The Great Mirror of Same-Sex Love - Prose - 84. Alexander Berkman " . . . resurrection trembles within . . . "

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from Prison Memoirs of

an Anarchist

Excerpt 04:

[Russell’s story. Berkman is confined to the solitary confinement jail block, taking the fall for a note found in Russell’s cell detailing an escape plan.]

[T]he threads of comradeship have slowly been woven by common misery. The touch of sympathy has discovered the man beneath the criminal; the crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of kindness, warming into view the palpitating human heart. Old Evans and Sammy and Bob – what suffering and pain must have chilled their fiery souls with the winter of savage bitterness! And the resurrection trembles within! How terrible man’s ignorance, that forever condemns itself to be scourged by its own blind fury! And these my friends, [Johnny] Davis and Russell, these innocently guilty – what worse punishment could society inflict upon itself, than the loss of their latent nobility which it had killed? [...]

Chapter XL

Done to Death

In my utter isolation, the world outside appears like a faint memory, unreal and dim. The deprivation of newspapers has entirely severed me from the living. Letters from my comrades have become rare and irregular; they sound strangely cold and impersonal. The life of the prison is also receding; no communication reaches me from my friends. “Pious” John, the rangeman, is unsympathetic; he still bears me ill will from the days of the jail. Only young Russell still remembers me. I tremble for the reckless boy as I hear his low cough, apprising me of the “stiff” he unerringly shoots between the bars, while the double file of prisoners marches past my door. He looks pale and haggard, the old buoyant step now languid and heavy. A tone of apprehension pervades his notes. He is constantly harassed by the officers, he writes; his task has been increased; he is nervous and weak, and his health is declining. In the broken sentences, I sense some vague misgiving, as of impending calamity.

With intense thankfulness I think of Russell. Again I live through the hopes and fears that drew us into closer friendship, the days of terrible anxiety incident to the tunnel project. My heart goes out to the faithful boy, whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his companionship possesses me. In the gnawing loneliness, his face floats before me, casting the spell of a friendly presence, his strong features softened by sorrow, his eyes grown large with the same sweet sadness of “Little Felipe.” A peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts of the boy; I look forward eagerly to his notes. Impatiently I scan the faces in the passing line, wistful for the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at his fleeting smile.

How sorrowful he looks! Now he is gone. The hours are weary with silence and solitude. Listlessly I turn the pages of my library book. […] My only friend! I shall not see him when he returns to the cell at noon: the line passes on the opposite side of the hall. But in the afternoon, when the men are again unlocked for work, I shall look into his eyes for a happy moment, and perhaps the dear boy will have a message for me. He is so tender-hearted: his correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement, and he strives to cheer me with the good news: another day is gone, his sentence is nearing its end; he will at once secure a position, and save every penny to aid in my release. Tacitly I concur in his ardent hope – it would break his heart to be disillusioned. […]

As his release approaches, the tone of native confidence becomes more assertive in Russell’s letter. The boy is jubilant and full of vitality: within three months he will breathe the air of freedom. A note of sadness at leaving me behind permeates his communications, but he is enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty.

Eagerly every day I anticipate his mute greeting, as he passes in the line. This morning I saw him hold up two fingers, the third crooked, in sign of the remaining “two and a stump.” A joyous light is in his eyes, his step firmer, more elastic.

But in the afternoon he is missing from the line. With sudden apprehension I wonder at his absence. Could I have overlooked him in the closely walking ranks? It is barely possible. Perhaps he has remained in the cell, not feeling well. It may be nothing serious; he will surely be in line to-morrow.

For three days, every morning and afternoon, I anxiously scrutinize the faces of the passing men; but Russell is not among them. His absence torments me with a thousand fears. May be the Warden has renewed his inquisition of the boy—perhaps he got into a fight in the shop—in the dungeon now—he’ll lose his commutation time. . . . Unable to bear the suspense, I am about to appeal to the Chaplain, when a friendly runner surreptitiously hands me a note.

