 Section 38 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman Part 2 Chapter 31 And by all forgot, we wrought and wrought. 1. A year of solitary has wasted my strength and left me feeble and languid. My expectations of relief from complete isolation have been disappointed. Existence is grim with despair. As day by day I feel my vitality ebbing. The long nights are tortured with insomnia. My body is wracked with constant pains. All my heart is dark. A glimmer of light breaks through the clouds. As the session of the pardon board approaches, I clutch desperately at the faint hope of a favorable decision. With feverish excitement, I pour over the letters of the girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. My application is supported by numerous labor bodies. She writes, Comrade Harry Kelly has been tireless in my behalf. The success of his efforts to arouse public sympathy augurs well for the application. The United Labor League of Pennsylvania, representing over a hundred thousand toilers, has passed a resolution favoring my release. Together with other similar expressions, individual and collective, it will be laid before the pardon board, and it is confidently expected that the authorities will not ignore the voice of organized labor. In a ferment of anxiety and hope, I count the days and hours irritable with impatience and apprehension as I near the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before me, glorified by the meeting with the girl and my former companions, and I thrill with the return to the world, as I restlessly pace the cell in the silence of the night. The thought of my prison friends of truths upon my visions, with the tenderness born of common misery I think of their fate, resolving to brighten their lives with little comforts and letters, that means so much to every prisoner. My act in liberty shall be in memory of the men grown close to me with the kinship of suffering, the unfortunates endeared by awakened sympathy and understanding. For so many years I have shared with them the sorrows and the few joys of penitentiary life, I feel almost guilty to leave them, but henceforth their cause shall be mine, a vital part of the larger social cause. It will be my constant endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and I shall strain every effort for my little friend, Felipe. I must secure his release, how happy the boy will be to join me in liberty, the flash of the dark lantern dispels my fantasies, and again I walk the cell in vehement misgiving and fervent hope of tomorrow's verdict. At noon I am called to the warden, he must have received word from the board, I reflect on the way. The captain lounges in the armchair, his eyes glistening, his seamed face yellow and worried. With an effort I control my impatience as he offers me a seat. He bids the guard depart, and a wild hope trembles in me. He is not afraid. Perhaps good news. Sit down, Berkman, he speaks with unwanted affability. I have just received a message from Harrisburg. Your attorney requests me to inform you that the pardon board has now reached your case. It is probably under consideration at this moment. I remain silent. The warden scans me closely. You would return to New York if released. He inquires. Yes. What are your plans? Well, I have not formed any yet. You would go back to your anarchist friends. Certainly. You have not changed your views. By no means. A turnkey enters. Captain, on official business, he reports. Wait here a moment, Berkman. The warden remarks withdrawing. The officer remains. In a few minutes the warden returns, motioning to the guard to leave. I have just been informed that the board has refused you a hearing. I feel the cold perspiration running down my back. The prison rumors of the warden's interference flashed through my mind. The board promised a re-hearing at the previous application. Why this refusal? Warden, I exclaim. You objected to my pardon? Such action lies with the inspectors, he replies evasively. The peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions. A failing of hopelessness possesses me. I sense the warden's gaze fastened on me. And I strive to control my emotion. How much time have you yet? He asks. Over eleven years. How long have you been locked up this time? Sixteen months. There is a vacancy on your range. The assistant hallman is going home tomorrow. You would like the position? He eyes me curiously. Yes, I'll consider it. I rise weekly, but he detains me. By the way, Berkman, look at this. He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several casts of plaster of Paris. I wonder at the strange proceeding. You know what they are. He inquires. Plaster casts, I think. Of what? For what purpose? Look at them well. Now. I glance indifferently at the molds, bearing the clear impression of an ego. It's the cast of a silver dollar, I believe. I am glad you speak truthfully. I had no doubt you would know. I examined your library record and found that you have drawn books on metallurgy. Oh, you suspect me of this? I flare up. No, not at this time. He smiles in a suggestive manner. You have drawn practically every book from the library. I had a talk with the chaplain, and he is positive that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting, because it would be robbing poor people. The reading of my letters must have familiarized the chaplain with anarchist ideas. Yes, Mr. Milligan thinks highly of you. You might antagonize the management, but he assures me you would not abet such a crime. I am glad to hear it. You would protect the federal government? Then? I don't understand you. You would protect the people from being cheated by counterfeit money? The government and the people are not synonymous. Plushing slightly. And frowning, he asks. But you would protect the poor? Yes, certainly. His face brightens. Oh, quite so, quite so. He smiles reassuringly. These molds were found hidden in the north block. No, not in a cell, but in the hall. We suspect a certain man. It's Ed Sloan. He is located two tiers above you. Now, Burke Mann. The management is very anxious to get to the bottom of this matter. It's a crime against the people. You may have heard Sloan speaking to his neighbors about this. No, I am sure you suspect an innocent person. How so? Sloan is a very sick man. It's the last thing he'd think of. Well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him. If you should happen to hear anything, just wrap on the door and inform the officers you are ill. They will be instructed to send for me at once. I can't do it, Borden. Why not, he demands. I am not a spy. Why, certainly not, Burke Mann. I should not ask you to be. But you have friends on the range. You may learn something. Well, think the matter over, he adds, dismissing me. Fitter disappointment at the action of the board. Indignation at the warden's suggestion. Struggle within me as I reach my cell. The guard is about to lock me in. When the deputy warden struts into the block. Officer, unlock him. He commands. Burke Mann. The captain says you are to be assistant. Rangeman. Report to Mr. McElvane for a broom. Two. The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty. Local methods are of no avail. But now my opportunities for escape are more favorable. Considerable changes have taken place during my solitary. And the first necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confidence have been released. Others were transferred during the investigation period to the south wing. To disrupt my connections. New men are about the cell house. And I miss many of my chums. The lower half of the bottom ranges A and K is now exclusively occupied by the insane. Their numbers greatly augmented. Poor wingy has disappeared. Grown violently insane. He was repeatedly lodged in the dungeon. And finally sent to an asylum. There my unfortunate friend had died after two months. His cell is now occupied by Irish Mike. A good natured boy. Turned imbecile by solitary. He hops about on all fours. Bleeding. Bah bah. See the goat. I'm the goat. Bah bah. I shudder at the fate I have escaped. As I look at the familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and youth. Now staring at me from the crank row. Wild eyed and corpse-like. Their minds shattered. Their bodies wasted to a shadow. My heart bleeds as I realize that Sid and Nick fail to recognize me. Their memory a total blank and patsy. The Pittsburgh boot-black stands at the door. Motionless. His eyes glassy. Lips frozen in an inane smile. From cell to cell I pass the graveyard of the living dead. The silence broken only by intermittent savage yells and the piteous bleeding of Mike. The whole day these men are locked in. Deprived of exercise and recreation. Their rations reduced because of delinquency. New bug house cases are continually added from the ranks of the prisoners forced to remain idle and kept in solitary. The sight of the terrible misery almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over Johnny Davis. My young friend had grown ill in the foul basket. He begged to be taken to the hospital. But his condition did not warrant it. The physician said. Moreover, he was in punishment. Poor boy, how he must have suffered. They found him dead on the floor of his cell. My body renews its strength with the exercise and greater liberty of the range. The subtle hope of the warden to corrupt me as turned to my advantage. I smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human nature. Determined by a lifetime of corruption and hypocrisy. How saddening is the shallowness of popular opinion. Warden Wright is hailed as a progressive man, a deep student of criminology, who has introduced modern methods in the treatment of prisoners as an expression of respect and appreciation. The National Prison Association has selected Captain Wright as its delegate to the International Congress at Brussels, which is to take place in 1900. And all the time the warden is designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings of the idle men for exercise, and exerting his utmost efforts to increase sickness and insanity. In the attempt to force the repeal of the convict labor law, the puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt. Public sentiment in regard to convict competition with outside labor has swept the state. The efforts of the warden, disastrous, though they may be to the inmates, are doomed to failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted experience of 30 years. The so confidently uttered suspicion of Ed Sloan in regard to the counterfeiting charge has proved mere lip wisdom. The real culprit is Bob Runyon, the trustee basking in the warden's special graces. His intimate friend, John Smith, the witness and protégé of Torrain, has confided to me the whole story in a final effort to set himself straight. He even exhibited to me the coins made by Runyon, together with the original molds, cast in the trustee's cell. And poor Sloan, still under surveillance, is slowly dying of neglect, the doctor charging him with eating soap to produce symptoms of illness. Three, the year passes in a variety of interests. The girl and several newly won correspondents hold the thread of outside life. The twin has gradually withdrawn from our New York circles, and is now entirely obscured on my horizon. But the girl is staunch and devoted, and I keenly anticipate her regular mail. She keeps me informed of events in the International Labor Movement, news of which is almost entirely lacking in the daily press. We discuss the revolutionary expressions of the times, and I learn more about Pallas and Luchini, whose acts of the previous winter had thrown Europe into a ferment of agitation. I hunger for news from the agitation against the tortures in month to week. The revival of the Inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution and deep