Living My Life - Emma Goldman [103]
His letters, after I informed him that we would go ahead with his scheme, showed him to have undergone a wonderful transformation. He was buoyant again, full of hope and vigour. Soon he would send a friend to us, he wrote, a most trustworthy person, a fellow prisoner whom he called “Tony.” The man would be released within a few weeks, and he would then bring us the necessary details of the plan. “It will not fail if my instructions are faithfully carried out,” he wrote. He explained that two things would be required: dependable comrades of grit and endurance, and some money. He was sure I would find both.
Before long “Tony” was released, but certain preparatory work in Sasha’s behalf kept him in Pittsburgh, and we could not get in personal touch with him. I learned, however, that Sasha’s plan involved the digging of a tunnel from the outside into the prison, and that Sasha had entrusted “Tony” with all the necessary diagrams and measurements to enable us to do the work. The scheme seemed fantastic, the desperate design of one driven to stake everything, even his life, upon the throw of a card. Yet I was carried away by the project, so cleverly conceived, and worked out with utmost care. I reflected a long time upon whom to approach in regard to the undertaking. There were plenty of comrades who would be willing to risk their lives to rescue Sasha, but few who had the requisites for such a difficult and hazardous task. I finally decided upon our Norwegian friend Eric B. Morton, whom we had nicknamed “Ibsen.” He was a veritable viking, in spirit and physique, a man of intelligence, daring, and will-power.
The plan appealed to him at once. Without hesitation he promised to do anything that would be required, and he was ready to start there and then. I explained that there would be an unavoidable delay; we had to wait for “Tony.” Something was apparently detaining him much longer than he had expected. I was loath to leave for Europe without being sure that Sasha’s plan was being carried out and I confessed to Eric that I felt uneasy about going at all. “It will be maddening to be three thousand miles away while Sasha’s fate is hanging in the balance,” I said. Eric understood my feelings in the matter, but he thought that as far as the proposed tunnel was concerned, I could do nothing. “In fact, your absence may prove of greater value,” he argued, “than your presence in America. It will serve to ward off suspicion that something is being done for Sasha.” He agreed with me that the question of Sasha’s safety after the escape was of paramount importance. He feared, as I did, that Sasha could not remain very long in the country without being apprehended. “We’ll have to get him away as quickly as possible to Canada or Mexico, and thence to Europe,” he suggested. “The tunnel will require months of work, and that will give you time to prepare a place for him abroad. There he will be recognized as a political refugee, and as such he will not be extradited.”
I knew Eric was a very level-headed man, entirely reliable. Still I hated to go away without seeing “Tony,” learning the details of the plan, and finding out all he could tell us about Sasha. Eric quieted my apprehensions by promising to take charge of the entire matter and to begin operations as soon as “Tony” arrived. He was a man of convincing manner and strong personality, and I had the fullest faith in his courage and ability to carry out successfully Sasha’s directions. He was, moreover, splendid company, full of cheer, and with a fine sense of humour. At parting he jubilantly assured me that together with Sasha we should soon all meet in Paris to celebrate his escape.
Still “Tony” failed to appear and his absence filled me with misgivings. Involuntarily