Living My Life - Emma Goldman [217]
Late in the evening the prison silence was torn by deafening noises coming from the male wing. The men were banging on bars, whistling, and shouting. The women grew nervous, and the block matron hastened over to reassure them. The declaration of armistice was being celebrated she said. “What armistice?” I asked. “It’s Armistice Day,” she replied; “that’s why you have been given a holiday.” At first I hardly grasped the full significance of the information, and then I, too, became possessed of a desire to scream and shout, to do something to give vent to my agitation. “Miss Anna, Miss Anna!” I called the matron back. “Come here, please, come here!” She approached again. “You mean that hostilities have been stopped, that the war has come to an end and the prisons will be opened for those who refused to take part in the slaughter? Tell me, tell me!” She put her hand soothingly on mine. “I have never seen you so excited before,” she said; “a woman of your age, working yourself up to such a pitch over such a thing!” She was a kindly soul, but she knew nothing outside her prison duties. [... ]
A ray of light came with the commutation of Tom Mooney’s death-sentence to life imprisonment. It was a travesty on justice to immure a man for life who had been proved innocent by the State’s own witnesses. Nevertheless, the commutation was an achievement, due mostly, I felt, to the effective work our people had done. [ ... ]
Christmas was approaching and my companions were in nervous wonderment as to what the day of days would bring them. Nowhere is Christianity so utterly devoid of meaning as in prison, nowhere its precepts so systematically defied, but myths are more potent than facts. Fearfully strong is their hold on the suffering and despairing. Few of the women could expect anything from the outside; some had not even a single human being to give them a thought. Yet they clung to the hope that the day of their Saviour’s birth would bring them some kindness. The majority of the convicts, of infantile mentality, talked of Santa Claus and the stocking with naive faith. It served to help them over their degradation and misery. Forsaken by God, by man forgot, it was their only refuge.
Long before Christmas, gifts began to arrive for me. Members of my family, comrades, and friends fairly deluged me with presents. Soon my cell began to look like a department store, and every day brought additional packages. As usual, our dear Benny Capes, in response to my request for trinkets for the inmates, sent a huge consignment. Bracelets, ear-rings, necklaces, rings, and brooches, enough to make the Woolworth stock feel ashamed, and lace collars, handkerchiefs, stockings, and other things sufficient to compete with any store on Fourteenth Street. [... ]
It was a problem to divide the gifts so as to give each what she might like best, without arousing envy or suspicion of preference and favouritism. I called to my aid three of my neighbours, and with their expert advice and help I played Santa Claus. On Christmas Eve, while our fellow-prisoners were attending the movies, a matron accompanied us to unlock the doors, our aprons piled high with gifts. With gleeful secrecy we flitted along the tiers, visiting each cell in turn. When the women returned from the cinema, the cell-block resounded with exclamations of happy astonishment. “Santa Claus’s been here! He’s brung me something grand!” “Me, too! Me, too!” re-echoed from cell