Anthony Comstock, could have kept them away. We had arrived early, but
before we could get the place dusted and ourselves ready for the
official reception, Fania called, “Do come outside and look.” Halfway to
the corner they were standing in line, at least one hundred and fifty,
some shawled, some hatless, their red hands clasping the cold, chapped,
smaller ones of their children.
Fania began taking names, addresses, object in coming to the clinic,
histories—married or single, any miscarriages or abortions, how many
children, where born, what ages. Remembering how the Netherlands clinics
in recording nothing had made it almost hopeless to measure what they
had accomplished from the human point of view, I had resolved that our
files should be as complete as it was possible to make them. Fania had a
copy of _What Every Girl Should Know_ on her desk, and, if she had a
free moment, read from it. When asked, she told where it could be
bought, and later kept a few copies for the convenience of those who
wanted them.
Children were left with her and mothers ushered in to Ethel or me in the
rear room, from seven to ten at once. To each group we explained simply
what contraception was; that abortion was the wrong way—no matter how
early it was performed it was taking life; that contraception was the
better way, the safer way—it took a little time, a little trouble, but
was well worth while in the long run, because life had not yet begun.
Some women were alone, some were in pairs, some with their neighbors,
some with their married daughters. Some did not dare talk this over with
their husbands, and some had been urged on by them. At seven in the
evening they were still coming, and men also, occasionally bringing
their timid, embarrassed wives, or once in a while by themselves to say
they would stay home to take care of the children if their wives could
come. A hundred women and forty men passed through the doors, but we
could not begin to finish the line; the rest were told to return
“tomorrow.”
In the course of the next few days women appeared clutching minute
scraps of paper, seldom more than an inch wide, which had crept into
print. The Yiddish and Italian papers had picked up the story from the
handbills which bore the clinic address, and the husbands had read them
on their way from work and clipped them out for their wives. Women who
had seen the brief, inconspicuous newspaper accounts came even from
Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and the far end of Long Island.
Newly married couples with little but love, faith, and hope to save them
from charity, told of the tiny flats they had chosen, and of their
determination to make a go of it together if only the children were not
born too soon. A gaunt skeleton suddenly stood up one morning and made
an impassioned speech. “They offer us charity when we have more babies
than we can feed, and when we get sick with more babies for trying not
to have them they just give us more charity talks!”
Women who were themselves already past childbearing age came just to
urge us to preserve others from the sorrows of ruined health, overworked
husbands, and broods of defective and wayward children growing up in the
streets, filling dispensaries and hospitals, filing through the juvenile
courts.
We made records of every applicant and, though the details might vary,
the stories were basically identical. All were confused, groping among
the ignorant sex-teachings of the poor, fumbling without guidance after
truth, misled and bewildered in a tangled jungle of popular
superstitions and old wives’ remedies. Unconsciously they dramatized the
terrible need of intelligent and scientific instruction in these matters
of life—and death.
As was inevitable many were kept away by the report that the police were
to raid us for performing abortions. “Clinic” was a word which to the
uneducated usually signified such a place. We would not have minded
particularly being raided on this charge, because we could easily
disprove it. But these rumors also brought the most pitiful of all, the
reluctantly expectant mothers who hoped to find some means of getting
out of their dilemmas. Their desperate threats of suicide haunted you at
night.
One Jewish wife, after bringing eight children to birth, had had two
abortions and heaven knows how many miscarriages. Worn out, beaten down,
not only by toiling in her own kitchen, but by taking in extra work from
a sweatshop making hats, she was now at the end of her strength, nervous
beyond words, and in a state of morbid excitement. “If you don’t help
me, I’m going to chop up a glass and swallow it tonight.”
A woman wrought to the pitch of killing herself was sick—a community
responsibility. She, most of all, required concentrated attention and
devotion, and I could not let any such go out of the clinic until her
mood had been altered. Building up hope for the future seemed the best
deterrent. “Your husband and your children need you. One more won’t make
so much difference.” I had to make each promise to go ahead and have
this baby and myself promise in return, “You won’t ever have to again.