With difficulty I recognize my friend’s bold handwriting in the uneven, nervous scrawl. Russell is in the hospital! At work in the shop, he writes, he had suffered a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward for observation, but the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of shamming to evade work. They threaten to have him returned to the shop, and he implores me to have the Chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward for observation, but the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of shamming to evade work. They threaten to have him returned to the shop, and he implores me to have the Chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak and feverish, and the thought of being left alone in the cell in his present condition fills him with horror.

I send an urgent request to see the Chaplain. But the guard informs me that Mr. Milligan is absent; he is not expected at the office till the following week. I prevail upon the kindly Mitchell, recently transferred to the South Block, to deliver a note to the Warden, in which I appeal on behalf of Russell. But several days pass, and still no reply from Captain Wright. Finally I pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford Frank, the doctor’s assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell. As the “medicine boy” pours the prescribed pint of “horse salts” [a brutal laxative] through the funnel inserted between the bars, I hastily inquire:

“Is Russell still in the ward, Frank? How is he?”

“What Russell?” he asks indifferently.

“Russell Schroyer, put four days ago under observation.”

“Oh, that poor boy! Why . . . he is paralyzed.”

For an instant I am speechless with terror. No, it cannot be. Some mistake.

“Frank, I mean young Schroyer, from the construction shop. He’s Number 2608.”

“Your kid Russell; I know who you mean. I’m sorry for the boy. He is paralyzed, all right.”

“But . . . No, it can’t be! Why, Frank, it was just a chill and a little weakness.”

“Look here, Aleck. I know you’re square, and you can keep a secret all right. I’ll tell you something if you won’t give me away.”

“Yes, yes, Frank. What is it?”

“Sh-sh. You know Flem, the night nurse? Doing a five spot for murder. His father and the Warden are old cronies. That’s how he got to be nurse; don’t know a damn thing about it, an’ careless as hell. Always makes mistakes. Well, Doc ordered an injection for Russell. Now don’t ever say I told you. Flem got the wrong bottle; gave the poor boy some acid in the injection. Paralyzed the kid; he did, the damn murderer.”

I pass the night in anguish, clutching desperately at the faint hope that it cannot be – some mistake – perhaps Frank has exaggerated. But in the morning the “medicine boy” confirms my worst fears: the doctor has said the boy will die. Russell does not realize the situation: there is something wrong with his legs, the poor boy writes; he is unable to move them, and suffers great pain. It can’t be fever, he thinks; but the physician will not tell him what is the matter

The kindly Frank is sympathetic ; every day he passes notes between us, and I try to encourage Russell. He will improve, I assure him; his time is short, and fresh air and liberty will soon restore him. My words seem to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when unexpectedly he learns the truth from the wrangling nurses. His notes grow piteous with misery. Tears fill my eyes as I read his despairing cry, “Oh, Aleck, I am so young. I don’t want to die.” He implores me to visit him; if I could only come to nurse him, he is sure he would improve. He distrusts the convict attendants who harry and banter the country lad; their heartless abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patience. Exasperated by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yesterday threw a saucer at him. He was reported to the doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed youth to the dungeon. Plagued and tormented, in great suffering, Russell grows bitter and complaining. The nurses and officers are persecuting him, he writes; they will soon do him to death, if I will not come to his rescue. If he could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to recover.

Every evening Frank brings sadder news: Russell is feeling worse; he is so nervous, the doctor has ordered the nurses to wear slippers; the doors in the ward have been lined with cotton, to deaden the noise of slamming; but even the sight of a moving figure throws Russell into convulsions. There is no hope, Frank reports; decomposition has already set in. The boy is in terrible agony; he is constantly crying with pain, and calling for me.

Distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick friend, I resolve upon a way to visit the hospital. In the morning, as the guard hands me the bread ration and shuts my cell, I slip my hand between the sill and door. With an involuntary cry I withdraw my maimed and bleeding fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dispensary. By tacit permission of the friendly “medicine boy” I pass to the second floor, where the wards are located, and quickly steal to Russell’s bedside.