compassion for my persecuted comrades in the Spanish Bastille. Beneath the suppressed tone of her letters, I read the girl's suffering and pain, and feel the heartpangs of her unuttered personal sorrows. Presently I am apprised that some prominent persons, interested in my case, are endeavoring to secure Carnegie's signature for a renewed application to the Board of Pardons. The girl conveys the information guardedly. The absence of comment discovers to me the anguish of soul the depth has caused her. What terrible despair had given birth to this suggestion, I wonder. If the project of the underground escape had been put in operation, we should not have had to suffer such humiliation. Why have my friends ignored the detailed plan I had submitted to them through Karl? I am confident of its feasibility and success. If we can muster the necessary skill and outlay, the animosity of the prison authorities precludes the thought of legal release. The underground route, very difficult and expensive, though it be, is the sole hope. It must be realized. My sub-Rosa communications suspended during the temporary absence of Mr. Shravi. I hinted these thoughts in official mail to the girl, but refrained from objecting to the Carnegie idea. Other matters of interest I learned from correspondence with friends in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The frequent letters of Karl, still reminiscent of his sojourn at Riverside, thrilled with the joy of active propaganda and of his success as public speaker, Walterine DeClaire and Sarah Patton lend color to my existence by the cursive epistles of great charm and rebellious thought. Often I pause to wonder at the miracle of my mail passing the sensorial eyes, but the chaplain is a busy man. Careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a demand upon his time. The correspondence with Maddie I turn over to my neighbor, Pasquale, a young Italian serving 16 years, who has developed a violent passion for the pretty face on the photograph. The roguish eyes and sweet lips exert, but a passing impression upon me. My thoughts turn to Johnny, my young friend in the convict grave. Deep snow is on the ground. It must be cold beneath the sod. The white shroud is pressing, pressing heavy upon the lone boy, like the suffocating night of the basket cell. But in the spring little blades of green will sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly burst and flower, all white, and perfume the air, and shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of Johnny. End of Section 38 Section 39 of Prison Memoise of an Anarchist This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Prison Memoise of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman Part 2 Chapter 32 The Deviousness of Reform Law Applied February 14, 1899 Dear Carolus The Greeks thought the gods spiteful creatures. When things begin to look brighter for man, they grow envious. You'll be surprised. Mr. Schwabbe has turned into an enemy, mostly my own fault. That's the sting of it. It will explain to you, the failure of the former sub-ro sub-route. The present one is safe, but very temporary. It happened last fall. From assistant I was advanced to Hallman, having charge of the crank-row on Range A. A new order curtailed the rations of the insane. No cornbread, cheese, or hash. Only bread and coffee. As Range Man, I helped to feed, and generally have extras left on the wagon. Someone sick, or refusing food, etc. I used to distribute the extras on the QT among the men deprived of them. One day, just before Christmas, an officer happened to notice Patsy chewing a piece of cheese. The poor fellow was quite an imbecile. He did not know enough to hide what I gave him. Well, you are aware that cornbread Tom does not love me. He reported me. I admitted the charge to the warden, and tried to tell him how hungry the men were. He wouldn't hear of it, saying that the insane should not overload their stomachs. I was ordered locked up. Within a month, I was out again. But imagine my surprise when Shrauby refused even to talk to me. At first I could not fathom the mystery. Later I learned that he was reprimanded, losing ten days' pay for allowing me to feed the demented. He knew nothing about it, of course, but he was at the time in special charge of crank-row. The Shrauby had been telling my friends that I got him in trouble willfully. He seems to nurse his grievance with much bitterness. He apparently hates me now with the hatred we often feel toward those who know our secrets. But he realizes he has nothing to fear from me. Many changes have taken place since you left. You would hardly recognize the block if you returned. Better stay out, though. No more talking through the waste pipes. The new privies have standing water. Electricity is gradually taking the place of candles. The garish light is almost driving me blind. And the innovation has created a new problem. How to light our pipes. We are given the same monthly allowance of matches. Each package supposed to contain 30, but usually have 27. And at last month I received only 25. I made a kick, but it was in vain. The worst of it is, fully a third of the matches are damp and don't light. While we used candles we managed somehow, borrowing a few matches occasionally from non-smokers. But now the candles are abolished. The difficulty is very serious. I split each match into four. Sometimes I succeeded making six. There is a man on the range who is an artist at it. He can make eight cuts out of a match. All serviceable, too. Even at that, there is a famine. And I have been forced to return to the Stone Age. With flint and tender I draw the fire of Prometheus. The mess room is in full blast. The sight of a thousand men bent over their food in complete silence. Officers flanking each table. Is by no means appetizing. But during the Spanish war, the place resembled the cell house on New Year's Eve. The patriotic warden daily read to the diners the latest news. And such cheering and wild yelling you have never heard, especially did the hopson exploit fire the spirit of jingoism. But the enthusiasm suddenly cooled when the men realized that they were wasting precious minutes harrying, and then leaving the table hungry when the bell terminated the meal. Some tried to pocket the uneaten beans and rice, but the guards detected them. And after that the warden's war reports were accompanied only with loud munching and champing. Another innovation is exercise. Your interviews with the reporters and those of other released prisoners have at last forced the warden to allow the idol men an hour's recreation. In inclement weather, they walk in the cell house on fine days in the yard. The reform was instituted last autumn, and the improvement in health is remarkable. The doctor is enthusiastically in favor of the privilege. The sick line has been so considerably reduced that he estimates his time saving at two hours daily. Some of the boys tell me they have almost entirely ceased masturbating. The shop employs envy the idolers now. Many have purposely precipitated trouble in order to be put in solitary, and thus enjoy an hour in the open. But Sandy got next, and now those locked up for cause are excluded from exercise. Here are some data for our book. The population at the end of last year was 956, the lowest point in over a decade. The warden admits that the war has decreased crime. The inspector's report refers to the improved economic conditions, as compared with the panicky times of the opening years in the 90s. But the authorities do not appear very happy over the reduction in the riverside population. You understand the reason, the smaller the total, the less men may be exploited in the industries. I am not prepared to say whether there is collusion between the judges and the administration of the prison. But it is very significant that the class of offenders formerly sent to the workhouse are being increasingly sentenced to the penitentiary, and an unusual number are transferred here from the reformatory at Huntington and the reform school of Morganza. The old-timers joke about the warden telephoning to the criminal court to notify the judges how many men are wanted for the stocking shop. The unions might be interested in the methods of nullifying the convict labor law. In every shop, twice as many are employed as the statute allows. The illegal are carried on the books as men working on state account, that is, as cleaners and clerks, not as producers. Thus, it happens that in the match shop, for instance, more men are booked as clerks and sweepers than are employed on the looms. In the broom shop, there are 30 supposed clerks and 15 cleaners, to a total of 53 producers legally permitted. This is the way the legislation works, on which the labor bodies have expended such tremendous efforts. The broom shop is still contracted to laying brothers with their own foremen in charge and a son-a-guard in the prison. Enough for today. When I hear of the safe arrival of this letter, I may have more intimate things to discuss. A. End of Section 39 Section 40 of Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist by Alexander Bergman Part 2 Chapter 33 The Tunnel 1. The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons terminates all hope of release by legal means. Had the Board refused to commute my sentence after hearing the argument, another attempt could be made later on. But the refusal to grant a re-hearing, the crafty stratagem to circumvent even the presentation of my case, reveals the duplicity of the previous promise and the guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied sentences. The authorities are determined that I should remain in the prison confident that it will prove my tomb, realizing this fires my defiance, and all the stubborn resistance of my being. There is no hope of surviving my term. At best, even with the full benefit of the commutation time, which will hardly be granted me, in view of the attitude of the prison management, I still have over nine years to serve, but existence is becoming increasingly more unbearable. Long confinement in the solitary have drained my vitality. To endure the nine years is almost a physical impossibility. I must therefore concentrate all my energy and efforts upon escape. My position as range-man is of utmost advantage. I have access to every part of the cell-house, accepting the crank-row. The incident of feeding the insane has put an embargo upon my communication with them, a special hall-boy having been assigned to care for the deranged. But within my area on the range are the recent arrivals in the sane solitaries. The division of my duties with the new man merely facilitates my task, and affords me more leisure. The longing for liberty constantly besets my mind, suggesting various projects. The idea of escape daily strengthens into the determination born of despair. It possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping every thought, molding every action. By degrees I curtail correspondence with my prison chums, that I may devote the solitude of the evening to the development of my plans. The underground tunnel masters my mind with the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities, but the execution. Why do my friends regard the matter so indifferently? Their tapidity irritates me. Often I lash myself into wild anger with Karl for having failed to impress my comrades with the feasibility of the plan, to fire them with the enthusiasm of activity. My subrosa-route is sporadic and uncertain. Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the bitter surprise I feel at their provoking indifference, but my reproaches have been studiously ignored. I cannot believe that conditions in the movement preclude the realization of my suggestion. These things have been accomplished in Russia. Why not in America? The attempt should be made. If only for its propagandistic effect. True, the project will require considerable outlay in the work of skilled and trustworthy men. Have we no such in our ranks? In Parsons and Lum. This country has produced her shirei-abobs. Is the genius of America not equal to a Hartman? Footnote. Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow Railway, undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander II in 1880. End footnote. The tacit skepticism of my correspondence pained me and rouses my resentment. They evidently lack faith in the judgment of one who has been so long separated from their world, from the interests and struggles of the living. The consciousness of my helplessness without aid from the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness, but I will persevere. I will compel their attention and their activity. I, their enthusiasm. With utmost zeal, I cultivate the acquaintance of Tony. The months of frequent correspondence and occasional personal meetings have developed a spirit of congeniality and goodwill. I exert my ingenuity to create opportunities for stolen interviews and closer comradeship. Through the aid of a friendly officer, I procure for Tony the privilege of assisting his rangeman after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate with me to greater advantage. Gradually, we become intimate, and I learn the story of his life, rich in adventure and experience, and Alsatian, small and wiry. Tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash of the Frenchman about him. He is intelligent and daring, the very man to carry out my plan. For days I debate in my mind the momentous question, shall I confide the project to Tony? It would be, placing myself in his power, jeopardizing the sole hope of my life. Yet it is the only way. I must rely on my intuition of the man's worth. My nights are sleepless, excruciating with the agony of indecision, but my friend's sentence is nearing completion. We shall need time for discussion and preparation, for thorough consideration of every detail. At last I resolve to take the decisive step. And the next day I reveal the secret to Tony. His manner allays apprehension, serene and self-possessed. He listens gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent satisfaction, and briefly announces that it shall be done. Only the shining eyes of my reticent comrade betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the adventure. He is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting the careful elaboration of details, and the invention of a cipher to ensure greater safety for our correspondence. The precaution is necessary. It will prove an inestimable value upon his release. With great circumspection, the cryptogram is prepared, based on a discarded system of German shorthand, but somewhat altered, and further involved by the use of words of our own coinage, the cipher, thus perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert. But developments within the prison necessitate changes in the project. The building operations near the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of the latter for my purpose. We consider several new routes, but soon realize that lack of familiarity with the construction of the penitentiary, gas, and sewer systems may defeat our success. There are no means of procuring the necessary information. Tony is confined to the shop, while I am never permitted out of the cellhouse. In vain I strive to solve the difficulty. Weeks pass without bringing light. My providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise of a fight in the yard. The combatants are locked up on my range. One of them proves to be Mack, an aged prisoner serving a third term, during his previous confinement. He had filled the position of fireman, one of his duties consisting in weakly flushing of the sewers. He is thoroughly familiar with the underground piping of the yard, but his reputation among the inmates is tanged with the odor of sicko fancy. He is, however, the only means of solving my difficulty, and I diligently set myself to gain his friendship. I lighten his solitary by numerous expressions of my sympathy, often secretly supplying him with little extras procured from my kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of an opportunity to converse, and I devote every propitious moment to listening to his long-winded stories of the great jobs he had accomplished in his time. The celebrated guns with whom he had associated, the great halls he had made and blowed in with th-fellers. I suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging the recital of his prison experiences and leading him on to dwell upon his last bit. He becomes reminiscent of his friends and riverside bewails the early graves of some others gone bugs, and rejoices over his good chum Patty McGraw managing to escape. The ever interesting subject gives Mack a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity of Patty. While I express surprise that he himself had never attempted to take French leave, what? He bristles up, think I'm such a dummy, and with great detail he discloses his plan, weigh in th-80s to swim through the sewer. I scoff at his folly. You must have been a chump, Mack, to think it could be done. I remark, I was, was I. What do you know about the piping, eh? Now, let me tell you, just wait. And, snatching up his libraries late, he draws a complete diagram of the prison sewerage. In the extreme southwest corner of the yard, he indicates a blind underground alley. What's this? I ask, in surprise. Never knew that, did you? It's a little tunnel connecting th-seller with th-females. See? Not a dozen men in th-dump-note, not even in a good many screws. Passage ain't been used for a long time. In amazement, I scanned the diagram. I had noticed a little trapdoor at the very point in the yard indicated in the drawing, and I had often wondered what purpose it might serve. My heart dances with joy at the happy solution of my difficulty. The blind alley will greatly facilitate our work. It is within 15 feet, or 20 at most, of the southwestern wall. Its situation is very favorable. There are no shops in the vicinity. The place is never visited by guards or prisoners. The happy discovery quickly matures the details of my plan. A house is to be rented opposite the southern wall, on Stirling Street. Preferably it is to be situated very near to the point where the wall adjoins the cell house building. Dug in a direct line across the street, and underneath the south wall. The tunnel will connect with the blind alley. I shall manage the rest, too. Slowly the autumn wanes. The crisp days of the Indian summer linger, as if unwilling to depart, but I am impatient with anxiety and long for the winter. Another month, and Tony will be free. Time lags with tardy step, but at last the week's dwarf in two days, and with joyful heart we count the last hours. Tomorrow my friend will greet the sunshine. He will at once communicate with my comrades and urge the immediate realization of the great plan. His self-confidence and faith will carry conviction, and stir them with enthusiasm for the undertaking. A house is to be bought or rented without loss of time, and the environs inspected. Perhaps operations could not begin till spring. Meanwhile funds are to be collected to further the work. Unfortunately the girl, a splendid organizer, is absent from the country, but my friends will carefully follow the directions I have entrusted to Tony, and through him I shall keep in touch with the developments. I have little opportunity for subbarossa mail by means of our cipher, however we can correspond officially without risk of the censor's understanding, or even suspecting, the innocent looking flourishes scattered through the page. With the trusted Tony my thoughts walk beyond the gates, and again and again I rehearse every step in the project and study every detail. My mind dwells in the outside. In silent preoccupation I perform my duties on the range. More rarely I converse with the prisoners. I must take care to comply with the rules, and to retain my position. To lose it would be disastrous to all my hopes of escape. As I pass the vacant cell, in which I had spent the last year of my solitary, the piteous chirping of a sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts. The little visitor, almost frozen, hops on the bar above. My assistant swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers about the door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. In surprise I pet the bird. It seems quite tame. Why, it's dick, the assistant exclaims. Think of him coming back. My hands tremble as I examine the little bird. With great joy I discover the faint marks of blue ink I had smeared under its wings last summer. When the warden had ordered my little companion thrown out of the window, how wonderful that it should return and recognize the old friend and the cell. Tenderly I warm and feed the bird. What strange sights my little pet must have seen, since he was driven out into the world. What struggles and sorrows he has suffered. The bright eyes look churrily into mine, speaking mute confidence and joy. While he pecks from my hand crumbs of bread and sugar, foolish birdie to return to prison for shelter and food. Cold and cruel must be the world, my little dick. Or is it friendship that is stronger than even love of liberty? So may it be. Almost daily I see men pass through the gates and soon return again, driven back by the world. Even like you, little dick. Yet others there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom than be warm and fed in prison. Even like me, little dick. And still others there be who would risk life and liberty for the sake of their friendship. Even like you and, I hope, Tony, little dick. End of Section 40. CHAPTER 34 THE DEATH OF DICK SUB ROSA. January 15, 1900. TONY. I wright in an agony of despair. I am locked up again. It was all on account of my bird. You remember my feathered pet dick? Last summer the warden ordered him put out. But when cold weather set in, Dick returned. Would he believe it? He came back to my old cell and recognized me when I passed by. I kept him, and he grew as tame as before. He had become a bit wild in the life outside. On Christmas Day, as Dick was playing near my cell, Bob Runyon, the stool, you know, came by and deliberately kicked the bird. When I saw Dick turn over on his side, his little eyes rolling in the throes of death, I rushed at Runyon and knocked him down. He was not hurt much, and everything could have passed off quietly, as no screw was about. But the stool reported me to the deputy and I was locked up. Mitchell has just been talking to me. The good old fellow was fond of Dick, and he promises to give me back on the range. He is keeping the position vacant for me, he says. He put a man in my place who was only a few more weeks to serve. Then I'm to take charge again. I am not disappointed at your information that the work will have to wait till spring. It's unavoidable, but I am happy that preparations have been started. How about those revolvers, though? You haven't changed your mind, I hope. And one of your letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to. How can that be? Jim, the plumber, you know he can be trusted, has been on the lookout for a week. He assures me that nothing came so far. Why do you delay? I hope you didn't throw the package through the cellar window when Jim wasn't at his post. Hardly probable. But if you did, what the devil could have become of it? I see no sign here of the things being discovered. They would surely be a terrible hubbub. Look to it and write it once. A. End of Section 41 Section 42 of Prison Memoirs of Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. Part 2, Chapter 35. An Alliance with the Birds. Part 1 The disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in mystery. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the precarious situation. It defies comprehension and torments me with misgivings. Jim's certainty that the weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar momentarily allays my dread. But Tony's vehement insistence that he had delivered the package throws me into a panic of fear. My firm faith in the two confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense. It is incredible that Tony should seek to deceive me. Yet Jim has kept constant vigil at the point of delivery. There is little probability of his having missed the package. But supposing he has, what has become of it? Perhaps it fell into some dark corner of the cellar. The place must be searched at once. Desperate with anxiety, I resort to the most reckless means to afford Jim an opportunity to visit the cellar. I ransacked the cellhouse for old papers and drags. With miserly hand I gather all odds and ends, broken tools, pieces of wood, a bucket full of sawdust. Trembling with fear of discovery I empty the treasure into the sewer at the end of the hall and tightly jam the elbow of the waste pipe. The smell of excrement fills the block. The cell privies overrun and inundate the hall. The stench is overpowering. Steadily the water rises, threatening to flood the cellhouse. The place is in a turmoil. The solitary shout and rattle on the bars. The guards rush about in confusion. The block captain yells, Hey, Jasper, hurry! Call the plumber! Get Jim! Quick! But repeated investigation of the cellar fails to disclose the weapons. In constant dread of dire possibilities I tremble at every step, fancying lurking suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the days pass. The calm of the prison routine is undisturbed, giving no indication of untoward happening or agitation. By degrees my fears subside. The inexplicable disappearance of the revolvers is fraught with danger. The mystery is disquieting. But it has fortunately brought no results, and must apparently remain unsolved. Unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. Called to the desk by Officer Mitchell for the distribution of the monthly allowance of matches, I casually glance out of the arred door. At the extreme northwestern end, Assistant Deputy Hopkins loiters near the wall, slowly walking on the grass. The unusual presence of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes my suspicion. The singular idling of the energetic guard, his fertilizing of the ground, strengthens my worst apprehensions. Something must have happened. Are they suspecting the tunnel? But work is not being commenced. Besides, it is to terminate at the very opposite point of the yard, fully a thousand feet distant. In perplexity I wonder at the peculiar actions of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every inmate would immediately be subjected to a search and shops and cell-house ransacked. In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night. Morning dawns without bringing a solution. But after breakfast the cell-house becomes strangely quiet. The shop employees remain locked in. The rangemen are ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and shops march into the block, and noisily ascend the galleries. The deputy and Hopkins scurry about the hall. The rotunda door is thrown open with a clang, and the sharp command of the warden resounds through the cell-house. General search! I glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. Surprises of suspected prisoners are frequent, and I am always prepared. But some contraband is on hand. Quickly I snatch my writing material from the womb of the bed-tick. In the very act of destroying several sketches of the previous year a bright thought flashes across my mind. There is nothing dangerous about them, save the theft of the paper. Prison types in the streets of New York, Parkhurst and the Prostitute, Libertas, a study in philology, the slavery of tradition, harmless products of evening leisure. Let them find the booklets. I'll be severely reprimanded for appropriating material from the shops, but my sketches will serve to divert suspicion. The warden will secretly rejoice that my mind is not busy with more dangerous activities, but the sudden search signifies grave developments. General overhaulings involving temporary suspension of the industry's and consequent financial loss are rare. The search of the entire prison is not due till spring. Its precipitancy confirms my worst fears. The weapons have undoubtedly been found. Jim's failure to get possession of them assumes a peculiar aspect. It is possible, of course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through the cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and appropriated it without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the latter's confident assertion of his presence at the window at the appointed moment indicates another probability. The thought is painful, disquieting, but who knows? In an atmosphere of fear and distrust and almost universal espionage, the best friendships are tinged with suspicion. It may be that Jim, afraid of consequences, surrendered the weapons to the warden. He would have no difficulty in explaining the discovery without further betrayal of my confidence. Yet Jim, a peat man of international renown, enjoys the reputation of a thoroughly square man and loyal friend. He has given me repeated proof of his confidence, and I am disinclined to accuse a possibly innocent man. It is fortunate, however, that his information is limited to the weapons. No doubt he suspects some sort of escape, but I have left him in ignorance of my real plans. With these, Tony alone is entrusted. The reflection is reassuring. Even if indiscretion on Tony's part is responsible for the accident, he has demonstrated his friendship, realizing the danger of his mission. He may have thrown in the weapons between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously ascertaining the presence of Jim at his post. But the discovery of the revolvers vindicates the veracity of Tony and strengthens my confidence in him. My fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade, a friend who has already dared great peril for my sake. The general search is over, bringing to light quantities of various contraband. The counterfeit outfit, whose product has been circulating beyond the walls of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret investigation by federal officials. In the general excitement the sketches among my effects have been ignored and left in my possession. But no clue has been found in connection with the weapons. The authorities are still further mystified by the discovery that the lock on the trap door in the roof of the cell-house building had been tampered with. With an effort I suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment of the kindly old Mitchell, as with much secrecy he confides to me the information. I marvel at the official stupidity that failed to make the discovery the previous year, when, by the aid of Jim and my young friend Russell, I had climbed to the top of the cell-house while the inmates were at church and wrenched off the lock of the trap door, leaving in its place an apparent counterpart provided by Jim. With the key in our possession we watched for an opportunity to reach the outside roof, when certain changes in the block created insurmountable obstacles, forcing the abandonment of the project. Russell was unhappy over the discovery. The impulsive young prisoner steadfastly refusing to be reconciled to the failure. His time, however, being short, I have been urging him to accept the inevitable. The constant dwelling upon escape makes imprisonment more unbearable. The passing of his remaining two years would be hastened by the determination to serve out his sentence. The boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue eyes dancing with merriment, a sly smile on the delicate lips. You're right, Alec, he replies gravely, but say, last night I thought out a scheme. It's great, and we're sure to make our getaway. With minute detail he pictures the impossible plan of sawing through the bars of the cell at night, holding up the guards, binding and gagging them, and then the road would be clear. The innocent boy for all his back-country reputation of a bad man is not aware that, then, is the very threshold of difficulties. I seek to explain to him that the guards being disposed of, we should find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. The solid steel double doors leading to the yard are securely locked, key in the sole possession of the captain of the night watch, who cannot be reached except through the well-guarded rotunda. But the boy is not to be daunted. We'll have to storm the rotunda, then, he remarks calmly, and at once proceeds to map out a plan of campaign. He smiles incredulously at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. Oh, yes you will, Alec. I don't believe a word you say. I know you're keen to make a getaway. His confidence, somewhat shaken by my resolution, he announces that he will go it alone. The declaration fills me with trepidation. The reckless youth will throw away his life. His attempt may frustrate my own success. But it is in vain to dissuade him by direct means. I know the determination of the boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance of exuberant youth, combined with indomitable courage. The redundance of animal vitality and the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of Dutch forebears. The taunt of Nerduwel has dripped bitter poison into the innocent pranks of Russell, stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured boy. I tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of his project. He has secreted the saws I have procured from the girl for the attempt of the previous year, and his determination is impatient to make the dash for liberty. Only his devotion to me and respect for my wishes still hold the impetuous boy in leash. But each day his restlessness increases. More insistently, he urges my participation and a definite explanation of my attitude. At a loss to invent new objections, I almost despair dissuading Russell from his desperate purpose. From day to day I secure his solemn promise to await my final decision, the while I vaguely hope for some development that would force the abandonment of his plan, but nothing disturbs the routine, and I grow nervous with dread lest the boy, reckless with impatience, thwart my great project. Part 2 The weather is moderating. The window sashes in the hall are being lowered. The signs of approaching spring multiply. I chafe at the lack of news from Tony, who had departed on his mission to New York. With greedy eyes I follow the chaplain on his rounds of mail-delivery. Impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries, I hasten along the range to meet the postman. Any letters from me, Mr. Milligan, I ask, with an effort to steady my voice? No, my boy. My eyes devour the mail in his hand. And on to-day, Alec Keads, this is for your neighbour Pasquale. I feel apprehensive at Tony s silence. Another twenty-four hours must elapse before the chaplain returns. Perhaps there will be no mail for me tomorrow, either. What can be the matter with my friend? So many dangers menace his every step. He might be sick. Some accident. Anxious days pass without mail. Russell is becoming more insistent, threatening a break. The solitary is murmur at my neglect. I am nervous and irritable. For two weeks I have not heard from Tony. Something terrible must have happened. In a ferment of dread I keep watch on the upper rotunda. The noon hour is approaching. The chaplain fumbles with his keys. The door opens, and he trips along the ranges. Stealthily I