Living My Life - Emma Goldman [190]
In the excitement of the birth-control campaign I did not forget other important issues. The European slaughter was continuing, and the American militarists were growing bloodthirsty at the smell of the red stream. Our numbers were few, our means limited, but we concentrated our best energies to stem the tide of war. [ . . . ]
Ben was meanwhile serving his sentence in the Queens County Jail. His letters breathed a serenity I had never known him to feel before. I was due to leave on my tour. There were many friends to look after Ben in my absence, and we planned to have him join me in California upon his release. There was no reason for anxiety about him, and he himself urged me to go, yet I was loath to leave him in prison. For eight years he had shared the pain and joy of my struggle. How would it be, I wondered, to tour again without Ben, without his elemental activity, which had helped so much to make my meetings a success? And how should I bear the strain of the struggle without Ben’s affection and the comfort of his presence? The thought chilled me, yet the larger purpose, which was my life, was too vital to be affected by personal needs. I left alone.
CHAPTER XLIV
[...] My lectures in Los Angeles were organized by Sasha, who had specially come for the purpose from San Francisco, where he was publishing the Blast. He had worked energetically, and my meetings proved to be successful in every way. Yet I missed Ben, Ben with all his weaknesses, his irresponsibility and ways that were so often harsh. [ ... ]
In San Francisco Sasha and Fitzi had prepared everything to make my month’s stay in the city pleasant and useful. My first lectures were most satisfactory, and they held out much promise for the rest of my series. I had my own apartment, as 1 was expecting Ben to join me in July. But I spent a great deal of my free time with Sasha and Fitzi in their place.
On Saturday, July 22, 1916, I was lunching with them. It was a golden California day, and the three of us were in a bright mood. We were a long time over our luncheon, Sasha regaling us with a humorous account of Fitzi’s culinary exploits. The telephone rang, and he stepped into his office to answer it. When he returned, I noticed the extremely serious expression on his face, and I intuitively felt that something had happened.
“A bomb exploded in the Preparedness Parade this afternoon,” he said; “there are killed and wounded.” “I hope they aren’t going to hold the anarchists responsible for it,” I cried out. “How could they?” Fitzi retorted. “How could they not?” Sasha answered; “they always have.”
My lecture on “Preparedness” had originally been scheduled for the 20th. But we learned that the liberal and progressive labour elements had arranged an anti-preparedness mass meeting for the same evening, and, not wishing to conflict with the occasion, postponed my talk for the 22nd. It struck me now that we had barely escaped being involved in the explosion; had my meeting taken place as scheduled, prior to the tragedy, everyone connected with my work would have undoubtedly been held responsible for the bomb. The telephone call had come from a newspaper man who wanted to know what we had to say about the explosion—the usual question of reporters and detectives on such occasions.
On the way to my apartment I heard news-boys calling out extra editions. I bought the papers and found what I had expected—glaring headlines about an “Anarchist