 Section 8 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. Desperate thoughts. Section 1. Make yourself a home now, you'll stay here a while, ha ha. As in a dream, I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I wonder? Why is he laughing? I feel so weary. I long to be alone. Now the voice has seized. The steps are receding. All is silent, and I am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted. My mind a void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow. My heart breaking. I sink into deep sleep. My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my eyelids. Now it pierces my head. My brain is a flame. It is swept by a raging fire. Oh. I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face. Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes. But the mysterious flow pierces my lids, and blinds me of a maddening torture. Get up and undress. What's the matter with you anyhow? The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare. Beyond, all is dark. The garden visible. Now lay down and go to sleep. Silently I obey. When suddenly, all grows black before my eyes. A terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed. The wall. I can't see. With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A faint click reaches my tense ear. The streaming lightning burns into my face. Oh, I can see. I can see. What the hell's the matter with you? I go to sleep, you hear. Quiet and immovable, I lie on the bed. Strain's horrors haunt me. What a terrible place this must be. This agony. I cannot support it. Twenty-two years. Oh, it is hopeless. Hopeless. I must die. I'll die tonight. With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead creaks. In a fright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The garden did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull's eye, even with closed lids. Slowly, I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are nauseating. I cannot live here. I must die. This very night. Something white glimmers in the corner. Cautiously, I bend over. It is a spoon. For a moment I hold it indifferently. Then a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die. I creep back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand feels for my heart. It is beating violently. I will put the narrow end of the spoon over here, like this. I will force it in a little lower. A steady pressure just between the ribs. The metal feels cold. How hot my body is. Caressingly, I pat the spoon against my side. My fingers seek the edge. It is dull. I must press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I only had my revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode. That's why Frick is not well, and I must die. How he looked at me in court. There was hate in his eyes, and fear too. He turned his head away. He cannot face me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn't crush him. Oh, I failed. I failed. Keep quiet there. I'll put you in the hole. The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning. I'll draw the blanket over my head. So, what was I thinking about? Now, I remember. He is well, and I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course, it does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda is there, as a result of my act. That was the main purpose. But I failed to kill him, and he lives. My speech too failed. They tricked me. They kept the date secret. They were afraid my friends would be present. It was maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept interrupting me. I did not even read a third of my statement. And the whole effect was lost. How that man interpreted. The poor old man. He was deeply offended when I corrected his translation. I did not know he was blind. I called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his screeching. I was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue. That judge. He acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern him. He must have known that the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years. As if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place. Yes, he knew it. He spoke of making an example of me. The old villain. He has been doing it all his life. Making an example of social victims. The victims of his own class. Of capitalism. The brutal mockery of it. Had I anything to say why sentence should not be passed. Yet, he would impermit me to continue my statement. The court has been very patient. I am glad I told him that I didn't expect justice. And did not get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang to my lips. No. It was the best that I controlled my anger. Else they would have rejoiced to proclaim the anarchist vulgar criminals. Such things helped to prejudice the people against us. We, criminals. We, who are ever ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals. And they, our accusers. They break their own laws. They knew it was not legal to multiply the charges against me. They made six indictments out of one act. As if the minor offenses were not included in the major. Made necessary by the deed itself. They thirsted for blood. Legally, they cannot give me more than seven years. But I am an anarchist. I had attempted the life of a great magnate. And him capitalism felt itself attacked. Of course, I knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented. Twenty-two years. The judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge. Well, I expected no less. And it makes no difference now. I'm going to die anyway. I clutch the spoon in my fever's hand. It's narrow end against my heart. I test the resistance of the flesh. A violent blow will drive it between the ribs. One. Two. Three. The deep metallic base floats upon the silence. Resonant, compelling. Instantly, all is motion. Overhead, on the sides. Everything is vibrant with life. Men yawn and cough. Chairs and beds are noisily moved about. Heavy feet pay stone floors. In the distance sounds a low rolling as of thunder. It goes nearer and louder. I hear the officer's sharp command. The familiar click of locks. The door's opening and shutting. Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With a moan, the heavy bread wagon stops at my cell. A guard unlocks the door. His eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a small loaf of bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before the door is closed and locked. Want coffee? Hold your cup. Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin can. And the semi-darkness of the cell, the steaming liquid overflows, scalding my bare feet. With a cry of pain, I drop the can. And the dimly lit hall of the floor looks stained with blood. What did you mean by that? The guard shouts at me. I couldn't help it. Want to be smart, don't you? Well, we'll take it out of you. Hey, there, Sam. The officer motions to the trusty. No dinner for A7, you hear? Yes, sir, yes, sir. No more coffee, either. Yes, sir. The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in his face. Involuntarily, I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my naked feet. Ain't you got no shoes? Yes. Yes? Can't you say, sir? Got shoes? Yes. Put them on, damn you. His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. Damn you, put them on. The clatter and noises have seized. The steps have died away. All is still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flip by. Silent, ghost-like. Section 2 Forward, march. The long line of prisoners in stripes and lockstep resembles an undulating snake wriggling from side to side. Its black and gray body moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. A thousand feet strike the stone floor and regular tempo, with alternate rising and falling ascent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or malicious leer. Here and there, a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped lime, coarse and sinister, with the guilty treacherous look of the ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and gray. The men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert. The measured beak grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the last football, behind the closed double door leading into the prison yard. The pall of silence descends upon the cell house. I feel utterly alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron. The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. I am buried within the narrow walls. The massive rock is pressing down upon my head, my sides. I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Ugh, I can't. I can't live here. I can't suffer this agony. Twenty-two years. It is a lifetime. No, it's impossible. I must die. I will, now. Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed. My eyes wander over the cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall. The white-washed walls, yellow with damp. The splashes of dark red blood at the head of the bed. The clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall. The small table in the rickety chair. The filthy floor, black and gray in spots. White, it's stone. I can sharpen the spoon. Cautiously, I crouch in the corner. The tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly, till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches and scrapes, with the pillow I did in the rasping sound. The metal is growing hot in my hand. I pass the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of blood trickle down to the floor. The wound is ragged, but the blade is keen. Stealthily, I crawl back into bed. My hand groups for my heart. I touch the spot with the blade. Between the ribs, here. I'll be dead when they find me. A frick had only died. So much propaganda could be made, that damned most, if he hadn't turned against me. He will ruin the whole effect of the act. It's nothing but cowardice. But what is he afraid of? They can't implicate him. We've been estranged for over a year. He could easily prove it, the traitor. Preached propaganda by deed all his life, now he repudates the first attenta in this country. What tremendous agitation he could have made of it. Now he denies me. He doesn't know me, the wretch. He knew me well enough and trusted me too, when together we set up the first circular in the Fryhide office. It was in William Street. We waited for the other compositors to leave, then we worked all night. It was to recommend me. I plan to go to Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something important there. Why didn't I go? What was it? Well, I can't think of it now. It's peculiar though. But America was more important. Plenty of revolutionists in Russia. And now... Oh, I'll never do anything more. I'll be dead soon. They'll find me cold, a pole of blood under me. The matches will be red, now it will be dark red, and the blood will soak through the straw. I wonder how much blood I have. It'll gush from my heart. I must strike right here, strong and quick. It'll not pain much. But the edge is ragged. It may catch or tear the flesh. They say the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against the blade? No, the tin may bend. I'll grasp it close, like this. Then a quick drive right into my heart. It's the surest way. I must not wound myself. I would bleed slowly. They might discover me still alive. No, no, I must die at once. They'll find me dead. My heart, they'll feel it, not beating. They'll call the doctor. He's dead. And the girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it. She'll be sad, but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad. They couldn't torture me here. She'll know I cheated them. Yes, she... Where is she now? What does she think of it all? Does she too think I failed? And Fedya also? If I'd only hear from her just once, it would be easier to die. But she'll understand. Shit, get off that bed. Don't you know the rules, eh? Get out of there! Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly, damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive smile. Ah, it's the officer of the morning. Foxy, ain't ya? Give me that spoon. The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing in hatred of the tall guard fill my being. For a second, I hesitate. I must hide the spoon. I cannot afford to lose it. Not to this brute. Cap'n, here. I'm dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the spoon. A malicious grin stealing over his face. Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desperate, eh? Take him to the deputy, Mr. Fellings. Section 3 In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell houses, the deputy stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped shoulders, his face is a mess of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly. Who is this? The low, almost feminine voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like face and figure. The contrast is startling. Section 8 What is the charge, officer? Two charges, Mr. McPame. Lay in bed and try and suicide. A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the deputy's wisened face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively as if drumming stiffly on an imaginary board. Yes. A7, two charges. How did he try to commit suicide? With this spoon, Mr. McPame, sharp as a razor. Yes. Wants to die. We have no such charges as trying suicide in this institution. Sharp in spoon. A grave offense. I'll see about that later. For breaking the rules by laying in bed out of hours. 3 days. Take him down, officer. He will cool off. I am faint and wary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me. Vaguely, I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors, dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me and finally thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy. My head is a whirl. I stagger and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon. The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Someone is bending over me. A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell. Doctor, he is in punishment. Not safe, Mr. McPame. We'll postpone it then. Take him to the cell, officers. Get up. My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up the stairs through corridors and halls and then thrown heavily on a bed. I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no weapon. They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell that I could use. These iron bars. I could beat my head against them. But ugh. It is such a horrible death. My skulls would break and the brain zoos out. But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with one blow? I'm afraid it might only crack and I should be too weak to strike again. If I only had a revolver that is the easiest and quickest, I've always thought I'd prefer such a death to be shot. The barrow close to the temple one couldn't miss. Some people have done it in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver either. Though the mouth it is also fatal. That Moscow student. Rusav was his name. Yes, Ivan Rusav. He shot himself through the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman. But I admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations. He even left a note directing that his gold wash be given to the landlady. Because, he wrote, after passing through his brain, the bullet might damage the wall. Wonderful. It actually happened that way. I saw the bullet embedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and peaceful. I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my brother's study after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was. I liked him from the first. When mother introduced him. Ivan Nikolovich will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time. My hand hurt all day. He had gripped it so powerfully, like a vice. But I was glad I didn't cry out. I admired him for it. I felt he must be very strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little. Rather energetic, she observed. And Maxim felt so happy with the favorable impression made by his college chum. What did I tell you he cried in glee? Ivan Nikolovich Molo Dets. Think of it, he's only 20. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the foundation of the university. Molo Dets. But how red were Maxim's eyes when he brought the bullet home? He would keep it, he said, as long as he lived. He had dug it out with his own hands in the college Vets' room. At dinner, he opened the little box, unwrapped the cotton, and showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics and Mama called Maxim brute. For a woman, an unworthy woman, Sister moaned. I thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a little disappointed. Even Nikolovich should have been more manly. Thiel said she was very beautiful. The acknowledged belle of Kovno. She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly. She seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to talk of such things. How shocked she would have been had she known that I was in love with Nadia, my sister's chum. And I had kissed her chambermaid, too. Dear little Rosa, I remember she threatened to tell Mother. I was so frightened I wouldn't come to dinner. Mama sent the maid to call me, to go till Rosa promised not to tell. The sweet girl with those red apple cheeks. How kind she was. But the little imp couldn't keep a secret. She told Tatiana, the cook of our neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day, he teased me about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wish the floor would open and swallow me. I was so mortified. How far off it all seems. Centuries away. I wonder what has become of her. Where is Rosa now? Why, she must be here, in America. I had almost forgotten. I met her in New York. It was such a surprise. I was standing on the stoop of the tenement house where I bordered. I had then been only a few months in the country. A young lady passed by. She looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. Don't you know me, Mr. Berkman? Don't you really recognize me? It was a joke, I thought. I had never before seen these beautiful, stylish young women. She invited me into the hallway. Don't tell these people here. I am Rosa. Don't you remember? Why, you know, I was your mother's maid. She blessed violently. Those red cheeks. Why, certainly, it's Rosa. I thought of the stolen kiss. What I dare it now, I wondered, suddenly conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed so prosperous. My clothes have changed. She looked the very Barisnya, like my sister. Is your mother here? She asked. Mother? She died, just before I left. I glanced apprehensively at her. Did she remember that terrible scene when mother struck her? I didn't know about your mother. Her voice was husky, a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl, always generous hearted. I ought to make amends to her for mother's insult. We looked at each other in embarrassment. We held out a gloved hand. Very large, I thought. Red, too, probably. Goodbye, Gospodim, Berkman, she said. I'll see you soon again. Please don't tell these people who I am. I experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. Gospodim, Berkman, somehow it echoed the surveil Barisnya, with which the domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery, Rosa had not gotten over it. Too much bread in, poor girl. She has not become emancipated. I never saw her at our meetings. She is conservative, no doubt. She was so ignorant. She could not even read. Perhaps she has learned in this country. Now, she will read about me. And she'll know how I died. Oh, I haven't the spoon. What shall I do? What shall I do? I can't live. I couldn't stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven years, I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn't anyhow. I might live here a year or two. But twenty-two. Twenty-two years. What is the use? No man could survive it. It's terrible. Twenty-two years. If they're cursed justice, they always talk of law. Yet, legally, I shouldn't have gotten more than seven years. Legally. As if they care about legality. They wanted to make an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand. But if I had seven years, perhaps I might live through it. I would try. But twenty-two. It's a lifetime. A whole lifetime. Seventeen is no better. That man, Jamestown, got 17 years. He sailed next to me in the jail. He didn't look like a highway robber. He was so small and puny. He must be here now. A fool to think he could live here 17 years. Hell, what an imbecile he is. He should have committed suicide long ago. They sent him away before my trial. It's about three weeks ago. Enough time. Why hasn't he done something? He will soon die here anyway. It will be better to suicide. A strong man might last five years. I doubt it, though. Perhaps a very strong man might. I couldn't know. I know I couldn't. Perhaps two or three years at most. We had often spoken about this. The girl, Fedya, and I. I had then such a peculiar idea of prism. I thought I would be sitting on the floor in a gruesome black hole with my hands and feet chained to the wall and the worms would crawl over me and slowly devour my face and my eyes and I, so helpless, chained to the wall. The girl and Fedya had a similar idea. She said she might bear prism life a few weeks. But for a year, I thought, but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the worms off of my feet. It would take the vermin that long to eat all my flesh till they got to my heart. That would be fatal. And the vermin here, those big brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms so vicious and hungry. Perhaps there are worms here, too. There must be in the