follow him under the galleries, pretending to dust the bars. He descends to the hall. Good morning, chaplain. I seek to attract his attention, wistfully peering at the mail in his hand. Good morning, my boy, feeling good to-day. Thank you. Pretty fair. My voice trembles at his delay, but I fear between my anxiety by renewed questioning. He passes me and I feel sick with disappointment. Now he pauses. Alec, he calls. I mislaid a letter for you yesterday. Here it is. With shaking hand I unfold the sheet. In a fever of hope and fear I pour over it in the solitude of the cell. My heart palpitates violently as I scan each word and letter. Seeking hidden meaning, analysing every flourish and dash, carefully distilling the minute lines, fusing the significant dots into the structure of meaning. Glorious! A house has been rented. Twenty-eight Stirling Street, almost opposite the gate of the south wall. Funds are on hand. Work is to begin at once. With nimble step I walk the range. The river wafts sweet fragrance to my cell. The joy of spring is in my heart. Every hour brings me nearer to liberty. The faithful comrades are steadily working underground. Perhaps within a month or two at most the tunnel will be completed. I count the days. Crossing off each morning the date on my calendar. The news from Tony is cheerful, encouraging. The work is progressing smoothly. The prospects of success are splendid. I grow merry at the efforts of uninitiated friends in New York to carry out the suggestions of the attorneys to apply to the Superior Court of the State for a writ on the ground of the unconstitutionality of my sentence. I consult gravely with Mr. Milligan upon the advisability of the step. The amiable chaplain affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance of letter paper. I thank my comrades for their efforts and urge the necessity of collecting funds for the appeal to the upper court. Repeatedly, I ask the advice of the chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my apparent enthusiasm will reach the ears of the warden. The artifice will mask my secret project and lull suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance of success, and with much show of confidence I impress upon the trustees my sanguine expectation of release. I discuss the subject with officers and stools till presently the prison is a gog with the prospective liberation of its fourth oldest inmate. The solitaries charge me with messages to friends, and the deputy warden offers advice on behaviour beyond the walls. The moment is propitious for a bold stroke. Confined to the cell-house I shall be unable to reach the tunnel. The privilege of the yard is imperative. It is June. Unfledged birdies frequently fall from their nests, and I induce the kindly runner southside Johnny to procure for me a brace of sparlings. I christen the little orphan's dick and sis, and the memory of my previous birds is revived among inmates and officers. Old Mitchell is in ecstasy over the intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered friends, but the birds languish and waste in the close air of the block. They need sunshine and gravel and the dusty street to bathe in. Gradually I insist the sympathies of the new doctor by the curious performances of my pets. One day the warden stalls in and joins in admiration of the wonderful birds. Who trained them? he inquires. This man, the physician indicates me, a slight frown flits over the warden's face. Old Mitchell winks at me, encouragingly. Captain, I approach the warden. The birds are sickly for lack of air. Will you permit me to give them an airing in the yard? But why don't you let them go without no permission to keep them? Oh, it would be a pity to throw them out. The doctor intercedes. They are too tame to take care of themselves. Well, then, the warden decides, let Jasper take them out every day. They will not go with anyone except myself, I inform him. They follow me everywhere. The warden hesitates. Why not let Berkman go out with them for a few moments? The doctor suggests. I hear you expect to be free soon. He remarks to me casually. Your case is up for revision? Yes. Well, Berkman, the warden motions to me. I will permit you ten minutes in the yard after your sweeping is done. What time are you through with it? At nine thirty a.m. Mr. Mitchell, every morning at nine thirty you will pass Berkman through the doors for ten minutes on the watch. Then, turning to me, he adds, you are to stay near the greenhouse. There is plenty of sand there if you cross the deadline of the sidewalk or exceed your time a single minute. You will be punished. End of Section 42. Recording by Stephen Harvey. Recording by Andrew Grant. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. By Alexander Berkman. Part 2, Chapter 36. The Underground. May 10th, 1900. My dear Tony, your letters intoxicate me with hope and joy. No sooner have I sipped the rich aroma than I am a thirst for more nectar. Right often, dear friend, it is the only solace of suspense. Do not worry about this end of the line. All is well. By stratagem, I have at last procured the privilege of the yard, only for a few minutes every morning, but I am judiciously extending my prescribed time and area. The prospects are bright here. Everyone talks of my application to the Superior Court, and peace reigns, you understand. A pity I cannot write directly to my dear faithful comrades, your co-workers. You shall be the medium. Transmit to them my deepest appreciation. Tell Yankee and Ibsen and our Italian comrades what I feel. I know I need not explain it further to you. No one realizes better than myself the terrible risks they are taking. The fearful toil in silence and darkness, almost within hearing of the guards. The danger, the heroic self-sacrifice. What money could buy such devotion? I grow faint with the thought of their peril. I could almost cry at the beautiful demonstration of solidarity and friendship. Dear comrades, I feel proud of you, and proud of the great truth of anarchism that can produce such disciples, such spirit. I embrace you, my noble comrades, and may you speed the day that will make me happy with the side of your faces, the touch of your hands. June 5th, dear Tony, your silence was unbearable. The suspense is terrible. Was it really necessary to halt operations so long? I am surprised you did not foresee the shortage of air and the lack of light. You would have saved so much time. It is a great relief to know that the work is progressing again, and very fortunate indeed that Yankee understands electricity. It must be hellish work to pump air into the shaft. Take precautions against the whir of the machinery. The piano idea is great. Keep her playing and singing as much as possible, and be sure you have all windows open. The beasts on the wall will be soothed by the music, and it will drown the noises underground. Have an electric button connected from the piano to the shaft. When the player sees anything suspicious on the street, or the guards on the wall, she can at once notify the comrades to stop work. I am enclosing the wall and yard measurements, you asked. But why do you need them? Don't bother with unnecessary things. From house beneath the street, direct toward the southwestern wall. For that, you can procure measurements outside. On the inside, you require none. Go under wall about 20 to 30 feet, till you strike wall of blind alley. Cut into it, and all will be complete. Right of progress without delay. Greetings to all. June 20th. Tony, your letters bewilder me. Why has the route been changed? You were to go southwest, yet you say now you are near the east wall. It's simply incredible, Tony. Your explanation is not convincing. If you found a gas main near the gate, you would have gone around it. Besides, the gate is out of your way anyhow. Why did you take that direction at all? I wish, Tony, you would follow my instructions and the original plan. Your failure to report the change immediately may prove fatal. I could have informed you, once you were near the southeastern gate, to go directly underneath. Then you would have saved digging under the wall. There is no stone foundation, of course, beneath the gate. Now that you have turned the southeast corner, you will have to come under the wall there, and it is the worst possible place. Because that particular part used to be a swamp, and I have learned that it was filled with extra masonry. Another point, an old abandoned natural gas well is somewhere under the east wall, about 300 feet from the gate. Tell our friends to be on the lookout for fumes. It is a very dangerous place. Special precautions must be taken. Do not mind my brusqueness, dear Tony. My nerves are on edge. The suspense is driving me mad, and I must mask my feelings and smile and look indifferent. But I haven't a moment's peace. I imagine the most terrible things when you fail to write. Please be more punctual. I know you have your hands full, but I fear I'll go insane before this thing is over. Tell me especially how far you intend going along the east wall, and where you'll come out. This complicates the matter. You have already gone a longer distance than would have been necessary per original plan. It was a grave mistake, and if you were not such a devoted friend, I'd feel very cross with you. Right at once. I am arranging a new Subrosa routine. They are building in the yard. Many outside drivers, you understand. Tunnel A. House on Sterling Street from which the tunnel started. B. Point at which the tunnel entered under the east wall. C. Mat Shop near which the author was permitted to take his birds for ten minutes every day for exercise. D. North Block where the author was confined at the time of the tunnel episode. E. South Block Dear Tony, I am in great haste to send this. You know the shed opposite the east wall. It is only a wooden floor and is not frequented much by officers. A few cons are there from the stone pile. I'll attend to them. Make directly for that shed. It's a short distance from wall. I enclose measurements. Tony, you distract me beyond words. What has become of your caution, your judgment? A hole in the grass will not do. I am absolutely opposed to it. There are a score of men on the stone pile and several screws. It is sure to be discovered. And even if you leave the upper crust intact for a foot or two, how am I to dive into the hole in the presence of so many? You don't seem to have considered that. There is only one way, the one I explained in my last. Go to the shed. It's only a little more work. 30 to 40 feet, no more. Tell the comrades the grass idea is impossible. A little more effort, friends, and all will be well. Answer it once. Dear Tony, why do you insist on the hole in the ground? I tell you again, it will not do. I won't consider it for a moment. I am on the inside. You must let me decide what can or cannot be done here. I am prepared to risk everything for liberty. Would risk my life a thousand times. I am too desperate now for anyone to block my escape. I'd break through a wall of guards if necessary. But I still have a little judgment, though I am almost insane with the suspense and anxiety. If you insist on the hole, I'll make the break. Though there is not one chance and a hundred for success, I beg of you, Tony, the thing must be dug to the shed. It's only a little way. After such a tremendous effort, can we jeopardize it all so lightly? I assure you, the success of the whole plan is unthinkable. They'd all see me go down into it. I'd be followed at once. What's the use of talking? Besides, you know, I have no revolvers. Of course, I'll have a weapon, but it will not help the escape. Another thing, your change of plans has forced me to get an assistant. The man is reliable, and I have only confided to him parts of the project. I need him to investigate around the shed, take measurements, etc. I