We’re going to take care of you.”
Day after day the waiting room was crowded with members of every race
and creed; Jews and Christians, Protestants and Roman Catholics alike
made their confessions to us, whatever they may have professed at home
or in church. I asked one bright little Catholic what excuse she could
make to the priest when he learned she had been to the clinic. She
answered indignantly, “It’s none of his business. My husband has a weak
heart and works only four days a week. He gets twelve dollars, and we
can barely live on it now. We have enough children.”
Her friend, sitting by, nodded approval. “When I was married,” she broke
in, “the priest told us to have lots of children and we listened to him.
I had fifteen. Six are living. I’m thirty-seven years old now. Look at
me! I might be fifty!”
That evening I made a mental calculation of fifteen baptismal fees, nine
baby funerals, masses and candles for the repose of nine baby souls, the
physical agonies of the mother and the emotional torment of both
parents, and I asked myself, “Is this the price of Christianity?”
But it was not altogether sad; we were often cheered by gayer visitors.
The grocer’s wife on the corner and the widow with six children who kept
the lunch room up the street dropped in to wish us luck, and the fat old
German baker whose wife gave out handbills to everybody passing the door
sent regular donations of doughnuts. Whenever the pressure became so
overwhelming that we could not go out for a meal we were sure to hear
Mrs. Rabinowitz call downstairs, “If I bring some hot tea now, will you
stop the people coming?” Two jovial policemen paused at the doorway each
morning to discuss the weather. Reporters looked in speculating on how
long we were going to last. The postman delivering his customary fifty
to a hundred letters had his little pleasantry, “Farewell, ladies; hope
I find you here tomorrow.”
Although the line outside was enough to arouse police attention, nine
days went by without interference. Then one afternoon when I, still
undiscouraged, was out interviewing a doctor, a woman, large of build
and hard of countenance, entered and said to Fania she was the mother of
two children and that she had no money to support more. She did not
appear overburdened or anxious and, because she was so well fed as to
body and prosperous as to clothes, did not seem to belong to the
community. She bought a copy of _What Every Girl Should Know_ and
insisted on paying two dollars instead of the usual ten-cent fee.
Fania, who had an intuition about such matters, called Ethel aside and
said warningly she was certain this must be a policewoman. But Ethel,
who was not of the cautious type, replied, “We have nothing to hide.
Bring her in anyhow.” She talked with the woman in private, gave her our
literature and, when asked about our future plans, related them frankly.
The sceptical Fania pinned the two-dollar bill on the wall and wrote
underneath, “Received from Mrs. —— of the Police Department, as her
contribution.” Hourly after that we expected trouble. We had known it
must occur sooner or later, but would have preferred it to come about in
a different way.
The next day Ethel and Fania were both absent from the clinic. The
waiting room was filled almost to suffocation when the door opened and
the woman who had been described to me came in.
“Are you Mrs. Sanger?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a police officer. You’re under arrest.”
The doors were locked and this Mrs. Margaret Whitehurst and other
plain-clothes members of the vice squad—used to raiding gambling dens
and houses of assignation—began to demand names and addresses of the
women, seeing them with babies, broken, old, worried, harrowed, yet
treating them as though they were inmates of a brothel. Always fearful
in the presence of the police, some began to cry aloud and the children
on their laps screamed too. For a few moments it was like a panic, until
I was able to assure them that only I was under arrest; nothing was
going to happen to them, and they could return home if they were quiet.
After half an hour I finally persuaded the policemen to let these
frightened women go.
All of our four hundred and sixty-four case histories were confiscated,
and the table and demonstration supplies were carried off through the
patient line outside. The more timid had left, but many had stayed. This
was a region where a crowd could be collected by no more urgent gesture
than a tilt of the head skyward. Newspaper men with their cameras had
joined the throng and the street was packed. Masses of people spilled
out over the sidewalk on to the pavement, milling excitedly.
