Living My Life - Emma Goldman [127]
On my way back to New York I stopped off in Rochester. Arriving in the evening, I walked to Helena’s place in order to avoid recognition. A policeman was stationed at the house, but he did not know me. Everyone gasped when I made my appearance. “How did you get by?” Helena cried; “didn’t you see the officer at the door?” “Indeed I saw him, but he evidently didn’t see me,” I laughed. “Don’t you folks worry about any policeman; better give me a bath,” I cried lightly. My nonchalance dispelled the family’s nervous tension. Everybody laughed and Helena clung to me in unchanged love.
All through my incarceration my family had been very devoted to me. They had sent me telegrams and letters, offering money for my defence and any other help I might need. Not a word had they written about the persecution they had been subjected to on my account. They had been pestered to distraction by reporters and kept under surveillance by the authorities. My father had been ostracized by his neighbours and had lost many customers at his little furniture store. At the same time he had also been excommunicated from the synagogue. My sister Lena, though in poor health, had also been given no peace. She had been terrorized by the police ordering Stella to appear at headquarters, where they had kept the child the whole day, plying her with questions about her aunt Emma Goldman. Stella had bravely refused to answer, defiantly proclaiming her pride and faith in her Tante Emma. Her courage, combined with her youth and beauty, had won general admiration, Helena said. [ . . . ]
The encouraging telegram I had received in Chicago from Ed had been followed by a number of letters assuring me that I could count on him for whatever I might need: money, help and advice, and, above all, his friendship. It was good to know that Ed remained so staunch. When we met upon my return to New York, he offered me the use of his apartment while he and his family would be staying with friends. “You won’t find much changed in my place,” he remarked; “all your things are intact in the room that is my sanctum, where I often dream of our life together.” I thanked him, but I could not accept his generous proposal. He was too tactful to press the matter, except to inform me that his firm owed me several hundred dollars in commissions.
“I need the money badly,” I confided to Ed, “to send somebody to Buffalo to see Czolgosz. Possibly something can be done for him. We also ought to organize a mass meeting at once.” He stared at me in bewilderment. “My dear,” he said, shaking his head, “you are evidently not aware of the panic in the city. No hall in New York can be had and no one except yourself would be willing to speak for Czolgosz.” “But no one is expected to eulogize his act!” [ . . . ]
A trusted person was dispatched to Buffalo, but he soon returned without having been able to visit Czolgosz. He reported that no one was permitted to see him. A sympathetic guard had disclosed to our messenger that Leon had repeatedly been beaten into unconsciousness. His physical appearance was such that no outsider was admitted, and for the same reason he could not be taken to court. My friend further reported that, notwithstanding all the torture, Czolgosz had made no confession whatever and had involved no one in his act. A note had been sent in to Leon through the friendly guard.
I learned that an effort had been made in Buffalo to secure an attorney for Czolgosz, but no one would accept his defence. That