am not permitted anywhere near the wall. But you need not trouble about this. I'll be responsible for my friend. But I tell you about it so that you prepare two pair of overalls instead of one. Also, leave two revolvers in the house. Money and cipher directions for us where to go. None of our comrades is to wait for us. Let them all leave as soon as everything is ready. But be sure you don't stop at the hole. Go to the shed, absolutely. Tony, the hole will not do. The more I think of it, the more impossible I find it. I am sending an urgent call from money to the editor. You know whom I mean. Get in communication with him at once. Use the money to continue work to shed. Direct to Box A7, Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, June 25, 1900. Dear comrade, the chaplain was very kind to permit me an extra sheet of paper on urgent business. I write to you in a very great extremity. You are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal my case. Read carefully, please. I have lost faith in their attorneys. I have engaged my own lawyers, lawyers in quotation marks. A prison joke, you see. I have utmost confidence in these lawyers. They will absolutely procure my release, even if it is not a pardon, you understand. I mean, we'll go to the superior court, different from a pardon board. Another prison joke. My friends are short of money. We need some at once. The work is started, but cannot be finished for lack of funds. Mark well what I say. I'll not be responsible for anything. The worst may happen unless money is procured at once. You have influence. I rely on you to understand and to act promptly. Your comrade, Alexander Berkman. My poor Tony. I can see how this thing has gone on your nerves. To think that you, you, the cautious Tony, should be so reckless to send me a telegram. You could have ruined the whole thing. I had trouble explaining to the chaplain, but it's all right now. Of course, if it must be the whole, it can't be helped. I understood the meaning of your wire, from the seventh bar on the east wall, ten feet to west. We'll be there on the minute, three p.m. But July 4th won't do. It's a holiday. No work. My friend will be locked up. Can't leave him in the lurch. It will have to be next day, July 5th. It's only three days more. I wish it was over. I can't bear the worry and suspense anymore. May it be my Independence Day. July 6th. Tony. It's terrible. It's all over. Couldn't make it. Went there on time, but found a big pile of stone and brick right on top of the spot. Impossible to do anything. I warned you. There were buildings near there. I was seen at the wall, and now strictly forbidden to leave the cell house. But my friend has been there a dozen times since. The hole can't be reached. A mountain of stones hides it. It won't be discovered for a little while. Telegraph at once to New York for more money. You must continue to the shed. I can force my way there, if need be. It's the only hope. Don't lose a minute. July 13th. Tony, $100 was sent to the office for me from New York. I told Chaplin it is for my appeal. I am sending the money to you. Have work continue at once. There is still hope. Nothing suspected. But the wire that you pushed through the grass to indicate the spot was not found by my friend. Too much stone over it. Go to shed at once. July 16th. Tunnel discovered. Lose no time. Leave the city immediately. I am locked up on suspicion. End of Section 43 Section 44 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman 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 Christine Lehmann, Recita, California. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman Section 44 Chapter 37 Anxious Days The discovery of the tunnel overwhelms me with the violence of an avalanche. The plan of continuing the work, the trembling hope of escape, of liberty, life, all is suddenly terminated. My nerves, tense with the months of suspense and anxiety, relax abruptly. With torpid brain I wonder, is it possible, is it really possible? An air of uneasiness, as of lurking danger, fills the prison. Vague rumors are afloat. A wholesale jail delivery had been planned. The walls were to be dynamited, the guards killed. An escape has actually taken place, it is whispered about. The warden wears a look of bewilderment and fear. The officers are alert with suspicion. The inmates manifest disappointment and nervous impatience. The routine is violently disturbed. The shops are closed. The men locked in the cells. The discovery of the tunnel mystifies the prison and the city authorities. Some children, at play on the street, had accidentally wandered into the yard of the deserted house opposite the prison gates. The piles of freshly dug soil attracted their attention. A boy, stumbling into the cellar, was frightened by the sight of the deep cavern. His mother notified the agent of the house, who, by a peculiar coincidence, proved to be an officer of the penitentiary. But in vain are the efforts of the prison authorities to discover any sign of the tunnel within the walls. Days pass in the fruitless investigation of the yard. The outlet of the tunnel, within the prison, cannot be found. Perhaps the underground passage does not extend to the penitentiary. The warden voices his firm conviction that the walls have not been penetrated. Evidently it was not the prison, he argues, which was the objective point of the diggers. The authorities of the city of Allegheny decide to investigate the passage from the house on Stirling Street. But the men that essay to crawl through the narrow tunnel are forced to abandon their mission, driven back by the fumes of escaping gas. It is suggested that the unknown diggers, whatever their purpose, have been trapped in the abandoned gas well and perished before the arrival of aid. The fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposition of human bodies. The terrible accident has forced the inmates of 28 Stirling Street to suspend their efforts before completing the work. The condition of the house, the half-eaten meal on the table, the clothing scattered about the rooms, the general disorder, all seem to point to precipitate flight. The persistence of the assertion of a fatal accident disquietes me, in spite of my knowledge to the contrary, yet, perhaps the reckless Tony, in his endeavour to force the wire signal through the upper crust, perished in the well, the thought unnerves me with horror, till it is announced that a negro, whom the police had induced to crawl the length of the tunnel, brought positive assurance that no life was sacrificed in the underground work. Still, the prison authorities are unable to find the objective point, and it is finally decided to tear up the streets beneath which the tunnel winds its mysterious way. The undermined place inside the walls at last being discovered after a week of digging at various points in the yard, the Warden reluctantly admits the apparent purpose of the tunnel, at the same time informing the press that the evident design was the liberation of the anarchist prisoner. He corroborates his view by the circumstance that I had been reported for unpermitted presence at the east wall, pretending to collect gravel for my birds. Assistant Deputy Warden Hopkins further asserts having seen and talked with Carl Nolde near the criminal house, a short time before the discovery of the tunnel. The developments, fraught with danger to my friends, greatly alarm me. Fortunately no clue can be found in the house, save a note in cipher which apparently defies the skill of experts. The Warden, on his Sunday rounds, passes my cell, then turns as if suddenly recollecting something. Here, Berkman, he says blandly, producing a paper, the press is offering a considerable reward to anyone who will decipher the note found in the Stirling Street house. It's reproduced here, see if you can't make it out. I scan the paper carefully, quickly reading Tony's directions for my movements after the escape. Then, returning the paper, I remark indifferently. I can read several languages, Captain, but this is beyond me. The police and detective bureaus of the Twin Cities make the announcement that a thorough investigation conclusively demonstrates that the tunnel was intended for William Boyd, a prisoner serving twelve years for a series of daring forgeries. His pals had succeeded in clearing fifty thousand dollars on forged bonds, and it is they who did the wonderful feat underground to secure the liberty of the valuable Penman. The controversy between the authorities of Allegheny and the management of the prison is full of animosity and bitterness. Wardens of prisons, chiefs of police, and detective departments of various cities are consulted upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and the discussion in the press waxes warm and antagonistic. Presently the chief of police of Allegheny suffers a change of heart and sides with the Warden, as against his personal enemy, the head of the Pittsburgh Detective Bureau. The confusion of published views and my persistent denial of complicity in the tunnel cause the much worried Warden to fluctuate. A number of men are made the victims of his mental uncertainty. Following my exile into solitary, Pat McGraw is locked up as a possible beneficiary of the planned escape. In 1890 he had slipped through the roof of the prison, the Warden argues, and it is therefore reasonable to assume that the man is meditating another delivery. Jack Robinson, Cronin, Nann, and a score of others are in turn suspected by Captain Wright and ordered locked up during the preliminary investigation. But because of absolute lack of clues the prisoners are presently returned to work, and the number of suspects is reduced to myself and Boyd, the Warden having discovered that the latter had recently made an attempt to escape by forcing an entry into the cupola of the shop he was employed in, only to find the place useless for his purpose. A process of elimination and the espionage of the trustees gradually center exclusive suspicion upon myself. In surprise I learned that young Russell has been cited before the Captain. The fear of indiscretion on the part of the Boyd startles me from my torpor. I must employ every device to confound the authorities and save my friends. Fortunately none of the tunnelers have yet been arrested, the controversy between the city officials and the prison management having favored inaction. My comrades cannot be jeopardized by Russell. His information is limited to the mere knowledge of the specific person for whom the tunnel was intended. The names of my friends are entirely unfamiliar to him. My heart goes out to the young prisoner, as I reflect that never once had he manifested curiosity concerning the men at the secret work. Desperate with confinement, and passionately yearning for liberty though he was, he had yet offered to sacrifice his longings to aid my escape. How transported with joy was the generous youth when I resolved to share my opportunity with him. He had given faithful service in attempting to locate the tunnel entrance. The poor boy had been quite distracted at our failure to find the spot. I feel confident Russell will not betray the secret in his keeping. Yet the persistent questioning by the warden and inspectors is perceptibly working on the Boyd's mind. He is so young and inexperienced, barely nineteen. A slip of the tongue, an inadvertent remark, might convert suspicion into conviction. Every day Russell is called to the office, causing me torments of apprehension and dread, till a glance at the returning prisoner, smiling encouragingly as he passes my cell, informs me that the danger is past for the day. With a deep pang I observe the increasing pallor of his face, the growing restlessness in his eyes, the languid step, the continuous inquisition is breaking him down, with quivering voice he whispers