The food, brought up by a convict from the keepers' kitchen to the
hospital, is distributed by us thrice a day, on a long table covered by
white linoleum and standing in the middle of the room.
We have to clean the bathroom and the spittoons, sweep the floor, empty
the garbage can, get the ice, make the beds, give the medicine, take the
temperatures, mark the charts, help the doctor, besides giving and
receiving the laundry--in short, the immediate and dirty work of the
hospital is in our hands. The one happy hour of the day is at nine in
the morning, when we are privileged to empty the garbage can at the
docks on the Brooklyn side or go to a nearby oven to burn its contents.
For a few minutes, while filling a pail with water from the river to
wash out the empty garbage can, we watch the tug boats, the canal boats,
passenger boats or yachts pass by, and the people on board always greet
us with a wave of the hand or a merry shout. But never have the
passengers of the aristocratic yachts even condescended to look at us.
No matter if it rains or snows, or if fog hangs over the whole
landscape, the few minutes alone, untrammelled by the presence of a
keeper or the crisscross pattern of the bars, make us feel as if we were
really free men; then we march reluctantly towards the ice house to the
big chest containing the supply of ice for the different departments.
The ice is cut and put into the empty and clean garbage can. When there
are no keepers around we linger to talk to the "skin" gang, which is
composed of a few convicts whose duty it is to peel potatoes, onions,
carrots and cabbage for the kitchen.
It is a great place for the exchange of news of the day--of the gossip
of new arrivals, the punishments, the petty incidents or the headliners
of the most important events, the opinions of the convicts about the
goodness or badness of the keepers; in short it is a sort of clearing
house for information as to whatever is happening in the penitentiary.
One of the men in charge of the gang is a blond, powerful, fine-looking
convict of German parentage. He belongs to the high caste among the
prisoners, and shows it by his manner toward the lesser castes.
In the beginning he answered my questions in monosyllables, but after
several months of daily intercourse, when he had thoroughly satisfied
himself of my status, my attitude, and my antecedents, and when he
learned that I was an aristocrat only in thought but a democrat in
manners, he became talkative, and piece by piece, incident by incident,
he told me of his life, until I was able to construct it almost as a
whole.
He was the son of honest parents, who had started him in life as a
skilled workingman. He lost his position during a strike, and one of his
children died of starvation. Fearing that his other child would meet a
similar fate, and seeing no prospect of another job, he started on his
career as a burglar. Being a skilled mechanic, he found it easy to
fashion tools for his trade, which, as he claimed, brought immediate and
satisfactory results.
X
One morning as a young convict was walking on an errand towards the
shops, a letter dropped from his coat onto the ground in the yard. The
warden, who was walking in the same direction, not far behind, picked up
the letter and shouted to the man to stop. The convict turned back and
appeared confused when he saw the warden with his letter in his hands.
The warden flayed him with his heavy sarcasm, upbraided him for
violating the rules about writing letters, and leered at him in
malicious anticipation of the punishment to come. Finally he
condescended to read the letter, so as to fit the punishment with a few
quotations from the letter.
But strange to relate, after he had read the letter, his frown
disappeared, and with it his terrible anger. In a voice which had turned
from a broken falsetto of anger to a gentle, low pitch, he inquired
where the young man was working, how many more months he had yet to
serve, and finally asked if he had a preference for any other place
besides his present assignment. The young convict reluctantly admitted
that he would prefer to work in the keeper's kitchen.
The same day he was transferred to his new duties, which are considered
privileged by convicts because of the liberty and the better food they
afford. The young convict, being disgusted with the prison fare, and the
monotonous, unhealthy work in his shop, with a cunning almost
Machiavellian, had hit upon the original and brilliant idea of writing a
letter to an imaginary friend in which he praised the penitentiary and
lauded the warden in fulsome, enthusiastic, unstinted praise. He dropped
the letter purposely, knowing that the warden was only a few paces
behind him. The acting was done to perfection, the trick worked without
a hitch, and our youthful Ulysses got his job for a laudatory song.
The tale went round the prison, and although it made the warden the
laughing stock of the penitentiary, he never discovered the deception.
The warden, unlike the deputy warden, is very much disliked by the
convicts. Among themselves they call him the "old hyena." Convicts as
well as visitors all seem to be united in accusing him of brutality,
coarseness, and intemperance of speech. Visitors who have to support
themselves with their daily work find that all kinds of difficulties are
put in their way. They have to get a card at the commissioner's office
at 20th Street, then they must take a special boat, and when they arrive
at the prison they are forced to wait an hour before they are searched.
Thus nearly a whole day, from nine in the morning till two in the
afternoon, is given just to see the object of all the trouble, and then,
separated by a thick screen of wire, they are allowed only fifteen
minutes.
Under the rules visitors are permitted only once a month, but twice by
a card from the prison commissioner.