Prison! I spent eighteen years of my life there. Only it wasn't life,
nor even an existence. Without exaggeration, I think that I can
justly call it hell. For while my physical body was hammering away at
unyielding bars and at the bare walls which held me captive, my mind
bruised as it battered itself upon its own uncertainty. By this, I
do not mean to corroborate the press statements which suggest that I
possess "the warped mind of a killer." I know that I am not insane; but
the mark of those years can never be erased.
Unfortunately, there is no way I can find to adequately describe
my suffering. But then I am reasonably certain that even the great
Russian masters of tragedy--Tolstoi, Maxim Gorki, Dostoievski--would
be quick to perceive the emptiness of their words in the telling of
my story and would probably throw down their pens in despair. So I
will say again that it was simply hell ... the hell of living with
my own self and hating it; and tormenting myself with hopelessly
unsolvable problems. Even the war that I had managed to survive, with
its ever-present threat of pain or death, cannot be compared to the
eighteen years I was imprisoned. And that, you will admit, coming from
me, is saying something!
By far my favorite book since I first stumbled upon it at the age of
twelve or thirteen in my father's library, is Dumas' masterpiece, _The
Count of Monte Cristo_. I have read it through many, many times and
have never grown tired of it. Even during my term at Sing Sing, I took
it out of the prison library at least four or five different times. My
cellmates, Bernie Dunbar and "Cupid" Moran, commented upon this. "Say,
Pete, ain't that the one you had out last year?" I admitted that it was
and persuaded Bernie to read it. "Cupid," after I had given him a brief
synopsis of the plot, disgustedly refused to "waste his time with such
crap." This rather surprised me. I remembered that "Cupid" was in for
life. However, he assured me in no uncertain terms that the Chateau
d'If was no worse than some of the "cans" he had been in; that Dantes
was a fool for not having hired a smart "mouthpiece" who might have
been able to "spring him on a writ"; and that he had never heard of
anyone getting by with "a gag like playing dead." But Bernie liked the
book very much.
And while my hair did not turn gray and I grew no long beard and I did
not spend all of my leisure hours plotting an escape, I feel that I had
very much in common with Edmond Dantes. Both of us had left a woman on
the outside; both of us had been in love. I think, though--and in all
fairness to Dumas' hero--that I suffered the more; for his girl still
lived while mine was dead. Moreover, Dantes was not an alleged slayer.
How often did I thump my forehead and try to jar from it some seemingly
unimportant fact which might establish either my innocence or my
guilt! It would not have made much difference if a jury believed ...
just as long as I did.
I had better explain why, since my sentence only called for a maximum
of fifteen years, I served three in addition. These were imposed upon
me for my part in a scheme to break out. Although I feverishly desired
freedom--if for no other reason but to find out whether or not I had
really killed Anita--I had no desire to brave the inevitable peril
of getting shot. Besides, the plan as it was explained to me by Paul
Comstock and "Cupid," seemed utterly foolhardy and impossible. But
"Cupid" threatened to "push my face in" if I refused to do what he
asked and, remembering that this cellmate of mine had been a prominent
gunman in underworld circles, I reluctantly agreed to help out.
It happened that Bernie Dunbar was nearing the end of his stretch. On
December 18th--I think it was in the year 1926--he was scheduled to be
released. The plan was that he should purchase a speedboat, with funds
"Cupid's" mother would provide, and station himself as close to the
prison as possible during the week immediately following Christmas. The
theory that the guards were paying little attention to the river during
the cold weather seemed to assure them of an easy escape. It would
prove a cold swim, but the two were determined to take a chance.
I never found out just how they planned to get out of the prison and
down to the river. It seemed unfeasible, what with all the high walls,
the flood-lights and the guard-towers; and I guess they didn't trust me
enough to tell. When I asked "Cupid," he merely winked significantly
and announced that "five hundred berries goes a long way." Hence, long
having been a bookworm, I imagined stealthy slinking in the shadows
of the walls, wholesale slaughter of guards with smuggled pistols
equipped with silencers, and lightning, one-minute changes into prison
officials' uniforms.