as he passes. Alec, I'm afraid of them. The warden has threatened him, he informs me, if he persists in his pretended ignorance of the tunnel. His friendship for me is well known, the warden reasons. We have often been seen together in the cell-house and yard. I must surely have confided to Russell my plans of escape. The big, strapping youth is dwindling to a shadow under the terrible strain. Dear faithful friend, how guilty I feel toward you, how torn in my inmost heart to have suspected your devotion, even for that brief instant when, in a panic of fear, you had denied to the warden all knowledge of the slip of paper found in your cell. It cast suspicion upon me as the rider of the strange Jewish scrawl. The warden scorned my explanation that Russell's desire to learn Hebrew was the sole reason for my riding the alphabet for him. The mutual denial seemed to point to some secret. The scrawl was similar to the cipher note found in the sterling street house, the warden insisted. How strange that I should have so successfully confounded the inspectors with the contradictory testimony regarding the tunnel that they returned me to my position on the range! And yet the insignificant incident of Russell's hieroglyphic imitation of the Hebrew alphabet should have given the warden a pretext to order me into solitary. How distracted and bitter I must have felt to charge the boy with treachery. His very reticence strengthened my suspicion, and all the while the tears welled into his throat, choking the innocent lad beyond speech. How little I suspected the terrible wound my hasty imputation had caused my devoted friend. In silence he suffered for months, without opportunity to explain, when at last, by mere accident, I learned the fatal mistake. In vain I strived to direct my thoughts into different channels. My misunderstanding of Russell plagues me with recurring persistence. The unjust accusation torments my sleepless nights. It was a moment of intense joy that I experienced as I humbly begged his pardon to-day, when I met him in the captain's office. A deep sense of relief, almost of peace, filled me at his unhesitating, oh, never mind, Alec, it's all right, we were both excited. I was overcome by thankfulness and admiration of the noble boy. And the next instant the sight of his wan face, his wasted form, pierced me as with a knife thrust. With the earnest conviction of strong faith I sought to explain to the Board of Inspectors the unfortunate error regarding the Jewish writing. But they smiled doubtfully. It was too late. Their opinion of a pre-arranged agreement with Russell was settled. But the testimony of Assistant Deputy Hopkins that he had seen and conversed with Nold a few weeks before the discovery of the Tunnel, and that he saw him enter the criminal house, afforded me an opportunity to divide the views among the inspectors. I experienced little difficulty in convincing two members of the Board that Nold could not possibly have been connected with the Tunnel because for almost a year previously and since he had been in the employ of a St. Louis firm. They accepted my offer to prove by the official timetables of the company that Nold was in St. Louis on the very day that Hopkins claimed to have spoken with him. The fortunate and very natural error of Hopkins in mistaking the similar appearance of Tony for that of Carl enabled me to discredit the chief link connecting my friends with the Tunnel. The diverging views of the police officials of the Twin Cities still further confounded the inspectors, and I was gravely informed by them that the charge of attempted escape against me had not been conclusively substantiated. They ordered my reinstatement as rangeman, but the captain, on learning the verdict, at once charged me before the Board with conducting a secret correspondence with Russell, on the pretext of the alleged Hebrew note the inspectors confirmed the warden's judgment and I was sentenced to the solitary and immediately locked up in the South Wing. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Recording by Chad Horner from Ballochlear in County Andrum, Northern Ireland, situated in the North East of the Island of Ireland. Prison Memoirs of Ornannacist by Alexander Berkman. Part 2, Chapter 38. How Men Their Brothers Meme. Section 1. The solitary is strifeling with the august heat. The hall windows high above the floor cast a sickly light shrouding the bottom range in darksome gloom. At every point my gaze meets the irritating white of the walls. In spots of yellow with damp, the long days are oppressive with silence. The stone cage echoes my languid footsteps mournfully. Once more I feel cast into the night, torn from the midst of the living. The failure of the tunnel forever excludes the hope of liberty. Terrified by the possibilities of the planned escape, the warden's determination dims my fate. I shall end my days in strictest seclusion. He has informed me. Severe punishment is visited upon anyone daring to converse with me. Even officers are forbidden to pause at my cell. Old Evans, the nightguard, is afraid even to answer my greeting, since he was disciplined with the loss of ten days' pay for being seen at my door. It was not his fault, perled man. The night was sultry. The sashes of the hall window opposite my cell were tightly closed, almost suffocated with the vile air. I requested the passing of Evans to raise the window. It had been ordered shut by the warden. He informed me. As he turned to leave, three sharp wraps on the bars of the upper rotunda almost rooted him to the spot with amazement. It was 2 a.m. No one was supposed to be there at night. Come here, Evans. I recognised the curt tones of the warden. What business have you ye at that man's door? I could distinctly hear each word, cutting the stillness of the night. In vain the frightened officer shot to explain, he had merely answered a question. He had stopped but a moment. I had been watching you there for half an hour. The irate warden insisted. Report to me in the morning, since then the guards on their rounds merely glanced between the bars and passed on in silence. I have been removed, with in closer observation of the nightly prouding captain, and am now located near the rotunda in the second cell on the ground floor, Range Y. The stringent orders of exceptional surveillance have so terrorised my friends that they do not venture to look in my direction. A single officer has been assigned to the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to keep me under observation. I feel buried alive. Communication with my comrades has been interrupted, the warden detaining my meal. I am deprived of books and papers. All my privilege is curtailed. If only I had my birds. The company of my little pets would give me consolation, but they have been taken from me, and I fear the guards have killed them. Deprived of work and exercise, I pass the days in the solitary monotonous interminable. Section 2 By degrees, anxiety over my friends is allied. The mystery of the tunnel remains unsolved. The warden reiterates his moral certainty that the underground passage was intended for the liberation of the anarchist prisoner. The views of the police and detect officials of the twin cities are hopelessly divergent. Each side a search, thorough familiarity with the case, and positive conviction regarding the guilty parties. But the alleged clues, proving misleading, the matter is finally abandoned. The passage has been filled with cement, and the official investigation is terminated. The safety of my comrades shed a red light into the darkness of my existence. It is consoling to reflect that disastrous as the failure is to myself, my friends will not be made victims of my longing for liberty. At no time since the discovery of the tunnel has suspicion been directed to the right persons. The narrow official horizon does not extend beyond the familiar names of the girl, Nold, and Bauer. These have been pointed out by the accusing finger repeatedly, but the men actually concerned in the secret attempt have not even been mentioned. No danger threatens him from the failure of my plans. In the communication to a local newspaper, Nold has incontrovertibly proved his continuous residence in St. Louis for a period covering a year previous to the tunnel on afterwards. Bauer has recently married. At no time have the police been in ignorance of his whereabouts, and they are aware that my former fellow prisoner is to be discounted as a participator in the attempted escape. Indeed, the prison officials must have learned from my mail that the big German is regarded by my friends as an ex-comrade merely, but the suspicion of the authorities directed toward the girl with a powering of bitterness I think of her unfortunate absence from the country during the momentous period of the underground work. With resentment I reflect that, but for that I might now be at liberty. Her skill as an organiser, her growing influence in the movement, her energy and devotion would have assured the success of the undertaking. But Tony's unaccountable delay had resulted in her departure without learning of my plans. It is to him, to his obstinacy and conceit, that the failure of the project is mostly due, staunch and faithful though he is. In turn I lay the responsibility at the door of this friend, and that lashing myself into furious rage at the renegade who had appropriated a considerable sum of the money intended for the continuation of the underground work, yet the outbursts of passion spent. I strive to find consolation in the correctness of the ensued judgment that prompted the selection of my lawyers, the devoted comrades who so heroically toiled for my sake in the boils of the earth. Half naked they had laboured through the weary days and nights, stretched at full length in the narrow passage, their bodies perspiring and shelled in turn, their hands bleeding with the terrible toil, and though the weeks and months of nerve-wracking work and confinement in the tunnel of constant dread of detection and anxiety over the result, my comrades had uttered no word of doubt or fear in full reliance upon their invisible friend. What self-sacrifice in behalf of one whom some of you had never even known? Dear beloved comrades, had you succeeded, my life could never repay your almost superhuman efforts and love. Only the future years of active devotion to our great common cause could in a measure express my thankfulness and pride in you, whoever, wherever you are, nor were your heroism, your skill and indomitable perseverance, without avail. You have given an invaluable demonstration of the elemental reality of the ideal, of the marvellous strength and courage born, of solidaric purpose, of the height's devotion to a great cause can ascend, and the lesson has not been lost. Almost unanimous is the voice of the press, only anarchists could have achieved the wonderful feat. The subject of the tunnel fascinates my mind, how little thought I had given to my comrades toiling underground in the anxious days of my own apprehension and suspense. With increasing vividness, I visualised their trepidation, the constant fear of discovery, the ecurlian efforts in spite of ever-present danger, how terrible must have been their despair at the inability to continue the work of a successful termination. My reflections fill me with renewed strength. I must live. I must live to meet those heroic men, to take them by the hand and with silent lips pour my heart into their eyes. I shall be proud of their comership and strive to be worthy of it. Section 3 The lines form in the hallway and silently march to the shops. I peer through the barge, for the sight of a familiar face brings cheer and the memory of the days on the range. My friends, unseen for years, passed by myself. How big Jack was wasted. The deep chest is sunk in. The face drawn and