The look of mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating pain in my hand. “Oh, dear Aleck,” he whispers, “I’m so glad they let you come. I’ll get well if you’ll nurse me.” The shadow of death is in his eyes; the body exudes decomposition. Bereft of speech, I gently press his white, emaciated hand. The weary eyes close, and the boy falls into slumber. Silently I touch his dry lips with mine, and then steal away.

In the afternoon I appeal to the Warden to permit me to nurse my friend. It is the boy’s dying wish; it will ease his last hours. The Captain refers me to the Inspectors, but Mr. Reed informs me that it would be subversive of discipline to grant my request. Thereupon I ask permission to arrange a collection among the prisoners: Russell firmly believes that he would improve in an outside hospital, and the Pardon Board might grant the petition. Friendless prisoners are often allowed to circulate subscription lists among the inmates, and two years previously I had collected a hundred and twenty-three dollars for the pardon of a lifetimer. But the Warden curtly refuses my plea, remarking that it is dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. I suggest the Chaplain for the mission, or some prisoner selected by the authorities. But this offer is also vetoed, the Warden berating me for having taken advantage of my presence in the dispensary to see Russell clandestinely, and threatening to punish me with the dungeon. I plead with him for permission to visit the sick boy who is hungry for a friendly presence, and constantly calling for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the Captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he informs me, on condition that a guard be present at the meeting. For a moment I hesitate. The desire to see my friend struggles against the fear of irritating him by the sight of the hated uniform; but I cannot expose the dying youth to this indignity and pain. Angered by my refusal, perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning the secret of the tunnel from the visit, the Warden forbids me hereafter to enter the hospital.

Late at night Frank appears at my cell. He looks very grave, as he whispers:

“Aleck, you must bear up.”

“Russell—”

“Yes, Aleck.”

“Worse? Tell me, Frank.”

“He is dead. Bear up, Aleck. His last thought was of you. He was unconscious all afternoon, but just before the end – it was 9:33 – he sat up in bed so suddenly, he frightened me. His arm shot out, and he cried, ‘Good bye, Aleck.’”

[During the final year of his incarceration, Berkman dreams of open spaces and communing with nature. He also worries about re-transitioning to female-only romantic attachments, doubting they could ever mean as much emotionally as his prison loves.]

The thought of affection, the love of woman, thrills me with ecstasy, and colors my existence with emotions of strange bliss. But the solitary hours are filled with recurring dread lest my life forever remain bare of woman’s love. Often the fear possesses me with the intensity of despair, as my mind increasingly dwells on the opposite sex. Thoughts of woman eclipse the memory of the prison affections, and the darkness of the present is threaded with the silver needle of love-hopes.

[Released directly from the penitentiary to the street, Berkman finds only noise, confusion and suspicions clouding his way. Unable to go West and lose himself in natural solitude, he’s tossed into the tumult of being the poster child for a movement; wanted everywhere for pictures and speeches. After a brief tour, he winds up back in New York, dependent upon The Girl’s hospitality. In short order, he winds up at a Bowery Gay bar (a resort), meeting one of “the kids” from prison who’s working there as a rentboy. Community hangout spaces were commonly referred to at the time as pansy resorts; fairy resorts; or just plain resorts. (Straight bars were never called this.) The Bowery was also home to New York’s Gay neighborhood until Greenwich Village began to replace it in the 1920s.]

New York looks unexpectedly familiar, though I miss many old landmarks. It is torture to be indoors, and I roam the streets, experiencing a thrill of kinship when I locate one of my old haunts. […]

I feel an instinctive disapproval of many things, though particular instances are intangible and elude my analysis. I sense a foreign element in the circle [The Girl] has gathered about her, and feel myself a stranger among them. Her friends and admirers crowd her home, and turn it into a sort of salon. They talk art and literature; discuss science and philosophize over the disharmony of life. But the groans of the dungeon find no gripping echo there. The Girl is the most revolutionary of them all; but even she has been infected by the air of intellectual aloofness, false tolerance and everlasting pessimism. I resent the situation, the more I become conscious of the chasm between the Girl and myself. It seems unbridgeable; we cannot recover the intimate note of our former comradeship. With pain I witness her evident misery. She is untiring in her care and affection; the whole circle lavishes on me sympathy and tenderness. But through it all I feel the commiserating tolerance toward a sick child. I shun the atmosphere of the house, and flee to seek the solitude of the crowded streets and the companionship of the plain, untutored underworld.

