murderer. And only a few will know the truth. And the picture will show me hanging from... No, they shall not hang me. My hand steals to the label of my coat and a deep sense of gratification comes over me as I feel the nitroglycerin cartridge secure in the lining. I smile at the imaginary carpenter. Useless preparations. I have myself prepared for the event. No, they won't hang me. My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead, make your gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat. Is he done already? Now he is turning around. He's looking straight at me. Why, it's frick. Alive? My brain is on fire. I press my head against the bars and groan heavily. Alive? Have I failed? Failed? Section two. Heavy footsteps approach nearer. The clanking of the keys grows more distinct. I must compose myself. Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall not witness my agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I must seem indifferent. Would I take lunch with the chief? I decline, requesting a glass of water. Certainly, but the chief wishes to see me first. Flanked on each side by a policeman, I pass through winding corridors and finally ascend to the private office of the chief. My mind is busy with thoughts of escape as I carefully note the surroundings. I am in a large, well-furnished room. The heavily-curtained windows built unusually high above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at which a middle-aged man of a distinct Irish type is engaged with some papers. Good morning, he greets me, pleasantly. Have a seat, pointing to a chair inside the railing. I understand you asked for some water. Yes. Just a few questions first, nothing important. Your pedigree, you know, mere matter of form. Answer frankly and you shall have everything you want. His manner is courteous, almost ingratiating. Now tell me, Mr. Berkman, what is your name? Your real name, I mean. That's my real name. You don't mean you gave your real name on the card you sent in to Mr. Frick? I gave my real name. And you are an agent of a New York employment firm? No, that was on your card. I wrote it to gain access to Frick. And you gave the name Alexander Berkman to gain access? No, I gave my real name. Whatever might happen, I did not want anyone else to be blamed. Are you a homestead striker? No. Why did you attack Mr. Frick? He is an enemy of the people. You got a personal grievance against him? No, I consider him an enemy of the people. Where do you come from? From the station cell. Come now, you may speak frankly, Mr. Berkman, I am your friend. I'm going to give you a nice, comfortable cell, the other worse than a Russian prison I interrupt angrily. How long did you serve there? Where? In the prison in Russia. I was never before inside a cell. Come on now, Mr. Berkman, tell the truth. He motions to the officer behind my chair. The window curtains are drawn aside, exposing me to the full glare of the sunlight. My gaze wanders to the clock on the wall. The hour hand points to five. The calendar on the desk reads July 23rd, Saturday. Only three hours since my arrest? It seems so long in the cell. You can be quite frank with me, the inquisitor is saying. I know a good deal more about you than you think. We've got your friend, Rakhmatov. With difficulty, I suppress a smile at the stupidity of the intended trap. In the register of the hotel where I passed the first night in Pittsburgh, I signed Rakhmatov, the name of the hero in Trnevsky's famous novel. Yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about you. Then why do you ask me? Don't you try to be smart now? Answer my questions, you hear? His manner has suddenly changed, his tone is threatening. Now answer me, where do you live? Give me some water, I am too dry to talk. Certainly, certainly, he replies, coaxingly. You shall have a drink. Do you prefer whiskey or beer? I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. I want water. Well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. Don't let us waste time then, who are your friends? Give me a drink. The quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get a drink. I'm having a nice cell fixed up for you too. I want to be your friend, Mr. Berkman. Treat me right, and I'll take care of you. Now, tell me, where did you stop in Pittsburgh? I have nothing to tell you. Answer me, or ow. His face is purple with rage, with clenched fists he leaps from his seat, but suddenly controlling himself, he says with a reassuring smile. Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be an intelligent man. Why don't you talk sensibly? What do you want to know? Who went with you to Mr. Frick's office? In patient of the comedy, I rise with the words. I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchant's Hotel opposite the B&O Depot. I signed the name Rakhmiktov in the register there. It's a fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman. I went to Frick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's all I have to tell you. Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman. We're not in any hurry. Take your seat. You may as well stay here in the cell. It's pleasanter. But I'm going to have another cell fixed up for you. Just tell me, where do you stay in New York? I have told you all there is to tell. Now, don't be stubborn. Who are your friends? I won't say another word. Damn you, you'll think better of it. Officers, take them back. Same cell. Every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by new inquisitors. They coax and threaten. They smile in rage and turn. I remain indifferent. But water is refused to me. My thirst aggravated by the salty food they have given me. It consumes me. It tortures and burns my vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The foul air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave torments me. My soul is in an agony of uncertainty. End of section five. Section six of Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov, YouTube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The jail. Section one. The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant going and coming. The clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors continually reverberates through the corridors. The dull thud of a football in the cell above hammers on my head with maddening regularity. And my ears is the yelling and shouting of coarse voices. Cell number 11, to court, right away. A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is nervous and his look expectant fear. Hurry there, to court. Good luck, Jimmy. The man flushes and diverts his face