and then placed inside the van, which set off for the Workhouse. There
all my possessions were taken from me. A long wait. The men were sent
somewhere and the women somewhere else, I did not know where. I just
sat. After what seemed hours my belongings were returned and a woman in
coat and hat told me to follow her. I did. A man added himself to our
party, and the three of us climbed into another van. We were driven some
distance down the Island, then put into a boat and ferried over to New
York. I had no idea where we were going. I asked but could elicit no
answer.
We took a street car and after various transfers I caught sight of a
Loose-Wiles biscuit sign. But it did not help me because I had not seen
it before; the section was unfamiliar to me. In early afternoon we
reached the Queens County Penitentiary, Long Island City. Evidently the
Workhouse authorities had had enough of the Higgins family and wanted no
more responsibility of this nature.
Warden Joseph McCann, who met me, was a jovial young Irishman who had
risen from the police ranks. “Have you had any lunch?” he asked. The
cause of his solicitude emerged when he inquired anxiously whether I
intended to go on a hunger strike. Remembering my morning cup of coffee,
I replied, “Not unless your food is too bad.” He introduced Mrs.
Sullivan, the motherly matron.
I answered the usual interrogatory about where I was born, how old I
was, etc., etc. When the clerk came to “What religion?” I replied,
“Humanity.” He had never heard of this form of belief, and rephrased the
question. “Well, what church do you go to?”
“None.”
He looked at me in sharp surprise. All inmates of the penitentiary went
to church; ninety-eight percent in my corridor had been reared as
Catholics.
The prison clothing which I was handed was much like a nurse’s uniform
and did not disturb me. But when I was recalled to the warden’s office
to be fingerprinted, I said flatly I would not submit. He sent me back
to my cell.
The floor was arranged rather on the order of a hospital ward, with
little alcoves of ten or fifteen cells running off the gallery. Mine,
Number 210, was small but clean. I had a bed, toilet, and washstand.
There was no chair; I sat on my bunk.
All the prisoners were at work except Josephine, a German Catholic who
had lost her husband and three children within a short period. She was
eager to tell me her story. A few days after they had died, she had gone
to their graves and covered those of the children with blankets to keep
them warm. Someone saw her, decided she was insane, and had her
committed to jail. It was a spring day when she was let out on parole.
She was pleased and happy. A hurdy-gurdy was playing her favorite tune,
_Just As the Sun Went Down_. She paid the man a nickel to play it over,
then another, and another, and another. The policeman at the corner,
hearing it, looked her over and arrested her again. During her next ten
days in prison she nursed a grievance against this injustice and, as
soon as she came out, had several drinks, went after the policeman,
scratched his face, and tore his buttons off.
Thereafter, Josephine drank whenever she could, and each time she drank
she fought, and, since she had developed a complex against policemen,
she landed back in jail in short order; she had been in some seventy
times.
I found Josephine a kind, big-hearted person, and, though erratic,
fairly intelligent. She had a terrible tongue and a terrible temper, and
undoubtedly had periods when she was of unsound mind. Most people were
frightened of her.
She was supposed to put curses on her enemies, and they came true. Once
a person who had treated her badly and been cursed in consequence had
promptly contracted pneumonia and died. At another time the matron of a
certain jail had kept her three weeks in a dark cell on bread and water.
After the fifth day, when bread was handed into the hole, she said it
tasted like cake it was so sweet. From the two or three cups of water
daily, she had to assuage her thirst, wash her face, and clean her
teeth. When she came out of this Stygian place she could scarcely see,
but she managed to distinguish the matron sufficiently to put the curse
of God upon her. The next night someone forgot to close the door of the
elevator shaft, and the matron walked through the open gate, fell to the
bottom, and was instantly killed. Now, Josephine was let alone.