dungeon. There is a wound in my foot. I don't know how it happened. I was unconscious in the dark hole. It was just like my old idea of prism. I couldn't live even a week there. It's awful. Here it is a little better, but it's never light in the cell, always in semi-darkness and so small and narrow, no windows, and smells so foully all the time. The walls are wet and clammy, smeared with blood, too. Bedbugs, agh, it's nauseating. I'm not much better than that black hole with my hands and arms chained to the wall. Just a trifle better. My hands are not chained. Perhaps I could live here a few years, no more than three, or maybe five. But these brutal officers, no, no, I couldn't stand it. I want to die. I die here soon anyway. They will kill me, but I won't give the enemy the satisfaction. They shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison and they killed me. No, I'd rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall have to do it with my head against the bars. No, not now. At night, when it's all dark, they couldn't save me then. It will be a terrible death, but it must be done. If I only knew about them in New York, the girl and Fedya, it would be easier to die them. What are they doing in the case? They must be waiting to hear of my suicide. They know I can't live here long. Perhaps they wonder why I didn't suicide right after the trial. But I could not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my cell in jail. Sentenced prisoners usually are. I had prepared to hang myself that night, but they must have suspected something. They brought me directly here from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been dead now. Supper. Want coffee? Hold your tin. The trusty shots into the door. Suddenly he whispers, grab it quick. A long dark object is shot between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper. Then a white object comes to view. A soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my heart as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it's someone I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they permitted? The towel feels nice and soft. It is relief from the hard straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here. The language. The guards. They roll over my face. It soothes me somewhat. I ought to wash up. My head feels so heavy. I haven't washed since I got here. When did I come? Let me see. What is today? I don't know. I can't think. But my trial. It was on Monday, the 19th of September. They brought me here in the afternoon. No, in the evening. And that guard. He frightened me so with the bullseye lantern. No, it must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday? Why? It seems such a long time. Can this be Tuesday? Only Tuesday? I'll ask the trustee the next time he passes. I'll find out who sent this towel to. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him. Or maybe there is some here. My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old chair. In the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy. Near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot over a narrow circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it feels refreshing. The rub down of the towel is invigorating. The stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasuring tingle. Suddenly, a sharp sting, as if a needle pricks my face. A pin in the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A note. With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing. Be sure to tear this up as soon as you read it, as from a friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along. We know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit and night. Watch the screws and the stools. They is worse than bulls. Dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say. So long. We'll see you tomorrow. A true friend. I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me. Vaguely, I surmise its meaning. Evidently, an escape is being planned. My heart beats violently as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could escape. Oh, I should not have to die. Why haven't I thought of it before? What a glorious thing it would be. Of course, they would ransack the country for me. And I should have to hide. But what does it matter? I'd be at liberty. And what tremendous effect. It would make great propaganda. People would become much interested. And I, why, I should have new opportunities. The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought. Overwhelming me with despair. Perhaps a trap. I don't know who wrote the note. A fine conspirator I'd prove to be duped so easily. But why should they want to trap me? And who? Some guard? What purpose could it serve? But they are so mean, so brutal. That tall officer, the deputy called him felings. He seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. This may be his work to get me in trouble. Would he really stoop to such an outrage? These things happen. They have been done in Russia. And he looks like a provocateur, this scoundrel. No, he won't get me that way. I must read the note again. It contains so many expressions I don't understand. I should keep my lamps lit. What lamps? There are none in the cell. Where am I to get them? And what screws must I watch? And the stools? I have only a chair here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it's to be used as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The note says he will call tomorrow. I'll be able to tell by his looks whether he can be trusted. Yes, yes, that will be best. I'll wait till tomorrow. Oh, I wish it were here. End of Section 8 Section 9 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov youtube.com The will to live Section 1 The days drag interminably in the semi-darkness of the cell. The gong regulates my existence with depressing monotony. But the tenor of my thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent. In vain, I have been waiting for his appearance. Yet the suggestion of escape has germinated hope. The will to live is beginning to assert itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder that my mind dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorly. The thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. Every possibility of escape must first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience. Surely I have no fear of death when the proper time arrives. But haste would be highly imprudent, worse, quite unnecessary. It is my duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda. Escape would afford me many occasions to serve the cause. It was thoughtless on my part to condemn that man, Jamestown. I even resented his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the impossible sentence of 17 years. Indeed, I was unjust. Jamestown is, no doubt, forming his plans. It takes time to mature such an undertaking. I first familiarize himself with the new surroundings, get one's bearings in the prism. So far, I have had but little chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the authorities to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the intricate system of hallways, double gates, and winding passages. At liberty to leave this place, it would prove difficult for me to find unaided in my way out. Ugh, if I possessed the magic ring It was a wonderful talisman, secreted, I fancied in the dream, by the goddess of the social revolution. I saw her quite distinctly, tall and commanding, the radiance of all conquering love in her eyes. She stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness suffusing the queenly countenance. Her arm extended above me, half in blessing, half pointing toward the dark wall. Eagly, I looked in the direction of the arched hand. There, in a crevice, something luminous glowed with the brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning sun. It was a heart-shaped ring, cleft in the center. Its scantily rays glorified the dark corner with the aerole of great hope. Impulsively, I reached out and pressed the parts of the ring into a close-fitting hole, when, low, the rays burst into a fire that spread and instantly melted the iron and steel, and dissolved the prison walls. Disclosing to my enraptured gaze, green fields and woods, and men and women playfully at work in the sunshine of freedom, and then, something dispelled the vision. Oh, if I had that magic heart now, to escape, to be free, maybe my unknown friend will yet keep his word. He is probably perfecting plans, or perhaps it is not safe for him to visit me. If my comrades could aid me, escape would be feasible, but the girl in Fedya will never consider the possibility. No doubt, they refrain from writing because they momentarily expect to hear of my suicide. How distraught the poor girl must be. Yet she should have written, it is now four days since my removal to the penitentiary. Every day I anxiously await the coming of the chaplain, who distributes the mail. There he is! The quick, nervous step has become familiar to my ear. Expectantly, I follow his movements. I recognize the vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring lock. The short steps patter on the bridge connecting the upper rotunda with the cell house and pass along the gallery. The solitary footfall amid the silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing a graveyard at night. Now the chaplain pauses. He is comparing the number of the wooden block hanging outside the cell with that on the letter. Someone has remembered a friend in prison. The steps continue and grow faint as the postman rounds the distant corner. He passes the cell row on the opposite side, ascends the topmost tier and finally reaches the ground floor containing my cell. My heart beats faster as the sound approaches. There must surely be a letter for me. He is nearing the cell. He pauses. I can't see him yet, but I know he is comparing numbers. Perhaps the letter is for me. I hope the chaplain will make no mistake. Range K, cell 6, number A7. Something light flaps on the door of the next cell and the quick short step has passed me by. No mail for me. Another 24 hours must elapse before I may receive a letter and then to perhaps the faint shadow will not pause at my door. Section 2 The thought of my 22 year sentence is driving me desperate. I would make use of any means however terrible to escape from this hell to regain liberty. Liberty. What would it not offer me after this experience? I should have the greatest opportunity for revolutionary activity. I would choose Russia. The Mostanier has forsaken me. I will keep aloof, but they shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of accomplishing. If there is a spark of manhood in them, they will blush for their despicable attitude toward my act. Their shameful treatment of me. How eager they will