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She said nothing about it for a long time, but I could sense it. One day Kershner invited me to a dance. It was my first since I came to America. The very anticipation was exciting, bringing back memories of my first ball in St. I was fifteen then.

Helena had been invited to the fashionable German Club by her employer, who gave her two tickets, so she could bring me with her. Some time previously my sister had presented me with a piece of lovely blue velvet for my first long dress; but before it could be made up, our peasant servant walked off with the material. My grief over its loss made me quite ill for several days. If only I had a dress, I thought, Father might consent to my attending the ball. She bought another piece of blue stuff, not so beautiful as my velvet, but I no longer minded.

I was too happy over the prospect of my first ball, of the bliss of dancing in public. Somehow Helena succeeded in getting Father's consent, but at the last moment he changed his mind. I had been guilty of some infraction during the day, and he categorically declared that I would have to stay home. Thereupon Helena said she also would not go. But I was determined to defy my father, no matter what the consequences. With bated breath I waited for my parents to retire for the night. Then I dressed and woke Helena, I told her she must come with me or I would run away from home.

Dear Helena she was always so timid! She had infinite capacity for suffering, for endurance, but she could not fight. On this occasion she was carried away by my desperate decision. She dressed and we quietly slipped out of the house. At the German Club everything was bright and gay. We found Helena's employer, whose name was Kadison, and some of his young friends.

I was asked for every dance, and I danced in frantic excitement and abandon. It was getting late and many people were already leaving when Kadison invited me for another dance. Helena insisted that I was too exhausted, but I would not have it so. To dance to death what more glorious end! It was towards five in the morning when we arrived home.

Our people were still asleep. I awoke late in the day, pretending a sick headache, and secretly I gloried in my triumph of having outwitted our old man. The memory of that experience still vivid in my mind, I accompanied Jacob Kershner to the party, full of anticipation.

My disappointment was bitter: there were no beautiful ball-room, no lovely women, no dashing young men, no gaiety. The music was shrill, the dancers clumsy. Jacob danced not badly, but he lacked spirit and fire. I had known Jacob Kershner about four months when he asked me to marry him.

I admitted I liked him, but I did not want to marry so young. We still knew so little of each other. He said he'd wait as long as I pleased, but there was already a great deal of talk about our being together so much.

Finally I consented. Helena's antagonism to Jacob had become almost an obsession; she fairly hated him. But I was lonely I needed companionship. Ultimately I won over my sister. Her great love for me could never refuse me anything or stand out against my wishes. The late fall of brought the rest of our family to Rochester Father, Mother, my brothers, Herman and Yegor. Conditions in St. Petersburg had become intolerable for the Jews, and the grocery business did not yield enough for the ever-growing bribery Father had to practice in order to be allowed to exist.

America became the only solution. Together with Helena I had prepared a home for our parents, and on their arrival we went to live with them. Our earnings soon proved inadequate to meet the household expenses.

Jacob Kershner offered to board with us, which would be of some help, and before long he moved in. The house was small, consisting of a living-room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. One of them was used by my parents, the other by Helena, myself, and our little brother. Kershner and Herman slept in the living-room. The close proximity of Jacob and the lack of privacy kept me in constant irritation.

I suffered from sleepless nights, waking dreams and great fatigue at work. Life was becoming unbearable, and Jacob stressed the need of a home of our own. On nearer acquaintance I had grown to understand that we were too different. His interest in books, which had first attracted me to him, had waned. He bad fallen into the ways of his shopmates, playing cards and attending dull dances. I, on the contrary, was filled with striving and aspirations.

In spirit I was still in Russia, in my beloved St. Petersburg, living in the world of the books I had read, the operas I had heard, the circle of the students I had known. I hated Rochester even more than before. But Kershner was the only human being I had met since my arrival. He filled a void in my life, and I was strongly attracted to him. In February we were married in Rochester by a rabbi, according to Jewish rites, which I were then considered sufficient by the law of the country.

My feverish excitement of that day, my suspense and ardent anticipation gave way at night to a feeling of utter bewilderment. Jacob lay trembling near me; he was impotent. The first erotic sensations I remember had come to me when I was about six. My parents lived in Popelan then, where we children had no home in any real sense. Father kept an inn, which was constantly filled with peasants drunk and quarreling, and government officials. Mother was busy superintending the servants in our large, chaotic house.

