Living My Life - Emma Goldman [119]
The next morning I went to the stationery store to see the owner. After considerable persuasion I succeeded in getting an order amounting to a thousand dollars, the largest I had ever secured. Naturally I was very happy over it. While I was waiting for the man to fill out his order, I caught the headline of the newspaper lying on his desk: “ASSASSIN OF PRESIDENT McKINLEY AN ANARCHIST. CONFESSES TO HAVING BEEN INCITED BY EMMA GOLDMAN. WOMAN ANARCHIST WANTED.”
By great effort I strove to preserve my composure, completed the business, and walked out of the store. At the next corner I bought several papers and went to a restaurant to read them. They were filled with the details of the tragedy, reporting also the police raid of the Isaak house in Chicago and the arrest of everyone found there. The authorities were going to hold the prisoners until Emma Goldman was found, the papers stated. Already two hundred detectives had been sent out throughout the country to track down Emma Goldman.
On the inside page of one of the papers was a picture of McKinley’s slayer. “Why, that’s Nieman!” I gasped.
When I was through with the papers, it became clear to me that I must immediately go to Chicago. The Isaak family, Hippolyte, our old comrade Jay Fox,4 a most active man in the labour movement, and a number of others were being held without bail until I should be found. It was plainly my duty to surrender myself. I knew there was neither reason nor the least proof to connect me with the shooting. I would go to Chicago.
Stepping into the street, I bumped into “V.,” the “rich man from New Mexico” who had managed my lecture in Los Angeles some years before. The moment he saw me he turned white with fear. “For God’s sake, Emma, what are you doing here?” he cried in a quavering voice; “don’t you know the police of the whole country are looking for you?” While he was speaking, his eyes roved uneasily over the street. It was evident he was panicky. I had to make sure that he would not disclose my presence in the city. Familiarly I took his arm and whispered: “Let’s go to some quiet place.”
Sitting in a corner, away from the other guests, I said to him: “Once you assured me of your undying love. You even made me an offer of marriage. It was only four years ago. Is anything left of that affection? If so, will you give me your word of honour that you will not breathe to anybody that you have seen me here? I do not want to be arrested in St. Louis—I intend to give Chicago that honour. Tell me quickly if I can depend on you to keep silent.” He promised solemnly.
When we reached the street, he walked away in great haste. I was sure he would keep his word, but I knew that my former devotee was no hero.
When I told Carl I was going to Chicago, he said that I must be out of my senses. He pleaded with me to give up the idea, but I remained adamant. He left me to gather up a few trusted friends, whose opinion he knew I valued, hoping they would be able to persuade me not to surrender myself. They argued with me for hours, but they failed to change my decision. I told them jokingly that they had better give me a good send-off, as we probably should never again have an opportunity for a jolly evening together. They engaged a private dining-room at a restaurant, where we were treated to a Lucullan meal, and then they accompanied me to the Wabash Station, Carl having secured a sleeper for me.
In the morning the car was agog with the Buffalo tragedy, Czolgosz and Emma Goldman. “A beast, a bloodthirsty monster!” I heard someone say; “she should have been locked up long ago.” “Locked up nothing!” another retorted; “she should be strung up to the first lamp-post.”
I listened to the good Christians while resting in my berth. I