 Section 17 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kwame Genov. YouTube.com. ForgeLas C. ForgeLas K.W.A.M.E. G-E-N-O-V-V. The Yag. Section 1. Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. Every step, every movement is so closely guarded. I seem to be hoping against hope. I am restive and nervous in a constant state of excitement. Conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame of mind. The task of the machine men has been increased. In consequence, I am falling behind in my work. My repeated requests for assistance have been ignored by the overseer, who improves every opportunity to insult and humiliate me. His feet wide apart, arms a Kimbo, Billy disgustingly protruding. He measures me with narrow, fat eyes. Oh, what's the matter with you? He draws. Get a move on, won't you, Burke? Then, changing his tone, he reciprocates. Don't stand there like a fool to you here. Next time I report you to the hole you go. That's me talking, understand? Often, I feel the spirit of Cain starting within me. But for the hope of escape, I should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. As it is, the guard is almost overstepping the limits of my endurance. His low cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and harass me. The ceaseless dropping of the poison is making my days in the shop a constant torture. I seek relief, forgetfulness rather, in absorbing myself in the work. I bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the previous day. I compete with myself and find melancholy pleasure in establishing and breaking high records for turning. Again, I tax my ingenuity to perfect means of communication with Johnny Davis, my young neighbor. Apparently, intent upon our task, we carry on a silent conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips. To facilitate the latter method, I am cultivating the habit of tobacco chewing. The practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging impressions with my newly acquired assistant, an old timer, who introduced himself as Boston Red. I owe this development to the return of the warden from his vacation. Yesterday, he visited the shop, a military-looking man with benevolent white beard and stately carriage. He approached me, in company with the superintendent of prison manufacturers. Is this the celebrated prisoner, he asked, a faint smile about the rather coarse mouth? Yes, Captain, that's Berkman, the man who shot Frick. I was in Naples at the time. I read about you in the English papers there, Berkman. How is his conduct, superintendent? Good. Well, he should have behaved outside. But noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the warden ordered the overseer to give me help, and thus, Boston Red joined me at work the next day. My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of lipless conversation. A large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek, mouth slightly opening curved, he delights in recounting ghost stories, under the very eyes of the officers. Red is initiating me into the world of de-road, with its free life, so full of interest and adventure, its romance, joys, and sorrows. An interesting character indeed, who fascistly pretends to look down upon the world from the sublime heights of applied cynicism. Why, Red, you can talk good English, I admonish him. Why do you so much slang? It's rather difficult for me to follow you. I'll learn you, pardon. See, I should have said teach you, not learn. That's how they talk in school. Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone through college. Went through it with a bucket of coal, he amplifies, with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a quick watchful eye. Head bent over the work, he continues in low, guttural tones. Don't care for your classic language. I can use it alright, alright. But give me the lingo, every time. You see part, I'm no gun. Don't need it in me, biz. I'm a yag. What's a yag, Red? A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term tramp. A yag, then, is a tramp. I'm surprised that you should care for the life of a bum. A flush effuses the prison pallor of the assistant. You're as stupid as the rest of them, he retorts, with considerable heat, and I notice his lips move as an ordinary conversation. But in a moment, he has regained composure, and a good humor twinkle plays about his eyes. Sir, he continues, with mock dignity, to say the least, you're not discriminative in your terminology. No, sir, you are not. Now, looky here, pardon. You're a good boy, but your education has been sadly neglected. Kachom? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive. It's an insult. Entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may say without fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite super-vequenious. Yes, sir, that's me. I ain't no bum, see? No such damn thing. Eliminate the disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing yours truly. I'm a yag, y-a-double-g, sir, of the honorable client of Yagman. Some spell it y-e-double-g, but I insist on the a, sir, as grammatically more correct, since the pureless word has no etymological consignitonuity with henfruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar misspelling. What's the difference between a yag and a bum? All the diff in the world, pardon. A bum is a low-down city bloke, whose intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny handout as his center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his native health and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman. That's the yag, me-ba-ee. He dares to be in due, all bulls notwithstanding. He lives, I, he lives, on the world of suckers. Thank you, sir. Of them, Tis wisely said of the good book, they shall increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore, or words to that significant effect. A yag's the salt of the earth part. A real, true-blood yag will not dine to breathe the identical atmosphere with the city bum or gay cap. No, sir-ee. I am about to ask for an explanation of the new term, when the quick, short coughs of red warn me of danger. The guard is approaching with heavy-measured tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind, a sure indication of profound self-satisfaction. How are you, Reddy? He greets the assistant. So-so. Ain't been out long, have you? Two and some. That's pretty long for you. I don't know. I've been out of four years once yet. Yes, you have. Been in Columbus then, I suppose. Not on your life, Mr. Cossum. It was sing-sing. Ha-ha! You're all right, Red. But you'd better hustle up, fellas. I'm putting in ten more machines, so look lively. When's the machines coming, Mr. Cossum? Pretty soon, Red. The officer passing on. Red whispers to me. Alec, pretty soon is just the time I'll quit. Damn his work and the new machines. I ain't no gay cat to work. Think I'm a nigger, eh? No, sir. The world owes me a livin'. And I generally manage to get it, you bet you. Only mules and niggers work. I'm a free man. I can live on my wits, see? I don't never work outside. Damn if I'll work here. I ain't no office seeker. What do I want to work for, eh? Can you tell me that? Are you going to refuse work? Refuse? Me? Nixie. That's a crude word, that. No, sir. I never refuse. If they'll knock your damn block off if you refuse. I merely avoid, sir. Discriminately end with steadfast purpose. Work is a disease, may by. One must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagium. It's a regular pest. You never work, did you? You bloke, he hisses. Shut your face. The screw'll pipe you. You'll get a send the hole for two in the rag. What you're he hawn about, he demands. Repeating the maneuver of pretended expectation. Do you mean to tell me your work? I'm a printer. A compositor. I inform him. Get off. You're an anarchist. I read the papers, sir. You people don't believe in work? You want to divvy up? Well, it is all right. I'm with you. Rockefeller has no right to the whole world. He ain't satisfied with that either. He wants a fence around it. The anarchists don't want to divvy up, Red. You get your misinformation. Oh, never mind, Pard. I don't take stock in reforming the world. It's good enough for suckers. And as Holy Ritz says, sir, Blessed be they that neither sow nor hog, All things shall be given unto them. Them's wise word, me by. Moreover, sir, Neither you nor me will live to see a change, So why should I worry me not about it? It takes all my wits to dodge work. It's disgraceful to labor, And it keeps me industriously busy, sir, To retain my honor and self-respect. Why, you know, Pard, Or perhaps you don't, Greening, Columbus is a pretty tough dump. But do you think I work the forespot there? Not me, no, sir, me. Didn't you tell Cosson you were in Sing Sing, not in Columbus? Of course I did. What of it? Think I'd open my guts to my lord big head? I've never been within 30 miles of the York pen. It was hail Columbia all right, But that's between you and I, Savvy. Don't want the screws to get next. Well, Red, How did you manage to keep away from work in Columbus? Manage? That's right, sir. Tis a word of profound significance, Adequately descriptive of my humble endeavors. Just what I did, buddy. I managed, with a capital N, To good purpose, too, me by Not a stroke of work in a forespot. How? I had Billy with me. That's me kid, you know, And a fine boy he was, too. I hadn't put a jigger on me. Kept it up for four years. There's perseverance in industry for you, sir. What's putting a jigger on? A jigger? A jigger is... and the whistle interrupts the explanation With a friendly wink in my direction The assistant takes his place in the lime In silence, we march to the cellhouse The measured footfall echoing A hollow threat in the walled Quadrangle of the prison yard. Section 2 Conversation with Boston Red, Young Davis, And occasional other prisoners Helps to wail away the tedious hours at work But in the solitude of the cell Through the long winter evenings wells in the outside world. Friends, the movement, the growing antagonisms, the bitter controversies between the Mostaniers and the defendants of my act, fill my thoughts and dreams. By means of fictitious but significant names, Russian and German words written backward in similar devices, the girl keeps me informed of the activities in our circles. I think admiringly, yet quite impersonally, of her strenuous militancy in championing my cause against all attacks. It is almost weak on my part, as a terrorist of Russian traditions, to consider her devotion deserving of particular commendation. She is a revolutionist, it is her duty to our common cause. Courage, whole-sold zeal, is very rare, it is true. The girl, Fedya, and a few others, hence the sad lack of general opposition in the movement to most gratitude. But communications from comrades and unknown sympathizers germinate the hope of an approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation. With great joy, I trace the ascending revolutionary tendency and der arme Tufel. I have persuaded the chaplain to procure the admission of the ingenious Robert Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals addressed to me are regularly assigned to the wastebasket by orders of the deputy. The latter refused to make an exception, even in regard to the Knights of Labor Journal. It is an incendiary anarchist sheet, he persisted. The arrival of the Tufel is a great event. What joy to catch sight of the paper snugly reposing between the legs of the cell table. Tenderly, I pick it up, fondling the little visitor with quickened pulse. It is an animate, living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings. What cheering message does Reitzel bring me now? What beauties of his rich mind are hidden today in the quaint German type? Reverently, I unfold the roll. The uncut sheet opens in the fourth page, and the stirring pian of Hope's prophecy greets my eyes. Gruß and Alexander Bergmann. For days the music of the dawn rings in my ears. Again and again recurs the refrain of faith and proud courage. Schoen Rusteschiste Freiheitsschar. So heiglin in Scheidungschlacht. Es senden zwei und zwanzig ja. Wie lecht in einer Sturmischnacht. But in the evening, when I return to the cell, reality lays its heavy hand upon my heart. The flickering of the candle accentuates the gloom, and I sit broadening over the interminable succession of miserable days and evenings and nights. The darkness gathers around the candle as I motionlessly watch its desperate struggle to be. Its dying agony, ineffectual in vain, presages my own doom, approaching inevitable. Weaker and fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler, alas spasm, and all its utter blackness. Three bells, lights out. Alas, mine did not last its permitted hour. The sun streaming into the many windowed shop routes the night, and dispels the haze of the fire-spitting city. Perhaps my little candle with its bold defiance has shortened the reign of darkness. Who knows? Perhaps the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his slumbers, and hastened the coming of the day. The fancy lures me with its warming embrace, when suddenly the assistance startles me. Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy, me lad. Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me. Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at me. Permit me to introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir, merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip. See the point? What are you driving at, red? Days are going to move me down on your row, now that I'm in this year's shop. Don't know how long I shall choose to remain, sir, in this magnificent hosiery establishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next yours, and I'm going to try and land there. Are you next, me by? I'm going to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to speak, assume benevolent guardianship over you, over you and your morals. Yes, sir, for you're my kid now, see? How? Your kid? How? My kid, of course. That's just what I mean. Any objections, sir, as the learned gentleman of the law say in the honorable course of the blind goddess? You bet your life she's blind. Blind is an owl on a sunny midsummer day. Not in your damn smoky city, though. Son's ashamed here. But way down in my Kentucky home, down by the Suanee River. Suanee, Riv, hold on, Red. You are romancing. You started to tell me about being your kid. Now explain. What do you mean by it? Really, ye. He holds the unturned stockings suspended over the post, gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles with wonder. In his astonishment, he has forgotten his wondered caution, and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye. Really, Alex? Well, now, damn. I've seen something of this year round globe, some mighty strained sights, too. And there ain't many things to surprise me, let me tell you. But you do, Alex. Yes, milad, you do. Hadden has such a stunning blow since I first met cigarette Jimmy in Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should snicker. He was, for sure. Never heard a ghost story. Was 14, too. Well, I got him all right. All right. Now he's doing a five-bit down in Kansas. Poor kitty. Well, he certainly was a surprise. But many tempestuous billows of life, sir, have since flown into the shoreless ocean of time. Yes, sir, they have. But I never got such a stunner as you just gave me. Why, man, it's a body blow, a regular knocking out to my knowledge of the world, sir. To my settled estimate of the world's supercilious righteousness. Well, damn, if I'd ever believe it. Say, how old are you, Alex? I'm over 22, red. But what has all this to do with the question I asked you? Everything, mayby, everything. You're 22 and don't know what a kid is. Well, if it don't beat raw eggs, I don't know what it does. Green? Well, sir, it will be hard to find an adequate analogy to your inconsistent immaturity of mind. Aye, sir, I may well say of soul, except to compare it with the virtuous condition of green corn in the early summer moon. You know what moon is, don't you? He asks, abruptly, with an evident effort to suppress a smile. I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer, yet I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him. The face expressive of a deep felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with classic English all disarm my irritation. Besides, his droll chatter helps to wile away the tedious hours at work. Perhaps I may also glean from this experienced old timer some useful information regarding my plans of escape. Well, do you know a moon when you see it, read inquires, chafingly? I suppose I do. I'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. Sir, I can see by the tip of your olfactory organ that you are steeped in the slaw of densest ignorance concerning the supreme science of moonology. Yes, sir, do not contradict me. I broke no skeptical attitude regarding my undoubted, improving perspicacity of the human nature. How's that for a classic style, eh? That'll hold you down a moment, kid. As I was about to say when you interrupted, you didn't? Ah, what's the matter with you? Don't you go now and ruin the elegant flight of my rhetorical pegasus with an insignificant interpolation of mere fact? None of your lip. Now, boy, and let me develop this sublime science of moonology before you're wondering gaze. To begin with, sir, moonology is an exclusively aristocratic science, not for the pretenders of Broad Street and Fifth Avenue, Nixie, but for the only genuine aristocracy of D-Road, sir, for the pink of humankind, for the Yagmin, me lad, for yours truly in his clam. Yes, sir, E. I don't know what you are talking about. I know you don't. That's why I'm going to chaperone you, kid. In plain English, sir, I shall endeavor to generate within you post-liminous comprehension a discriminant conception of the subject at issue, sir, by divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imprespectivity or ambiguity. Moonology, my Mark Twainian innocent, is the truly Christian science of loving your neighbor, provided he'd be a nice little boy. Understand now? How can you love a boy? Are you really so dumb? You're not a rough boy. I can see that. Red, if you drop your stilted language and talk plainly, I'd understand better. Thought you liked the classic, but you ain't long on lingo neither. How can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? But I'll try. You love a boy as you love a poet song hyfer, see? Ever read Billy Shakespeare? Know the place? He's neither man nor woman. He's punk. Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy that'll, what? Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we're, now he's a talk in plain. Savi now, innocent abroad. I don't believe what you are telling me, Red. You don't believe? What the devil? Damn, he's sold to hell. What do you mean? You don't believe? Gee, look out. The looker bewilderment on his face startles me. In his excitement, he had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the guard, who is now hastening towards us. Who's talking here, he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters. You, Davis? No, sir. Who was them? Nobody here, Mr. Cossum? Yes, they was. I heard hollering. Oh, that was me, Davis replies, with a quick glance at me. I hit my elbow against the machine. Let me see it. The guard scrutinizes the beard arm. Well, he says doubtfully, it don't look sore. It hurt, and I hollered. The officer turns to my assistant. Has he been talking ready? I don't think he was, Captain. Pleased with the title, Cossum smiles at Red, and passes on, with a final warning to the boy. Don't you let me catch you at it again, you hear? During the rest of the day, the overseers exercise particular vigilance over our end of the shop. But emboldened by the increased din of the new knitting machinery, Red soon takes up the conversation again. Screws can't hear us now, he whispers, set days close to us. But watch your lips, boy. The damp bowls got sharp lamps. And don't scare me again like that. Why, you talk so foolish. You make me plum forget myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't he? What's his name, Johnny Davis? Yes, a wise kid, all right. Just like me on Billy I told you about. He was no punk, either. And don't you forget it. True is steel, he was. Stuck to me through my forespot, like the bark to a tree. Say, what's that you said? You don't believe what I endeavored so conscientiously, sir? To drive into your noodle? You was only kidding me, wasn't you? No, Red, I meant it quite seriously. You're spinning ghost stories, or whatever you call it. I don't believe in this kid love. And why don't you believe it? Why, er, well, I don't think it's possible. What isn't possible? You know what I mean. I don't think there can be such intimacy between those of the same sex. Ho, ho, that's your point? Why, Alex, you're more of a damn fool than a casual observer, sir. Would be apt to postulate. You don't believe it possible, you don't, eh? Well, you just give me half a chance and I'll show you. Red, don't you talk to me like that. I burst out angrily. If you- easy, easy, me bye. He interrupts, good-naturedly. Don't get on your high horse. No harm meant, Alex, you're a good boy, but you just rattle me with your crazy talk. Why, your bugs to say it's impossible. Man alive, the dump's chuck full of punks. It's done in every prison, and on the road, everywhere. Lowered if I had a plunk for every time I got the best of a kid, I'd rival Rockefeller, sir. I would, me bye. You actually confess to such terrible practices? You're disgusting, but I don't really believe it, Red. Confess, hell. I confess nothing. Terrible, disgusting. You talk like a man up a tree, your holy sky pilot. Are there no women on the road? Pshah. Who cares for a hypher when you can get a kid? Women are no good. I wouldn't look at him when I have my prush on. Oh, it is quite evident, sir. You have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of monology, nor tasted the malefueless fruit on the forbidden tree of- Oh, quit. Well, you'll know better before your time's up, me virtuous sonny. For several days my assistant fails to appear in the shop on account of illness. He has been excused by the doctor, the garden forms me. I miss his help at work, the hours drag heavier for lack of right's companionship. Yet I am gratified by his absence. His cynical attitude towards women and sex morality has roused in me a spirit of antagonism. The panigarucks of boy love are deeply offensive to my instincts. The very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and disgusts me. But I find solace in the reflection that reds insinuations are pure fabrication. No credence is to be given them. Man, a reasonable being, could not fall to such depths. He cannot be guilty of such unspeakably vicious practices. Even the lowest outcast must not be credited with such perversion, such depravity. I should really take the matter more calmly. The assistant is a queer fellow. He is merely teasing me. These things are not credible. Indeed, I don't believe they are possible. And even if they were, no human being would be capable of such inequity. I must not suffer reds chaffing to disturb me. 4th March 1893 Girl and twin I am riding with despair in my heart. I was taken to Pittsburgh as a witness in the trial of Noltenbauer. I had hoped for an opportunity. You understand, friends? It was a slender thread, but I clung to it desperately, prepared to stake everything on it. It proved a broken straw. Now I am back, and I may never leave this place alive. I was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom. I