My sisters, Lena and Helena, fourteen and twelve, were burdened with work. I was left to myself most of the day. Among the stable help there was a young peasant, Petrushka, who served as shepherd, looking after our cows and sheep. Often he would take me with him to the meadows, and I would listen to the sweet tones of his flute. In the evening he would carry me back home on his shoulders, I sitting astride. He would play horse run as fast as his legs could carry him, then suddenly throw me up in the air, catch me in his arms, and press me to him.

It used to give me a peculiar sensation, fill me with exultation, followed by blissful release. I became inseparable from Petrushka. I grew so fond of him that I began stealing cake and fruit from Mother's pantry for him. To be with Petrushka out in the fields, to listen to his music, to ride on his shoulders, became the obsession of my waking and sleeping hours. One day Father had an altercation with Petrushka, and the boy was sent away.

The loss of him was one of the greatest tragedies of in child-life. For weeks afterwards I kept on dreaming of Petrushka, the meadows, the music, and reliving the joy and ecstasy of our play. One morning I felt myself torn out of sleep. Mother was bending over me, tightly holding my right hand. In an angry voice I she cried: "If ever I find your hand again like that, I'll whip you, you naughty child! The approach of puberty gave me my first consciousness of the effect of men on me.

I was eleven then. Early one summer day I woke up in great agony. My head, spine, and legs ached as if they were being pulled asunder. I called for Mother. She drew back my bedcovers, and suddenly I felt a stinging pain in my face. She had struck me. I let out a shriek, fastening on Mother terrified eyes. I was writhing in pain and I was too outraged for her to touch me.

He was a young man, a new-comer in our village. He examined me and gave me something to put me to sleep. Thenceforth my dreams were of the Feldscher. After working hours, on leaving the shop together with the other girls, we would be waylaid by young Russian officers and civilians. Most of the girls had their sweethearts; only a Jewish girl chum of mine and I refused to be taken to the konditorskaya pastry shop or to the park.

Next to the Hermitage was a hotel we had to pass. One of the clerks, a handsome fellow of about twenty, singled me out for his attentions. At first I scorned him, but gradually he began to exert a fascination on me. His perseverance slowly undermined my pride and I accepted his courtship. We used to meet in some quiet spot or in an out-of-the-way pastry shop. I had to invent all sorts of stories to explain to my father why I returned late from work or stayed out after nine o'clock.

One day he spied me in the Summer Garden in the company of other girls and some boy students. When I returned home, he threw me violently against the shelves in our grocery store, which sent the jars of Mother's wonderful varenya flying to the floor. He pounded me with his fists, shouting that he would not tolerate a loose daughter. The experience made my home more unbearable, the need of escape more compelling. For several months my admirer and I met clandestinely.

One day he asked me whether I should not like to go through the hotel to see the luxurious rooms. I had never been in a hotel before the joy and gaiety I fancied behind the gorgeous windows used to fascinate me as I would pass the place on my way from work. The boy led me through a side entrance, along a thickly carpeted corridor, into a large room. It was brightly illumined and beautifully furnished.

A table near the sofa held flowers and a tea-tray. We sat down. The young man poured out a golden-colored liquid and asked me to clink glasses to our friendship. I put the wine to my lips. Suddenly I found myself in his arms, my waist torn open - his passionate kisses covered my face, neck, and breasts.

Not until after the violent contact of our bodies and the excruciating pain he caused me did I come to my senses. I screamed, savagely beating against the man's chest with my fists. Suddenly I heard Helena's voice in the hall. The man, too, was terrorized. His grip relaxed, and we listened in breathless silence. After what seemed to me hours, Helena's voice receded. The man got up. I rose mechanically, mechanically buttoned my waist and brushed back my hair.

Strange, I felt no shame - only a great shock at the discovery that the contact between man and woman could be so brutal and so painful, I walked out in a daze, bruised in every nerve. When I reached home I found Helena fearfully wrought up. She had been uneasy about me, aware of my meeting with the boy. She had made it her business to find out where he worked, and when I failed to return, she had gone to the hotel in search of me.

The shame I did not feel in the arms of the man now overwhelmed me. I could not muster up courage to tell Helena of my experience. After that I always felt between two fires in the presence of men. Their lure remained strong, but it was always mingled with violent revulsion. I could not bear to have them touch me. These pictures passed through my mind vividly as I lay alongside my husband on our wedding night. He had fallen fast asleep.

