know how it happened. I was unconscious in that dark hole—it was just like my old idea of prison. I couldn’t live even a week there: it’s awful. Here it is a little better; but it’s never light in this cell,—always in semidarkness. And so small and narrow; no windows; it’s damp, and smells so foully all the time. The walls are wet and clammy; smeared with blood, too. Bedbugs—augh! it’s nauseating. Not much better than that black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the wall. Just a trifle better,—my hands are not chained. Perhaps I could live here a few years: no more than three, or may be five. But these brutal officers! No, no, I couldn’t stand it. I want to die! I’d die here soon, anyway; they will kill me. But I won’t give the enemy the satisfaction; they shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison, or that they killed me. No! I’d rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall have to do it—with my head against the bars—no, not now! At night, when it’s all dark,—they couldn’t save me then. It will be a terrible death, but it must be done.… If I only knew about “them” in New York—the Girl and Fedya—it would be easier to die then.… What are they doing in the case? Are they making propaganda out of it? They must be waiting to hear of my suicide. They know I can’t live here long. Perhaps they wonder why I didn’t suicide right after the trial. But I could not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my cell in jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. I had prepared to hang myself that night, but they must have suspected something. They brought me directly here from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been dead now—
“Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!” the trusty shouts into the door. Suddenly he whispers, “Grab it, quick!” A long, dark object is shot between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a white object comes to view. A towel! There is something round and hard inside—it’s a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my heart, as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it’s some one I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here—the language, the guards.… I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. I ought to wash up—my head feels so heavy—I haven’t washed since I got here. When did I come? Let me see; what is to-day? I don’t know, I can’t think. But my trial—it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September. They brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. And that guard—he frightened me so with the bull’s-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday? Why, it seems such a long time! Can this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I’ll ask the trusty the next time he passes. I’ll find out who sent this towel, too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him; or may be there is some here—
My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy; near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot over a narrow, circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it feels refreshing. The rub-down with the towel is invigorating. The stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle. Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. There’s a pin in the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A note! With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing:
Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it’s from a friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along, we know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit at night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls. Dump is full of them and don’t have nothing to say. So long, will see you tomorrow. A true friend.
I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me. Vaguely I surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. My heart beats violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could escape.… Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven’t I thought of it before? What a glorious thing it would be! Of course, they would ransack the country for me. I should have to hide. But what does it matter? I’d be at liberty. And what tremendous effect! It would make great propaganda: people would become much interested, and I—why, I should have new opportunities—
The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought, overwhelming me with despair. Perhaps a trap! I don’t know who wrote the note. A fine conspirator I’d prove, to be duped so easily. But why should they want to trap me? And who? Some guard? What purpose could it serve? But they are so mean, so brutal. That tall officer—the Deputy called him Fellings—he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. This may be his work, to get me in trouble. Would he really stoop to such an outrage? These things happen—they have been done in Russia. And he looks like a provocateur, the scoundrel. No, he won’t get me that way. I must read the note again. It contains so many expressions I don’t understand. I should “keep my lamps lit.” What lamps? There are none in the cell; where am I to get them? And what “screws” must I watch? And the “stools,”—I have only a chair here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it’s to be used as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The note says he will call to-morrow. I’ll be able to tell by his looks whether he can be trusted. Yes, yes, that will be best. I’ll wait till to-morrow. Oh, I wish it were here!
85 Berkman was sentenced to seven years for felonious assault on Frick, five years for felonious assault on Leishman, three years for each entrance he made into the building with felonious intent, and a year in the workhouse for carrying concealed weapons; twenty-two years in total.
86 See note 68 and 69 above for details of the estrangement.
87 The Freiheit office was above a saloon on the second floor of 167 William Street in Lower Manhattan.
88 In fact, the deputy warden was Hugh S. McKean who served from 1869 to 1895.
89 Author’s note: Clever, brave lad.
90 Author’s note: Young lady.
91 Author’s note: Mister
92 Author’s note: Lady.
Chapter II: The Will to Live
I
The days drag interminably in the semidarkness of the cell. The gong regulates my existence with depressing monotony. But the tenor of my thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent. In vain I have been waiting for his appearance,—yet the suggestion of escape has germinated hope. The will to live is beginning to assert itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder that my mind dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorily. The thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. Every possibility of escape must first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience. Surely I have no fear of death—when the proper time arrives. But haste would be highly imprudent; worse, quite unnecessary. Indeed, it is my duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda: escape would afford me many occasions to serve the Cause. It was thoughtless on my part to condemn that man Jamestown. I even resented his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the impossible sentence of seventeen years. Indeed, I was unjust: Jamestown is, no doubt, forming his plans. It takes time to mature such an undertaking: one must first familiarize himself with the new surroundings, get one’s bearings in the prison. So far I have had but little chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the authorities to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the intricate system of hallways, double