yearned for the sight of your faces, but you were not there, nor anyone else of our New York comrades. I knew what it meant. You were having a hard struggle to exist. Otherwise, perhaps something could be done to establish friendly relations between Rakhmatov and Mr. Gipop. It would require an outlay beyond the resources of our own circle. Others cannot be approached in this matter. Nothing remains but the inside developments, a terribly slow process. This is all the hope I can hold out to you, dear friends. You'll think it quite negligible, yet it is the sole ray that has again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness. I did not realize the physical effects of my stay here. It is five months now, till my return from court. I suppose the excitement of being on the outside galvanized me for the nonce. My head was a whirl. I could not collect my thoughts. The wild hope possessed me. Pobeg. The click of the steel, as I was handcuffed to the deputy, struck my deaf nail. The unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people and loud voices in the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all absorbed me in the moment. It seemed to me as if I were a spectator, interested, but personally unconcerned in the surroundings. And these, too, were far away of a strange world in which I had no part. Only when I found myself alone in the cell, the full significance of the lost occasion was borne in upon me with crushing force. But why, sad anew, there is perhaps a cheerier side, now that Noldenbauer are here. I have not seen them yet, but their very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within these walls there are comrades, men who, like myself, suffer for an ideal, the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me. It brings me closer, in a measure, to the environment of political prisoners in Europe. Whatever the misery and torture of their daily existence, the politicals, even in Siberia, breathe the atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. What courage and strength there must be for them and the inspiration radiated by a common cause. Conditions here are entirely different. Both inmates and officers are at loss to class me. They have never known political prisoners. That one should sacrifice or risk his life of no apparent personal motives is beyond their comprehension, almost beyond their belief. It is a desert of sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. I would gladly exchange places with our comrades in Siberia. The former Potpoyl Naya was suspended because of the great misfortune that befell my friend Wingy, of whom I wrote to you before. This dove will be flown by Mr. Tirum Shachik, an old soldier who really sympathizes with Wingy. I believe they served in the same regiment. He is a kindly man, who hates his despicable work, but there is a family at home, a sick wife. You know, the old, weak-need tale. I had a hint from him the other day. He is being spied upon, it is dangerous for him to be seen at my cell, and so forth. It is all quite true, but what he means is that a little money would be welcome. You know how to manage the matter, leave no traces. I hear the felt sold step. It's the soldier. I bid my birdie a hasty goodbye. Sasha. A dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the Ohio. It ensnares the riverbanks in its mysterious embrace, veils tree and rock with somber mist, and mocks the sun with angry frown. Within the house of death is felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in the iron cages. Only an occasional knocking as on metal disturbs the stillness. I listen intently. Nearer and more audible seem the sounds, hesitating and apparently intentional. I am involuntarily reminded of the methods of communication practised by Russian politicals, and I strive to detect some meaning in the tapping. It grows clearer as I approach the back wall of the cell, and instantly I am aware of a faint murmur in the privy. Is it fancy, or did I hear my name? Hello! I call into the pipe. The knocking ceases abruptly. I hear a suppressed hollow voice. That you, Alec? Yes. Who is it? Never mind. You must be deaf not to hear me calling you all this time. Take that carden out of your ears. I didn't know you could talk this way. You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty pipes, no standing water, see? Fine to talk. Oh, dammiter! The words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water. Presently the flow subsides, and the knocking is resumed. I bend over the privy. Hello? Hello? That you, Alec? Get off that line, you jabbering idiot. Someone shouts into the pipe. Lay down there. Take that trap out of the hole. Quit your fooling, Hoss Thief. Hey, boys, stop that now. That's me, fellas. It's Bob, Hoss Thief Bob. I'm talking business. Keep quiet now, will ya? Are you there, Alec? Yes? Well, pay no attention to them, dubs. Toils that crazy southside slim that turn the water on. Who you calling crazy, damn you? A voice interrupts. Oh, lay down slim, will ya? Who said you was crazy? Nay, nay, you're bugs. Hey, Alec, you there? Yes, Bob? Oh, got me name, have ya? Yes, I'm Bob, Hoss Thief Bob. Make no mistake when you see me. I'm Big Bob the Hoss Thief. Can you hear me? It's you, Alec? Yes, yes. Sure it's you? Got to tell you something. What's your number? A7. Right ya. What cell? 6K. And this is me, Big Bob in Windbag Bob. A heavy bass, comments from above. Shut up, Curly. I'm on the line. I'm in 6F, Alec. Top tier. Call me up any time I'm in. You see, pipe's running up and down and you can talk to any range you want, but always to the same cell as you're in. Cell 6, understand? Now, if you want to talk to Cell 14, to Shorty, you know. I don't want to talk to Shorty. I don't know him, Bob. Yes, you do. You listen to what I tell you, Alec, and you'll be all right. That's me talking, Big Bob, see? Now, I say, if you like to choose a rag with Shorty, you just tell me. Tell Brother Bob, and he'll connect you, all right? Are you on? No who's Shorty? No. Your order. That's Carl. Carl Nold. No him, don't you? What? I cry in astonishment. Is it true, Bob? Is Nold up there on your gallery? Sure thing. Cell 14. Why didn't you say so at once? You've been talking 10 minutes now. Did you see him? What's your hurry, Alec? You can see him. Not just now, anyway. Perhaps by-my-by, maybe. There's no hurry, Alec. You've got plenty of time. A few years, rather. Ha-ha. Hey, that's horse-thief. Quit that. I recognize Curley's deep base. What do you want to make the kid feel bad for? No hum, man. Curley, Bob returns. I was just jushing him a bit. Well, quit it. You don't mind, Alec, do you? I hear Bob again. His tone's softened. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm your friend, Alec. You can bet your condodger on that. Say, I've got something for you from Shorty. I mean, Carl, you savvy? What have you, Bob? Nixie through the hole. Ain't safe. I'm coffee-boy on this ear-range. I'll sneak round to you in the morning when I go to fetch me can a bootleg. Now, jiggeroo! Screws come in. Footnote 37. Jiggeroo. Look out. End of footnote. 2. The presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and meaning. It has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former environment. It is stirring the graves where lie my soul's dead into renewed life and hope. The secret exchange of notes lends colour to the routine. It is like a fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp. At work in the shop my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence. Again and again I review the arguments, elucidating to my comrades the significance of my attentat. They too are inclined to exaggerate the importance of the purely physical result. The exchange of views gradually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance into closer intimacy. There is something in Carl Nold that especially attracts me. I sense in him a congenial spirit. His spontaneous frankness appeals to me. My heart echoes his grief at the realization of most unpardonable behaviour. But the ill-concealed antagonism of Bauer is irritating. It reflects his desperate clinging to the shattered idol. Presently, however, a better understanding begins to manifest itself. The big jovial German has earned my respect. He braved the anger of the judge by consistently refusing to betray the man who aided him in distribution of the anarchist leaflet among the homestead workers. On the other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts on the witness stand to exonerate them from complicity in my act. Their condemnation as acknowledged anarchists was, of course, a foregone conclusion, and I am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited them. Indeed, both have expressed surprise that the maximum revenge of the law was not visited upon them. Their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect upon me. Carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of five years will afford him a long-needed vacation from many years of ceaseless factory toil. He is facetiously anxious lest capitalist industry be handicapped by the loss of such a splendid carpenter as Henry, whom he good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly affianced. The evening hours have ceased to drag. There is pleasure and diversion in the correspondence. The notes have grown into bulky letters, daily cementing our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions, and discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of the movement of the Twin Cities, the personnel of anarchist circles, and collect a fund of anecdotes about Albrecht, the philosophical shoemaker whose diminutive shop in Allegheny is the centre of the radical intelligentsia. With deep contrition Bauer confesses how narrowly he escaped the role of my executioner. My unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of the homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the Allegheny comrades. They sent an inquiry to most, whose reply proved a warning against me. Unknown to me, Bauer shared the room I occupied in Noll's house. Through the long hours of the night, he lay awake with revolver cocked. At the first sign of a suspicious move on my part, he had determined to kill me. The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation, and applied tactics. The discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our interest. The bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection. The difficulty of procuring writing materials assumes a serious aspect. Every available scrap of paper is exhausted. Margins of stray newspapers and magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly erased, and the frayed tatters microscopically covered with ink. Even an occasional flyly from library books has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its covers, and every evidence of its previous association dexterously removed. The problem threatens to terminate our correspondence and fills us with dismay. But the genius, our faithful postman, of proud horse-thieving proclivities proves equal to the occasion. Barb constitutes himself our commissary, designating the broom-shop in which he is employed, as the base of our future supplies. The unexpected affluence fills us with joy. The big roles requisitioned by horse-thief exclude the fear of famine. The smooth yellow wrapping paper affords the luxury of larger and more legible choreography. The pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects. We speculate on the possibility of converting our correspondence into a magazine-let, and wax warm over the proposed lists of readers. Before long, the first issue of the Zuckthaus Bluthern Footnote 38 End of Footnote is greeted with the encouraging approval of our sole subscriber, whose contribution surprises us in the form of a