.

from Prison Memoirs of

an Anarchist

Excerpt 02:

[Picking up from where we left off, we start with the conclusion of Chapter 10 The Yegg]

“Screws can’t hear us now,” he whispers, “‘cept they’s close to us. But watch your lips, boy; the damn bulls got sharp lamps. An’ don’ scare me again like that. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb 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 own Billie I tole you ‘bout. True as steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot like th’ 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 kiddin’ 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.”

“An’ why don’t you believe it?”

“Why – er – well, I don’t think it 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 damfool than the casual observer, sir, would be apt to postulate. You don’t believe it possible; you don’t, eh? Well, you jest gimme half a chance, and I’ll show you.”

“Red, don’t you talk to me like that,” I burst out, angrily. “If you—”

“Aisy, aisy, me boy,” he interrupts, good-naturedly. “Don’t get on your high horse. No harm meant, Alex. You’re a good boy, but you jest rattle me with your crazy talk. Why, you’re bugs to say it’s impossible. Man alive, the dump’s chuckful of punks. It’s done in every prison, an’ on th’ road, everywhere. Lord, if I had a plunk [nickel] for every time I got th’ best of a kid, I’d rival Rockefeller, sir; I would, me boy.”

“You actually confess to such terrible practices? You’re disgusting. But I don’t really believe it, Red.”

“Confess hell! I confess nothin’. Terrible, disgusting! You talk like a man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot.”

“Are there no women on the road?”

“Pshaw! Who cares for a heifer when you can get a kid? Women are no good. I wouldn’t look at ‘em when I can have my prushun.* Oh, it is quite evident, sir, you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden tree of—”

“Oh, quit!”

“Well, you’ll know better before your time’s up, me virtuous sonny.”

* Prushun = a hobo’s youthful apprentice

[For receiving a progressive magazine in the regular mail, Berkman is sent to the “Dungeon” for two weeks, and then placed in 24/7,

indefinite solitary confinement. In chapter 18, he describes it thus:]

The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links through every change of misery. The cell is suffocating with the summer heat; rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my face. On the pretext of a “draught,” the unfriendly guard has closed the hall windows opposite my cell. Not a breath of air is stirring. The leaden hours of the night are insufferable with the foul odor. […] Impatiently I await the morning: the yard door will open before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted past my cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give me life this day.

And when the block has belched forth its striped prey, and silence mounts its vigil, I may improve a favorable moment to exchange a greeting with Johnny Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the tier above me. Thrice his request for a “high gear” machine has been refused, and the tall youth forced to work doubled over a low table. Unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered a hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow cough. Desperate with the dread of consumption, Johnny has refused to return to work. The Warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original high machine. But the boy has grown obdurate: he is determined not to go back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. The prison discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. Regularly every Monday the torture is repeated: the youth is called before the Deputy, and assigned to the hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed by the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary, to be cited again before the Warden the ensuing Monday. I chafe at my helplessness to aid the boy. His course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of yielding enrages him. “I’ll die before I give in,” he told me.

From whispered talks through the waste pipe I learn the sad story of his young life. He is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him. His father, a brakeman, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow destitute. Since the age of fourteen young Johnny had to support the whole family. Lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon, associating with a rough element that gradually drew him into gambling. One day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy’s accounts: the mills of justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily clad in stripes. […]

Devotedly Johnny goes to Church and prays for forgiveness for his “sins.” The prosecutor was “very hard” on him, he told me.

[In time, Berkman is made a prisoner-trustee and given daily chores outside his cell, but is still prohibited from leaving his solitary confinement jail block.]

My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell bars, and assisting at feeding ding [time], enable me to become acquainted and to form friendships. I marvel at the inadequacy of my notions of the “criminal.” I resent the presumption of “science” that pretends to evolve the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a digit cut from a dead hand, and labels it “criminal type.” Daily association dispels the myth of the “species,” and reveals the individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear. […]

Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing, brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates. Far removed from the strife and struggle of the larger world, I yet witness its miniature replica, more agonizing and merciless within the walls. A perfected model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull passivity. But beneath the torpid surface smolder the fires of being, now crackling faintly under a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth with the ruthlessness of despair. Hidden by the veil of discipline rages the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression.

[[Later, Berkman is made fallguy by the false testimony of a prisoner-guard relationship. He’s returned to indefinite confinement in the hold.]

Chapter XXVII

Love’s Dungeon Flower

The dungeon smells foul and musty; the darkness is almost visible, the silence oppressive; but the terror of my former experience has abated. I shall probably be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than on the previous occasion – my offence is considered very grave. Three charges have been entered against me: destroying State property, having possession of a knife, and uttering a threat against the Warden. When I saw the officers gathering at my back, while I was facing the Captain, I realized its significance. They were preparing to assault me. Quickly advancing to the Warden, I shook my fist in his face, crying:

“If they touch me, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

He turned pale. Trying to steady his voice, he demanded:

“What do you mean? How dare you?”