then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated devotion to solve their guilty conscience. I should not have to complain of a lack of financial aid were I to inform our intimate circles of my plans regarding future activity in Russia. It would be glorious. Glorious. Shhh. It's the chaplain. Section 10 of Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov. YouTube.com The silence grows more oppressive. The solitude unbearable. My natural buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. With dismay, I realize the failing elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity. I feel worn and body and soul. The regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or meals, ascent to my body and soul. The silence grows more oppressive. The solitude unbearable. My natural buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. The refusal of me to feel and obedienthood transferred to temple and walls temple. The impact of this tolling to toil sound likeinteoil or reform accentuates the intervening routine. It sounds ominously amid the stillness, the portent of some calamity, horrible and sudden. untshaped fears, the more terrifying because vague for my heart. In vain I seek to drown cell, the letters dance before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures, now dissolving into corpses and images of death. The morbid pictures fascinate my mind. The hissing gas jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. With eyes half shut, I follow the flickering light. Its diffusing rays form a kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now crystallizing into scenes of my youth, now converging upon the image of my New York life, with grotesque illumination of the tragic moments. Now the flame is swept by a gust of wind. It darts hither and tither, angrily contending with the surrounding darkness. It whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who falters, then advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. Look, the shadow grows and grows, till it mounts the iron gates that fall heavily behind me, as the officers lead me through the passage. They're home now, the guard mocks me. I look back, the gray pile looms above me, cold and forbidding, and on its crest stands the black figure leering at me in triumph. The walls frown upon me. They seem human in their cruel immobility. Their huge arms tower into the night, as if to crush me on the instant. I feel so small, unutterably weak and defenseless amid all the loneliness. The breath of the grave is on my face. It draws closer, it surrounds me, and shuts the last rays from my sight. In horror I pause. The chain grows taut, the sharp edges cut into my wrist. I lurch forward and wake on the floor of the cell. Restless stream and nightmare haunt the long nights. I listen eagerly for the tolling of the gong, bidding darkness depart. But the breaking day brings neither hope nor gladness. Amy as yesterday devoid of interest as the tomorrows at its heels, endlessly dull and leaden, the rumbling carts with the loads of half-paked bread, the tasteless brown liquid, the passing lines of striped misery, the coarse commands, the heavy tread, and them, the silence of the tomb. Why continue the unprofitable torture? No advantage could accrue to the cause from prolonging this agony. All avenues of escape are closed, the institution is impregnable. The good people have generously fortified this modern bestill. The world at large may sleep in peace, undisturbed by the anguish of cavalry. No cry of tormented soul shall pierce these walls of stone, much less the heart of man. Why then prolong the agony? None heeds, none cares, unless perhaps my comrades, and they are far away and helpless. Helpless. Quite helpless. Ah, if our movement were strong, the enemy would not dare commit such outrages, knowing that quick and merciless vengeance would retaliate for injustice. But the enemy realizes our weakness. To our everlasting shame, the crime of Chicago has not yet been avenged. Vaivites, they shall forever be the victims. Only might is respected. It alone can influence tyrants. Had we strength, but if the judicial murders of 1887 failed to arouse more than passive indignation, can I expect radical developments in consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? It is unreasonable. Five years, indeed, have passed since the Haymarket tragedy. Perhaps the people have since been taught in the Bitter School of Oppression and Defeat. Oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed, if the worker would understand my aims and motives, he could be roused to strong protest, perhaps to active demand. Ah, yes. But when? When will the doled realize things? When will he open his eyes? Blind to his own slavery and degradation, can I expect him to perceive the wrong suffered by others? And who is to enlighten him? No one conceives the truth as deeply and clearly as we anarchists. Even the socialists dare not advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. They have closed the goddess of liberty with a fig leaf. Religion, the very fountainhead of bigotry and injustice, has officially been declared a private stash. Henceforth, these timid world liberators must be careful not to tread upon the toes of prejudice and superstition. Soon they will grow to bourgeois respectability, a party of practical politics and sound morality. What a miserable descent from the peaks of nihilism that proclaimed defiance of all established institutions because they were established, hence wrong. Indeed, there is not a single institution in our pseudo-civilization that deserves to exist. But only the anarchists dare wage war upon all and every form of wrong, and they are few in number, lacking in power. These internal divisions, too, aggravate our weakness, and now, even most, has turned apostate. The Jewish comrades will be influenced by his attitude. Only the girl remains, but she is young in the movement and almost unknown. Undoubtedly, she has talent as a speaker, but she is a woman and rather poor health. In all the movement, I know of no one capable of propaganda by deed or of an avenging act except the twin. At least I can expect no other comrade to undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. The twin is a true revolutionist, somewhat impulsive and irresponsible, perhaps, with slight aristocratic leanings, yet quite reliable in matters of revolutionary import. But he would not harbour the thought. We held such queer notions of prism, the sight of a police uniform, an arrest, suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable disappearance, as in Russia. How can I broach the subject to the twin? All mail passes through the hands of the censor. My correspondence, especially a long-timer and an anarchist, will be minutely scrutinized. There seems no possibility. I am buried alive in this stone grave. Escape is hopeless. In this agony of living death, I cannot support it. End of section 10. Section 11 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. Array of light. I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight of a human form is a relief. Every morning, after breakfast, I equally listen for the familiar swish-shwash on the flagstones of the hallway. It is the old rangemen sweeping up. The sensitive mouth puckered up in an inaudible whistle. The one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit. Hello, Alec. How are you feeling today? He stands opposite my cell, at the further end of the wall, the broom suspended in mid-stroke. I catch an occasional glance of the kind blue eyes, while his head is in constant motion, turning to right and left, alert for the approach of a guard. How are you, Alec? Nothing extra. I know how it is, Alec, I've been through the mill. Keep up your nerve. You'll be all right, old boy. You're young yet. Old enough to die, I say, bitterly, shh, don't speak so loud. The screw's got long ears. The screw? A wild hope trembles in my heart. The screw? The puzzling expression in the mysterious note, perhaps this man wrote it. In anxious expectancy, I watched the rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent. He hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the one-armed sweeper. Shhh, he cautions, without turning, as he crosses the line of my cell. I listen intently. Not a sound. Save the regular swish-swash of the broom. But the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not air. A long shout of falls across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eye stands at my door. What are you prying out for? He demands. I am not prying. Don't you contradict me. Stand back on your hole there. Don't you be leaning on the door, do you hear? Down the hall the guard shouts, Hey you, cripple, talking there wasn't you. No, sir. Don't you dare lie to me. You was. Swear to God I wasn't. Well, I'll ever catch you talking to that son of a bitch, I'll fix ya. The scratching of the broom has seized. The rangel man is dusting the doors. The even strokes of the Cato Ninetail sound nearer. Again the man stops at my door, his head turning right and left, the while he diligently plies the duster. Alec, he whispers, be careful of that screw. He's a bitch. See him jump on me? What would he do to you if he saw you talking to me? Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know, I'd lose my job too. Then better don't talk to me. Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch me, not he. He didn't see me talking, just bluffed. Can't bluff me though. But be careful. It's alright, he's gone out in the yard now. He has no biz in the block anyhow, except at feeding time. He's just looking for trouble, means gunk he is, that cornbread tome. Who? That screw fellings, we call him cornbread tome, because he swipes our corn dodger. What's corn dodger? Ha ha, Tuesdays and Saturdays we get a chunk of cornbread for breakfast. It ain't much, but better instale punk. Know what punk is? Not long on lingo are ya, punk's bread, and then some kids is punk. He chuckles, Marilynne, as at some successful bummel. Suddenly, he pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away from the cell. In a few minutes he returns, whispering, All okay, roads clear, town's been called to the shop, won't be back till dinner, thank the lord. Only the cap is on the block, old man Mitchell, in charge of this wing. North block it's called. The women are in this south block? Nope, the girls got a special building. South block's the new cell house, just finished. Shout it all ready, and fresh fish come in every day. Courts busy in Pittsburgh all right. Know anyone here? No. Well, get acquainted a leg, it'll give you an interest. Guess that's what you need. I know how you feel boy, thought I'd die when I landed here. Awful dump. A guy advised me to take an interest to make friends. I thought he was kidding me, but he was on the level all right. Get acquainted a leg, you'll go bugs if you don't. Must for moose now, see you later. My name's Wingy. That's what they call me here. I'm an old soldier, was at Bull Run. Run so damn fast I lost my right wing, ha ha ha, slung. Eagley, I look forward to the stolen talks with Wingy. There, the soul break in the monotony of my life. But days pass without the exchange of a word. Silently, the one armed prisoner walks by, apparently oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart I peer between the bars for a cheering sign of recognition. Only the quick wink of his eye reassures me of his interest and gives warning of the spying guard. By degrees the ingenuity of Wingy affords us more frequent snatches of conversation, and I gather valuable information about the prism. The inmates sympathize with me, Wingy says. They know I'm on the level. I'm sure to find friends, but I must be careful of the stool pigeons who report everything to the officers. Wingy is familiar with the history of every keeper. Most of them are rotten, he assures me. Especially the captain of the night watch is fierce and an ex-fly. Only three screws are on night duty in each block, but there are a few hundred overseers to run the dub during the day. Wingy promises to be my friend, and to furnish the more pointers been by. End of Section 11. Section 12 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 Shop. Section 1. I stand in line with a dozen prisoners in the enter room of the deputy's office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls for the first time in the full light of day upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a beast. My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid. He resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow, the idea is associated in my mind with a wild Tigris, and I too must now look like that. The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, length figure of the deputy warden. Hands up. The deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and there. He separates the men into groups. Then, pointing to the one in which I am included, he says in his feminine accents, Nun crippled, officers take them to number 7, turn them over to Mr. Hoods. Fall in. Forward march. My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager expectation. At last I am assigned to work. I speculate on the character of number 7 and on the possibilities of escape from there. As linked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The centennials on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm, face the striped line winding snake-like through the open space. The yard is spacious and clean. The lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty. Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. The thought quickens my observation. Bounded north, east, and south by the stone wall, the two blocks of the cell house form a parallelogram enclosing the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's quarters. Break ranks. We enter number 7, a mat shop. With difficulty I distinguish the objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room with its small barred windows. The air is heavy with dust. The rattling of the looms is deafening. An atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place. The officer in charge assigns me to a machine occupied by a lanky prisoner and stripes. Jim, show him what to do. Considerable time passes without Jim taking the least notice of me. Bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he whispers, hoarsely, fresh fish. What did you say? You bloke long here? Two weeks. Whatcha doing? Twenty-one years. Quit your kidding. It's true. Honest? Holy gee. The shuttle flies to in fro. Jim is silent for a while, then he demands, abruptly, what they put you here for? I don't know. Been kicking? No. Dan, use the bugs. Why so? This here is crankshop. They never put a mug here except his bugs, or else they got it in for you. How do you happen to be here? Me? The goddamn bitch got it in for me. See this? He points to a deep gash over his temple. Had a scab with these screws. Almost knocked me glimmer out. It was that big bull there, peak hoods. I'll get even with him, alright? Damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By God I will. I'll croak here anyhow. Perhaps it isn't so bad I tried to encourage him. It ain't eh? What do you know about it? I've got the combat, split in blood every night. This does kill me. Kill you too, damn quick. As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing, prolonged and hollow. The shuttle has, in the meantime, become entangled in the fringes of the matting. Recovering his breath, Jim snatches the knife at his side, and with a few death strokes releases the metal. Two in fro flies the gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task. Don't bother me no more, he warns me, I'm behind with me work. Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends every effort to hasten the completion of the day's task. The guard approaches. How's he doing? He inquires, indicating me with a knot of the head. He's alright, but say, Hoods, this year is no place for a dequede. He's got a twenty-one spot. Shut your damn trap, the officer retorts, angrily. The consumptive bends over his work, fearfully eyeing the keeper's measuring stick. As the officer turns away, Jim pleads, Mr. Hoods, I lose time teaching him. Won't you please take off a bit? She tasks it's more than I can do, and I'm sick. Nonsense, there's nothing the matter with you, Jim, you're just lazy, that's what you are. Don't be shaming now, it don't go with me. At noon the overseer calls me aside. You're a green here, he warns me, pay no attention to Jim. He wanted to be bad, but we showed him different. He's alright now. You have a long time, see that you behave yourself. This is no playhouse, you understand? As I'm about to resume my place in the line, forming to march back to the cells for dinner, he recalls me. Say, Alec, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow, Jim. He is a little off, you know. He points toward my head, with his significant rotary motion. Section two. The mat shop is beginning to affect my health. The dust has inflamed my throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. The officer in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress in the work. I'll give you another chance, he cautioned me yesterday, and if you don't make a good map by next week, down in the hole you go. He severely upgraded Jim for his inefficiency as instructor. As the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing. The emanciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to recover and continued working. Suddenly, I saw him clutch at the frame, a look of terror spread over his face. He began panting for breath, and then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the floor. The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner at the neighboring machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over his work. Jim lay motionless, the blood dying the floor purple. I rushed to the officer. Mr. Hoods, Jim has back to your playstam, you, he shouted at me. How dare you leave it without permission? I just get back, I tell you, he roared, raising the heavy stick. I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face ashened. Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached. What's the matter here? I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly touched the bleeding face with his foot. Get up, Jim, get up! The nervous head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom. I guess he isn't shaming, the officer muttered. Then he shook his finger at me, menacingly. Don't you ever leave your place without orders, remember you? After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had been forgotten, the doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin, the senior prison physician, a short, stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye. He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. Did anyone see the man fall, he inquired. This man did, the keeper replied, indicating me. While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. Presently he asked my name. Oh, the celebrated case, he smiled. I know Mr. Frick quite well. Not such a bad man at all, but you'll be treated well here, Mr. Brickman. This is a democratic institution, you know. By the way, what is the matter with your eyes? They are inflamed, always that way. Only since I am working in this shop. Ah, he is alright, doctor, the officer, interposed. He's only been here a week. Mr. Rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard. You want him here? Why E.S. were short of men? While I am the doctor, Mr. Hoods, then, turning to me, he added, Report in the morning on the sick list. Section 3 The doctor's examination has resulted in my removal to the hosiery department. The changes filled me with renewed hope. A disciplinary shop, to which I generally assign the hard cases, inmates in the first stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly prisoners. The match shop is the point of special supervision and severest discipline. It is the best guarded shop, from which escape is impossible. But in the hosiery department, a recent addition to the local industries. I may find the right opportunity. It will require time, of course, but my patient shall be equal to the great object. The working conditions also are more favorable. The room is light and airy, the discipline not so stringent. My nearsightedness has secured for me immunity from machine work. The deputy at first insisted that my eyes were good enough to see the numerous needles of the hosiery machine. It is true I could see them, but not with sufficient distinctiveness to ensure the proper insertion of the initial threads. To admit partial ability would result, I knew, in being ordered to produce the task. In failure, or faulty work, would be severely punished. Necessity drove me to subterfuge. I pretended total inability to distinguish the needles. Despite threats of punishment failing to change my determination, I have been assigned to the comparatively easy work of turning the stockings. The occupation, though tedious, is not exacting. It consists in gathering the hosiery manufactured by the knitting machines once the product issues without soles. I carry the pile to the table provided with an iron post, about 18 inches high, topped with a small inverted disk. On this instrument, the stockings are turned inside out by slipping the article over the post, then quickly undressing it. The hosiery thus turned is forwarded to the looping machines, by which the product is finished and sent back to me, once more to be turned, preparatory to sorting and shipment. Monetonously the days and