Living My Life - Emma Goldman [66]
I pressed the letter to my heart, covering it with kisses. I knew how intensely my Sasha felt, although he had said not one word about his love and his thoughts of me.
I was considerably alarmed about his decision to represent his own case. I loved his beautiful consistency, but I knew that his English, like my own, was too poor to be effective in court. I feared he would have no chance. But Sasha’s wish, now more than ever, was sacred to me, and I consoled myself with the hope that he would have a public trial, that I could have his speech translated, and that we might give the whole proceedings countrywide publicity. I wrote him that I agreed with his decision, and that we were preparing a large meeting where his act would be fully explained and his motives properly presented. [ ... ]
We began to prepare for the large meeting on behalf of Sasha. [ ... ] Our large red posters announcing the mass meeting roused the ire of the press. Were the authorities not going to interfere? The police came out with the threat that our gathering would be stopped, but on the appointed evening the audience was so large and looked so determined that the police did nothing.
I acted as chairman, a new experience for me; but we could get no one else. The meeting was very spirited, every one of the speakers paying the highest tribute to Sasha and his deed. My hatred of conditions which compelled idealists to acts of violence made me cry out in passionate strains the nobility of Sasha, his selflessness, his consecration to the people.
“Possessed by a fury,” the papers said of my speech the next morning. “How long will this dangerous woman be permitted to go on?” Ah, if they only knew how I yearned to give up my freedom, to proclaim loudly my share in the deed—if only they knew! [ ... ]
The papers began reporting that Frick was recovering from his wounds. Comrades visiting me expressed the opinion that Sasha, “had failed.” Some even had the effrontery to suggest that Most might have been right in saying that “it was a toy pistol.”1 I was stung to the quick. I knew that Sasha had never had much practice in shooting. Occasionally, at German picnics, he would take part in target-shooting, but was that sufficient? I was sure Sasha’s failure to kill Frick was due to the cheap quality of his revolver—he had lacked enough money to buy a good one.
Perhaps Frick was recovering because of the attention he was getting? The greatest surgeons of America had been called to his bedside. Yes, it must be that; after all, three bullets from Sasha’s revolver had lodged in his body. It was Frick’s wealth that was enabling him to recover. I tried to explain this to the comrades, but most of them remained unconvinced. Some even hinted that Sasha was at liberty. I was frantic—how dared they doubt Sasha? I would write him! I would ask him to send me word that would stop the horrible rumours about him.
Soon a letter arrived from Sasha, written in a curt tone. He was provoked that I could even ask for an explanation. Did I not know that the vital thing was the motive of his act and not its physical success or failure? My poor, tortured boy! I could read between the lines how crushed he was at the realization that Frick remained alive. But he was right: the important thing was his motives, and these no one could doubt.
Weeks passed without any indication of when Sasha’s trial would begin. He was still kept on “Murderers’ Row” in the Pittsburgh jail, but the fact that Frick was improving