Living My Life - Emma Goldman [65]
Working-men, working-men overpowering Sasha? The paper was lying! He did the act for the working-men; they would never attack him.
Hurriedly we secured all the afternoon editions. Every one had a different description, but the main fact stood out—our brave Sasha had committed the act! Frick was still alive, but his wounds were considered fatal. He would probably not survive the night. And Sasha—they would kill him. They were going to kill him, I was sure of it. Was I going to let him die alone? Should I go on talking while he was being butchered? I must pay the same price as he—I must stand the consequences—I must share the responsibility! [ ... ]
In feverish excitement we read the detailed story about the “assassin Alexander Berkman.” He had forced his way into Frick’s private office on the heels of the Negro porter who had taken in his card. He had immediately opened fire, and Frick had fallen to the ground with three bullets in his body. The first to come to his aid, the paper said, was his assistant Leishman, who was in the office at the time. Working-men, engaged on a carpenter job in the building, rushed in, and one of them felled Berkman to the ground with a hammer. At first they thought Frick dead. Then a cry was heard from him. Berkman had crawled over and got near enough to strike Frick with a dagger in the thigh. After that he was pounded into unconsciousness. He came to in the station-house, but he would answer no questions. One of the detectives grew suspicious about the appearance of Berkman’s face and he nearly broke the young man’s jaw trying to open his mouth. A peculiar capsule was found hidden there. When asked what it was, Berkman replied with defiant contempt: “Candy.” On examination it proved to be a dynamite cartridge. The police were sure of conspiracy. They were now looking for the accomplices, especially for “a certain Bakhmetov, who had registered at one of the Pittsburgh hotels.” [ ... ]
The daily press carried on a ferocious campaign against the anarchists. They called for the police to act, to round up “the instigators, Johann Most, Emma Goldman, and their ilk.” My name had rarely before been mentioned in the papers, but now it appeared every day in the most sensational stories. The police got busy; a hunt for Emma Goldman began.
My friend Peppie, with whom I was living, had a flat on Fifth Street and First Avenue, round the corner from the police station. I used to pass the latter frequently, going about openly and spending cosiderable time at the headquarters of the Autonomie. Yet the police seemed unable to find me. One evening, while we were away at a meeting, the police, having discovered my whereabouts at last, broke into the flat through the fire-escape and stole everything they could lay their hands on. My fine collection of revolutionary pamphlets and photographs, my entire correspondence, vanished with them. But they did not find what they came to look for. At the first mention of my name in the papers I had disposed of the material left over from Sasha’s experiments. [ ... ]
Several days after the Attentat militia regiments were marched into Homestead. The more conscious of the steel-workers opposed the move, but they were overruled by the conservative labour element, who foolishly saw in the soldiers protection against new attacks by Pinkertons. The troops soon proved whom they came to protect. It was the Carnegie mills, not the Homestead workers.
However, there was one militiaman who was wide awake enough to see in Sasha the avenger of labour’s wrongs. This brave boy gave vent to his feelings by calling in the ranks for “three cheers for the man who shot Frick.” He was courtmartialled and strung up by his thumbs, but he stuck to his cheers. This incident was the one bright moment in the black and harassing days that followed Sasha’s departure.
After a long, anxious wait a letter came from Sasha. He had been greatly cheered by the stand of the militiaman, W. L. lams, he wrote. It showed that even American soldiers were waking up. Could I not get in touch with the