weeks pass by. Practice lands make great dexterity in the work, but the hours of drudgery drag with heavy heel. I seek to hasten time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. I count the stockings I turn, the motions required by each operation, and the amount accomplished within a given time. But in spite of these efforts, my mind persistently reverts to unprofitable subjects, my friends and the propaganda, the terrible injustice of my excessive sentence, suicide and escape. My nights are restless. Oppressed with a nameless weight, or tormented by dread, I awake with a start, breathless and affrighted, to experience the momentary relief of danger past. But the next instant I am overwhelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, impunged into rage and despair, powerless, hopeless. Thus, day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in the ceaseless struggle of hope and discouragement, of life and death, amid the externally placid tenor of my Pennsylvania nightmare. End of Section 12, Section 13 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by Alexander Bergman. Section 1, Direct to Box A7, Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, October 19th, 1892. Dear Sister, it is just a month, a month today, since my coming here. I keep wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be compressed into one short month? How I have longed for this opportunity? You will understand, a month's stay is required before we are permitted to write. But many, many long letters I have written to you in my mind, dear Sonia. Where shall I begin now? My space is very limited, and I have so much to say to you and to the twin, I received your letters. You need not wait till you hear from me, keep on writing. I am allowed to receive all mail sent of moral contents in the phraseology of the rules, and I shall write whenever I may. Dear Sonia, I sense bitterness and disappointment in your letter. Why do you speak of failure? You, at least, you and Fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere accident of physical results. Your lines pained and grieved me beyond words. Not because you should write thus, but that you, even you, should think thus. Need I enlarge? True morality deals with motives, not consequences. I cannot believe that we differ on this point. I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of verse must have been to you. But however it may minimize the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact or its character. This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of verse, a great deal could have been accomplished. I don't know whether it has been done, your letter is very meager on this point. Yet it is of supreme interest to me. But I know, Sonia, of this one thing, at least, I am sure, you will do all that is in your power. Perhaps it is not much, but the twin and part of orchard's strength will be with you. Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to Tolstoy Gubb's relation to Darwinian theory? You must consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to such presumption. I embrace you both. The future is dark, but then, who knows? Right often, tell me about the movement, yourself, and friends. It will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which daily seems to recede further. I clutch desperately at the thread that still binds me to the living. It seems to unravel in my hands. The thin skines are breaking, one by one. My hold is slackening, but the Sonia thread, I know, will remain taut and strong. I have always called you the Immutable. Alex. I posted the letter in the prisoner's mail box when the line formed for work this morning. But the moment the missive left my hands, I was seized with a great longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me into that slip of paper, I should now be hidden in that green box. With battered breath, I'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the chaplain to collect the mail. My heart beats teleumptiously as the wild fancy flitters in my brain. I am oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread. Automatically, I turn the hosary, counting one, two, one pair, three, four, two pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the man. There is something familiar about him. He bends over the looping machines and gathers the stockings. Now he is counting one, two, one pair, three, four, two pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself, and the men all seem to think it is I. Haha, the officer also. I just heard him say, Alec, work a little faster, can't you? See the piles there, you're falling behind. He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution. And all the while, the real me is snugly lying here in the green box, peeping through the keyhole on the watch for the postman. Shhh, I hear a footstep. As it is the chaplain, he will open the box with his quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into the large pocket of his black search coat. There are so many letters here, I'll slip among them into the large pocket. The chaplain will not notice me. He'll think it's just a letter, haha. He'll scrutinize every word, for it's the letter of a long timer, his first one too. But I am safe, I'm invisible, and when they call the roll, they will take that man there for me. He is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair, twenty-one, twenty-two. What was that? Twenty-two, oh yes, twenty-two, that's my sentence. The imbeciles, they think I'm going to serve it. I had to kill myself first. But it will not be necessary, thank goodness. It was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. But what has become of the chaplain? If he'd only come, why is he so long? They might miss me in the shop. The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my environment. The hosiery department is past the stage of experiment. The introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task, necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application. The shop routine now demands all my attention. It leaves little time for thinking or brawling. My physical condition alarms me. The morning hour has completely exhausted me, and I am barely able to keep up with the line returning to the cell house for the noon meal. A feeling of lassitude possesses me. My feet drag heavily, and I experience great difficulty in mastering my sleepiness. I have grown indifferent to the meals. The odor of the food nauseates me. I am nervous and morbid. The sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me. The proximity of a guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly warned me against my disrespectful and surely manner. But I am indifferent to consequences. What matter what happens? My waning strength is a source of satisfaction. Perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be no more suffering, no anguish. The world at large is nonexistent. It is centered in me, and yet I myself stand aloof and see it falling into gradual peace and quiet into extinction. Back in my cell after the day's work I leave the evening meal of bread and coffee untouched. My candle remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gongs deep bass. The three bells tolling the order to retire. I welcome the blessed permission to fall into bed. The coarse straw mattress beckons invitingly. I yearn for sleep, for oblivion. Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. But the awakening is brief. The tone of the letter is guarded. Other contents do general in character, the matters that my kindle my interests are missing. The world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. I am cast into the darkness. No ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring. At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in despair, now threatening to break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction in the wild play of fancy. Distance grows more and more unbearable with the contrast of dream and reality. Wary of the day's routine, I welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the passing convict. I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men, the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the Tigris, with their stealthy, vicious cunning. They are not of my world. I would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice, but I cannot be friends with them. They do not belong to the people, to whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates, indeed, yet parasites upon their producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than the rich exploiters. By virtue of my principles, rather than their deserts, I must give them my intellectual sympathy, they touch no chord in my heart. Only wingy seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence, yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during church service when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him today. He must be careful of the block captain, on his rounds of the galleries, counting the church delinquents. The captain is passing on the range now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the sight of a face behind the bars. Now, he is at the cell. He pencils in his notebook the number of the wooden block over the door, A7. Catholic, he asks mechanically, then looking up, he frowns on me. You're no Catholic Berkman. What do you stay in for? I am an atheist. A what? An atheist. A non-believer. Oh, an infidel are you. You'll be damned, sure enough. The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the corner. Wingy will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon. Perhaps somebody is watching. Hello, Alec. Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it. Pie, Wingy, I whisper, wonderingly, where do you get such luxuries? Swipe from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's dinner basket, you know. The cheap guy saved it after breakfast. Rotten, ain't he? Why so? Why you greeny, he's a stomach robber. That's what he is. It's our pie, Alec, made here in the bakery. That's why our punk is stale, see. They steal the east to make pies for the screws. Are you next? How do you like the grub anyhow? The bread is generally stale, Wingy, and the coffee tastes like tepid water. Coffee you call it? Heh heh, coffee hell. It ain't no damn coffee, it was never near coffee. It's just bootleg, Alec, bootleg. Know how it's made? And no. Well, I've been three months in the kitchen. You collect all the old punk that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. Only the crusts you see, like it's not some sift coon spit on it. And some's mean enough to do it, you know. Makes no diff, though. Or it is, cut off the crust and burn them to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling water over it and dump it in the kettle. Inside a bag, you know. Throw a little dirty chicory in, there's your coffee. I never touch the rotten stuff. It ruins your stomach, that's what it does, Alec. You oughtn't drink this, Will. I don't care if it kills me. Come, come, Alec, cheer up, old boy. You got a tough bit, I know, but don't take it so hard. Don't think of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you can. You just take my word, Vert. Make some friends, think who you want to see tomorrow, and then try to see them. That's what you want to do, Alec. It'll keep you hustlin', best thing for the blues, kitty. For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The soft eyes are full of sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. He leans the broom against the door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars and gives my cheek a tender pat. Involuntarily I step back with the instinctive dislike of a man's caress. Yet I would not offend my kind friend. But Wingy must have noticed my annoyance. He eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence, You're all right, Alec. I like you, Vert. Just wanted to try you, see? How try me, Wingy? Oh, you ain't next. Well, you see, he hesitates, a faint flush dealing over his prison pallor. You see, Alec, it's- ah, wait till I pipe the screw. For Wingy, the bruise is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. I can distinctly follow the step of the block captain on the upper galleries. He is the sole officer in the cellhouse doing church service. The unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingy at my cell. I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingy leave me? His flushed face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the subterfuge employed to sneak off, as he himself would characterize his hasty departure, all seem very peculiar. What could he have meant by trying me? But before I have time to evolve a satisfactory explanation, I hear Wingy tiptoeing back. It's all right, Alec. They won't come from the chapel for a good while yet. What did you mean by trying me, Wingy? Ah, well, he stammers. Never mind, Alec. You're a good boy, all right. You don't belong here. That's what I say. Well, I am here, and the chances are I'll die here. Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I load you look down at the mouth. Now, don't you fill your head with such stuff and nonsense. Croak here, hell. You ain't going to do nothing of the kind. Don't you go broadened out. You listen to me, Alec. That's your friend talking, see? You're so young. Why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one, ain't ya? And talking about dying? Shame on you. Shame. His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth to my heart. Impulsively, I put my hand between the bars. His firm clasp assures me of return depreciation. You must brace up, Alec. Look at the lifers. You'd think they'd be black as night. Knit, my boy, the jolliest lot in the dump. You see an old Henry? No? Well, ya'd see him. He's the oldest man here in fifteen years. A lifer and hasn't a friend in the world, but he's happy as the days long. And you've got plenty friends, true blue, too. I know you have. I have, Wingy, but what could they do for me? How you talk, Alec, could do anything. You got rich friends, I know. You was mixed up with Frick. Well, your friends are all right, ain't they? Of course. What could they do, Wingy? Get you pardoned in two, three years maybe, see? You must make a good record here. Ugh, I don't care for a pardon. Whaaat? You're kidding. No, Wingy, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on principle. You're sure bugs. What you talking about? Principle fiddle sticks. Want to get out of here? Of course I do. Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's principle got to do with it? Your principle gains getting out? No, but against being pardoned. You're beyond me, Alec. Guess you're Josh and me. Now listen, Wingy. You see, I wouldn't apply for a pardon because it would be asking favors from the government and I am against it, you understand? It would be of no use anyhow, Wingy. And if you could get a pardon for the asking you won't ask, Alec, that's what you mean? Yes. You're hot stuff, Alec. What they call you, Narcust? Hot stuff, by gosh. Can't make you out, though. Seems daffy. Listen to me, Alec. If I was you, I'd take anything I could get and then tell him to go to hell. That's what I would do, my boy. He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the captain's step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance to the right and left, Wingy leans over toward the door. His mouth between the bars, he whispers very low. Principles opposed to get away, Alec? The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being, rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic. You may trust me, Alec, Wingy whispers, as if reading my thoughts. I'm your friend. Yes, Wingy, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape. I have been thinking about it, but so far, shh. Easy. Walls have ears. Any chance here, Wingy? Well, it's a damn tough dump. This ear is. But there's many a star in heaven, Alec, and you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a getaway here since Patty McGaw sneaked over the roof. That's, let me see, six, seven years ago about. How did he do it, I ask breathlessly. Just Irish luck. They was finishing the new block, you know. Patty was helping lay the roof. When he got a good and ready, he just goes to work and slides down the roof, swiped stuff in the mat shop, and spliced a rope together, see. They never got neither. Was he in Stripes, Wingy? Sure he was, only been in a few months. How did he manage to get away in Stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as an escaped prisoner? That bother you, Alec? Why, it's easy. Get planted till dark, then hold up the first bloke you see and take his duds, or push in the back door of a rag joint, plenty of them in Allegheny. Is there any chance now through the roof? It's my boy, nothing doing there, but a fella's got to be alive. Many ways to kill a cat, you know. Remember the stiff you got in them things, tall and soap? You know about it, Wingy, I ask in amazement. Do I? Heh heh, you little, the click of steel sounds warning, Wingy disappears. End of section 14. Section 15 of Prison Memoirs of 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-e. To the girl. Direct to box A7, Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, November 18th, 1892. My dear Sonia. It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month. But the monotony of my life waits down the heels of time. The only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear, affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the morning, the chaplain makes his rounds. His practiced hand shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or onto the little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers. I am again with you, walking in the bright July moonlight. The touch of velikrushin in your eyes and hair conjures up the vulga, our beautiful bokatir, and the strains of the doblinushka, trembling with suffering and yearning, float about me. The meal remains untouched. I dream over your letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, and quickly. The afternoon hours are hollowed by your touch in your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for my cell. In the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams. And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass an anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real world, is awaiting me in the cell. He is opening it, reading, why should strange eyes, but the chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows meager as the postman reaches the ground floor. Ugh, if he does not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But the next moment I smile at the childish thought. If there is a letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error might tap him. No, it is impossible. My name and prison number, and the cell number marked by the chaplain across the envelope, all ensure the mail against any mistake in delivery. Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagley, I hasten to the cell. There is nothing on the floor, perhaps on the bed, on the table. I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment. Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner. No, none there. But it can't be that there is no mail for me today. I must look again. It may have dropped among the blankets. No, there is no letter. Thus pass my days, dear friend, in thought I am ever with you in Fedia, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We are revolutionists, dear. Whatever sacrifices the cause demands, though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end. In that consciousness we must find our solace. Alex. Sub-Rosa. Last day of November, 1892. Beloved girl, I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts, all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that has filled my days with strength and hope. In that consciousness we must find our solace. Alex. I will not feel my days with strength and hope, and embrace a lingering kiss in the gift of Ling what I have been mine. To grasp your hand to look down for a mute, immortal instant into your soul and then dye at you hands, beloved, with the warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful eternity. Oh it were bliss supreme, the realization of our daydreams when, in Transports of Ecstasy we kiss the image of the social revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston street hall room? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments. But they have filled my hours with hollowed thoughts, with exulting expectations. And then you came. I glanced at your face, and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look of the guard. It was the deputy himself. Perhaps you had been searched. He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drawing fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me of the beast, hungry for prey. The halo was dissipated. The words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer, and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about us, myself, the deputy. I could have throttled him to death, and at you, dear. Yes, Sonia, even at you, the quick come to bury the dead. But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips upon your hand. How it trembled. I held it between my own, and then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld seemed to bereave me of my own self. It was you who were I. The drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being, the cry of torture, were you not the real prisoner? Or was it my vision suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and place in the at flattice of martyrdom? Mutely, I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the prying eyes of the cat-like presence disturbed the sacred moment. Then we spoke, mechanically, trivialities. What though the cadaverous deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds and forbade the sound of our dear Russian, nor heaven or earth could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain. The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving day, all activities were suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly dawned on me. The quick had left the dead. Terror of the reality seized me, and I was swept by a parakeet of anguish. I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed subrosa is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow. Remember to sign, Sister, with a passionate embrace, your Shasha. End of Section 15, Section 16 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. With the three months of penitentiary life, I have learned many things. I doubt whether the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than the actuality of prison existence. In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and constant irritation. Notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of them, I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure, nature comes into its own. Social distinctions are abolished. Artificial barriers destroyed. No need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions. One could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the prison gates. But how different is this life? It is full of deceit, sham and pharism, an aggravated counterpart of the outside world. The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy, these find here a rich soil. The ill will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The dissembling soul in stripes winds his conversation into the pleased ears of the Christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract or Bible, and presently simulated piety secures a pardon for the angel's rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to witness these scenes. The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate. To protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident, a fight between Johnny Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a manly looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory has put him wise as he expresses it. My three months stay has taught me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips. In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task. Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer, though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint and continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon. Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy cheeked boy was startling, pale and hollow eyed. He walked with a weak, halting step. As he took his place at the machine I heard him say to the officer, Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else. Why so? The guard asked. I can't make the task here, I'll make it on another machine, please Mr. Cosson. Why can't you make it here? I'm missing socks. Ho-ho, playing the old game, are ya? Want to go to the hole again, eh? I couldn't stay in the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God I couldn't. But my socks is missing here. Missing hell. Who's stealing your box, eh? Don't come with no such bluff. Nobody can steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work now, and you better make the task, understand? Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved 18 pairs short. Bradford was over. I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny. Eh, 30 machine, 30, he shouted. You all made the task, eh? Put your coat and cap on. Real words. They meant immediate report to the deputy, and the inevitable sentence to the dungeon. Oh, Mr. Cosson, the youth pleaded. It ain't my fault, so help me God it isn't. It ain't eh? Whose fault is it, mine? Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought to the ground, then wandered toward Bradford, who studiously avoided the look. I can't squeal, he said quietly. Oh, hell, you ain't got nothing to squeal. Put your coat and cap. Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who, confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly winking of the left eye. Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's hands slip across the table, and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy with the pro-straight Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the deputy for trial, with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness. Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by. Mr. Cosson, I said, with simulant respectfulness, may I ask you a question? Well, I certainly, Burke, I won't eat you, fire away. What have they done with the boys? Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh? You see, he started the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to him, all right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burke? Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how this fight started? No, but Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you know. Brad will be back in the shop tomorrow. I got him off easy, see? He's a good worker, always makes more than the task. He'll just lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there, Burke? No, not much, I assented. But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's fault. How so, the guard demanded. He has been stealing Johnny's socks. You didn't see him do it. Yes, Mr. Cosson, I saw him this- look here, Burke. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway. He's too fresh. You better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the deputy. The terrible injustice prays on my mind. Poor Johnny is already the fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. This third time, too, and yet absolutely innocent. My blood boils at the thought of the damnable treatment and the officer's perfidy. It is my duty as a revolutionist to take the part of the persecuted. Yes, I will do so. But how proceed in the manner? Complaining against Mr. Cosson would in all likelihood prove futile. And the officer, informed of my action, will make life miserable for me. His authority in the shop is absolute. The several plans I resolve in my mind do not prove, upon closer examination, feasible. Considerations of personal interest struggle against my sense of duty. The vision of Johnny in the dungeon, his vacant machine, and Bradford's smile of triumph, keep the accusing conscience awake till silence grows unbearable. I determined to speak to the deputy warden at the first opportunity. Several days pass. Often I am assailed by doubts. Is it advisable to mention the matter to the deputy? It cannot benefit Johnny. It will involve me in trouble. But the next moment I feel ashamed of my weakness. I call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth, the celebrated Mishkin. With an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness, I review the brave deeds of the hippolite Nikitsch. What a man! Single-handed he essay to liberate Trnevsky from prism. Ah, the curse of poverty! But for that, Mishkin would have succeeded, and the great inspirer of the youth of Russia would have been given back to the world. I dwell on the details of the almost successful escape, Mishkin's fight with the pursuing Cossacks, his arrest, and his remarkable speech in court. Sentenced a ten years of hard labor in the Siberian mines, he defied the Russian tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of Domesky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen years of Catorga. Minutely, I follow his repeated attempts to escape, the transfer of redoubtable prisoner to the Petroplavysk Fortress, and thence to the terrible Shusselberg Prism, where Mishkin braved death by avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high government official. Ah, thus acts the revolutionist, and I, yes, I am decided. No danger shall seal my lips against outrage and injustice. At last an opportunity is at hand. The deputy enters the shop, tall and gray, slightly stooping, with head carry forward. He resembles a wolf following the trail. Mr. McPame, one moment please. Yes. I think Johnny Davis is being punished innocently. You think, hmm, hmm, and who is this innocent Johnny, hmm, Davis? His fingers drum impatiently on the table. He measures me with mocking, suspicious eyes. Machine 30, deputy. Ah, yes, machine 30, hmm, hmm. Ready Davis. Hmm, he had a fight. The other man stole his stockings. I saw it, Mr. McPame. So, so, and why, hmm, hmm, did you see it, my good man? You confess then, hmm, hmm, you were not, hmm, attending to your own work? That is bad, hmm, very bad, Mr. Cawson. The guard hastens to him. Mr. Cawson, this man has made a, hmm, hmm, a charge against you. Prisoner, don't interrupt me. Hmm, what is your number? A7. Mr. Cawson, A7 makes a, hmm, complain against the officer, hmm, in charge of this shop. Please, hmm, hmm, note it down. Both draw aside, conversing in low tones. The words kicker, his kid, reach my ears. The deputy nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened on me in hatred. Section two. I feel helpless, friendless. The consolation of Wingie's cheerful spirit is missing. My poor friend is in trouble. From snatches of conversation in the shop, I have pierced together the story. Dutch Adams, a third-timer in the deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost his month's allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet. He demanded that Wingie, who was stakeholder, share the spoils with him. Infuriated by refusal, Dutch reported my friend for gambling. The unexpected search of Wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus apparently substantiating the charge. Wingie was sent to the dungeon. But after the expiration of five days, my friend failed to return to his old cell, and I soon learned that he has been ordered to the solitary confinement for refusing to betray the men who had trusted him. The fate of Wingie prays on my mind. My poor kind friend is breaking down under the effects of the dreadful sentence. This morning, chancelling to pass his cell, I hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting. Perhaps he did not hear me, I thought. Impatiently, I waited for the noon return to the block. Hello, Wingie, I called. He stood at the door, intently peering between the bars. He stared at me coldly, with blank, expressionless eyes. Who are you, he whimpered, brokenly. Then he began to babble. Suddenly, the terrible truth dawned on me. My poor, poor friend, the first to speak a kind word to me. He's gone mad. End of section 16.