Living My Life - Emma Goldman [172]
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” I cried in anguish. “They’ve killed my boy!” In vain I strove to drive the terrible thought away. [ ... ]
At ten o’clock I was called on the long-distance phone. A strange voice informed me that Dr. Reitman was boarding the train for Los Angeles and that he would arrive in the late afternoon. “His friends should bring a stretcher to the station.” “Is he alive?” I shouted into the receiver. “Are you telling the truth? Is he alive?” I listened breathlessly, but there was no response.
The hours dragged on as if the day would never pass. The wait at the station was more excruciating still. At last the train pulled in. Ben lay in a rear car, all huddled up. He was in blue overalls, his face deathly pale, a terrified look in his eyes. His hat was gone, and his hair was sticky with tar. At the sight of me he cried: “Oh, Mommy, I’m with you at last! Take me away, take me home!”
The newspaper men besieged him with questions, but he was too exhausted to speak. I begged them to leave him alone and to call later at my apartment.
While helping him to undress, I was horrified to see that his body was a mass of bruises covered with blotches of tar. The letters I.W.W. were burned into his flesh. Ben could not speak; only his eyes tried to convey what he had passed through. After partaking of some nourishment and sleeping several hours, he regained a little strength. In the presence of a number of friends and reporters he told us what had happened to him.
“When Emma and the hotel manager left the office to go into another room,” Ben related, “I remained alone with seven men. As soon as the door was closed, they drew out revolvers. ‘If you utter a sound or make a move, we’ll kill you,’ they threatened. Then they gathered around me. One man grabbed my right arm, another the left; a third took hold of the front of my coat, another of the back, and I was led out into the corridor, down the elevator to the ground floor of the hotel, and out into the street past a uniformed policeman, and then thrown into an automobile. When the mob saw me, they set up a howl. The auto went slowly down the main street and was joined by another one containing several persons who looked like business men. This was about half past ten in the evening. The twenty-mile ride was frightful. As soon as we got out of town, they began kicking and beating me. They took turns at pulling my long hair and they stuck their fingers into my eyes and nose. ‘We could tear your guts out,’ they said, ‘but we promised the Chief of Police not to kill you. We are responsible men, property-owners, and the police are on our side.’ When we reached the county line, the auto stopped at a deserted spot. The men formed a ring and told me to undress. They tore my clothes off. They knocked me down, and when I lay naked on the ground, they kicked and beat me until I was almost insensible. With a lighted cigar they burned the letters I.W.W. on my buttocks; then they poured a can of tar over my head and, in the absence of feathers, rubbed sage-brush on my body. One of them attempted to push a cane into my rectum. Another twisted my testicles. They forced me to kiss the flag and sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ When they tired of the fun, they gave me my underwear for fear we should meet any women. They also gave me back my vest, in order that I might carry my money, railroad ticket, and watch. The rest of my clothes they kept. I was ordered to make a speech, and then they commanded me to run the gauntlet. The Vigilantes lined up, and as I ran past them, each one gave me a blow or a kick. Then they let me go.”
Ben’s case was but one out of many since the struggle in San Diego had begun, but it helped to focus greater attention on the scene of savagery. [ ... ]
In Los Angeles the tide of sympathy rose very high and we drew unusually large crowds. On the evening of our protest meeting we had to address our audience in two halls. We could have filled several more if we had had them and enough speakers to go round.
San Francisco, fruitful