Living My Life - Emma Goldman [201]
The day of our Forward Hall meeting arrived. In the late afternoon I was called on the telephone, and a strange voice warned me against attending the gathering. The man had overheard a plot to kill me, he informed me. I asked for his name, but he declined to give it; nor would he consent to see me. I thanked him for his interest in my welfare and hung up the receiver. Jocularly I told Sasha and Fitzi that I must prepare my will. [ . . . ]
The meeting was very spirited and our program was carried out without a hitch. But at the close every man in the hall who appeared subject to the draft was detained by the officers, and those who could not show a registration card were placed under arrest. It was apparently the intention of the Federal authorities to use our meeting as a trap. We therefore resolved to hold no more public gatherings unless we could make sure that those who had not complied with the registration law would keep away. We decided to concentrate more on the printed word.
On the following afternoon we were all busy in our offices. Sasha and Fitzi were on the upper floor, preparing the next issue of the Blast. [ . . . ] Above the hum of conversation and the clicking of the typewriter we suddenly heard the heavy stamping of feet on the stairway, and before any one of us had a chance to see what was the matter, a dozen men burst into my office. The leader of the party excitedly cried: “Emma Goldman, you’re under arrest! And so is Berkman; where is he?” It was United States Marshal Thomas D. McCarthy. I knew him by sight; of late he had always stationed himself near the platform at our No-Conscription meetings, his whole attitude one of impatient readiness to spring upon the speakers. The newspapers had reported him as saying that he had repeatedly wired Washington for orders to arrest us.
“I hope you will get the medal you crave,” I said to him. “Just the same, you might let me see your warrant.” Instead he held out a copy of the June Mother Earth and demanded whether I was the author of the No-Conscription article it contained. “Obviously,” I answered, “since my name is signed to it. Furthermore, I take the responsibility for everything else in the magazine. But where is your warrant?”
McCarthy declared that no warrant was necessary for us; Mother Earth contained enough treasonable matter to land us in jail for years. He had come to get us and we had better hurry up.
Leisurely I walked towards the stairs and called: “Sasha, Fitzi—some visitors are here to arrest us.” McCarthy and several of his men roughly pushed me aside and dashed up to the Blast office. The deputy marshals took possession of my desk and began examining the books and pamphlets on our shelves, throwing them in a pile on the floor. [ ... ]
I started for my room to change my dress, aware that a night’s free lodging was in store for me. One of the men rushed up to detain me, taking hold of my arm. I wrenched myself loose. “If your chief didn’t have the guts to come up here without a body-guard of thugs,” I said to him, “he should at least have instructed you not to act like one. I’m not going to run away. I only want to dress for the reception awaiting us, and I don’t propose to let you act as my maid.” The men ransacking my desk laughed coarsely. “She’s a caution,” one remarked, “but it’s all right, officer, let her go to her room.” When I emerged with my book and small toilet outfit, I found that Fitzi and Sasha, who was still on crutches, were already down. McCarthy was with them.
“I want the membership list of the No-Conscription League,” he demanded.
“We ourselves are always ready to