Answer my questions, d’ye hear?”
His manner has suddenly changed. His tone is threatening.
“Now answer me. Where do you live?”
“Give me some water. I am too dry to talk.”
“Certainly, certainly,” he replies, coaxingly. “You shall have a drink. Do you prefer whiskey or beer?”
“I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. I want water.”
“Well, you’ll get it as soon as we get through. Don’t let us waste time, then. Who are your friends?”
“Give me a drink.”
“The quicker we get through, the sooner you’ll get a drink. I am having a nice cell fixed up for you, too. I want to be your friend, Mr. Berkman. Treat me right, and I’ll take care of you. Now, tell me, where did you stop in Pittsburgh?
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“Answer me, or I’ll—”
His face is purple with rage. With clenched fist he leaps from his seat; but, suddenly controlling himself, he says, with a reassuring smile:
“Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be an intelligent man. Why don’t you talk sensibly?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who went with you to Mr. Frick’s office?”
Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words:
“I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchants’ Hotel, opposite the B. and 0. depot. I signed the name Rakhmetov in the register there. It’s a fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman. I went to Frick’s office alone. I had no helpers. That’s all I have to tell you.”42
“Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman. We’re not in any hurry. Take your seat. You may as well stay here as in the cell; it’s pleasanter. But I am going to have another cell fixed up for you. Just tell me, where do you stay in New York?”
“I have told you all there is to tell.”
“Now, don’t be stubborn. Who are your friends?”
“I won’t say another word.”
“Damn you, you’ll think better of it. Officers, take him back. Same cell.”
Every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by new inquisitors. They coax and threaten, they smile and rage in turn. I remain indifferent. But water is refused me, my thirst aggravated by the salty food they have given me. It consumes me, it tortures and burns my vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The foul air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave torments me; my soul is in an agony of uncertainty.
38 Muzhik is a Russian peasant.
39 Stenka Razin was a Cossack leader who led an uprising against the Russian state that spread throughout Southern Russia in 1670–1671 quickly becoming identified with peasant unrest. Razin’s insurrection would be seen by later Russian radicals and anarchists as highlighting the revolutionary possibilities of the Russian peasantry and “the people.” The picture Berkman describes of Razin’s execution in 1671 appears to differ from the more common pictures of the affair, which usually portray Razin just before his execution, where he was tortured and then quartered alive.
40 Berkman had been influenced by Louis Lingg in his preparations. Lingg took his own life in prison by biting down on a dynamite cartridge and blowing his face off. The dynamite had been smuggled into prison by the anarchist Dyer D. Lum, the day before Lingg’s scheduled execution.
41 The Pittsburgh chief of police at this time was Roger O’Mara who interviewed Berkman at the central police station on the day of the attempt. The next day, Sunday, July 24, Berkman was transferred to the Allegheny County Jail.
42 Obviously Berkman is trying to protect Bauer, Nold, and other Allegheny anarchists here by lying about where he stayed.
Chapter VI: The Jail43
I
The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant going and coming. The clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors, continually reverberates through the corridors. The dull thud of a footfall in the cell above hammers on my head with maddening regularity. In my ears is the yelling and shouting of coarse voices.
“Cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! To court! Right a-way!”
A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is nervous, in his look expectant fear.
“Hurry, there! To court!”
“Good luck, Jimmie.”
The man flushes and averts his face, as he passes a group of visitors clustered about an overseer.
“Who is that, Officer?” One of the ladies advances, lorgnette in hand,44 and stares boldly at the prisoner. Suddenly she shrinks back. A man is being led past by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash, his head swathed in bandages. The officers thrust him violently into a cell. He falls heavily against the bed. “Oh, don’t! For Jesus’ sake, don’t!” The shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries.
The visitors crowd about the cell.
“What did he do? He can’t come out now, Officer?”
“No, ma’am. He’s safe.”
The lady’s laugh rings clear and silvery. She steps closer to the bars, eagerly peering into the darkness. A smile of exciting security plays about her mouth.
“What has he done, Officer?”
“Stole some clothes, ma’am.”
Disdainful disappointment is on the lady’s face. “Where is that man who—er—we read in the papers yesterday? You know—the newspaper artist who killed—er—that girl in such a brutal manner.”
“Oh, Jack Tarlin.45 Murderers’ Row, this way, ladies.”
II
The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in the western wing of the jail. I stand close to the bars to catch the cheering rays. They glide across my face with tender, soft caress, and I feel something melt within me. Closer I press to the door. I long for the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft balm into my aching soul. The last rays are fading away, and something out of my heart is departing with them.… But the lengthening shadows on the gray flagstones spread quiet. Gradually the clamor ceases, the sounds die out. I hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click of a lock, and all is hushed and dark.
The