I was not to take part in the actual escape--for which I was inwardly
thankful. My reward was to be a crafty underworld lawyer who would
appeal my case gratis or pull some mysterious political strings with
the Parole Board. In either case, they told me, I could not fail "to be
out in no time." It occurred to me that if this was so, it was curious
that Bernie, "Cupid" and Paul were in prison at all. But I was shrewd
enough to keep my mouth shut. Except for Bernie--who, by the way, never
purchased the boat--they are in prison yet.
However, since I was needed in the scheme, I had no choice in the
matter. At a given hour, I was to faint or otherwise act very ill. If
necessary, I was to thrust a finger down my throat so that I would
vomit. When the guards came to remove me to the infirmary, the machine
of escape was to be put into action.
"You don't need to worry none," "Cupid" laughed when I expressed the
fear that there would be shooting in the cell. "Them guards what
are coming are O.K. They're wise and they'll take the count like a
gymnasium cowboy with a ten-spot in his glove. Just do like we told you
and it'll be as smooth as silk. Yeah. Smooth as silk."
Well, it went smooth as silk. The night arrived and I played sick and
the guards came and "Cupid" tried to slug them. Two minutes later,
"Cupid" was removed to the prison infirmary instead of me. I was
placed in solitary confinement and, since the one guard "Cupid" had
managed to hit suffered a slight concussion, I was made to serve three
additional years. Paul Comstock, whom "Cupid" was to have released
after dispensing with the guards, was never discovered to be a part of
the plot. This seemed to me to be rather unfair. I drew the conclusion
that Justice was not alone blind, but stupid as well.
* * * * *
Prison, or at least the one I was in, was not very much like the
movies, books and plays would have you believe. They would have you
look upon it as a living death, with the idea of hoping to discourage
potential criminals from embarking upon dishonest careers. This is
not true. In all of my eighteen years, I saw no deliberate cruelty.
True, I saw a few men handled roughly upon occasion; but in every
case this treatment was merited. In Sing Sing, perhaps due to Warden
Lawes' admirable innovations, no man is abused if he behaves himself,
and no guard will molest a prisoner without justification. Moreover,
life is made as bearable for the inmates as possible. Vocations are
taught, athletics encouraged, and conditions are made as sanitary and
as pleasant as yearly appropriations will permit.
Of course the absence of women companions makes men restless and
unhappy. Sex preys upon the minds of the prisoners far more than the
sins they are being punished for and the fact that they are no longer
free men. Very often insanity results, or perversions and unclean
habits are substituted for the normal act of intercourse. This, sadly,
is a prevalent practice in all penal institutions and there is nothing
that can be done about it. Pains are taken, of course, to segregate
those men who have succumbed to various forms of sexual perversion; but
it is not rare that a prisoner who begins his sentence normal, ends up
quite the reverse. This, in my own humble opinion, is the greatest
problem prison officials have still to face.
The desire for women is intensified by the knowledge that they are
beyond reach. For myself, I make no pretence that I am of a higher
moral fabric than other men. At first I thought that I would lose my
mind, so violent was my need for a woman. And in my head, melodramatic
as it may sound, there seemed to be a constant beating of drums,
throbbing pains that grew more acute and frequent as weeks slipped by.
Then, set it down as madness, Gilberte came to me. I tried to fight
her memory as she emerged from the obscurity into which my idiocy had
plunged her. As I lay on my hard bunk, I tried desperately to replace
her vision by thinking of Anita. But Anita, I knew, was dead and during
these spells I found it difficult to remember what she looked like.
So, in a semi-conscious state, I felt Gilberte's hand touch my brow and
I would suddenly find myself back in France, in the hospital garden.
The odor of the flower beds filled my nostrils once more, superimposed
upon the fumes of antiseptics and the stench of decaying flesh. In
that trance would I relive many moments and over and over would I
succumb to the beauty of that one mistake we made.
In the morning when I awakened, I felt much refreshed. I no longer
cared that I was in prison for I knew that the dream would come again;
this became an obsession with me. But I came to dread the days; my mind
was preoccupied with thoughts of Anita.