In a Bowery resort I come across Dan, my assistant on the range during my last year in the penitentiary.

“Hello, Aleck," he says, taking me aside, “awful glad to see you out of hell. Doing all right?”

“So-so, Dan. And you?”

“Rotten, Aleck; rotten. You know it was my first bit, and I swore I’d never do a crooked job again. Well, they turned me out with a five-spot [a $5 dollar bill], after four years’ steady work, mind you, and three of them working my head off on a loom. Then they handed me a pair of Kentucky jeans, that any fly-cop could spot a mile off. My friends went back on me – that five-spot was all I had in the world, and it didn’t go a long way. Liberty ain’t what it looks to a fellow through the bars, Aleck, but it’s hell to go back. I don’t know what to do."

“How do you happen here, Dan? Could you get no work at home, in Oil City [Pennsylvania]?”

“Home, hell! I wish I had a home and friends, like you, Aleck, Christ, d’you think I’d ever turn another trick? But I got no home and no friends. Mother died before I came out, and I found no home. I got a job in Oil City, but the bulls tipped me off for an ex-con, and I beat my way here. I tried to do the square thing, Aleck, but where’s a fellow to turn? I haven’t a cent and not a friend in the world.”

Poor Dan! I feel powerless to help him, even with advice. Without friends or money, his “liberty” is a hollow mockery, even worse than mine. Five years ago he was a strong, healthy young man. He committed a burglary, and was sent to prison. Now he is out, his body weakened, his spirit broken; he is less capable than ever to survive in the struggle. What is he to do but commit another crime and be returned to prison? Even I, with so many advantages that Dan is lacking, with kind comrades and helpful friends, I can find no place in this world of the outside. I have been torn out, and I seem unable to take root again. Everything looks so different, changed. And yet I feel a great hunger for life. I could enjoy the sunshine, the open, and freedom of action.

I could make my life and my prison experience useful to the world. But I am incapacitated for the struggle. I do not fit in any more, not even in the circle of my comrades. And this seething life, the turmoil and the noises of the city, agonize me. Perhaps it would be best for me to retire to the country, and there lead a simple life, close to nature.

[Tired and alone, suffering from unrecognized and untreated PTSD, Berkman feels the need to make money, and agrees to an exhausting speaking tour. After unrelenting weeks of it alone, each night staying with movement members who have endless questions for him, he has a mental break in Cleveland. He contemplates suicide, buying a gun after disappearing from a supporter’s house early one morning. Chancing by a bar, he seems compelled to force an opposite-sex “norm” with a prostitute he meets. He finds he can’t have sex with her, no matter how much his mind tells him he wants to, perhaps putting the gun to a different use and sending Berkman back to prison.]

wakening in the morning, I am startled to find a stranger in my bed. His coat and hat are on the floor, and he lies snoring at my side, with overshirt and trousers on. He must have fallen into bed very tired, without even detaching the large cuffs, torn and soiled, that rattle on his hands.

The sight fills me with inexpressible disgust. All through the years of my prison life, my nights had been passed in absolute solitude. The presence of another in my bed is unutterably horrifying. I dress hurriedly, and rush out of the house.

A heavy drizzle is falling; the air is close and damp. The country looks cheerless and dreary. But one thought possesses me: to get away from the stranger snoring in my bed, away from the suffocating atmosphere of the house with its low ceilings, out into the open, away from the presence of man. The sight of a human being repels me, the sound of a voice is torture to me. I want to be alone, always alone, to have peace and quiet, to lead a simple life in close communion with nature. Ah, nature! That, too, I have tried, and found more impossible even than the turmoil of the city. The silence of the woods threatened to drive me mad, as did the solitude of the dungeon. A curse upon the thing that has incapacitated me for life, made solitude as hateful as the face of man, made life itself impossible to me! And is it for this I have yearned and suffered, for this specter that haunts my steps, and turns day into a nightmare – this distortion, Life? Oh, where is the joy of expectation, the tremulous rapture, as I stood at the door of my cell, hailing the blush of the dawn, the day of resurrection! Where the happy moments that lit up the night of misery with the ecstasy of freedom, which was to give me back to work and joy! Where, where is it all? Is liberty sweet only in the anticipation, and life a bitter awakening?

