Living My Life - Emma Goldman [70]
In a fever I made my preparations. My first stop was to be St. Louis; then Chicago; finally Pittsburgh. A letter from Sasha arrived a few days before my departure. It contained a pass from the Chief Prison Inspector of the Western Penitentiary for Mrs. E. Niedermann, sister of Prisoner A-7, for a visit on the 26th of November. [ ... ]
I arrived in Pittsburgh early on the morning of Thanksgiving Day. I was met by Carl Nold and Max Metzkow, the latter a German comrade who had faithfully stood by Sasha. [ ... ]2 In the afternoon I went out to Allegheny. [ ... ]
The grey stone building, the high forbidding walls, the armed guards, the oppressive silence in the hall where I was told to wait, and the minutes creeping into endless time settled on my heart with the weight of a nightmare. In vain I tried to shake myself free. At last a harsh voice called: “This way, Mrs. Niedermann.” I was taken through several iron doors, along twisting corridors, into a small room. Sasha was there, a tall guard beside him.
My first impulse was to rush up to him and cover him with kisses, but the presence of the guard checked me. Sasha approached me and put his arms around me. As he bent over to kiss me, I felt a small object pass into my mouth.
For weeks I had been looking forward eagerly, anxiously to this visit. A thousand times I had gone over in my mind all I would say to him of my love and undying devotion, of the struggle I was making for his release, but all I could do was to press his hand and look into his eyes.
We began to speak in our beloved Russian, but we were stopped immediately by the cold command of the guard: “Talk English. No foreign languages here.” His lynx-like eyes followed our every movement, watched our lips, crept into our very minds. I became tongue-tied, numb in every nerve. Sasha, too, was mute; his fingers kept on playing with my watch-chain and he seemed to hold on to it as a drowning man to a straw. Neither of us could utter a word, but our eyes spoke to each other—of our fears, our hopes, our yearnings.
The visit lasted twenty minutes. Another embrace, another touch of our lips, and our “time was up.” I whispered to him to hold on, to hold out, and then I found myself on the prison steps. The iron gate clattered shut behind me.
I wanted to scream, to throw my weight against the door, to pound it with my fists. But the gate stared back at me and mocked. I walked along the front of the prison and into the street. I walked, silently weeping, towards the spot where I had left Metzkow. His presence brought me back to reality and made me conscious of the object Sasha had given me with his kiss. I took it out of my mouth—a small roll tightly wrapped. We went into the back room of a saloon and I unwound the several layers of paper. At last appeared a note with Sasha’s diminutive handwriting, each word standing out like a pearl before me. “You must go to Inspector Reed,” it read; “he promised me a second pass. Go to his jewellery shop tomorrow. I am counting on you. I’ll give you another message of importance—the same way.”
I went to Reed’s store the next day. I looked shabby in my threadbare coat amid the sparkling jewellery, silver, and gold. I I asked to see Mr. Reed. He was a tall, emaciated, thin-lipped creature, with hard and piercing eyes. No sooner had I given my name than he exclaimed: “So this is Berkman’s sister!” Yes, he had promised him a second visit, though he did not deserve any kindness. Berkman was a murderer, he had tried to kill a good Christian man. I held on to myself by sheer force; my chance to see Sasha again was at stake. He would call up the prison, Reed continued, to find out at what time I could be admitted. I was to return in an hour.
My heart sank. I had a distinct premonition that there would be no more visits for Sasha. But I came back as directed. As soon as Mr. Reed saw me, his face turned purple and he fairly leaped at me. “You deceiver!” he yelled. “You have already been at the penitentiary! You sneaked in under a