In spite of my depression I was intensely interested in Josephine; she
begged me to help her, and I said I would try. The rest of that
afternoon was consumed in this tale of woe until at five o’clock I began
my initiation into the prison routine of hours and meals. The dining
room was filled with long tables and wooden benches. No one had a knife
or fork—only a tablespoon, edge blunted so as to be unserviceable as a
weapon. Supper consisted of tea and molasses, stewed dried peaches, and
two slices of bread which tasted queer; it was said to have saltpeter in
it. We were locked in an hour later; lights were out at nine. Bells
began ringing at six the next morning, and the cells were opened at
seven. For breakfast we had oatmeal with salt and milk, again two slices
of the same bread, and coffee without sugar. Dinner was more bread, a
boiled potato with the skin half on, and a sorry hunk of meat.
Because of my active tuberculosis the prison doctor soon put me on what
was called a diet. This meant I could have crackers and milk and tea in
my cell instead of going to the supper table. Due probably to the
influence of the Osborne innovations at Sing Sing the men at the Queens
Penitentiary were better treated than the women. Their food was of
higher quality and they could buy tobacco and even newspapers. The sole
reading matter available to women were two Catholic weeklies and the
_Christian Science Monitor_. Our only other news came from the two
visitors a month allowed. So fine a mesh screen was placed in the
reception room that inmates could with difficulty distinguish, as
through a veil, the features of those to whom they were talking. This
was a hardship not even imposed at Sing Sing.
After morning cell-cleaning we took a fifteen-minute walk in the yard
with our hooded capes over our heads. During this cold tramp the women
scanned the ground avidly for butts of cigarettes tossed away by the
men. It was tragic to see human beings forced to such a low level as to
dig with their fingers in the frozen earth to retrieve these mangled
stubs. Each used to grab her little bit and hide it.
When the matron went to her lunch we were locked in our corridors but
not in our cells. Ordinarily she took a nap afterwards, and the girls
could usually count on her not being back until three or perhaps four
o’clock. This gave them an opportunity to dry their shreds of tobacco
under the radiator, then wrap them in toilet paper ready for smoking. At
night when we were all locked in they struck the steel ribs from their
corsets against the stone floor, and thus ignited pieces of cotton to
give them lights. I could see tiny glowing points in the darkness as
they puffed away greedily.
Somehow, with the ingenuity born of necessity, these women also managed
to have smuggled in to them occasional small news items. The first day
one of the girls approached me and in a stage whisper demanded, “Cross
your heart and hope to die you won’t tell.”
I crossed my heart and hoped to die.
She slipped into my hand a short clipping about my trial. Apparently
others had been keeping up with events, because a few minutes later
Lisa, a little colored girl, called out, “You’se eats, don’t yer?”
A third asked me to explain to them what “sex hygiene” was all about.
Accordingly I sought permission of Mrs. Sullivan to be allowed in their
corridor during her dinner hour.
“What for?”
“The girls want me to tell them about sex hygiene.”
“Ah, gwan wid ye,” she laughed. “They know bad enough already.”
Some of the most lovely-looking girls were drug addicts. It seemed
monstrous that the State could take such liberties with human lives as
to convict them as criminals and sentence them to as much as three years
for something which should have been considered disease.
Other women were pickpockets, embezzlers, prostitutes, keepers of
brothels, “Tiffany,” or high-class thieves, accomplices of safe blowers,
and a few “transatlantic flyers,” who assisted in big hauls from Paris
or London.
The class snobbishness among the offenders interested me beyond words.
No one cared how or where another had been reared, what kind of family
background or education she had; the nature of her offense was the key
to her social position. The one who picked pockets was scorned by the
girl who helped herself to pearl or diamond necklaces; the shoplifter
did not “sell her body.”
The prisoners sometimes slid their arms in mine as we paced along in the
yard. One took me to task. “I saw you walking with Gracie. You mustn’t
associate with her.”
“Why not?”
“Do you know what she’s in here for? She’s a petty thief. Whenever she
gets out she rides in street cars and steals money from the pocketbooks
of poor people going to pay their rent, or women coming home with their
husbands’ wages.”
“And what are you here for?”
“Oh, I steal from the rich; I take only from people who have jewelry and
bank accounts.”