The rain has ceased. The sun peeps through the clouds, and glints its rays upon a shop window. My eye falls on the gleaming barrel of a revolver. I enter the place, and purchase the weapon.

I walk aimlessly, in a daze. It is beginning to rain again; my body is chilled to the bone, and I seek the shelter of a saloon on an obscure street.

In the corner of the dingy back room I notice a girl. She is very young, with an air of gentility about her, that is somewhat marred by her quick, restless look. We sit in silence, watching the heavy downpour outdoors. The girl is toying with a glass of whiskey.

Angry voices reach us from the street. There is a heavy shuffling of feet, and a suppressed cry. A woman lurches through the swinging door, and falls against a table.

The girl rushes to the side of the woman and assists her into a chair. “Are you hurt, Madge?” she asks sympathetically.

The woman looks up at her with bleary eyes. She raises her hand, passes it slowly across her mouth, and spits violently.

“He hit me, the dirty brute,” she whimpers, “he hit me. But I sha’n’t give him no money; I just won’t, Frenchy.”

The girl is tenderly wiping her friend’s bleeding face. “Sh-sh, Madge, sh—sh!” she warns her, with a glance at the approaching waiter.

“Drunk again, you old bitch,” the man growls. “You’d better vamoose now.”

“Oh, let her be, Charley, won’t you?” the girl coaxes. “And, say, bring me a bitters.”

“The dirty loafer! It’s money, always gimme money,” the woman mumbles; “and I’ve had such bad luck, Frenchy. You know it’s true. Don’t you, Frenchy?”

“Yes, yes, dear,” the girl soothes her. “Don’t talk now. Lean your head on my shoulder, so! You’ll be all right in a minute.”

The girl sways to and fro, gently patting the woman on the head, and all is still in the room. The woman’s breathing grows regular and louder. She snores, and the young girl slowly unwinds her arms and resumes her seat.

I motion to her. “Will you have a drink with me?”

“With pleasure,” she smiles. “Poor thing,” she nods toward the sleeper, “her fellow [that is, pimp] beats her and takes all she makes.”

“You have a kind heart, Frenchy.”

“We girls must be good to each other; no one else will. Some men are so mean, just too mean to live or let others live. But some are nice. Of course, some girls are bad, but we ain’t all like that and—” she hesitates.

“And what?”

“Well, some have seen better days. I wasn’t always like this,” she adds, gulping down her drink.

Her face is pensive; her large black eyes look dreamy. She asks abruptly:

“You like poetry?”

“Ye—es. Why?”

“I write. Oh, you don’t believe me, do you? Here’s something of mine,” and with a preliminary cough, she begins to recite with exaggerated feeling:

Mother dear, the days were young

When posies in our garden hung.

Upon your lap my golden head I laid,

With pure and happy heart I prayed.

“I remember those days,” she adds wistfully.

[They remain in the bar all day]

We sit in the dusk, without speaking. The lights are turned on, and my eye falls on a paper lying on the table. The large black print announces an excursion to Buffalo.

“Will you come with me?” I ask the girl, pointing to the advertisement.

“To Buffalo?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Will you come?”

“Sure.”

Alone with me in the stateroom, “Frenchy” grows tender and playful. She notices my sadness, and tries to amuse me. But I am thinking of the lecture that is to take place in Cleveland this very hour: the anxiety of my comrades, the disappointment of the audience, my absence, all prey on my mind. But who am I, to presume to teach? I have lost my bearings; there is no place for me in life. My bridges are burned.

The girl is in high spirits, but her jollity angers me. I crave to speak to her, to share my misery and my grief. I hint at the impossibility of life, and my superfluity in the world, but she looks bored, not grasping the significance of my words.