The weeks went on. There was no change. I urged Jacob to consult a doctor. At first he refused, pleading diffidence, but finally he went. He was told it would take considerable time to "build up his manhood. The material anxiety of making ends meet excluded everything else. I had stopped work: it was considered disgraceful for a married woman to go to the shop. Jacob was earning fifteen dollars a week.

He had developed a passion for cards, which swallowed up a considerable part of our income. He grew jealous, suspecting everyone. Life became insupportable. I was saved from utter despair by my interest in the Haymarket events. After the death of the Chicago anarchists I insisted on a separation from Kershner.

He fought long against it, but finally consented to a divorce. It was given to us by the same rabbi who had performed our marriage ceremony. Then I left for New Haven, Connecticut, to work in a corset-factory. During my efforts to free myself from Kershner the only one who stood by me was my sister Helena.

She had been strenuously opposed to the marriage in the first place, but now she offered not a single reproach. On the contrary, she gave me help and comfort. She pleaded with my parents and with Lena in behalf of my decision to get a divorce. As always, her devotion knew no bounds. In New Haven I met a group of young Russians, students mainly, now working at various trades.

Most of them were socialists and anarchists. They often organized meetings, generally inviting speakers from New York, one of whom was A. Life was interesting and colorful, but gradually the strain of the work became too much for my depleted vitality. Finally I had to return to Rochester. I went to Helena. She lived with her husband and child over their little printing shop, which also served as an office for their steamship agency.

But both occupations did not bring in enough to keep them from dire poverty. Helena had married Jacob Hochstein, a man ten years her senior. He was a great Hebrew scholar, an authority on the English and Russian classics, and a very rare personality. His integrity and independent character made him a poor competitor in the sordid business life.

When anyone brought him a printing order worth two dollars, Jacob Hochstein devoted as much time to it as if he were getting fifty. If a customer showed a tendency to bargain over prices, he would send him away. He could not bear the implication that he might overcharge.

His income was insufficient for the needs of the family, and the one to worry and fret most about it was my poor Helena. She was pregnant with her second child and yet had to drudge from morning till night to make ends meet, with never a word of complaint. But, then, she had been that way all her life, suffering silently, always resigned. Helena's marriage had not sprung from a passionate love. It was the union of two mature people who longed for comradeship, for a quiet life.

Whatever there had been of passion in my sister had burned out when she was twenty-four. At the age of sixteen, while we were living in Popelan, she had fallen in love with a young Lithuanian, a beautiful soul. But he was a goi gentile and Helena knew that marriage between them was impossible.

After a great struggle and many tears Helena broke off the affair with young Sasha. Years later, while on our way to America, we stopped in Kovno, our native town. Helena had arranged for Susha to meet her there. She could not bear to go away so far without saying good-bye to him. They met and parted as good friends the fire of their youth was in ashes. On my return from New Haven Helena received me, as always, with tenderness and with the assurance that her home was also mine.

It was good to be near my darling again, with little Stella and my young brother Yegor. But it did not take me long to discover the pinched condition in Helena's home. I went back to the shop. Living in the Jewish district, it was impossible to avoid those one did not wish to see. I ran into Kershner almost immediately after my arrival. Day after day he would seek me out. He began to plead with me to go back to him all would be different. One day he threatened suicide actually pulled out a bottle of poison.

Insistently he pressed me for a final answer. Besides, I had definitely decided to go to New York, to equip myself for the work I had vowed to take up after the death of my Chicago comrades. But Kershner's threat frightened me: I could not be responsible for his death. I remarried him. My parents rejoiced and so did Lena and her husband, but Helena was sick with grief. Without Kershner's knowledge I took up a course in dressmaking, in order to have a trade that would free me from the shop.

During three long months I wrestled with my husband to let me go my way. I tried to make him see the futility of living a patched life, but he remained obdurate. Late one night, after bitter recriminations, I left Jacob Kershner and my home, this time definitely. I was immediately ostracized by the whole Jewish population of Rochester. I could not pass on the street without being held up to scorn. My parents forbade me their house, and again it was only Helena who stood by me.

Out of her meager income she even paid my fare to New York. So I left Rochester, where I had known so much pain, hard work, and loneliness, but the joy of my departure was marred by separation from Helena, from Stella, and the little brother I loved so well. The break of the new day in the Minkin flat still found me awake. The door upon the old had now closed for ever.