“I mean just what I say. I won’t be clubbed. My friends will avenge me too.”

He glanced at the guards standing rigid, in ominous silence. One by one they retired, only two remaining, and I was taken quietly to the dungeon.

The stillness is broken by a low, muffed sound. I listen intently. It is someone pacing the cell at the further end of the passage.

“Halloo! Who’s there?” I shout.

No reply. The pacing continues. It must be “Silent Nick”; he never talks.

I prepare to pass the, night on the floor. It is bare; there is no bed or blanket, and I have been deprived of my coat and shoes. It is freezing in the cell; my feet grow numb, hands cold, as I huddle in the corner, my head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the stone floor. I try to think, but my thoughts are wandering, my brain frigid.

The rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor. Guards are descending into the dungeon. I wonder whether it is morning, but they pass my cell: it is not yet breakfast time. Now they pause and whisper. I recognize the mumbling speech of Deputy Greaves, as he calls out to the silent prisoner:

“Want a drink?”

The double doors open noisily.

“Here!”

“Give me the cup,” the hoarse bass resembles that of “Crazy Smithy.” His stentorian voice sounds cracked since he was shot in the neck by Officer Dean.

“You can’t have th’ cup,” the Deputy fumes.

“I won’t drink out of your hand, God damn you. Think I’m a cur, do you?” Smithy swears and curses savagely.

The doors are slammed and locked. The steps grow faint, and all is silent, save the quickened footfall of Smith, who will not talk to any prisoner.

I pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at times to strain my ear for every sound from the rotunda above, wondering whether day is breaking. The minutes drag in dismal darkness . . . .

The loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like sweet music. It is morning! The guards hand me the day’s allowance – two ounces of white bread and a quart of water. The wheat tastes sweet; it seems to me I’ve never eaten anything so delectable. But the liquid is insipid, and nauseates me. At almost one bite I swallow the slice, so small and thin. It whets my appetite, and I feel ravenously hungry.

At Smith’s door the scene of the previous evening is repeated. The Deputy insists that the man drink out of the cup held by a guard. The prisoner refuses, with a profuse flow of profanity. Suddenly there is a splash, followed by a startled cry, and the thud of the cell bucket on the floor. Smith has emptied the contents of his privy upon the officers. In confusion, they rush out of the dungeon.

Presently I hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar. There is a hubbub of suppressed voices. I recognize the rasping whisper of Hopkins, the tones of Woods, Mcllvaine, and others. I catch the words, “Both sides at once.” Several cells in the dungeon are provided with double entrances, front and back, to facilitate attacks upon obstreperous prisoners. Smith is always assigned to one of these cells. I shudder as I realize that the officers are preparing to club the demented man. He has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary confinement, and his throat still bleeds occasionally from the bullet wound. Almost half his time he has been kept in the dungeon, and now he has been missing from the range twelve days. It is . . . . Involuntarily I shut my eyes at the fearful thud of the riot clubs.

The hours drag on. The monotony is broken by the keepers bringing another; prisoner to the dungeon. I hear his violent sobbing from the depth of the cavern.

“Who is there?” I hail him. I call repeatedly, without receiving an answer. Perhaps the new arrival is afraid of listening guards:

“Ho, man,” I sing out, “the screws have gone. Who are you? This is Aleck; Aleck Berkman.”

“Is that you, Aleck? This is Johnny.” There is a familiar ring about the young voice, broken by piteous moans. But I fail to identify it.

“What Johnny?”

“Johnny Davis – you know – stocking shop. I’ve just – killed a man.”

In bewilderment I listen to the Story, told with bursts of weeping. Johnny had returned to the shop; he thought he would try again: he wanted to earn his “good” time. Things went well for a while, till “Dutch” Adams became shop runner. He is the stool who got Grant and Johnny Smith in trouble with the fake key, and Davis would have nothing to do with him romantically. But “Dutch” persisted, pestering him all the time; and then—

“Well, you know, Aleck,” the boy seems diffident, “he lied about me like hell: he told the fellows he used me. Christ, my mother might hear about it! I couldn’t stand it; Aleck; honest to God, I couldn’t. I – I killed the lying cur, an’ now – now I’ll – I’ll swing for it," he sobs as if his heart would break.

A touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my voice as I strive to condole with him and utter the hope that it may not be so bad, after all. Perhaps Adams will not die. He is a powerful man, big and strong; he may survive.

Johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. He grows more cheerful, and we talk of the coming investigation and local affairs. Perhaps the Board will even clear him, he suggests. But suddenly seized with fear, he weeps and moans again.

More men are cast into the dungeon. They bring news from the world above. An epidemic of fighting seems to have broken out in the wake of recent orders. The total inhibition of talking is resulting in more serious offences. “Kid Tommy” is enlarging upon his trouble. “You see, fellers,” he cries in a treble, “dat skunk of a Pete, he pushes me in de line, and I turns round t’ give ‘im hell, but de screw pipes me. Got no chance t’ choo, so I turns an’ biffs him on de jaw, see?” But he is sure, he says, to be let out at night, or in the morning, at most. “Them fellers that was scrappin,’ yesterday in de yard didn’t go to de hole. Dey jest put ‘em in de cell. Sandy knows de committee’s comin’ all right.”

Johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire anxiously about “Dutch” Adams, and I share his joy at hearing that the man’s wound is not serious. He was cut about the shoulders, but was able to walk unassisted to the hospital. Johnny overflows with quiet happiness; the others dance and sing. I recite a poem from Nekrassov; the boys don’t understand a word, but the sorrow-laden tones appeal to them, and they request more Russian “pieces.” […]

Invisible to each other, we chat, exchange stories and anecdotes, the boys talking incessantly, as if fearful of silence. But every now and then there is a lull; we become quiet, each absorbed in his own thoughts. The pauses lengthen—lengthen into silence. Only the faint steps of “Crazy Smith” disturb the deep stillness.

Late in the evening, the young prisoners are relieved. But Johnny remains, and his apprehensions reawaken. Repeatedly during the night he rouses me from my drowsy torpor to be reassured that he is not in danger of the gallows, and that he will not be tried for his assault. I allay his fears by dwelling on the Warden’s aversion to giving publicity to the sex practices in the prison, and remind the boy of the Captain’s official denial of their existence. These things happen almost every week, yet no one has ever been taken to court from Riverside on such charges.

Johnny grows more tranquil, and we converse about his family history, talking in a frank, confidential manner. With a glow of pleasure, I become aware of the note of tenderness in his voice. Presently he surprises me by asking:

“Friend Aleck, what do they call you in Russian?”

He prefers the fond “Sashenka,” enunciating the strange word with quaint endearment, then diffdently confesses dislike for his own name, and relates the story he had recently read of a poor castaway Cuban youth; Felipe was his name, and he was just like himself.

“Shall I call you Felipe?” I offer.

“Yes, please do, Aleck, dear; no, Sashenka.”

The springs of affection well up within me, as I lie huddled on the stone floor, cold and hungry. With closed eyes, I picture the boy before me, with his delicate face, and sensitive, girlish lips.

“Good night, dear Sashenka,” he calls.

“Good night, little Felipe.”

In the morning, we are served with a slice of bread and water. I am tormented by thirst and hunger, and the small ration fails to assuage my sharp pangs. Smithy still refuses to drink out of the Deputy’s hand; his doors remain unopened.

With tremulous anxiety Johnny begs the Deputy Warden to tell him how much longer he will remain in the dungeon, but Greaves curtly commands silence, applying a vile epithet to the boy.

“Deputy,” I call, boiling over with indignation, “he asked you a respectful question. I’d give him a decent answer.”

“You mind your own business, you hear?” he retorts. But I persist in defending my young friend, and berate the Deputy for his language. He hastens away in a towering passion, menacing me with "what Smithy got."

Johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of the trouble. The threat of the Deputy disquiets him, and he warns me to prepare. My cell is provided with a double entrance, and I am apprehensive of a sudden attack. But the hours pass without the Deputy returning, and our fears are allayed. The boy rejoices on my account, and brims over with appreciation of my intercession.

The incident cements our intimacy; our first diffidence disappears, and we become openly tender and affectionate. The conversation lags : we feel weak and worn. But every little while we hail each other with words of encouragement. Smithy incessantly paces the cell; the gnawing of the river rats reaches our ears; the silence is frequently pierced by the wild yells of the insane man, startling us with dread foreboding. The quiet grows unbearable, and Johnny calls again:

“What are you doing, Sashenka?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking, Felipe.”

“Am I in your thoughts, dear?”

“Yes, kiddie, you are.”

“Sasha, dear, I’ve been thinking too.”

“What, Felipe?”

“You are the only one I care for. I haven’t a friend in the whole place.”

“Do you care much for me, Felipe?”

“Will you promise not to laugh at me, Sashenka?”

“I wouldn’t laugh at you.”

“Cross your hand over your heart. Got it, Sasha?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I was thinking – how shall I tell you? I was thinking, Sashenka – if you were here with me – I would like to kiss you.”

An unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart, and I muse in silence.

“What’s the matter, Sashenka? Why don’t you say something? Are you angry with me?”

“No, Felipe, you foolish little boy.”

“You are laughing at me.”

“No, dear; I feel just as you do.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I am so glad, Sashenka.”

In the evening, the guards descend to relieve Johnny; he is to be transferred to the basket [solitary confinement block], they inform him. On the way past my cell, he whispers: “Hope I’ll see you soon, Sashenka.” A friendly officer knocks on the outer blind door of my cell. ‘That you thar, Berkman? You want to b’have to th’ Dep’ty. He’s put you down for two more days for sassin’ him.”

I feel more lonesome at the boy’s departure. The silence grows more oppressive, the hours of darkness heavier.

—Alexander Berkman, [i]

1912