Living My Life - Emma Goldman [205]
CHAPTER XLVI
The automobile sped on. It was filled with deputy marshals, with me in their midst. Twenty minutes later we reached the Baltimore and Ohio Station. The hand of time seemed set back twenty-five years. I visioned myself at the same station a quarter of a century ago, straining towards the disappearing train which was bearing Sasha away, leaving me desolate and alone. A gruff voice startled me. “Are you seeing ghosts?” it demanded.
I was in a compartment, a big man and a woman at my side, the deputy marshal and his wife. Then I was left with the woman.
The day’s heat, the excitement, and three hours’ wait in the Federal Building had exhausted me. I felt worn and sticky in my sweaty clothes. I started for the wash-room, and the woman followed me. I objected. She regretted she could not let me go unattended; her instructions were not to permit me out of sight. She had a rather kindly face. I assured her that I would not try to escape, and she consented to close the door half-way. Having cleaned up, I crawled into my berth and immediately fell asleep.
I was awakened by the loud voices of my keepers. The man’s coat was already off and he was proceeding to undress. “You don’t mean you’re going to sleep here?” I demanded.
“Sure,” he answered, “what’s wrong? My wife is here. You’ve got nothing to fear.”
What more could morality wish for than the presence of the deputy’s wife? It wasn’t fear, I told him; it was disgust.
The watchful eyes of the law were closed in sleep, but its mouth was wide open, emitting a rattle of snores. The air was putrid. Anxious thoughts about Sasha beset me. A quarter of a century had passed, crammed with events and rich in the interplay of light and shade. The painful frustration with Ben—friendships shattered—others that had never lost their bloom. The earth-spirit often in conflict with the impelling aspirations of the ideal, and Sasha ever dependable all through the long span of time and always my comrade in the struggle. The thought was soothing, and the strain of weeks found relief in blessed sleep. [...]
Arriving in Jefferson City,I my escorts offered to take me to the penitentiary in a taxi. I requested that we walk. It might be my last chance for a long while, I thought. They readily consented, no doubt because they could pocket the price and charge it to their expense accounts. [ . . . ]
With the exception of my two weeks in Queens County Jail, I had somehow managed to steer clear of prisons since my “rest-cure” on Blackwell’s Island. There had been numerous arrests and several trials, but no other convictions. A disgusting record for one who could boast of the never-failing attention of every police department in the country.
“Any disease?” the head matron demanded abruptly.
I was somewhat taken aback at the unexpected concern over my health. I answered her that I had nothing to complain of except that I needed a bath and a cold drink.
“Don’t be impudent and pretend you don’t know what I mean,” she sternly reproved me. “I mean the disease immoral women have. Most of those delivered here have it.”
“Venereal disease is not particular whom it strikes,” I told her; “the most respectable people have been known to be victims of it. I don’t happen to have it, which is due perhaps much more to luck than to virtue.”
She looked scandalized. She was so self-righteous and prim, she needed to be shocked, and I was catty enough to enjoy watching the effect.
After having been subjected to the routine search for dope and cigarettes, I was given a bath and informed that I could keep my own underwear, shoes, and stockings.
My cell contained a cot with stiff but clean sheets and blankets, a table and a chair, a stationary wash-stand with running water, and, blessing of blessings, a toilet built in a little alcove, hidden from view by a curtain. So far my new home was a decided improvement over Blackwell’s Island. Two things marred my pleasant discovery. My cell faced a wall that shut off the air and