I never did the regular work of cleaning, not even my own cell. Nor was
I sent into the workshop to sew or to operate the machines with the
others. When I asked Mrs. Sullivan why, she replied jollily, “Oh, you
look better over there with a pen in your hand.”
She had fixed up a table to serve as a desk, and there I sat the entire
day with my papers and books, planning ahead and reading countless
letters; the tenor of all was much like this from Sarah Goldstein:
The women here in Brownsville need help very bad. Mrs. Sanger has
got put away in the penitentiary for being friends with us, but she
said we was to use her place while she was gone. If we can have a
meeting over here in the clinic, I will put a fire in the stove and
ask the women to come Saturday.
We women here want to find out what the President, the Mayor, and
the Judges and everybody is trying to do. First they put Mrs. Sanger
in jail for telling us women how not to have any more children, and
then they get busy for the starve of the ones we’ve got. First they
take the meat and the egg, then the potato, the onion, and the milk,
and now the lentils and the butter, and the children are living on
bread and tea off the tea leaves that is kept cooking on the back of
the stove.
Honest to God, we ought to call a meeting and do something about it.
Part of my time also was devoted to helping some of the girls to read or
to write the two letters a month permitted them. I had not believed that
any American-born of sixteen to eighteen years of age could be
illiterate, but there were at least ten.
I had been in the penitentiary for several days before I noticed a tall,
erect woman with white hair and a face which obviously did not belong
there; I had never seen her in the yard or at table. Although she had
been over nine months sharing the other prisoners’ food and working
beside them she had not become one of them. Because of her aloofness I
found it hard to make her acquaintance, but ultimately “the Duchess,” as
she was called, told me her story.
After having been a teacher for fifteen years, she had married a
minister who lived on a pension. They stayed in hotels, always spending
more than their income, while he steadily drew on his insurance money.
His sudden death left her practically penniless. Due to her age and the
fact she had not taught for so long her application for a teacher’s job
was refused. She continued in the hotel until she had used up everything
and was forced to move. Thereafter, she went from hotel to hotel,
fleeing each time angry looks and bills; finally she was arrested and
given an indeterminate sentence of from one to three years.
Her constant brooding over her past was not preparing her for any
future. I suggested she might keep her hand in by instructing the
illiterate girls, and asked J.J., my only visitor, to have his friend
William Spinney send some primers and lower grade text-books from Henry
Holt and Company where he worked; this was done free of charge. The
Duchess was contentedly happy from the day she began teaching again.
In the desire to learn whether the girls’ background might not be
related to the causes of their imprisonment, I asked Warden McCann
whether I could see the records, especially as to the size of the
families from which they came. He said it was against the rules, but he
was willing to give me such facts separately, assuring me I was going to
be surprised and disappointed. I was.
When I inquired, “How many brothers and sisters does Rosie have?” the
answer was, “None.”
“And Marie?”
“She had a brother, but he’s dead.”
It appeared from the entries that all these women had been single
children or, if a brother or sister had been born, he or she no longer
survived. This was difficult to believe, but I had to accept it at
first.
However, when I became better acquainted with the old-timers they told
me quite a different history. The registers were merely evidence of the
unwritten rule among them to keep their families out of it.
The madam of a house of assignation was putting her daughter of
seventeen through a fashionable boarding school. To prevent the child
from knowing anything about her occupation she wrote letters, sent them
West, where she was supposed to be traveling, and had them redirected to
the school. Many other prisoners were mothers also, and the scheming and
planning to hide the painful knowledge of their whereabouts was worthy
of the deepest admiration.
One after another admitted she had given false statements to save her
relatives from disgrace or constant annoyance by the police. The result
of a poll of the thirty-one in our corridor showed an average of seven
children to each girl’s family.
I was always interested to know why the pretty ones were there. Frances,
one of the loveliest, had a radiant color, rosebud mouth, and the most
innocent eyes; she even managed to wear her apron with a Gallic chic. It
did not seem possible she could have committed a crime, but she turned
out to be one of the rogues who made a practice of frequenting
gatherings where careless people offered opportunities to pickpockets.