This is what makes of prison the hell I have named it. Naturally, I
consider my own case the most harrowing, but it is very possible that
many other convicts suffered equally--if for some other reason. For
prison forces men to live with themselves and with their own dark
thoughts. It removes the healing ointment of outside diversions:
people, changes of scene, any number of things which might help men to
forget the past. Now, you can understand why it was doubly bad in my
particular case. There was also this: I could not convince myself that
I had really murdered my wife, and there was no way I could uncover
the truth--my innocence or my guilt--while locked up in a cell.
All through those eighteen years--from the time I went in at the age of
twenty-eight, until I grew to be forty-six--I was constantly plagued
by the need of knowing the truth. In the prison shop, no matter what
job was assigned to me, I took no interest. No activity could provide
the answer I so fervently craved. In the yard, the mess hall, the
cell-block, Anita's face followed me.
My cellmate, Bernie Dunbar, tried his best to drive out my morbid
thoughts. He was a very young man, two or three years my junior. His
face was tanned and handsome and, even after eight years, he had not
developed what the novelists are pleased to term "prison pallor." His
crime was that of robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.
"It wasn't really deadly," Bernie told me, "unless you can call a
blank-cartridge pistol a deadly weapon. I stuck up a drugstore. I
didn't want to hurt anybody. All I wanted was dough. But when I told
the fellow behind the counter to open up the safe, the damned fool
started yelling for the cops. Well, what could I do? Stand there and
get pinched? I conked him with the butt of the thing and he took a
nose-dive."
I made the observation that such a blow might easily cause death. Being
myself a druggist, I felt that I should take sides against Bernie.
Consequently, when he sighed, shrugged helplessly and asked, "Well,
what would _you_ have done?" I forgot that he was putting me in _his_
position and replied, "I would have shouted for the police, too." But,
come to think of it, I do not believe I would have done any such thing.
Always having carefully preserved my health, undoubtedly I would have
opened the safe.
Bernie's method in trying to comfort me was to give detailed accounts
of what awful fates awaited many of the other prisoners. He seemed well
acquainted with the other inmates of the prison and, in the course
of three or four years, succeeded in telling me many ghastly tales.
Although he assured me that the stories were all true, I thought some
of them sounded somewhat extreme and implausible.
"You know that guy, Barstowe, in the death house? He chopped his mother
and father to pieces with an axe. He wanted the insurance money, I
guess. And to make it look like someone else had done it, he chopped
off one of his own hands. He would have got away with it too, only the
damned fool left his finger-prints all over the handle of the thing."
Then: "You know Middleton? He poisoned his girl only she didn't die.
Was he burned up! She testified in court and he's in here for twenty
years. He told me that he wouldn't have minded serving time, if he had
done the job right."
Also: "You know Frank Juliano? As soon as he's finished his stretch
here, they've got something else to pin on him. Say, if that boy _ever_
gets out of jail, it'll be a miracle. And you, kicking about your
troubles! Why, any day they might find out you didn't knock her off and
you'll get sprung. But that guy has _nothing_ to look forward to!"
One day "Cupid," who was usually silent, broke into the conversation.
"Yeah? And look at me. I'm here for life. Of course that don't mean
forever. I may get paroled in about fifteen or twenty years. But what
the hell. I'll be sixty years old! What in Christ's name can a guy do
when he's sixty?"
I pretended to sympathize with "Cupid." So did Bernie, for that matter.
But in my heart I believed that the world was much better off with
"Cupid" under lock and key. He was one of those habitual cases. He
was possessed of an inhuman courage that was almost brutishly stupid.
Bullets, police, and fellow criminals failed to impress him; for
"Cupid" was not intelligent enough to be afraid. Once released, he
was certain to re-embark upon his life of crime. And his record, at
the time I knew him, was literally dotted with robberies, killings,
kidnappings and terms in innumerable penitentiaries. You may be sure
that I took pains never to get on the wrong side of this one-man crime
wave.