The new was calling, and I eagerly stretched out my hands towards it. I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. I was awakened by Anna Minkin's voice announcing the arrival of Alexander Berkman. It was late afternoon.

Chapter 3. She prepared tea, and we sat down to talk. Berkman inquired about my plans for work, for activity in the movement. Would I like to visit the Freiheit office? Could he be of help in any way? He was free to take me about, he said; he had left his job after a fight with the foreman.

Nothing personal mattered. Only the Cause mattered. Fighting injustice and exploitation mattered. How strong he was, I thought; how wonderful in his revolutionary zeal! Just like our martyred comrades in Chicago. I had to go to West Forty-second Street to get my sewing-machine out of the baggage-room. Berkman offered to accompany me. He suggested that on our way back we might ride down to Brooklyn Bridge on the Elevated and then walk over to William Street, where the Freiheit office was located.

I asked him whether I could hope to establish myself in New York as a dressmaker. I wanted so much to free myself from the dreadful grind and slavery of the shop. I wanted to have time for reading, and later I hoped to realize my dream of a cooperative shop. No, not in that dull town. In St. Were you connected with the Nihilists?

They are the only ones who could have given you the book. How dared he doubt my word! I repeated angrily that I had read the forbidden book and other similar works, such as Turgeniev's Fathers and Sons, and Obriv The Precipice by Gontcharov. My sister had got them from students and she let me read them.

How far I had wandered away from my adolescent days, I reflected. Mother had received a letter from her brother Martin giving the appalling news of the arrest of their brother Yegor. He had been mixed up with Nihilists, the letter read, and he was thrown into the Petro-Pavlovsky Fortress and would soon be sent away to Siberia. The news struck terror in us. Mother decided to go to St. For weeks we were kept in anxious suspense. At last she returned, her face beaming with happiness.

She had found that Yegor was already on the way to Siberia. After much difficulty and with the help of a large sum of money she had succeeded in getting an audience with Trepov, the Governor General of St. She had learned that his son was a college chum of Yegor and she urged it as proof that her brother could not have been mixed up with the terrible Nihilists. One so close to the Governor's own son would surely have nothing to do with the enemies of Russia.

She pleaded Yegor's extreme youth, went on her knees, begged and wept. Of course, he would put him under strict surveillance; Yegor would have to promise solemnly never to go near the murderous gang. Our mother was always very vivid when she related stories of books she had read. We children used to hang on her very lips. This time, too, her story was absorbing. It made me see Mother before the stern Governor-General, her beautiful face, framed by her massive hair, bathed in tears.

The Nihilists, too, I saw black, sinister creatures who had ensnared my uncle in their plotting to kill the Czar. The good, gracious Czar Mother had said the first to give more freedom to the Jews; he had stopped the pogroms and he was planning to set the peasants free.

And him the Nihilists meant to kill! Mother's violence terrorized me. Her suggestion of extermination froze my blood. I felt that the Nihilists must be beasts, but I could not bear such cruelty in my mother. Often after that I caught myself thinking of the Nihilists, wondering who they were and what made them so ferocious.

Something mysterious had awakened compassion for them in me. I wept bitterly over their fate. Years later I came upon the term "Nihilist " in Fathers and Sons. And when I read What's to be Done? I understood my instinctive sympathy with the executed men.

I felt that they could not witness without protest the suffering of the people and that they had sacrificed their lives for them. I became the more convinced of it when I learned the story of Vera Zassulich, who had shot Trepov in My young teacher of Russian related it to me. Mother had said that Trepov was kind and humane, but my teacher told me how tyrannical he had been, a veritable monster who used to order out his Cossacks against the students, have them lashed with nagaikas, their gatherings dispersed, and the prisoners sent to Siberia.

They torture idealists in prison. I knew that my teacher spoke the truth. In Popelan everyone used to talk about the flogging of peasants. One day I came upon a half naked human body being lashed with the knout. It threw me into hysterics, and for days I was haunted by the horrible picture. Listening to my teacher revived the ghastly sight: the bleeding body, the piercing shrieks, the distorted faces of the gendarmes, the knouts whistling in the air and coming down with a sharp hissing upon the half-naked man.

