Living My Life - Emma Goldman [122]
I woke up with a burning sensation. A plain-clothes man held a reflector in front of me, close to my eyes. I leaped up and pushed him away with all my strength, crying: “You’re burning my eyes!” “We’ll burn more before we get through with you!” he retorted. With short intermissions this was repeated during three nights. On the third night several detectives entered my cell. “We’ve got the right dope on you now,” they announced; “it was you who financed Czolgosz and you got the money from Dr. Kaplan in Buffalo. We have him all right, and he’s confessed everything. Now what you got to say?” “Nothing more than I have already said,” I repeated; “I know nothing about the act.”
Since my arrest I had had no word from my friends, nor had anyone come to see me. I realized that I was being kept incommunicado. I did get letters, however, most of them unsigned. “You damn bitch of an anarchist,” one of them read, “I wish I could get at you. I would tear your heart out and feed it to my dog.” “Murderous Emma Goldman,” another wrote, “you will burn in hell-fire for your treachery to our country.” A third cheerfully promised: “We will cut your tongue out, soak your carcass in oil, and burn you alive.” The description by some of the anonymous writers of what they would do to me sexually offered studies in perversion that would have astounded authorities on the subject. The authors of the letters nevertheless seemed to me less contemptible than the police officials. Daily I was handed stacks of letters that had been opened and read by the guardians of American decency and morality. At the same time messages from my friends were withheld from me. It was evident that my spirit was to be broken by such methods. I decided to put a stop to it. The next time I was given one of the opened envelopes, I tore it up and threw the pieces into the detective’s face.
On the fifth day after my arrest I received a wire. It was from Ed, promising the backing of his firm. “Do not hesitate to use our name. We stand by you to the last.” I was glad of the assurance, because it relieved me of the need of keeping silent about my movements on business for Ed’s house.
The same evening Chief of Police O‘Neill of Chicago came to my cell.5 He informed me that he would like to have a quiet talk with me. “I have no wish to bully or coerce you,” he said; “perhaps I can help you.” “It would indeed be a strange experience to have help from a chief of police,” I replied; “but I am quite willing to answer your questions.” He asked me to give him a detailed account of my movements from May 5, when I had first met Czolgosz, until the day of my arrest in Chicago. I gave him the requested information, but without mentioning my visit to Sasha or the names of the comrades who had been my hosts. As there was no longer any need of shielding Dr. Kaplan, the Isaaks, or Hippolyte, I was in a position to give practically a complete account. When I concluded—what I said being taken down in shorthand—Chief O’Neill remarked: “Unless you’re a very clever actress, you are certainly innocent. I think you are innocent, and I am going to do my part to help you out.” I was too amazed to thank him; I had never before heard such a tone from a police officer. At the same time I was sceptical of the success of his efforts, even if he should try to do something for me.
Immediately following my conference with the Chief I became aware of a decided change in my treatment. My cell door was left unlocked day and night, and I was told by the matron that I could stay in the large room, use the rocking-chair and the table there, order my own food and papers, receive and send out mail. I began at once to lead the life of a society lady, receiving callers all day long, mostly newspaper people who came not so much for interviews as to talk, smoke, and relate funny stories. Others, again, came out of curiosity. Some women reporters brought gifts of books and toilet articles. Most attentive was Katherine