But, despite all Bernie's efforts, I could not forget. Often at night I
would have nightmares in which Anita's body would suddenly materialize
before me, bloody and full of gaping wounds. Twice, in the throes of
these horrible dreams, I rolled off the upper bunk, injuring myself
considerably on the cement floor of the cell. Bernie, sympathetic, was
gracious enough to change bunks with me, permitting me to take the
coveted lower. Even after the change, the nightmares continued. The
first night I occupied my new bed, I rolled off again. The fall, from
less altitude, did not hurt me much, but it woke up Cupid. He hoisted
himself out of bed, seized me roughly by the front of my undershirt,
and dealt me a heavy blow on the point of my jaw. Although I landed on
my bunk, I was unconscious for over a minute. When I came to, "Cupid"
jerked me to my feet and waved his big ham of a fist under my nose.
"Spoil my night's sleep again, you little son of a bitch, and I'll pin
your ears back!"
The dreams kept returning each night, but I made sure that I wouldn't
fall again. I slept with one wrist caught in the framework of the bunk.
* * * * *
Anita's body was never found. Several bodies were discovered floating
in the lake by the police during the years, but not one of them in
any way resembled her. Obviously, without the corpse, no hint as to
the identity of her slayer could be investigated; and there was no
reason why any other opinion should be formed but that I had committed
the crime. Accordingly, after the first year of my incarceration, my
lawyer, Mr. Bristol, lost all interest in the case. No appeal was ever
made in my behalf.
Incidentally, I sold my store, too. With the money I got from The
Great Eastern Chain, I engaged the services of a private investigation
bureau. This organization unearthed nothing whatever and, when my
capital was exhausted, they had the colossal cheek to visit me in
prison and inform me that they believed me guilty. This made me very
angry. I would not have minded them telling me this if they could have
shown some sort of proof. I was spending every cent I had in the world
to find out--if only for my own satisfaction--that I was innocent;
or--if only to rid myself of doubt--that I was guilty.
Late in the year 1930, Doc Turnbull paid me his last visit. It had
been the old man's habit to come once each year to see me. Usually,
it was during the summer--that being the only time he could get away
from Ithaca. "Sure, son, it's like a vacation. I haven't a relative
in the world, thank God, except Sarah. And, well, she's not exactly a
relative. She's my wife. So the only one I can visit is you."
In spite of Doc's gruff dismissing of sentiment, I am sure that he
thought of me as a son. Through the wire screen of the visiting-room,
his homely words of wisdom did much to relieve the great weight I
carried.
"Boy, you're looking through field glasses the wrong way. Know what
I mean? Hell, no one ever got to first base in this old ball game
by living in the past. To hell with yesterday, I say! Why, son, do
you know how many men I've killed since I began practicing medicine?
Practicing is right! I've been practicing for forty-three years! But
does that bother me?"
"But Doc," I said, "if I only knew whether I did it or not! You know I
loved Anita and...."
"I don't think you did do it, Pete. But what's the use of thinking
about it? No one will ever find out about it now. Too much water has
passed under the bridge. Forget it. You're serving time. It won't be
long now until you'll be let out. Think of that."
"I am."
"Good. It's only seven years more ... less than that, if you skip
Sundays. Why hell, it took me seven years to cure one case alone. The
fellow was an alcoholic. Wouldn't let old demon rum alone. Do you know
what my treatment was?"
"No."
"I kept drinking his stuff. Never left him much of anything. Gradually,
he got used to less and less until...." Here, Doc commenced to chuckle.
"... I had to take the cure myself."
Through him, I learned what little there was to know about Ithaca. "You
know that Mrs. Michaelson had another heart attack? Third one, Pete.