yellow. The reddish spots are about the cheekbones. Poor Jack's was strong and energetic. How languid and weak his step is now. And Jimmy is all broken up with rheumatism and hops and crutches. With difficulty I recognise Harry Fisher. The two years have completely changed the young Morganza boy. He looks old at 17. The rosy cheeks a ghastly white. The delicate features immobile hard and large bright eyes dull and glassy. Vividly my friends stand before me in the youth and strength of their first arrival. How changed their appearance. My purge hums, readers of the prison blossoms, helpers in our investigation efforts. What wrecks the torture of hell is made of you. I recall with sadness the first years of my imprisonment. And my coldly impersonal valuation of social victims. There is Evans, the aged burglar, smiling furtively at me from the line. Far in the distance seems the day when I read his marginal note upon a magazine article I sent him concerning the stupendous cost of crime. I had felt quite peaked at the flippancy of his comment. We come high but they must have us. With this severe intellectuality of revolutionary tradition I thought of him and his kind as inevitable fungus growths, the rotten fruit of a decay in society. Unfortunate derelicts indeed yet parasites almost devoid of humanity. But the threads of comradeship have slowly been woven by common misery. The touch of sympathy has discovered the man beneath the criminal. The crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of kindness, warming into view the pulp retaining human heart. Old Evans and Sammy and Bob, what suffering and pain must have chilled their very souls with the winter of savage bitterness and the resurrection trembles with them. How terrible man's ignorance that forever condemns itself to be scourged by its own blind fury. And these my friends Davis and Russell, these innocently guilty. What worse punishment could society afflict upon itself than the loss of their latent nobility which it had killed. Not entirely in vain are the years of suffering that have waged my kinship with the humanity of Les Miserables, whom social stupidity has cast into the valley of death. End of section 45 Section 46 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman Part 2 Chapter 39 A New Plan of Escape My new neighbour turns my thoughts into a different channel. It is fighting Tom, returned after several years of absence. By means of a string attached to a wire we swing notes to each other at night, and Tom startles me by the confession that he was the author of the mysterious note I had received soon after my arrival in the penitentiary. An escape was being planned, he informs me, and I was to be let in by his recommendation. But one of the conspirators getting cold feet. The plot was betrayed to the warden, where upon Tom sent the snitch to the hospital. As a result however, he was kept in solitary till his release. In the prison he had become proficient as a broom maker, and it was his intention to follow the trade. There was nothing in the crooked line he thought, and he resolved to be honest. But on the day of his discharge he was arrested at the gate by officers from Illinois on an old charge. He swore vengeance against assistant deputy Hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop the remark that he would never return to Illinois, because he was wanted there. He lived the five years in the Joliet prison in the sole hope of getting square with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. Upon his release he returned to Pittsburgh, determined to kill Hopkins. On the night of his arrival he broke into the latter's residence, prepared to avenge his wrongs. But the assistant deputy had left the previous day on his vacation. Furious at being baffled, Tom was about to set fire to the house. When the light of his match fell upon a silver trinket on the bureau of the bedroom, it fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off it. Suddenly he was seized with a desire to examine the contents of the house. The old passion was upon him. He could not resist. Hardly conscious of his actions, he gathered the silverware into a tablecloth and quietly stole out of the house. He was arrested the next day, as he was trying to pawn his booty. An old offender, he received a sentence of ten years. Since his arrival, eight months ago, he has been kept in solitary. His health is broken. He has no hope of surviving his sentence. But if he is to die, he swears he is going to take his man along. Aware of the determination of fighting Tom, I realise that the safety of the hated officer is conditioned by Tom's lack of opportunity to carry out his revenge. I feel little sympathy for Hopkins, whose craftiness in warming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on the payroll of the Pinkerton Agency. But I exert myself to persuade Tom that it would be sheer insanity, thus deliberately to put his head in the noose. He is still a young man, barely thirty. It is not worth while sacrificing his life for the sneak of a guard. However, Tom remains stubborn. My arguments seem merely to rouse his resistance and strengthen his resolution, but closer acquaintance reveals to me his exceeding conceit over his art and technique as a second-story expert. I play upon his vanity, scoffing at the crudity of his plans of revenge. Would it not be more in conformity with his reputation as a skilled gun, I argue, to do the job in a smoother manner? Tom assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more interested. Presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he warms to the suggestion of a break. Once outside, well, I'll get him all right, he chuckles. The plan of escape completely absorbs us. On alternate nights, we take turns in timing the rounds of the guards, the appearance of the night captain, the opening of the rotunda door. Numerous details, seemingly insignificant yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered. Many obstacles bar the way of success, but time and perseverance will surmount them. Tom is thoroughly engrossed with the project. I realise the desperation of the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death. In the solitary, it is the last resort. With utmost care, we make our preparations. The summer is long past, the dense fogs of the season will aid our escape. We hasten to complete all details in great nervous tension with the excitement of the work. The time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite date, but Tom's state of mind fills me with apprehension. He has become taciturn of late. Yesterday he seemed peculiarly glum, suddenly refusing to answer my signal. Again and again I knock on the wall, calling for a reply to my last note. Tom remains silent. Occasionally a heavy groan issues from his cell, but my repeated signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate the cause of the groaning. But my attempts to speak to the officers are ignored. The next morning I behold Tom carried on a stretcher from his cell and learn with horror that he had bled to death during the night. The peculiar death of my friend prays on my mind. Was it suicide or accident? Tom had been weakened by long confinement. In some manner he may have ruptured a blood vessel dying for lack of medical aid. It is hardly probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our attempt. Yet certain references in his notes of late ignored at the time assume new significance. He was apparently under the delusion that Hopkins was after him. Once or twice my friend had expressed fear for his safety. He might be poisoned, he hinted. I had laughed the matter away, familiar with the sporadic delusions of men in solitary. Close confinement exits a similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. Some are especially predisposed to autosuggestion. Young Sid used to manifest every symptom of the diseases he read about. Perhaps poor Tom's delusion was responsible for his death. Spencer too had committed suicide a month before his release in the firm conviction that the warden would not permit his discharge. It may be that in a fit of sudden despondency Tom had ended his life. Perhaps I could have saved my friend. I did not realise how constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself threatened with. How little I knew of the terrible struggle that must have been going on in his tortured heart. Yet we were so intimate. I believed I understood his every feeling and emotion. The thought of Tom possesses my mind. The news from the girl about Bresci's execution of the king of Italy rouses little interest in me. Bresci avenged the peasants and the women and children shop before the palace for humbly begging bread. He did well and the agitation resulting from his act may advance the cause. But it will have no bearing on my fate. The last hope of escape has departed with my poor friend. I am doomed to perish here. And Bresci will perish in prison but the comrades will eulogise him and his act and continue their efforts to regenerate the world. Yet I feel that the individual in certain cases is of more direct and immediate consequence than humanity. What is the latter but the aggregate of individual existences? And shall these the best of them forever be sacrificed for the metaphysical collectivity? Here all around me a thousand unfortunates daily suffer the torture of Calvary forsaken by God and man. They bleed and struggle and suicide with the desperate cry for a little sunshine and life. How shall they be helped? How helped amid the injustice and brutality of a society whose chief monuments are prisons? And so we must suffer and suicide and countless others after us till the play of social forces shall transform human history into the history of true humanity. And meanwhile our bones will bleach on the long dreary road. Bereft of the last hope of freedom I grow indifferent to life. The monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes more loathsome. My whole being longs for rest. Rest no more to awaken. The world will not miss me. An atom of matter. I shall return to endless space. Everything will pursue its wanted course but I shall know no more of the bitter struggle and strife. My friends will sorrow and yet be glad my pain is over and continue on their way. And new breaches will arise and more kings will fall and then all friend and enemy will go my way and new generations will be born and die and humanity and the world be world into space and disappear. And again the little stage will be set and the same history and the same facts will come and go. The play things of cosmic forces renewing and transforming forever. How insignificant it all is in the eye of reason. How small and puny life and all its pain and travail with eyes closed. I behold myself suspended by the neck from the upper bars of the cell. My body swings gently against the door striking it softly once, twice. Just like Pasquale when he hanged himself in the cell next to mine some months ago. A few twitches and the last breath is gone. My face grows livid. My body rigid. Slowly it cools. The night guard passes. What's this eh? He rings the rotunda bell. Keys clanned. The lever is drawn and my door unlocked. An officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at my bars. My body sinks to the floor. My head striking against the iron bedstead. The doctor kneels at my side. I feel his hand over my heart. Now he rises. Good job doc. I recognize the deputy's voice. The physician nods. Damn glad of it. Hopkins sneers. The warden enters. A grin on his parchment face. With an oath I spring to my feet. In terror the officers rush from the cell. Ah I fooled you didn't I you murderers. The thought of the enemy's triumph fands the embers of life. It engenders defiance and strengthens stubborn resistance. End of section 46. Recording by Kate M.