as he passes a group of visitors clustered about an overseer. Who is that officer, one of the lady's advances, logonite in hand, and stares boldly at the prisoner? Suddenly, she shrinks back. A man is being led past by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash, his head swaved in bandages. The officers thrust him violently into a cell. He falls heavily against the bed. Oh, don't, for Jesus' sake, don't. The shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries. The visitors crowd about the cell. What did he do? He can't come out now, officer. No, ma'am, he's safe. The lady's laugh rings clear in silvery. She steps closer to the bars, eagerly peering into the darkness. A smile of exciting security plays about her mouth. What has he done, officer? Stole some clothes, ma'am. Distainful disappointment is on the lady's face. Where is that man who, er, we read in the papers yesterday? You know, the newspaper artist who killed, er, that girl in such a brutal manner. Oh, Jack Tarlin, Murderer's Row, this way, ladies. Section two. The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in the western wing of the jail. I stand close to the bars to catch the cheering rays. They glide across my face with tender, soft caresses, and I feel something melt within me. Closer, I press to the door. I long for the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft balm into my aching soul. The last rays are fading away, and something out of my heart is departing with them. But the lengthening shadows on the gray flagstone spread quiet. Gradually, the clamor seizes, the sounds die out. I hear the creaking of rusty hinges. There is the click of a lock, and all is hushed and dark. The silence grows gloomy, oppressive. It fills me with mysterious awe. It lives. It pulsates with slow, measured breathing, as of some monster. It rises and falls, approaches, recedes. It is misery asleep. Now I press as heavily against my door. I hear its quickened breathing. Oh, it is the guard. Is it the death watch? His outline is lost in the semi-darkness, but I see the whites of his eyes. They stare at me. They watch and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me as I nervously paste the floor. Unconsciously, my step quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of steel. It grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me. It is here and there, all around me. Now it flits up and down. It doubles, triples. The fearful eyes stare at me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On every side, they surround me and bar my way. I bury my head in the pillow. My sleep is restless and broken. Ever the terrible gaze is upon me, watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning with my every movement. Section three. The line of prisoners files by my cell. They walk in twos, conversing in subdued tones. It is a motley crowd from the ends of the world. The native of the western part of the state, the Pennsylvania Dutchman, of Stoledmien, passes slowly in silence. The son of southern Italy, stocky and black-eyed, alert suspicion on his face, walks with quick, nervous step. The tall, slender spanyard, swarthy and of classic feature, looks about him with suppressed disdain. Each, in passing, casts a furative glance into my cell. The last in the line is a young negro, walking alone. He nods and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth of dazzling whiteness. The guard brings me up the rear. He pauses at my door, his sharp eye measuring me severely, critically. You may fall in. This cell is unlocked and I join the line. The negro is at my side. He loses no time in engaging me in conversation. He is very glad, he assures me, that they haven't last permitted me to fall in. It was a shame to deprive me of exercise for four days. Now they were called the night dog off. Must be a fear to suicide, he explains. His flow of speech is incessant. He seems not a wit disconcerted by my evident disinclination to talk. Would I have a cigarette? May I smoke in the cell? One could buy de weed here, if he has de dough, buy anything set booze. He is full of the prison gossip. That tall man there is Jack Tinford of Homestead, sure to swing through dynamite at the Pinkerton's. That little doggo will keep Jack company, cut his wife's throat. The duchy there is Bugs, choked his son in sleep. Presently, my talkative companion volunteers the information that he also is waiting for trial. Nothing worse than second degree murder though. Can't hang him, he laughs gleefully. His man didn't croak till after the ninth day. He lightly waves aside my remark concerning the ninth day superstition. He is convinced they won't hang him. Can't do it, he reiterates with a happy grin. Suddenly he changes the subject. What am you doing here? Only murder cases on this hour gallery. Your man didn't croak. Evidently, he expects no answer, immediately assuring me that I am all right. Guess they believe it, I am most safe for you. But can't hang yo, can't hang yo. He grows excited over the recital of his case. Minutely, he describes the details. That big nigga, guess he taught I a fear of him. He know better now, he chuckles. This I chili, I'm a fear of none of them, I ain't. Grandway nigga, I says to him, you better leave my gal be. And that big black nigga grabbed a cleaver, wheezing do-tell kitchen, you see. Nigga drop that, I hollows, and he come at me. Then this I coon pull his trusty little brother, he taps his pocket significantly, and I let's the ordinary nigga have it. Plumb in the belly, yes I, I does. And he drops his cleaver, and I pulls my knife out two inches, about. And then I gives it a half twist, like, and shoves it in again. And he illustrates the ghastly motion. That bad nigga never bother me again. No, nobody else, I guess. But they can't hang me, no sir, they can't. Cause my man croaked two weeks later. As lucky, yes sir, I is. His face is reft in a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. Suddenly, he grows serious. Yo, I'm striker? No, not a steel worker, with utter amazement. What you want to shoot frick for? He does not attempt to disguise his impatient incredulity as I essay an explanation. A fear to tell. Yo, I'm deep, all right, I lick. That your name? But yo, I'm right, yes sir, yo, I'm right. Do I tell nobody? They's mostly crooks. That they am. That they need watch and show. Yo, Jess member that. There is a peculiar movement in the marching line. I notice a prisoner leave his place. He casts an anxious glance around and disappears in the niche of a cell door. The line continues on its march and as I near the man's hiding place, I