rather creditable poem on the last blank page of the publication. Elated at the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him Meister Singer, with dominion over the department of poetry. Soon we plan more pretentious issues. The outward size of the publication is to remain the same, three by five inches. But the number of pages is to be enlarged, each issue to have a different editor, to ensure equality of opportunity. The readers to serve as contributing editors. The appearance of the Bluthern is to be regulated by the time required to complete the circle of readers, whose identity is to be masked with certain initials to protect them against discovery. Henceforth, Bauer, physically a giant, is to be known as G. Because of my medium stature, I shall be designated with the letter M, and knolled as the smallest by K. Footnote 39 K Initial of the German Klein Small End of Footnote The poet, his history somewhat shrouded in mystery, is christened D. M K G are to act in turn as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to start the Bluthern on its way, each reader contributing to the issue, till it has returned to the original editor, to enable him to read and comment upon his fellow contributors. The publication, its contents growing transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon whom will devolve the editorial management of the following issue. The unique arrangement proves a source of much pleasure and recreation. The little magazine is rich in contents, and varied in style. The diversity of handwriting heightens the interest, and stimulates speculation on the personality of our increasing readers' contributors. In the arena of the diminutive publication, there rages the conflict of contending social philosophies. Here a political essay rubs elbow with a witty anecdote, and a dissertation on the nature of things is interspersed with prison small talk and personal reminiscence. Flashes of unstudied humour and unconscious rivalry of orthography lend peculiar charm to the unconventional editorials, and waft a breath of Josh Billings into the manuscript pages. But the success of the Zuckthaus Bluthern soon discovers itself a veritable Frankenstein, which threatens the original foundation and aims of the magazinelet. The popularity of joint editorship is growing at the cost of unity and tendency. The Bard's astonishing facility at versification, coupled with his Jules Verneyan imagination, causes us grave anxiety, lest his untameable pegasus traverse the limits of our paper supply. The appalling warning of the commissary, that the improvident drain upon his resources is about to force him on the strike, imperatively calls a halt. We are deliberating policies of retrenchment and economy, when unexpectedly the arrival of two homestead men suggests an auspicious solution. 3. The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J. B. T., prominent in the Knights of Labor organization, offers opportunity for propaganda among workers representing the more radical element of American labor. Accused of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers in the mills, Dempsey and B. T. appear to me, men of unusual type, be they innocent or guilty, the philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary tactics. Labor can never be unjust in its demands. Is it not the creator of all wealth in the world? Every weapon may be employed to return the dispoiled people into its rightful ownership. Is not the terrorizing of scabbery and ultimately of the capitalistic exploiters an effective means of aiding the struggle? Therefore Dempsey and B. T. deserve a claim. Morally certain of their guilt, I respect them the more for it, though I am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme of wholesale extermination of the scabs. The blackleg is also human, it is true, and desires to live, but one should starve rather than turn traitor to the cause of his class. Moreover, the individual, or any number of them, cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity. Infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us in contact with the imprisoned labor leaders. In the ceaseless duel of vital need against stupidity in malice, caution and wit are sharpened by danger. The least in discretion, the most trifling negligence means discovery, disaster. But perseverance and intelligent purpose conquer. By the aid of the faithful horse-thief, communication with Dempsey and B. T. is established. With the aggressiveness of strong conviction, I present to them my views dwelling on the historic role of the attentator, and the social significance of conscious individual protest. The discussion ramifies, the interest arouse soon transcending the limits of my paper supply. Presently, I am involved in a correspondence with several men, whose questions and misinterpretations regarding my act I attempt to answer and correct with individual notes. But the method proves an impossible tax on our opportunities, and KGM finally decide to publish an English edition of the Zuckthaus Bluthern. The German magazine-let is suspended, and in its place appears the first issue of the Prison Blossoms. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman Part 2 Chapter 13 Judas A. There's Sporty. My assistant greets me in the shop. Stand treed on this festive occasion. Yes, Rhett, have a chew, I reply with a smile, handing him my fresh plug of tobacco. His eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes my changed suit of dark gray. The larger part of the plug swelling out his cheek, he flinks to me the remnant across the table remarking. Don't care for it. Take back your chew. I'll keep my honor. Your plug, I mean, sunny. A gentleman of my eminence, sir. An actual born navigator on the high seas of social life. Are you on me by? A gentleman, I repeat, sir. Whose canoe, the mutations of all that is human have chucked on this dry, thrice-drammed dry latitude, sir. This noxious plague spot of civilization. Say, kid, what the hell am I talking about? Damn if I ain't clean for God. I'm sure I don't know, Rhett. Like hell you don't. It's your glad duds, kid. Offer me a chew of tobacco. Cry some dyin' for a drop of booze. This magnificent occasion deserves a wedding, sir. And say, Alec, it won't hurt your beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. You look like a scarecrow in them high-water pants. Ain't old Sandy the kind of skinners, though. Whom do you mean, Rhett? Who I mean, you idiot. But that skunk of award and the honorable Captain Edward S. Wright. If you please, sir. Captain of old rotten old punks. That's what he is. You ask the screws. He's never smelt powder. Why, he's been here most of his life. But some of the screws been here longer. Born here, dammit. Couldn't pull him out of there with those steam engine you couldn't. They can tell you all about the Captain, though. Old Sandy didn't have a plugged nickel to his name when you come here. Now the dam's stomach robber is rich. Regular gold mine is dumb for him. He only gets lousy 5,000 per year. Got big family and keeps carriages and servants. See, and I can't afford to go to Europe every year. And got a pile in the bank to boot. All the scurvy 5,000 a year. Good manager, ain't he? A regular church member, too. Dammit's rotten soul to hell. Is he as bad as all that, Rhett? Is he? Epochor died in the wool, that's what he is. Played the humanitarian racket. He had a great deal to say in the papers. That's why I didn't believe the brutal way his IMS was punished by the homestead colonel. Or, uh, what's his name? Colonel Streeter of the 10th Pennsylvania. That's the cur. He hung up private IMS by the thumbs, till poor little boy was almost dead. For nothing, too. Suppose you remember, don't you? IMS had called for three cheers for the man who shot Frick. And they pretty near killed him for it. And then drummed him out of the regiment, with his head half shaved. It was a most barbarous thing. And that damned sandy swan in the papers he didn't believe in such things. And all the while the lying murderers doing it himself. Not a day but some poor con is cuffed up in the hole. That's the kind of humanitarian he is. It makes me wild to think on it. Why kid? I even get a big excited. And forget that you, young sir, are attuned to the dulcet symphonies of classic English. But whenever that skunk of a warden is the subject of conversation, sir, even my usually improtunable serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not equal to patience on a monument's smile at grief. Watch me, sonny. That's yours truly spying. Why look at them dingy rags of yours. I like you better in the striped duds. They give you the hand-re-downs of that nigger that went out yesterday and changed you the books with a brand new suit. See where Sandy gets his slice, eh? And say, kid, how long are you here? About eight months, red. They beat you out of two months, all right? Suppose they obey their own rules. Knitzer, you are aware. My pleasure, slam. That you are entitled to discard your polychromic vestments of zebra hue after your sojourn of six months in the benevolent dump. I bet that fresh fish at the Lupin machine there came up here some days ago. He won't be kept waiting more than six months for his black clothes. I glance in the direction of the recent arrival. He is a slender man with swarthy complexion and quick-shifting eye. The expression of guilty cunning is repelling. Who is that man, I whisper to the assistant? Like him, don't you? Permit me, sir, to introduce you to the handiwork of his maker. A mealy-mouthed, oil-lifted, scurvy gay cat. A yellow-curse, sniveling, fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak. A snake in the grass, whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting member of my clan. Mr. Patrick Gallagher of the Honorable Pinkerton family, sir. Gallagher, I ask in astonishment. The informer who denounced Dempsey and Beatty? The very same. The dirty snitch that got those fellows railroaded here for seven years. Dempsey was a fool to bunch up with such a vermin as Gallagher and Davison. He was master workman of some district of the night's labor. Why in hell didn't he get his own men to do the job? Goes to work in eyes abrasive gay cats. Sentiment in the scab mills you scabby. A sling-hash for the black legs. And keep him posted on the goings-on sea. Suppose you have oriented yourself, sir, concerning the developments in the culinary experiment. Yes, croton oil is supposed to have been used to make the scab sick with diarrhea. Make him sick? Why, me by scores of him croaked. I am surprised, sir, to use such vulgar term as diarrhea. You offend my aestheticism. The learned gentleman who delved deeply into the bowels of the earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal increase of unmentionable human obligations to nature. The mysterious and extravagant popularity of the houses of ill odor, sir, the automatic obedience to their call, as do entirely to the dumping of a lot of ol' lousy bums, sir, and to filthy quarters or to impurities of the liquid supply, or to, pardon my frankness, sir, to intestinal effeminacy, which, in flaccid excitability, persisted in ill-timed relaxation, unseemly and well-mannered Christians. Some future days, sir, they may well arise a poet to glorify with beautyous epic the heroic days of the modern bull run. And I can tell you, laddie, they run and kept run, and top and bottom, or some lyric bard may put the, to a heudiboristic verse, watch me climb in the pernaceous kid, the poetic feat, the numbers, the assonance, the strain of the inspiring days when croton oil was king. Yes, sir, re, for yours truly, me hand in such pies, and, moreover, sir, I make it an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior to keep my snout out of other people's biz. Dempsey may be innocent, red. Well, the