Whatever doubts about the Nihilists I had left from my childhood impressions now disappeared. They became to me heroes and martyrs, henceforth my guiding stars. I was aroused from my reverie by Berkman's asking why I had become so silent. I told him of my recollections. He then related to me some of his own early influences, dwelling particularly on his beloved Nihilist uncle Maxim and on the shock he had experienced on learning that he had been sentenced to die. Do you know that Kovno has given many brave sons to the revolutionary movement?

And now perhaps also a brave daughter," he added. I felt myself turn red. My soul was proud. The train was passing narrow streets, the dreary tenements so close by that I could see into the rooms. The fire-escapes were littered with dirty pillows and blankets and hung with laundry streaked with dirt.

Berkman touched my arm and announced that the next station was Brooklyn Bridge. We got off and walked to William Street. In an old building, up two dark and creaking flights, was the office of the Freiheit. Several men were in the first room setting type. In the next we found Johann Most standing at a high desk, writing. With a side-glance he invited us to sit down. That's all they know!

Ask them to write a line not they. They are too stupid and too lazy. His gruff voice, his twisted jaw, which had so repelled me on my first meeting him, recalled to me the caricatures of Most in the Rochester papers. I could not reconcile the angry man before me with the inspired speaker of the previous evening whose oratory had so carried me away. Berkman noticed my confused and frightened look. He whispered in Russian not to mind Most, that he was always in such a mood when at work.

I got up to inspect the books which covered the shelves from floor to ceiling, row upon row. How few of them I had read, I mused. My years in school had given me so little. Should I ever be able to make up? Where should I get the time to read?

And the money to buy books? I wondered whether Most would lend me some of his, whether I dared ask him to suggest a course of reading and study. Presently another outburst grated on my ears. Here, Berkman, take it to the black devils in there! Most approached me. His deep blue eyes looked searchingly into mine. Or don't you read German and English? Then he plied me with questions where I hailed from and what I intended to do.

I said I had come from Rochester. It has good beer. But the Germans there are a bunch of Kaffern. Why New York exactly? Work poorly paid, not easily found. Have you enough money to hold out? I explained that New York had lured me because it was the center of the anarchist movement, and because I had read of him as its leading spirit. I had really come to him for suggestions and help. I wanted very much to talk to him.

You have a sense of humor," his face lit up you'll need it if you enter our movement. With several books under my arm and a warm handshake, Most sent me off. Berkman left with me. We went to Sachs's. I had had nothing to eat since the tea Anna had given us. My escort, too, was hungry, but evidently not so much as the night before: he did not call for extra steak or extra cups of coffee.

Or was he broke? I suggested that I was still rich and begged him to order more. He refused brusquely, telling me that he couldn't accept it from anyone out of a job who had just arrived in a strange city. I felt both angry and amused. I explained that I did not wish to hurt him; I believed that one always shared with a comrade. He repented his abruptness, but assured me that he was not hungry. We left the restaurant. The August heat was suffocating. Berkman suggested a trip to the Battery to cool off.

I had not seen the harbor since my arrival in America. Its beauty gripped me again as on the memorable day. But the Statue of Liberty had ceased to be an alluring symbol. We returned to our talk of the afternoon. My companion expressed doubt about my finding work as a dressmaker, having no connection in the city. I replied that I would try a factory, one for corsets, gloves, or men's suits. He promised to inquire among the Jewish comrades who were in the needle trade.

They would surely help find a job for me. It was late in the evening when we parted. Berkman had told me little about himself, except that he had been expelled from the Gymnasium for an anti-religious essay he had composed, and that he had left home for good.

He had come to the United States in the belief that it was free and that here everyone had an equal chance in life. He knew better now. He had found exploitation more severe, and since the hanging of the Chicago anarchists he had become convinced that America was as despotic as Russia. I too! It now belongs to their memory to their work. Let us be friends, too let us work together.

In New Haven Solotaroff had impressed me as an exceptionally fine speaker, but now, after having heard Most, his talk appeared flat to me, and his badly modulated voice affected me unpleasantly. His ardor, however, made up for much. I was too grateful for the warm reception he had given me on my first arrival in the city to allow myself any criticism of his lecture.

Besides, everybody could not be an orator like Johann Most, I reflected. To me he was a man apart, the most remarkable in all the world. After the meeting Berkman introduced me to a number of people, "all good active comrades," as he put it. The young chap was probably of the same age as Berkman, but not so strongly built, nor with the same aggressive manner about him. His features were rather delicate, with a sensitive mouth, while his eyes, though somewhat bulging, had a dreamy expression.