She told me how she, with two other girls, had once gone to an up-State
fair. After making a grand haul of watches and purses and anything they
could lay their hands upon, her two companions said, “We’ve got enough.
We’re clearing out.”
But Frances had spotted an easy-looking wallet. It was not quite easy
enough. Unfortunately for her the owner shouted, “Somebody’s stolen my
money!”
A bystander pointed, “She did it. I’ve been in three places today where
things have been lost, and she’s been there every time.”
Other people gathered round. Frances began to cry. Because the friends
of the man who had been robbed and he himself insisted she must be
arrested the police were called.
Frances continued to weep until several lusty young farmers were ready
to defy her accusers. How could they say such things about such a sweet
girl! It looked as though a fight were imminent, and she hoped to slip
away during the excitement. But the police arrived too soon and took her
to the station. They found nothing on her; somehow she had rid herself
of the wallet.
Frances’ new-found allies were ready to go her bail, but it so happened
that a police chief from a neighboring town who had come to the fair for
the express purpose of identifying possible petty criminals recognized
her from his sheaf of photographs of habitual offenders. He said to her
supporters, “Boys, you’re crazy. This girl’s as crooked as a snake.
Here’s her picture!”
“Why, you’re crazy yourself! Your girl’s a blonde, and this one’s dark.”
The chief snatched at Frances’ hair, and off came her wig. As she told
me this great joke on herself she shook with merriment.
But this was not the end of the story. The station captain had been
influenced by her attractiveness and, since the wallet had not actually
been discovered on her, wanted to let her off. He made a compromise.
“I’m going to give you a ticket to Montreal. You either go to jail or
take it and get out.”
She accepted the ticket, but left the train at a near-by point and
rejoined her friends at another fair. There, wearing a different
costume, she continued her trade. Although to look at her ingenuous face
I could hardly believe it, pitting her wits against the police was to
her a type of game.
Gertrude had been equally clever. She was of German origin, very
stylish, moving in good circles when not in prison. She had learned that
the officers of the submarine, _Deutschland_, which had just crossed the
ocean, were to be entertained at a party. Having secured an invitation,
she devoted herself to a lieutenant who, she had discovered, was
carrying seven hundred dollars in his pocket. When the gathering broke
up she took him back to his hotel in her car, suggesting they stop at a
night club en route. There she put a drug in his glass. It took a bit of
time to work, but after they had started on again he fell asleep. She
gave five dollars to the doorman to take him to his room, saying he had
drunk a bit too much, and then went home.
At seven the following morning, while Gertrude and her little girl were
still in bed, the police raided her apartment. They could unearth
nothing except what she could honestly account for. Her effects were
turned upside down, and still no money was to be found.
“Then how could they send you to jail?” I queried. “You didn’t take it,
did you?”
“Of course I did,” she asserted, looking at me as if I were dull-witted.
“They couldn’t pin it on me, that’s all.”
Even though Gertrude had been brighter than the police, she, like many
of the others, had been convicted on her past record and the present
suspicious circumstances.
Josephine was another case in point. After I myself had been released I
had her paroled under her own recognizance and secured a place for her
as chambermaid in a hotel. Fate so arranged that in the very first room
she entered on her first morning’s work she was confronted with the
corpse of a man who had died in his bed during the night. She rushed out
immediately, got drunk, and went directly back to jail again.
The resentment thus engendered in these caged women was like a strong,
glowing flame, of a depth that I scarcely had believed possible. The
shivers ran up and down my back when I heard the details of their
unguided and loveless childhoods, which explained in large part the
curious manner in which their minds worked. They thought only in terms
of getting away with their crimes, of beating the system—although their
presence here was proof that it could not be beaten. Three of the
younger girls, too old for Bedford Reformatory but almost too young for
the penitentiary, definitely shocked me with their plans for wrong-doing
without being apprehended. They asked me about my case. “Was it true the
judge gave you a chance not to go to jail if you’d promise not to break
the law?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why didn’t you do it?”