jury don't think so, but there's no tell in honesty, God. I, like that round scab of a gallagher, has the cast-pill hue of a resolution. If I may borrow a billy-shake slank, sir, over me generally settled convictions. You know, in the abundant plentitude of my heterogeneous experience with the sorts of conditions of rats and gay cats, sir, fortified by a natural genius of no mean order of 1859 vintage, Dempsey ever run across such an acute form of confessionists as main-fasted by the loud of the loop of machine here? You know what he done yesterday? What? Sent for the district attorney and made another confession. Really? How do you know? Knight screws a partner friend of mine, kid. I stand, you see. The mixer, regular Yahoo, can hardly spell his own name. He daily requisitions upon my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out his reports. Catch on, eh? I've never earned a handout with more dignified probities, sir. It's a cinch. Last night he gave me a great slice of corn dodger. It was a one, I tell ya, in two hard-boiled eggs and half a tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. Didn't I enjoy it, though? Make your mouth water, eh, kid? Well, if you'll be good time and you'll have a can of what I got, I'll divvy up with you. Well, don't stand there and gap at me like a wooden engine. As an unexpected revelation of my magnanimous generosity deprived you of your articulate utterance, sir. The sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer, and his sudden serious manner affect me unpleasantly, with pretended indifference I decline to share his delicacies. You need those little extras for yourself, Rhett, I explain. You told me you suffer from indigestion. A change of diet now and then will do you good. But you haven't finished telling me about the new confession of Gallagher. Oh, you're a sly one, Alec. No flaws on you, but it's all right. Me by, maybe? I can do something for you someday. I'm your friend, Alec, count on me. But that mud of a Gallagher, yes, sir, we made another confession. Damn, if it ain't a stirred one. Ever hear such a thing? I got it straight from the screw, all right? I can't take the damn snitch out. Undeservedly, I avow, sir, that an incomprehensible vacillations of the honorable general impuzzle me noodle, and are calculated to disturb the repose of a right-thinking yag in the silken reap of Morpheus. What is game anyhow? Shall we diagnose the peculiar mental minstration as a, or what's your learned opinion? My illustration's collier. What you grinning for? For as? It's a serious matter, sir. A highly instructive phenomenon of intellectual vacuity, impregnated with the pernicious virus of Pinkristinism. Sir, and transmuted in the alembic of a carnage alchemy, a judicious injection of persuasive gems by the seditious journal consuls of the House of Dempsey, and lo, three brand new confessions, mutually contradictory and exclusive. Does that strike you in the spot, sonny? In the second confession, he retracted his accusations against Dempsey. What's the third about Red? Retracts his attraction me by, guess why, Alec? I suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original charges. You're not far off. After that beauty of a Judas cleared the man, Sandy noted Reed and Docs. Damn smart guys, all right. The attorneys of the carnage company to interpret Madame Justica, sir, in a manner. I know Red, I interrupt him. They are lawyers who prosecuted me. Even in court, they were giving directions to the district attorney, and openly whispering to him questions to be asked to witnesses. He was just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it sounded so ridiculous when he told the jury that he was not in the service of any individual or corporation. But that he acted solely as an officer of the Commonwealth, charged with the sacred duty of protecting its interests in my prosecution. And all the time, he was the mouthpiece of Frick's lawyers. Hold on, kid. I don't get a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise when you start, John. Think you're on the platform, hard-granging, long-haired crowd? You can't convert me, so save your breath, man. I shouldn't want to convert you, Red. You are intelligent, but a hopeless case. You are not the kind that could be useful to the cause. Glad you're next. Got me sized up, all right, eh? Well, me saintly by. I'm Johnny on the spot to serve the cause, all right, all right, and the cause is me with a big M, see? A fellow foot and knot in the look for the number one. I give it to you straight, Alec. What's them high-flown notions of you're as oppressed, humanity, and suffering people fiddlesticks? There you go and shove your damn neck into the noose for the strikers. What have them fellows ever done for you, eh? Tell me that. They don't do a darn thing for you. Catch me swinging them for the PO poll. The cattle don't deserve any better than they get. That's what I say. I don't want to discuss these questions with you, Red. You'll never understand anyhow. Get off, now. You've voiced a sentiment, sir. That my adequate appreciation of myself will prompt me to resent to the field of honor, sir. But the unworthy spirit of acrobuity is totally foreign to my nature, sir. And I shall preserve the blessed meekness of so becoming the true Christian and to follow the bidding of my master, my humbly offering of the other cheek, for the child of the weed I gave you, dig down into your poke, kid. I hand him the remnant of my tobacco remarking. You've lost the thread of our conversation as usual, Red. You said the warden sent for the carnagee lawyers after Gallagher had recounted his original confession. Well, what did they do? Don't know what they done, but I told you that that mutton had sent for the district attorney the same day and signed a third confession when Damsi was tickled to death of the cause. He seizes abruptly. His quick short coughs warn me of danger accompanied by the deputy of the shop officer. The warden is making the rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work and listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully sparkling eyes of a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seemed features framed in grayish white. Approaching the table, he greets us with a benign smile. Good morning, boys. Casting a glance at my assistant, the warden inquires. Your time must be up soon, Red. But now I'm back again, Captain, the officer laughs. Yes, he is. Back home, the thin feminine accents of the dempyry sound sarcastic. Didn't like it outside, Red, the warden sneers. A flush darkens the face of the assistant. There's more skunks out there than him, he retorts. The captain frowns. The deputy lifts a warning finger, but the warden laughs slightly and continues on his rounds. We work in silence for a while. Red looks restive. His eyes stealthily follow the departing official. Presently, he whispers. See me handed in to him, Alex. He knows I'm on to him all right. Do you look mad enough, though? Thought he'd burst. So put him up a bit. Pipe his lamps, kid. Yes, very bright eyes. Bright eyes are your grandmother. Dope, that's what the matter is. Think I'd get off as easy if it wasn't chuck full of his stuff? I know it ain't the minute I laid my eyes on him. I can tell by the shining glimmers and the slick smile of his when he's feeling good. Know the signal's all right. I was feeling fine when he's hit the pipe. That's the time you can get anything you want from him. Next time you see that spark on him, hit him for something. He'll hand it to you right there. He's going down to the socks first thing you know. Yes, we need more help. Why don't you ask him? Me? Me ask the favor of the damn swine? Not of your tiny type. You don't catch me with a voucher safe to high. I'm mighty, sir, the opportunity. All right, Red. I won't ask him either. I don't give a damn. For I care, Alex, and while confidently speaking, sir, they're mighting course this presence hoisery in the infoundability hindrance of the nibs. Which is, of course, find my venture, my humble opinion, young sir. Asficiently generous in his expansiveness to regard the rugicity of his stock and turned inside out, sir. Do you follow the argument me by? With difficulty, Red, I reply with a smile. What are you really talking about? I do wish you'd speak plainer. You do, do you? And maybe you don't. Got to the train, you rag gradual, so to speak. So me duty is pushing. We's got to get out of help, you see. I ain't going to kill myself working here like a nigga. I'll quit first. Do you think sssss? The shop officer is returning. Damn your imprudence, Red. He shouts at the assistant. Why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check? Why, Mr. Cossin, what was the trouble? You know damn well what's the trouble. You made the old man mad clean enough. You ought to know better than that. He was nice as pie till he opened that big trap of yours. Everything went wrong then. You gave me the dickens about that pile you got lying around here. Why don't you take over the roopers, Burke? They have not been turned yet, I reply. What do you say? Not turned, he bristles. When the hell you fellas do and I'd like to know. We're doing more than we should, read retorts defiantly. Shut up now and get a move on you. All right, and grub they feed us, the assistant persists. You better shut up, Red, and give us some help. I will like hell. The whistle sounds the dinner hour. End of section 20. Recording by Anthony Gurgis of the TidePod podcast. Section 21 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Botez. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. By Alexander Bergman. Chapter 19. The Dip. For a week, Boston Red is absent from work. My best efforts seem ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery and officer grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of clogging the industrial will presently forces him to give me assistance. And a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the vacant place. He's a dip, Janet Davis whispers to me. A top nother, he adds admiringly. I experience a danger of resentment at the equality implied by the Force Association. I have never before come in personal contact with a professional thief, and I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his class. But they're not producers, hence parasites, who deliberately pray upon society, upon the poor mostly. There can be nothing in common between me and this man. The new helper's conscience superiority is provoking. His distant manner piques my curiosity. How, unlike his scornful mean and proudly independent bearing, is my youthful impression of a thief. Vividly I remember the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the classroom by a fierce jammed arm. The boys had been missing their lunches, and Kolya confessed to the theft. We run after the prisoner, and he hung his head and looked frightened. And so pale I could count each freckle on his face. He did not return to school, and I wondered what had become of him. The terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his forehead, shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful word VOR. That's a snap, the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. He speaks in well-modulated tones, the accent's nasal and decided. You needn't be afraid to talk, he adds, patronizingly. I am not afraid, I impatiently resent the insinuation. What should I be afraid of you? Not of me, of the officer I meant. I am not afraid of him, either. Well then, let's talk about something. It will help while away the time, you know. His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. The correct English, in striking contrast, with the peculiar language of my former assistant, surprises me. I am sorry, he continues. They gave you such a long sentence, Mr. Bergman. But how do you know my name, I interrupt. You have just arrived. They call me lightning owl, he replies, with a tinge of pride. I am here only three days. But a fellow in my line can learn a great deal in that time. I had you pointed out to me. What do you call your line? What are you here for? For a moment he is silent. With surprise I watch his face blush darkly. You're a dead giveaway. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Bergman. He corrects himself. I sometimes lapse into lingo under provocation, you know. I meant to say it's easy to see that you are not next to the way, not familiar, I mean, with such things. You should never ask a man what he is in for. Why not? Well, you are ashamed. Not a bit of it. Ashamed to fall, perhaps. I meant to be caught at it. It's no credit to Gunn's rep. His reputation, you understand. But I'm proud of the jobs I've done. I'm pretty sleek, you know. But you don't like to be asked why you were sent here. Well, it's not good manners to ask such questions. Against the ethic of the trade, I suppose? How sarcastic we can be, Mr. Bergman. But it's true, it's not the ethics. And isn't a trade, either. It's a profession. Oh, you may smile, but I'd rather be a Gunn, a professional, I mean. Than one of your stupid factory hands. They are honest, though. Honest producers, while you're a thief. Oh, there is no sting in that word for me. I take pride in being a thief. And what's more, I am an A number one Gunn. You see the point? The best deep in the States. Your pickpocket, stealing nickels of passengers on the streetcars, and me, a hell of a lot you know about it. Take me for such a small fry, do you? I work only on race tracks. You call it work? Sure, damn hard work, too. Takes more brains than a whole shop full of your honest producers can show. And you prefer that to be in honest? Do I? I spend more on gloves than a bricklayer makes in a year. Think I'm so dumb I have to slave all week for a few dollars? But you spend most of your life in prison. Not by a long shot, a real good guns always got his full money planted. I mean, some ready coin in case of trouble. And a smart lawyer will spring you most every time. Beat the case, you know? I've never seen the fly cop. You couldn't fix if you got enough dough. And most judges, too. Of course, now and then the best of us may fall. But it doesn't happen very often, and it's only in the game. The whole life is game, Mr. Bergman, and everyone's got his graft. Do you mean there are no honest men, I ask angrily? Sure, I'm just as honest as Rockefeller or Carnegie. Only they got the law with them. And I work harder than they. I'll bet you on that. I've got to eat, haven't I? Of course, he adds thoughtfully. If I could be sure of my bread and butter, perhaps. The passing overseer smiles a denoted pickpocket, inquiring pleasantly. How are you doing, Al? Tip top, Mr. Cousin. Hope you're feeling good today. Never better, Al. A friend of mine often spoke to me about you, Mr. Cousin. Who is that? Barney, Jack Barney. Jack Barney. Why, he worked for me in the broom shop. Yes, he did, a three-spot. He often said to me, Al, if you ever land in the riverside, he says. Be sure you don't forget to give my best to Mr. Cousin. Mr. Ed Cousin, he says. He's a good fellow. The officer looked pleased. Yes, I treated him right all right, he remarks, continuing on his rounds. I knew he'd swallow it. The assistant sneers after him. Always good to get on the right side of them. He adds to the wink. Barney told me about him all right, said he's the rottenest snake in the dump. A swell head. Yep. You see, Mr. Berkman, may I call you Alec? It's shorter. Well, you see, Alec, I make it a point to find things out. It's wise to know the ropes. I'm next to the whole bunch here. That Jimmy McPaine, the deputy, he's a regular brute. Killed his man all right. Barney told me all about it. He was doing his bit, then. I mean, serving his sentence. You see, Alec, he lowers his voice confidentially. I don't like to use slang. It grows on one, and every fly cop can spot you as a crook. It's necessary in my business to present a fine front and use good English. So I must not get the lingo habit. Well, I was speaking of Barney telling me about the deputy. He killed a con in cold blood. The fellow was bug house. D.T., you know, saw snakes. He ran out of his cell one morning, swinging a chair and hollering, murder, kill him. The deputy was just passing along, and he out with his guard. I mean, his revolver, you know, and bangs away. He pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes. He did the murder. Killed him dead. Never was tried, either. Worden told the newspapers it was done in self-defense. A damn lie. Sandy knew better. Everybody in the dump knew it was cold blooded murder, with no provocation at all. It's a regular ring, you see. And that old Worden is the biggest grafting of them all. And that sky pilot, too, is an A1 Fakir. Did you mean about the kid born here? Before your time? A big scandal. Since then, the holy man's gotta have a screw with him, that Sunday service, for the females. And I tell you, he needs watching all right. The whistle terminates the conversation. End of section 21. Section 22 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Botez. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. Chapter 15. The Urge of Sex. Sunday night, my new cell on the upper gallery is hot and stuffy. I cannot sleep. Through the bars I gaze upon the Ohio. The full moon hangs above the river, bathing the waters in mellow light. The strains of a sweet lullaby wander through the woods and the banks are merry with laughter. A girlish cadence rings like a silvery bell and voices call in the distance. Life is joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly near. But all is silent and dead around me. For days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my ears. It sounded so youthful and buoyant, so fondly alluring. A beautiful girl, no doubt, was joy to feast my eye on her. I have not beheld a woman for many months. I long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender touch. My mind persistently reverts to the voice on the river, the sweet strain in the woods. In fancy wreaths, sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol. Pains vision and image as I pace the floor in agitation. They live, they breathe. I see the slender figure with the swelling bossam, the delicate white throat. The babyish face with large, wistful eyes. Why it is luba? My blood tingles violently, passionately as I live over again. The rapturous wonder of the first touch of her maiden breast. How temptingly innocent sounded the immodest invitation on the velvety lips. How exquisite the suddenness of it all. We were in New Haven then, one by one we had gathered, till the little New York commune was complete. The girl joined me first, for I felt lonely in the strange city. Drudging as a compositor on a country weekly, the evenings cold and cheerless in the midst of a conservative household. But the girl brought light and sunshine, and then came the twin and mania. Luba remained in New York, but mania, devoted little soul, yearned for her sister. And presently the three girls worked side by side in the corset factory. All seemed happy in the free atmosphere. And Luba was blooming into beautiful womanhood. There was a vague something about her that now and then browsed in me a fond longing, a rapturous desire. Once it was in New York, a year before, I had experienced a sudden impulse toward her. It seized me unheralded, unaccountably. I had called to try a game of chess with her father, when he informed me that Luba had been ill. She was recovering now, and would be pleased to see me. I sat at the bedside, conversing in low tones, when I noticed the pillows sleeping from under the girl's head. Bending over, I involuntarily touched her hair, loosely hanging down the side. The soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next instant I stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves to my lips. The momentary sense of shame was lost in the feeling of reverence for the girl with a beautiful hair that bewildered and fascinated me. And a deep yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite disarray, full of grace and beauty. And all the while we talked, my eyes feasted on her ravishing form, and I felt envious of her future lover, and hated the desecration. But when I left her bedside, all traces of desire disappeared, and the inspiration of the moment faded like a vision affrighted by the dawn. Only a transient, vague inquiritude remained as of something unattainable. Then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed bliss. We had just returned from the performance of Tosca, with Sarah Bernhardt in her inimitable role. I had to pass through Lyuba's room on my way to the attic, in the little house occupied by the commune. She had already retired, but was still awake. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and we talked of the play. She glowed with inspiration of the great tragedienne. Then, somehow, she alluded to the decollette of the actresses. I don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage, I remarked. But I had a powerful opera glass. Their breasts looked fleshy and flabby. It was disgusting. Do you think mine nice? She asked suddenly. For a second I was bewildered. But the question sounded so enchantingly unpremeditated, so innocently eager. I never, let me see them, I said impulsively. No, no, she cried in a roused modesty. I can't, I can't. I won't look, Lyuba. See, I close my eyes. Just a touch. Oh, I can't, I'm ashamed. Only over the blanket, please, Sasha. She pleaded as my hand softly stole under the covers. She gripped the sheet tightly, and my arm rested on her side. The touch of the firm, round breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. In fear of arousing her maidenly resistance, I strove to hide my exultation, who I cautiously and tenderly I release the coverlet. They are very beautiful, Lyuba, I said controlling the tremor of my voice. You, like them, really, Sasha? The large eyes looked lustrous and happy. They are drick, dear, and snatching the last covering aside, I kissed her between the breasts. I'm so glad I came here, she spoke dreamily. What are you very lonesome in New York? It was terrible, Sasha. You like the change? Oh, you silly boy, don't you know? What, Lyuba? I wanted you, dear. Her arms twined softly about me. I felt appalled. The girl, my revolutionary plans, flitted through my mind, chilling me with self-reproach. The pale hue of the attained cast this shadow across the spell, and I lay cold and quiet on Lyuba's breast. The coverlet was slipping down and reaching for it. My hand inadvertently touched her knee. Sasha, how can you? She cried in alarm, sitting up with terrified eyes. I didn't mean to, Lyuba, how could you think that of me? I was deeply mortified. My hand relaxed on her breast. We lay in silent embarrassment. It is getting late, Sasha. She tenderly drew my head to her bosom. A little while yet, dear, and again the enchantment of the virgin breasts was upon me, and I showered wild kisses on them, and pressed them passionately, madly, till she cried out in pain. You must go now, dear. Good night, Lyuba. Good night, dearest. You haven't kissed me, Sasha. I felt her detaining lips as I left. In the wakeful hours of the night the urge of sex grows more and more insistent. Scenes from the past leave in my thoughts. The cell is peopled with familiar faces. Episodes long dead to memory rise animated before me. They emerge from the darkest chambers of my soul and move with intense reality. Like the portraits of my sires come to life in the dark, fearful nights of my childhood. Pert Masha smiles at me from her window across the street, and a baby of girls pass me demurely