The patrol wagon came rattling up to our door. I had a certain respect
for uniformed policemen—you knew what they were about—but none
whatsoever for the vice squad. I was white hot with indignation over
their unspeakable attitude towards the clinic mothers and stated I
preferred to walk the mile to the court rather than sit with them. Their
feelings were quite hurt. “Why, we didn’t do anything to you, Mrs.
Sanger,” they protested. Nevertheless I marched ahead, they following
behind.
A reporter from the _Brooklyn Eagle_ fell into step beside me and before
we had gone far suggested, “Now I’ll fix it up with the police that you
make a getaway, and when we reach that corner you run. I’ll stop and
talk to them while you skip around the block and get to the station
first.” It was fantastic for anyone so to misconstrue what I was doing
as to imagine I would run around the block for a publicity stunt.
I stayed overnight at the Raymond Street Jail, and I shall never forget
it. The mattresses were spotted and smelly, the blankets stiff with dirt
and grime. The stench nauseated me. It was not a comforting thought to
go without bedclothing when it was so cold, but, having in mind the
diseased occupants who might have preceded me, I could not bring myself
to creep under the covers. Instead I lay down on top and wrapped my coat
around me. The only clean object was my towel, and this I draped over my
face and head. For endless hours I struggled with roaches and
horrible-looking bugs that came crawling out of the walls and across the
floor. When a rat jumped up on the bed I cried out involuntarily and
sent it scuttling out.
My cell was at the end of a center row, all opening front and back upon
two corridors. The prisoners gathered in one of the aisles the next
morning and I joined them. Most had been accused of minor offenses such
as shoplifting and petty thievery. Many had weatherbeaten faces, were a
class by themselves, laughing and unconcerned. But I heard no coarse
language. Underneath the chatter I sensed a deep and bitter resentment;
some of them had been there for three or four months without having been
brought to trial. The more fortunate had a little money to engage
lawyers; others had to wait for the court to assign them legal
defenders.
While I was talking to the girls, the matron bustled up with, “The
ladies are coming!” and shooed us into our cells. The Ladies, a
committee from a society for prison reform, peered at us as though we
were animals in cages. A gentle voice cooed at me, “Did you come in
during the night?”
“Yes,” I returned, overlooking the assumption that I was a street
walker.
“Can we do anything for you?”
The other inmates were sitting in their corners looking as innocent and
sweet as they could, but I startled her by saying, “Yes, you can. Come
in and clean up this place. It’s filthy and verminous.”
The Committee departed hurriedly down the corridor. One more alert
member, however, came back to ask, “Is it really very dirty?”
Although I told her in some detail about the blankets, the odors, the
roaches, she obviously could not picture the situation. “I’m terribly
sorry, but we can’t change it.”
I was still exasperated over this reply when I was called to the
reception room to give an interview to reporters. In addition to
answering questions about the raid I said I had a message to the
tax-payers of Brooklyn; they were paying money to keep their prisons run
in an orderly fashion as in any civilized community and should know it
was being wasted, because the conditions at Raymond Street were
intolerable.
My bail was arranged by afternoon and when I emerged I saw waiting in
front the woman who was going to swallow the glass; she had been there
all that time.
I went straight back to the clinic, reopened it, and more mothers came
in. I had hoped a court decision might allow us to continue, but now Mr.
Rabinowitz came downstairs apologetically. He said he was sorry, and he
really was, but the police had made him sign ejection papers, on the
ground that I was “maintaining a public nuisance.”
In the Netherlands a clinic had been cited as a public benefaction; in
the United States it was classed as a public nuisance.
Two uniformed policemen came for me, and with them I was willing to ride
in the patrol wagon to the station. As we started I heard a scream from
a woman who had just come around the corner on her way to the clinic.