No, nothing serious yet. And say, you ought to see what they've done
to your store! More chrome plate in it than a barber-shop! Can you
beat it, they sell perfume and _books_! I'm dealing at Ray Cavender's
now. Hate to do it, but what can a poor doctor do when he's got some
prescriptions to be filled? Those Great Eastern chumps only know how
to make sandwiches and sodas. And, oh yes! Remember Leo Carpenter with
the blonde moustache that thought he was a doctor? Well, he's not
practicing any more, I hear. He went to Vienna shortly after his old
man died, you know. Said he was going to study under some of those
foreign fakers. Well, Carpenter is writing books now. Medical books. I
got one but I can't figure out what it's all about! Every other word is
in Latin or Greek or some such uncivilized tongue! And the footnotes!
One page text, three pages footnotes! But let me see, there was
something else I wanted to tell you.... Sure, I know! Jackie Mackintosh
is in reform school! That kid is a regular Jesse James! He robbed three
Ithaca stores last summer and a grocery in Owego. They caught him,
though, and he confessed."
As he left me that last time, his parting words were: "Now don't forget
that there is a future coming, Pete. Turn those old field glasses
around and look ahead. You're still a young man ... compared with me!
And I'm still looking ahead, you bet! There's plenty of practicing left
to do before I can sit back and consider myself a perfect undertaker!
Why, I expect to live to be a hundred!"
A month later I learned that he was dead.
Now, whenever I think of old Doc Turnbull, my eyes dim with tears. He
was such a fine person. The two of us got along so well together that I
like to think that it was only an accident of birth which prevented us
from being father and son. Yes, I loved that old man; and if there is
such a place as heaven, I know that he's there.
There is little more to be said about the years I spent in prison.
For the most part they were dull, each day exactly like the one
before, with routine blunting the memory, fortunately. Contrary to the
accepted idea of scratching off the days and even the half-days on the
calendar, I did no such thing. Prisoners--I think I am safe in the
generalization--prefer to forget about time. Their terms seem to pass
more quickly if they do not keep themselves conscious of it.
But if, because I have given so little space to my life in prison, you
get the erroneous impression that I did not miss so much, remember that
while I paced back and forth across twelve feet of cell, radio made its
initial appearance in the American home; motion pictures were greatly
improved and, at length, made to speak; and Harding, Coolidge, Hoover
and Franklin Roosevelt rested their troubled heads on White House
pillows. Yes, and much more than that. Came the boom times of '27 and
'28, the stock-market crash and the subsequent depression. Lindbergh
flew to Paris, Byrd to the Polar regions. European governments were
overthrown. Women's skirts grew shorter and longer and then shorter
again. Henry made a lady out of Lizzie. Buildings were erected higher
than the Woolworth. Fashion decreed that even portly matrons bob their
hair. Indeed, the very map of the earth changed during those eighteen
years!
Prohibition gave birth to rackets, put teeth into gangdom and lined
their pockets with money--before Roosevelt's administration decided
to balance the budget. Dillinger played hide and seek. Hauptmann died
in the Chair. Bridge became the nation's pastime. Hitler removed his
corporal's chevrons. O'Neill managed to get some of his plays produced
and Sinclair Lewis tapped out a book or two. Gertrude Ederle swam the
Channel. Garbo demanded screen credit. Ice-boxes were made to freeze
without ice, stoves to burn without gas. Dollar bills grew smaller in
size as in purchasing power.
To this very day I have not seen the George Washington Bridge, the
Holland Tunnel to Jersey, or been inside the Music Hall. I did manage
to catch a glimpse of the towering Empire State, but only from a great
distance.
One day the warden sent for me and when I came into his office he
showed me his desk calendar. I saw that it was 1937 and September and a
Tuesday. Then he gave me a good cigar, asked me to sit down, and talked
to me for a long time.
The next morning, I walked through the prison gates a free man, rather
timidly blinking my eyes at a strange world.
* * * * *
The first thing I did when I got out was to take a train for Ithaca. I
was fully cognizant of the fact that I no longer had connections there.
Doc Turnbull was dead and so was Mrs. Michaelson. However, there was
nowhere else to go and, had I not been so determined to find out the
truth of things, I really believe I would have turned about-face and
begged the Warden to take me in again.
Here I was, penniless almost and without a friend, dead set on finding
out about something that had happened fully eighteen years before.
