window. I hear Frick cry out in pain—there is much shouting and stamping—my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted bodily from the floor.37
Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick’s. He stands in front of me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With defiant hatred I look him full in the face.
“Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?”
Frick nods weakly.
The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly:
“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”
I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there is a peculiar sensation about my eyes.
“I’ve lost my glasses,” I remark, involuntarily.
“You’ll be damn lucky if you don’t lose your head,” an officer retorts.
35 Berkman had previously visited Frick’s office on the morning of Tuesday, July 19 and again on the morning of Thursday, July 21. On both visits Frick was unavailable.
36 The two men were Frick and John Leishman, vice chairman of Carnegie Steel.
37 Berkman first shot Frick twice—one bullet grazed Frick’s ear and went under his right shoulder blade, the other hit Frick on the side of the neck and lodged in his left shoulder. Leishman grabbed Berkman, and Frick also grappled with him. As they fell to the floor, Berkman stabbed Frick in the hipbone, lower back, and thigh. A carpenter, who was working elsewhere in the building, came in and hit him on the back of the head with his mallet. Others then rushed in and subdued him.
Chapter V: The Third Degree
I
The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone. Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and threats,—how disgusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench, running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep.
I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it night? My hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy touches my cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is damp and musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor, drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars. The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring. My throat is dry to cracking; I cannot swallow. “Water! I want water!” The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The sound rolls up; it rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and abruptly ceases.
“Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?”
The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the sound relieves me. Now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to breathe. I begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite mine. There are dark forms at the doors. The men within look like beasts restlessly pacing their cages.
“Whatcher in for?” It comes from somewhere alongside. “Can’t talk, eh? ’Sorderly, guess.”
What am I in for? Oh, yes! It’s Frick. Well, I shall not stay here long, anyhow. They will soon take me out—they will lean me against a wall—a slimy wall like this, perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and the soldiers there…. No: they are going to hang me. Well, I shall be glad when they take me out of here. I am so dry. I’m suffocating.…
…The upright irons of the barred door grow faint, and melt into a single line; it adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side sills. It resembles a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall, and picks up a spade. Now he stands with one foot in the hole. It is the carpenter! He hit me on the head. From behind, too, the coward. If he only knew what he had done. He is one of the People: we must go to them, enlighten them. I wish he’d look up. He doesn’t know his real friends. He looks like a Russian peasant, with his broad back. What hairy arms he has! If he would only look up.… Now he sinks the beam into the ground; he is stamping down the earth. I will catch his eye as he turns around. Ah, he didn’t look! He has his eyes always on the ground. Just like the muzhik.38 Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the cross-piece looks. The horizontal beam seems too long; out of proportion. I hope it won’t break. I remember the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. Underneath was inscribed, The Execution of Stenka Razin.39 “Didn’t the branch break?” I asked. “No, Sasha,” mother replied, “Stenka—well, he weighed nothing”; and I wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with Maxim. But mother smiled sadly at me, and wouldn’t explain. Then she turned to my brother: “Maxim, you must not bring Sashenka such pictures. He is too young.” “Not too young, mamotchka, to learn that Stenka was a great man.” “What! You young fool,” father bristled with anger, “he was a murderer, a common rioter.” But mother and Maxim bravely defended Stenka, and I was deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion. “Not another word, now! I won’t hear any more of that peasant criminal.” The peculiar divergence of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why couldn’t they agree? He must have been a good man, I finally decided. Mother wouldn’t cry over a hanged murderer: I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked at that picture. Yes, Stenka Razin was surely a noble man. I cried myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how I could ever forgive “them” the killing of the good Stenka, and why the weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. Why didn’t it break?… The scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my weight. They’ll hang me like Stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some day see the picture—and they will call me murderer—and only a few will know the truth—and the picture will show me hanging from… No, they shall not hang me!
My hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep sense of gratification comes over me, as I feel the nitroglycerine cartridge secure in the lining.40 I smile at the imaginary carpenter. Useless preparations! I have, myself, prepared for the event. No, they won’t hang me. My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead! Make your gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat. Is he done already? Now he is turning around. He is looking straight at me. Why, it’s Frick! Alive?…
My brain is on fire. I press my head against the bars, and groan heavily. Alive? Have I failed? Failed?…
II
Heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of the keys grows more distinct. I must compose myself. Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall not witness my agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I must seem indifferent.
Would I “take lunch with the Chief”?41 I decline, requesting a glass of water. Certainly; but the Chief wishes to see me first. Flanked on each side by a policeman, I pass through winding corridors, and finally ascend to the private office of the Chief. My mind is busy with thoughts of escape, as I carefully note the surroundings. I am in a large, well-furnished room, the heavily curtained windows built unusually high above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at which a middle-aged man, of distinct Irish type, is engaged with some papers.
“Good morning,” he greets me, pleasantly. “Have a seat,” pointing to a chair inside the railing. “I understand you asked for some water?”
“Yes.”