She abandoned her baby carriage, rushed through the crowd, and cried,
“Come back! Come back and save me!” For a dozen yards she ran after the
van before someone caught her and led her to the sidewalk. But the last
thing I heard was this poor distracted mother, shrieking and calling,
“Come back! Come back!”
_Chapter Eighteen_
LEAN HUNGER AND GREEN THIRST
“_All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long._”
OSCAR WILDE
Looking back upon this period fraught with emotional distress, I have no
regrets. But, looking ahead, I am grateful that there looms no necessity
for repeating those passionate, dangerous, and menacing days.
Out of the raid four separate cases resulted: Ethel was charged with
violating Section 1142 of the Penal Code, designed to prevent
dissemination of contraceptive information; Fania with having sold an
allegedly indecent book entitled _What Every Girl Should Know_; I,
first, with having conducted a clinic in violation of the same Section
1142, second, with violating Section 1530 by maintaining a public
nuisance.
I claimed that Section 1142 which forbade contraceptive information to,
for, and by anyone was unconstitutional, because no state was permitted
to interfere with a citizen’s right to life or liberty, and such denial
was certainly interference. Experience had shown it did the case no good
merely to defend such a stand in a lower court; it must be carried to a
higher tribunal, and only a lawyer versed in whereases and whatsoevers
and inasmuch-ases could accomplish this. But I was still hopeful of
finding one who was able to see that the importance of birth control
could not be properly emphasized if we bowed too deeply before the slow
and ponderous majesty of the law.
The attorney who offered himself, J. J. Goldstein, had a background
which made him more sympathetic than other lawyers, even the most
liberal. He was one of those young Jewish men of promise who had been
guided through adolescence by Mary Simkhovitch, founder of Greenwich
House, and Lillian Wald, founder of the Henry Street Settlement. The
seeds of social service had been planted in him; his legal training only
temporarily slowed down their growth.
J.J. had placed himself in a difficult position for a youthful Tammany
Democrat, some day to be a magistrate; he might have been forgiven more
easily had he received a larger fee. Though he had to be convinced that
we declined to have anything to do with political wire-pulling, he
fought for us valiantly.
November 20th we pleaded not guilty and trial was set for November 27th.
J.J. endeavored to have the three of us tried simultaneously, but the
Court of Special Sessions would have none of it. Then he asked for a
jury trial, which could be granted at the discretion of the Supreme
Court; application was denied. An appeal to the Appellate Division was
dismissed; writs of habeas corpus were dismissed; another appeal to the
Appellate Division was dismissed; adjournments pending appeal were urged
but not granted. Indeed I was being swiftly educated in the
technicalities of criminal law.
I felt like a victim who passed into the courtroom, was made to bow
before the judge, and did not know what it was all about. Every gesture
had its special significance, which must not be left out if appeals were
to be possible. We had to make many more appearances than would
otherwise have been necessary; everything had to be correctly on the
record.
Evening after evening J.J. rehearsed the arguments he was going to
present and directed me to respond to questioning. I did not understand
the technicalities and begged to be allowed to tell the story in my own
way, fearful lest the heartaches of the mothers be lost in the
labyrinthine maze of judicial verbiage. But he maintained if the case
were to be appealed to a higher court, it had to be conducted according
to certain formalities.
“Why should it have to be in legal language?” I demanded. “I’m a simple
citizen, born in a democratic country. A court should also listen to my
plea expressed in plain language for the common people. I’m sure I can
make them understand and arouse their compassion.”
He reiterated that I could not address a court as though I were trying
to instil my views in an individual. “You can’t talk to them that way.
You’ll have to let me talk.”
“But that’s the way I talk and I’m the accused.”
I fully expected that if I were permitted to set forth my human version
of the Brownsville tragedies, no appeal would be required. But J.J. knew
the courts and had no such hopes. He was still doubtful of any success
before the lower tribunal, and was still unable to see my point,
counting chiefly on technicalities to win the case.
J.J. had formally objected to having our trial set during the November
session because Justice McInerney was due to preside that month, and at
previous trials he had expressed biased opinions. This objection was
overruled.