But, although it appeared a foolish notion and utterly pointless, I
found myself irresistibly drawn to the scene of the crime. Of course I
realized that if the police, lawyers and the private detectives I had
hired could unearth nothing, it was vain of me to think that I might
succeed where they had failed. Nevertheless, I bought my ticket for
Ithaca.
There was one emotion I had which authors have described truthfully.
Even after several hours, when the novelty of freedom was wearing
off, I imagined that people were staring at me. It was decidedly an
uncomfortable feeling and I felt very guilty. I had all I could do to
assure myself that I had a right to liberty and that I was now once
again as much a part of the social scheme of things as anyone else. But
eyes continued to bore little holes into my back. Heads that turned, I
was sure were turning to stare at me.
Then I realized that it was my clothes. My shoes were prison-made and
a size too large. My hat and stiff collar were hopelessly out of date.
Therefore, although the train was just pulling into the station, I
decided to wait in Ossining until the next one came along. I had a
little money--about forty odd dollars--and a small clothier's shop
across the street beckoned to me.
"Yes? And what can I do for you, sir?"
"I want almost everything."
"Ah! The works?"
"The works."
"Come this way."
And half an hour later I emerged, my appearance altered. Though the
forty dollars represented all the money I possessed in the world, I had
spent sixteen of it. Anything was better than being stared at.
* * * * *
Coming back to my home town after so long an absence brought a mist to
my eyes. I thought of Odysseus in Homer's epic, returning to Ithaca
and Penelope. I remembered the poem well because we had been forced to
study it at Ithaca High. Well, I was returning to Ithaca, all right;
but I had done no wandering, certainly; and there was no Penelope
weaving and waiting for me. That death shroud had been finished years
and years ago.
There weren't many changes in the station, I noticed as I stepped from
the coach. There was a fresh coat of paint on the long row of wooden
freight warehouses; and the bricks of the waiting-room had lately been
sandblasted; but that was all.
I walked up State Street toward the center of town. Ithaca had grown.
On many blocks which, in my time, had been devoted to homes, were
stores. Of course, many of the older markets and shops were familiar to
me, but State Street, as a whole, was disappointing.
Ahead of me stretched the main thoroughfare, bordered on either side
by restaurants, two motion-picture palaces and department stores. Only
when it curved sharply up the hill toward the Cornell campus, was it
familiar. There, scattered beyond the few garage buildings, were houses
I knew. People I had once known lived in them.... But no. Probably not
any more. More likely they had retreated before the expanding business
area to the still lovely portions over-looking the lake.
As I neared the corner where my store had been, I felt a stranger,
excommunicated, forgotten. The faces milling around me, going in and
out of the markets, were strange faces, and somehow I imagined that
they looked at me aggressively. I went along, half-expecting at any
moment that someone would recognize me and call out my name. But no one
did.
It was then that I clumsily stumbled over a little boy who was
squatting at the curb, rolling some toy or other near the edge of
the sidewalk. I picked him up, made certain that he was unhurt, and
assisted him in dusting off his sailor suit.
"You owe me a soda!" the child shrilled pompously. "You knocked me down
and now you'll have to treat me, mister."
I patted him on the head and started to walk away. The little fellow
followed me closely. "Pay up or go to jail," he declared.
"All right," I said quickly. "Come along."
I took him by the hand and continued toward the store. Its
metamorphosis was complete. The front of the building was a solid
mass of show-window, in which were neatly arranged books, perfumery,
tobacco-humidors, soap and cameras. Placards announced "special"
luncheons, sales on toilet articles and giant malted milks. In one
corner of the window, unobtrusively printed on a little cardboard cut
in the shape of a mortar and pestle, were the words: "Prescriptions
Filled By Experts." A huge neon sign above the show-window kept
spelling out:
THE GREAT EASTERN
DRUG COMPANY
"You can get swell ones in here for a dime, mister," the little fellow
told me as he drew me up to the expensive black and silver soda
fountain. "I'll take a frosted chocolate," he commanded the youth in
the neat white jacket who came to wait on us. "And don't be stingy with
the whipped cream!"