with modestly averted gaze, and then call back saucily in thinly disguised voices. Again I am with my playmates, trailing the school girls on their way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright and confusion as they discover the eyes glued to the peepholes we had cut in the booth. Inwardly I resent Nadia's bathing in her shirt, and in revenge dive beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of the girls who run to cover in shame and terror. But I grow indignant at Vaenka, who budgers the girls with Tsiba Tsiba Ba, and I soundly thrash Kolya for shouting nasty epithets across the schoolyard at Little Nunea, whom I secretly adore. But the note of the later days return again and again, and the scenes of youth recede into their dim frames. Clearer and more frequently appear Sonia and Lyuba, and the little sweetheart of my first months in America. What a goose she was. She would not embrace me because it's a great sin, unless one is married. But how slyly she managed to arrange kissing games at the Sunday gatherings at her home, and always loose to me. She must be quite a woman now, with her husband, children. Quickly she fleets by, the recollection even of her name lost, in the glow of unarchist emotionalism, and the fervent enthusiasm of my orchard street days. There flames the light that irradiates the vague longings of my Russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation to obscurely pulsating idealism. It sheds the hollow of illuminating justification upon my blindly rebellious spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit mountains. The sordid misery of my greenhorn days assumes a new aspect, ah, the wretchedness of those first years in America. And still, time's woof and warp unroll the tapestry of life in the new world, is joys and hard throbs. I stand alone, stranger, bewildered by the flurry of castle garden, yet strong with hope and courage to carve my fate in freedom. The Tsar is far away, and the fear of his hating Cossacks is past. How inspiring is liberty. The very air breathes enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor I embrace the new life. I join the ranks of the world's producers, and glory in the full manhood conferred by the dignity of labor. I resent the derision of my adopted country on the part of my family abroad, resent it hotly. I feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced my parents' respected name by turning a low, dirty working man. I combat their snobbishness vehemently, and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison between the old and the new world. Behold the glory of liberty and prosperity, the handiwork of a nation that honors labor. The loom of time keeps weaving, lone and friendless I struggle in the new land. Life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the worker dreary. There is no dignity of labor. Sweat shop bread is bitter, oppression guards the golden promise, and servile brutality is the only earnest of success. Then, like a clarion note in the desert, sounds the call of the ideal. Strong and rousing rolls the battle cry of revolution. Like a flash in the night, it illumines my groping. My life becomes full of new meaning and interest, translated into the struggle of world's emancipation. Fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in the music of the new humanity. It is all far, far. Yet every detail is sharply edged upon my memory. Swiftly, past before me, the years of complete consecration to the movement, the self-imposed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of agitation in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the evenings of spirited debate, the nights of diligent study, and overall looms the Fridays in the little dingy hall in the ghetto, where the handful of Russian refugees gather, where bold implications are thundered against the tyranny and injustice of the existing and winged words prophecy, the near approach of a glorious dawn. Beshould women and men, long coated and piously bearded, still into the hall after synagogue prayers, and listen with wandering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the strange Jewish, so perplexedly interspersed with the alien words of the new evangel. How our hearts rejoice us with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage the diffident questioner. Do you really mean? May the good Lord forgive me? There is no one in heaven above? Late in the evening, the meeting resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over the speaker's utterances, the select circle finally adjourning to the corner. The obscure little theorem resounds with the joust of learning and wit. Fascinating is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul as the passage of terms draws more heated with the advance of the night. The alert-eyed host diplomatically pacifies the belligerent factions. Gentlemen, gentlemen, shh. The police station is just across the street. There is a lull in the combat. The angry opponents frown at each other. And in the interim, the Austrian student in his mellow voice begins an interminable story of personal reminiscence, a propose of nothing and starting nowhere, but intensely absorbing. With sparkling eyes, he holds us spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us through the Nevsky in St. Petersburg, thence to the Caucasus, to engage in the blood feuds of the Cherkessi, or enmeshed in a perilous flirtation with an Albanian beauty in a Muslim harem. He descends on the philosophy of Mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the Nile to hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting the amazing adventures by introducing an acquaintance of the evening. My excellent friend, the coming great Italian virtuoso from Odessa, gentlemen, he will entertain us with an area from Trovatore. But the circle is not in a musical mood. Someone challenges the student's familiarity with the Muslim philosophy, and the twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the Austrian with Christian missionaries. There are protestations and loud clamour for an explanation. The student smilingly ascends, and presently he is launched upon the Chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan, trading tea at Yagta, and aiding a political to escape to Vladivostok. The night pales before the waking sun, the twin yawns, and I am drowsy with coffee. Want coffee? Hey, get up there. Didn't you hear the bell? End of Section 22. Section 23. A 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 16. The Warden's Threat. 1. The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark grey line undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate ghost-like, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house. Alec! Alec! I hear an excited whisper behind me. Quick, plant it! The screw's gonna frisk me! Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The garden front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men. Break ranks! The overseer approaches me. You are wanted in the office, Burke. The Warden, bleer-eyed and sallow frowns, as I am led in. What have you got on you? He demands abruptly. I don't understand you. Yes, you do. Have your money on you? I have not. Who sends clandestine mail for you? What mail? The letter published in the anarchist sheet in New York. I feel greatly relieved. The letter in question passed through official channels. It went through the chaplain's hands, I reply boldly. It isn't true. Such a letter could never pass, Mr. Milligan. Mr. Cawson, he turns to the guard, fetch the newspaper from my desk. The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. Here it is! You talk of revolution and comrades and anarchism! Mr. Milligan never saw that, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say you are editing from the prison, mind you. Editing an anarchist sheet in New York. You can't believe everything the papers say. I protest. Hmm, this time the papers, hmm, hmm, they may be right, the deputy interposes. They surely didn't make the story, hmm, hmm, out of whole cloth. They often do, I retort. Didn't they write that I tried to jump over the wall? It's about thirty feet high, and that the guard shot me in the leg. A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively I blurt out, Was the story inspired, perhaps? Silence! the Warden thunders. You're not to speak unless addressed, remember. Mr. McPain, please search him. The long bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of claminess. The lull some touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought of my security. I have nothing incriminating about me. Suddenly the snake-like hand dips into my coat pocket. What's this? He unwraps a small round object. A knife, Captain. Let me see, I cry in amazement. Stand back, the Warden commands. This knife has been stolen from the shoe-shop. On whom did you mean to use it? Warden, I didn't even know I had it. A fellow dropped it into my pocket as we. That'll do. You're not so clever as you think. It's a conspiracy, I cry. He lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile dancing in his eyes. Well, what have you got to say? It's a put-up job. Explain yourself. Someone threw this thing into my pocket as we were coming. Oh no, we've already heard that. It's too fishy. You search me for money and secret letters? That'll do now. Mr. McPain, what is the sentence for the possession of a dangerous weapon? Warden, I interrupt. It's no weapon. The blade is only half an inch, and silence! I spoke to Mr. McPain. Hmm, three days, Captain. Take him down. In the storeroom, I am stripped of my suit of dark gray, and again clad in the hateful stripes. Coatless and shoeless, I am led through hallways and corridors, down a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the dungeon. Total darkness. The blackness is massive, palpable. I feel its hand upon my head, my face. I dare not move lest a misstep thrust me into the abyss. I hold my hand close to my eyes. I feel the touch of my lashes upon it, but I cannot see its outline. Motionless I stand on one spot, devoid of all sense of direction. The silence is sinister. It seems to me I can hear it. Only now and then, the hasty scrambling of nimble feet suddenly rends the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible river-rats haunts the fearful solitude. Slowly the blackness pales. It ebbs and melts. Out of the sombre gray, wall looms above. The silhouette of a door rises dimly before me, sloping upward and growing compact and impenetrable. The hours drag in unbroken sameness, not a sound reaches me from the cell-house. In the maddening quiet and darkness I am bereft of all consciousness of time, save once a day, when the heavy rattle of keys apprises me of the morning. The dungeon is unlocked, and the silent guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of water. The double doors fall heavily, too. The steps grow fainter, and die in the distance, and all is dark again in the dungeon. The numbness of death steals upon my soul. The floor is cold and clammy. The gnawing grows louder and nearer, and I am filled with dread lest the starving rats attack my bare feet. I snatch a few unconscious moments leaning against the door, and then again I pace the cell, striving to keep awake, wondering whether it be night or day, yearning for the sound of a human voice. Utterly forsaken, cast into the stony bowels of the underground, the world of man receding, leaving no trace behind. Eagly I strain my ear, only the ceaseless, fearful gnawing. They clutch the bars in desperation, a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands tear violently at the door. Hold there! Anyone here? All is silent. Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving nightmares of mortal dread and despair, fear-shapes convulsive thoughts. A rage in wild tempest, then calm, and again rushed through time and space in a rapid succession of strangely familiar scenes, awakened in my slumbering consciousness. Exhausted and weary, I droop against the wall. A slimy creeping on my face startled me in horror, and again I pace the cell. I feel cold and hungry. Am I forgotten? Three days must have passed, and more. Have they forgotten me? The clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart. My tomb will open, o'er to see the light and breathe the air again. Officer, isn't my time up yet? Not sure, hurry! You've only been here one day. The doors fall too. Ravenously I devour the bread, so small and thin, just a bite. Only one day despair enfolds me like a pall. Faint with anguish, I sink to the floor. Two. The change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell is a veritable transformation. The sight of the human form fills me with delight. The sound of voices is sweet music. I feel as if I had been torn from the grip of death when all hope had fled me, caught on the very brink as it were, and restored to the world of the living. How bright the sun, how barmy the air, in keen sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The tick is soiled, the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to rest, secure from the vicious river-rats and the fierce vermin. It is almost liberty, freedom. But in the morning I awake in great agony. My eyes throb with pain. Every joint of my body is on the rack. The blankets had been removed from the dungeon. Three days and nights I lay on the bare stone. It was unnecessarily cruel to deprive me of my spectacles in pretended anxiety lest I commit suicide with them. It is very touching the solitude for my safety, in view of the flimsy pretext to punish me. Some hidden motive must be actuating the warden. But what can it be? Probably they will not keep me long in the cell. When I am returned to work, I shall learn the truth. The days pass in vain expectation. The continuous confinement is becoming distressing. I miss the little comforts I have lost by the removal to the single cell, considerably smaller than my previous quarters. My library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures I had so patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. The cell is bare and cheerless, the large card of ugly printed rules affording no relief from the irritating whitewash. The narrow space makes exercise difficult. The necessity of turning at every second and third step transforms walking into a series of contortions. But some means must be devised to while away the time. I pace the floor, counting the seconds required to make ten turns. I recollect having heard that five miles constitutes a healthy day's walk. At that rate I should make 3,771 turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. I divide the exercise into three parts, adding a few extra laps to make sure of five miles. Carefully, I count, and am overcome by a sense of calamity when the peel of the gong confuses my numbers. I must begin over again. The change of location has interrupted communication with my comrades. I am apprehensive of the fate of the prison blossoms. Strict surveillance makes the prospect of restoring connections doubtful. I am assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet distant from the officer's desk at the yard door. Watchful eyes are constantly upon me. It is impossible for any prisoner to converse with me. The rangel man alone could aid me in reaching my friends, but I have been warned against him. He is a stool who has earned his position as trusty by spying upon the inmates. I can expect no help from him, but perhaps the coffee boy may prove of service. I am planning to approach the man when I am informed that prisoners from the hosiery department are locked up on the upper gallery. By means of the waste pipe I learn of the developments during my stay in the dungeon. The discontent of the shop employees with the insufficient rations was intensified by the arrival of a wagonload of bad meat. The stench permeated the yard, and several men were punished for passing uncomplementary remarks about the food. The situation was aggravated by an additional increase of the task. The knitters and loopers were on the verge of rebellion. Twice within the month had the task been enlarged. They sent to the warden a request for a reduction. In reply came the appalling order for a further increase. Then a score of men struck. They remained in the cells, refusing to return to the shop unless the demand for better food and less work was complied with. With the aid of informers the warden conducted a quiet investigation. One by one the refractory prisoners were forced to submit by a process of elimination. The authorities sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for the unique episode of a strike in the prison. An air of mystery hangs about the guards. Repeatedly I attempt to engage them in conversation, but the least reference to the strike seals their lips. I wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when unexpectedly the cause is revealed. Three. It is Sunday noon. The rangeman pushes the dinner wagon along the tear. I stand at the door, ready to receive the meal. The overseer glances at me, then motions to the prisoner. The cart rolls past my cell. Officer, I call out, you missed me. Smell the pot pie, do you? Where's my dinner? You get none. The odor of the streaming delicacy so keenly looked forward to every second Sunday reaches my nostrils and sharpens my hunger. I have eaten sparingly all week in expectation of the treat, and now I am humiliated and enraged by being so unceremoniously deprived of the rare dinner. Angrily I wrap the cup across the door. Again and again I strike the tin against it. The successive falls from bar to bar, producing a sharp, piercing clatter. A guard hastens along. Stop that damn rackety, commands! What's the matter with you? I didn't get dinner. Yes, you did. I did not. Well, I suppose you don't deserve it, as he turns to leave my can, crushes against the door. One. Two. Three. What the hell do you want, eh? I want to see the warden. You can't see him. You better keep quiet now. I demand to see the warden. He's supposed to visit us every day. He hasn't been around for weeks. I must see him now, if you don't shut up, I'll— the captain of the block approaches. What do you want, Berkman? I want to see the warden. Can't see him. It's Sunday. Captain, I retort, pointing to the rules on the wall of the cell. There is an excerpt here from the Statutes of Pennsylvania, directing the warden to visit each prisoner every day. Never mind now, he interrupts. What do you want to see the warden about? I want to know why I got no dinner. Your name is off the list for the next four Sundays. What for? That you'll have to ask the boss. I'll tell him you want to see him. Presently the overseer returns, informing me, in a confidential manner, that he has induced his nibs to grant me an audience. Admitted to the inner office, I find the warden at the desk, his face flushed with anger. You are reported for disturbing the peace. He shouts at me. There is also, hmm, hmm, another charge against him. The deputy interposes. Two charges, the warden continues, disturbing the peace and making demands. How dare you, demand-heroes! Do you know where you are? I wanted to see you. It is not a question of what you want or don't want. Understand that clearly. You are to obey the rules implicitly. The rules direct you to visit. Silence! What is your request? I want to know why I am deprived of dinner. It is not, hmm, for you to know. It is enough, hmm, hmm, that we know, the deputy retorts. Mr. McPayne, the warden interposes, I am going to speak plainly to him. From this day on, he turns to me, you are on Pennsylvania diet for four weeks. During that time no papers or books are permitted you. It will give you leisure to think over your behavior. I have investigated your conduct in the shop, and I am satisfied it was you who instigated the trouble there. You shall not have another chance to incite the men, even if you live as long as your sentence. But, he pauses an instant, then adds threateningly, but you may as well understand it now as later. Your life is not worth the trouble you give us. Mark you well, whatever the cost, it will be at your expense. For the present you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your pernicious influence. Officers, remove him to the basket. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Chad Horner from Ballet Claire. Prism Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. Part 3 Chapter 24 The Basket Cell Four weeks of Pennsylvania diet have reduced me almost to a skeleton. A slice of wheat bread with a cup of unsweetened black coffee is my soul meal, with twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every trace of meat has been removed. Every Saturday I am conducted to the office to be examined by the physician and wide. The whole week I look forward to the brief respite from the terrible basket cell. The sight of the stripped men scarring the floor, the friendly smile on the stilfully raised face as I pass through the hall, the strange blue of the sky, the sweet scent of aroma of the April morning, how quickly it is all over. But the seven deep breaths I slowly inhale on the way to the office, and the eager ten on my return set my blood aglow with renewed life. For an instant my brain reels with the sudden rush of exquisite intoxication, and then I am in the tomb again. The torture of the basket is maddening. The constant dusk is driving me blind. Almost no light or air reaches me through the clues wire netting, covering the barred door. The foul odour is stifling. It grips my throat with deadly hold. The walls hem me in. Daily they press closer upon me till the cell seems to contract, and I feel crushed in the coffin of stone. From every point the white wash sides glare at me, unyielding, inexorable, and incompetent assurance of their prey. The darkness of despondency gathers day by day. The hand of despair weighs heavier. At night the screeching of a crow across the river ominously voices the black raven, keeping vigil in my heart. The windows in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind. Bleak and desolate quakes the day. Another day, then another. Wake and apathetic I lie on the bed. Ever further recedes the world of the living. Still day follows night, and life is in the making, but I have no part in the pain and travail. Like a spark from the glowing furnace, flashing through the gloom, unswallowed in the darkness I have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten. No sound reaches me from the island prison, where beats the fervent heart of the girl. No ray of hope falls across the bars of desolation, but on the threshold of nirvana life recoils. In the very biles of torment it cries out to be. Persecution feats the fires of defiance and nerves my resolution. Where I am ordinary prisoner, I should not care to suffer all these agonies. To what purpose? With my impossible sentence. But my anarchist ideals and traditions rise and revolt against the vampire glooting over its prey. No, I shall not disgrace the cause. I shall not grieve my comrades by weak surrender. I will fight and struggle, and not be daunted by threat or torture. With difficulty I walk to the office for the weakly wane. My step falters as I approach the scales, and I sway, dizzily. As through a mist I see the doctor bending over me, his head pressing against my body. Somehow I reach the basket, mildly wondering why I did not feel the cold air. Perhaps they did not take me through the yard. Is it the block captain's voice? What did you say? Return to your old cell. You're on full diet now. End of section 24. Recording by Chad Horner from Bolli Clare.