“I couldn’t promise that.”
“But you didn’t have to keep your promise!”
The ever-present bitterness arose, not from being caught in the act, but
from being convicted without having been, according to their own belief,
proved guilty. It was the woeful mental attitude rather than the actual
physical condition of their imprisonment which so appalled me. Not one
of them intended to go straight. They hated the police who were drawing
good salaries from the State and getting credit for putting them in
jail; yet all the time they had been smarter. This sounds inconsistent,
but it was their peculiar psychological twist.
I talked it over later with several judges to whom it was rather a new
point of view. Among other cases I cited that of a brothel keeper who
conducted her house as a club and did it so carefully that no evidence
could be obtained against her. Therefore, a detective had put opium in
the plumbing and she had been sentenced on a narcotic charge, although
it was well known this was not her offense.
“The prisoners were guilty, weren’t they?” said one of the judges. “You
know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I rejoined, “but to my mind that doesn’t end the State’s
responsibility. It seems to me your detectives should be more
intelligent than the criminals they are set to catch.”
The girls at Queens Penitentiary were unaware they were entitled to
bring a far more serious charge against society than clumsy and inept
police methods. I have never since visited an institution for juvenile
offenders without thinking how stupid people are not to recognize that
most adolescents are subjected to temptation on some occasion or other;
that anyone, in an emotional fragment of time, when young and when the
consequences are not clear, may do some forbidden thing. More often than
not it is merely incidental, and in no way warrants a life of penance.
The only brutal treatment I received was during the last two hours.
Since my fingerprints had not been taken on arrival, Warden McCann first
tried to talk me into compliance. His argument that all prisoners’
prints must be on file, that not having them was unheard of, got us
nowhere. I refused to submit, even though it postponed my release. He
then turned me over to two keepers. One held me, the other struggled
with my arms, trying to force my fingers down on the inkpad. I do not
know from what source I drew my physical strength, but I managed to
prevent my hands from touching it. My arms were bruised and I was weak
and exhausted when an officer at headquarters, where J.J. was protesting
against the delay, telephoned an order to discharge me without the usual
ceremony.
March 6, 1917, dawned a bitter, stinging morning. Through the metal
doors I stepped, and the tingling air beat against my face. No other
experience in my life has been like that. Gathered in front were my old
friends who had frozen through the two hours waiting to celebrate
“Margaret’s coming out party.” They lifted their voices in the
_Marseillaise_. Behind them at the upper windows were my new friends,
the women with whom I had spent the month, and they too were singing.
Something choked me. Something still chokes me whenever I hear that
triumphant music and ringing words, “Ye sons of freedom wake to glory!”
I plunged down the stairs and into the car which stood ready for me, and
we swept out of the yard towards my apartment. At the entrance were
Vito, the coal man, and his wife, beaming and proudly pointing to the
blazing fire they had made on the hearth to welcome me home.
_Chapter Twenty_
A STOUT HEART TO A STEEP HILL
“_When a thing ceases to be a subject of controversy, it
ceases to be a subject of interest._”
WILLIAM HAZLITT
The noisy clamor of the world could not reach me through thick stone
walls; prison had been a quiet interim for reflection, for assembling
past experiences and preparing for the future. The tempestuous season of
agitation—courts and jails and shrieking and thumbing-the-nose—should
now end. Heretofore there had been much notoriety and but little
understanding. The next three steps were to be: first, education; then,
organization; and, finally, legislation. All were clearly
differentiated, though they necessarily overlapped to a certain extent.
I based my program on the existence in the country of a forceful
sentiment which, if co-ordinated, could become powerful enough to change
laws. Horses wildly careering around a pasture have as much strength as
when harnessed to a plow, but only in the latter case can the strength
be measured and turned to some useful purpose. The public had to be
educated before it could be organized and before the laws could be
changed as a result of that organization. I set myself to the task. It
was to be a long one, because the press did not want articles stating
the facts of birth control; they wanted news, and to them news still
consisted of fights, police, arrests, controversy.