The strictly legal method having failed, I resorted to my own and wrote
Justice McInerney an open letter:
As an American pledged to the principles and spirit in which this
Republic was founded, as a judge obligated by oath to fair and
impartial judgment, do you in your deepest conscience consider
yourself qualified to try my case?
In those birth control cases at which you have presided, you have
shown to all thinking men and women an unfailing prejudice and
exposed a mind steeped in the bigotry and intolerance of the
Inquisition.
To come before you implies conviction.
Judge McInerney “made application to the District Attorney to be taken
off this case.”
Trial was marked for January 4, 1917, but the first case, that of Ethel,
was reached so late in the afternoon it had to be postponed. Four days
afterwards, in spite of our attempts to be tried together, she appeared
alone. She freely admitted she had described birth control methods but
denied the District Attorney’s accusation that our ten-cent registration
fee made it a “money making” affair. This and other sensational charges,
such as “the clinic was intended to do away with the Jews” were often
inserted in the records for reporters to pick up, make good stories of
them, and in consequence influence newspaper readers against us. They
were great stumbling blocks.
Our most important witness, Dr. Morris H. Kahn, physician in
Bloomingdale’s Department Store who also maintained a private clinic
where he gave out birth control information, was ready to testify, but
his evidence was ruled out as “irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial.”
To be sure the charge against Ethel was as a lay person; nevertheless,
it was extraordinary that we could get no hearing for a doctor. J.J. was
allowed only fifteen minutes to present his argument on the
unconstitutionality of Section 1142, and the presiding Judge decided
that the court was bound to hold it constitutional on precedent,
regardless of argument.
Ethel was found guilty.
In the two weeks before sentence was to be pronounced we debated what
she and I should do. Perhaps it could be stayed, which would settle
everything, but we each had to be prepared for either a short term of
imprisonment or a long one. In case of the former, submission was the
wiser course, because the public would not consider it of sufficient
moment to bestir itself; in the latter event, a hunger strike seemed
indicated, but, again, only if sufficient attention could be called to
it.
The New York _World_ had the most liberal policy of all the leading
morning dailies, and therefore appeared to offer the best likelihood of
being favorably disposed. I approached one of its editors and asked
whether he would print our entire story if I were to give him a scoop
and guarantee accuracy. He agreed, and assigned us a special reporter.
Ethel was sentenced January 22nd to thirty days in the Workhouse on
Blackwell’s Island in the East River. In spite of our discussion over
this possibility, she was utterly shocked, and exclaimed, “I’m going to
go on that hunger strike.”
After spending the night in the Tombs, she was returned the next morning
to the Federal District Court of Brooklyn on a writ of habeas corpus as
a means of suspending sentence pending appeal. Daylight had brought no
change in her determination to continue with the hunger strike. “I
haven’t had anything to eat yet,” she declared, and, remembering the
tale that one hunger striker had received nourishment in her cups of
water, she added, “and, if they send me back, I shan’t drink anything
either.”
Neither J.J. nor I considered such a short sentence worth breaking your
life for. Furthermore, the cause did not mean to Ethel what it did to
me. “Think this over very carefully,” I reminded her. “A hunger strike
is not necessary, and if you once start you’ll have to keep it up.” She
insisted that she was ready to die if need be; she had made her will and
arranged for the disposition of her two children—the hunger strike was
to go on. The writ was refused and she was remanded to the Workhouse. On
her way there she told the women with whom she shared the patrol wagon
the salient facts of birth control.
When Commissioner of Correction Burdette G. Lewis was asked to comment
on Ethel’s decision he scoffed. “Others have threatened hunger strikes.
It means nothing.” At first no food at all was brought her, but after
the publicity began the authorities were in despair to make her eat.
This was a case they did not know how to handle; they were mentally
unprepared for prisoners who were guilty of performing a legal wrong in
order to win a legal right.