hear him whisper, fall back a lick. Surprised at being addressed in such a familiar manner, I slow down my pace. The man is at my side. Say, Burke, you don't want to be seen walking with that dinge. The sound of my shortened name grates harshly on my ear. I feel the impulse to resent the mutilation. The man's manner suggests a lack of respect, a fence to my dignity as a revolutionist. Why, I ask, turning to look at him. He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed chain of the elongated face suggests the fox. He meets my gaze with a sharp look from above his smoked glass spectacles. His voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly confidential. It is bad for a white man to be seen with a nigger. He informs me. It'll make feeling against me. He himself is a Pittsburgh man for the last 20 years, but he was born and raised in the South, in Atlanta. They have no use for niggers down there, he assures me. They must be taught to keep their place, and they are no good anyway. I had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed toward me. I must be very careful of appearances before the trial. My inexperience is quite evident, but he knows the ropes. I must not give them an opportunity to say anything against me. My behavior in jail will weigh with the judge in determining my sentence. He himself expects to get off easy. He knows some of the judges, mostly good men. Section seven of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov, youtube.com, forward slash C, forward slash K-W-A-M-E-G-E-N-O-V-V. The trial. The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. The stained windows cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. In the somber light, the faces look funeral, spectral. Anxiously, I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the girl, have come to greet me. Everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. Police in court attendants on every side. Several newspaper men draw near. It is humiliating that through them I must speak to the people. Prisoner at the bar, stand up. The commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the clerk vociferates, charges me with felonious assault on HC Frick with intent to kill, felonious assault on John G. A. Leishman, feloniously entering the offices of Carnegie Company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment and with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons. Do you plead guilty or not guilty? I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I do not deny the attempt on Frick, but the accusation of having assaulted Leishman is not true. I have visited the Carnegie offices only. Do you plead guilty or not guilty? The judge interrupts. Not guilty, I want to explain. Your attorneys will do that. I have no attorney. The court will appoint one to defend you. I need no defense. I want to make a statement. You will be given an opportunity at the proper time. Impatiently, I watch the proceedings. Of what use are all these preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone conclusion. The men in the jury box there, they are to decide my fate, as if they could understand. They measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were the tales men not examined in my presence? They were already seated when I entered. When was the jury picked, I demand. You have four challenges, the prosecutor retorts. The names of the tales men sound strange. But what matter who are the men to judge me? They too belong to the enemy. They will do the master's bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list and the new jurors file into the box. The trial proceeds. A police officer and two Negro employees of Frick in turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick office they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective who's so bracingly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal. John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies. It's a lie, I cry out angrily, but the guards force me into the seat. Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye as I confront him. The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the state. They have spoken falsely. There is no truth in them and I shall not participate in the mockery. Call the witnesses for the defense, the judge commands. I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The prosecutor demands that I speak English, but I insist on reading my prepared paper in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of the court interpreter. I dress myself to the people, I begin. Some may wonder why I've declined illegal defense. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I am an anarchist. I do not believe in man-made law designed to enslave and depress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an attentat cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A lawyer would try to defend or palliate my act from the standpoint of the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defense of myself, but rather the explanation of the deed. It is mistaken to believe me on trial. The actual defendant is society, the system of injustice, of the organized exploitation of the people. The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word, he translates my utterance. The sentence is broken, disconnected in his inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears and my heart bleeds at his meaningless declamation. Translate sentences, not single words, I remonstrate. With an inpatient gesture, he leaves me. Oh, please go on, I cry and dismay. He returns hesitatingly. Look at my paper, I adjourn him and translate each sentence as I read it. The glazy eyes are turned to me in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is blind. Let us continue, he stammers. We have heard enough, the judge interrupts. I have not read a third of my paper. I cry in consternation. It will do. I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to, we will allow you five more minutes. But I can't explain in such a short time. I have the right to be heard. We'll teach you differently. I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats, but the district attorney hurries forward and whispers to them. They remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises. Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you? You would not let me speak, I reply. Your justice is a farce. Silence. In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly, the guards leave me from the courtroom. The judge was easy on you, the warden jeers. 22 years, pretty stiff, eh? End of section seven.