“Don’t talk so foolish, boy,” she scoffs. “What do you care about work or a place? You’ve got money; what more do you want? You better go down now and fetch something to drink.”

Returning to the stateroom, I find “Frenchy” missing. In a sheltered nook on the deck I recognize her in the lap of a stranger. Heart-sore and utterly disgusted, I retire to my berth.

In the morning, I slip quietly off the boat.

[In Buffalo, Berkman haunts the docks, having a manic episode where he “sees” a mob going after and killing a pale youth trying to escape them. He returns to New York, holing up in a Bowery room for several days, and telling us he spent another night with a sailor on a park bench. He avoids informing the reader he was indulging in drugs and sex, but the context speaks well enough for itself. Frightened, he doubts The Girl will help him, but sends a telegram. She fetches him, and he detoxes in her apartment.]

I open my eyes. The room is light and airy; a soothing quiet pervades the place. The portières part noiselessly, and the Girl looks in.

“Awake, Sasha?” She brightens with a happy smile.

“Yes. When did I come here?”

“Several days ago. You’ve been very sick, but you feel better now, don’t you, dear?”

Several days? I try to recollect my trip to Buffalo, the room on the Bowery. Was it all a dream?

“Where was I before I came here?” I ask.

“You – you were – absent,” she stammers, and in her face is visioned the experience of my disappearance.

With tender care the Girl ministers to me. I feel like one recovering from a long illness: very weak, but with a touch of joy in life. No one is permitted to see me, save one or two of the Girl’s nearest friends, who slip in quietly, pat my hand in mute sympathy, and discreetly retire. I sense their understanding, and am grateful that they make no allusion to the events of the past days.

The care of the Girl is unwavering. By degrees I gain strength. The room is bright and cheerful; the silence of the house soothes me. The warm sunshine is streaming through the open window; I can see the blue sky, and the silvery cloudlets. A little bird hops upon the sill, looks steadily at me, and chirps a greeting. It brings back the memory of Dick, my feathered pet; and of my friends in prison. I have done nothing for the agonized men in the dungeon darkness—have I forgotten them? I have the opportunity; why am I idle?

The Girl calls cheerfully: “Sasha, our friend Philo is here. Would you like to see him?”

I welcome the comrade whose gentle manner and deep sympathy have endeared him to me in the days since my return. There is something unutterably tender about him. The circle had christened him “the philosopher,” and his breadth of understanding and non-invasive personality have been a great comfort to me.

His voice is low and caressing, like the soft crooning of a mother rocking her child to sleep.

“Life is a problem,” he is saying, “a problem whose solution consists in trying to solve it. Schopenhauer may have been right,” he smiles, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, “but his love of life was so strong, his need for expression so compelling, he had to write a big book to prove how useless is all effort. But his very sincerity disproves him. Life is its own justification. The disharmony of life is more seeming than real; and what is real of it, is the folly you see this reaching out. The process is individual and social at the same time, for the species lives in the individual as much as the individual persists in the species. The individual comes first; his clarified vision is multiplied in his immediate environment, and gradually permeates through his generation and time, deepening the social consciousness and widening the scope of existence. But perhaps you have not found it so, Aleck, after your many years of absence?”

“No, dear, Philo. What you have said appeals to me very deeply. But I have found things so different from what I had pictured them.” […]

“Times have changed, indeed; but encouragingly so, Aleck. The leaven of discontent, ever more conscious and intelligent, is molding new social thought and new action. To-day our industrial conditions, for instance, present a different aspect from those of twenty years ago. It was then possible for the masters of life to sacrifice to their interests the best friends of the people. But to-day the spontaneous solidarity and awakened consciousness of large strata of labor is a guarantee against the repetition of such judicial murders. It is a most significant sign, Aleck, and a great inspiration to renewed effort.” […]

A deep peace pervades me, and I feel a great joy in my heart.

“Sasha, what is it ?" Philo cries in alarm.

“My resurrection, dear friend. I have found work to do.”

—Alexander Berkman, [i]

1912