He did not seem to mind in the least the banter of his friend. He smiled good-naturedly and suggested that we retire to Sachs's, "to give Sasha a chance to tell you what a good anarchist is. My friend here " he indicated Fedya "is still too much of a bourgeois to realize that. He is a mamenkin sin mother's spoiled darling , who even accepts money from home. His only reason for tolerating his friend Fedya's inconsistency, he added, was that he gave most of what he received from home to the movement.

Wouldn't you, Fedya? For a little while my two escorts were much in demand, while I was greeted by several people I had met during the week. Finally we succeeded in capturing a table and ordered some coffee and cake. I became aware of Fedya watching me and studying my face. To hide my embarrassment I turned to Berkman. It is inconsistent for an anarchist to enjoy luxuries when the people live in poverty.

Life would be unbearable without them. Revolutionists gave up even their lives -why not also beauty? Still the young artist struck a responsive chord in me. I, too, loved beauty. The forest, the moon casting its silvery shimmer on the fields, the green wreaths in our hair, the flowers we would pick these made me forget for a time the sordid home surroundings.

When Mother scolded me or when I had difficulties at school, a bunch of lilacs from our neighbor's garden or the sight of the colorful silks and velvets displayed in the shops would cause me to forget my sorrows and make the world seem beautiful and bright. Should I have to forgo all that to be a good revolutionist, I wondered. Should I have the strength? Before we parted that evening Fedya remarked that his friend had mentioned that I would like to see something of the city.

He was free the next day and would be glad to show me some of the sights. I turned to him and asked him to come for me the next day. But alone in my room, it was the uncompromising fervor of the "arrogant youngster," as I mentally called Berkman, that filled me with admiration.

The next day Fedya took me to Central Park. Along Fifth Avenue he pointed out the various mansions, naming their owners. I had read about those wealthy men, their affluence and extravagance, while the masses lived in poverty. I expressed my indignation at the contrast between those splendid palaces and the miserable tenements of the East Side. But, then, my friend is a revolutionist above everything else.

I wish I could also be, but I am not. He did not stir me as Berkman did when speaking of revolutionary ethics; Fedya awakened in me the mysterious yearning I used to feel in my childhood at sight of the sunset turning the PopeIan meadows golden in its dying glow, as the sweet music of Petrushka's flute did also.

The following week I went to the Freiheit office. Several people were already there, busy addressing envelopes and folding the papers. Everybody talked. Johann Most was at his desk. I was assigned a place and given work. I marveled at Most's capacity to go on writing in that hubbub. Several times I wanted to suggest that he was being disturbed, but I checked myself. After all, they must know whether he minded their chatter.

In the evening Most stopped writing and gruffly assailed the talkers as "toothless old women," "cackling geese," and other appellations I had hardly ever before heard in German. He snatched his large felt hat from the rack, called to me to come along, and walked out. I followed him and we went up on the Elevated. They are giving Der Zigeunerbaron tonight. Or we can sit in some corner, get food and drink, and talk.

He selected the food and the wine. Their names were strange to me. The label on the bottle read: Liebfrauenmilch. The one is always poetic - the other will never be anything but sordidly prosaic. It leaves a bad taste. I had a feeling of guilt, as if I had made some bad break or had touched a sore spot. I told him I had never tasted any wine before, except the kind Mother made for Easter. Most shook with laughter, and I was near tears. He noticed my embarrassment and restrained himself.

Before I could drink half of mine, he had nearly finished the bottle and ordered another. He became animated, witty, sparkling. There was no trace of the bitterness, of the hatred and defiance his oratory had breathed on the platform. Instead there sat next to me a transformed human being, no longer the repulsive caricature of the Rochester press or the gruff creature of the office. He was a gracious host, an attentive and sympathetic friend.

He made me tell him about myself and he grew thoughtful when he learned the motive that had decided me to break with my old life. He warned me to reflect carefully before taking the punge. The price is exacting. Few men are ready to pay it, most women not at all. Louise Michel, Sophia Perovskaya they were the great exceptions. I had to admit ignorance. I had never heard the name of Louise Michel before, though I did know about the great Russian.

I inquired whether the anarchist movement in America had no outstanding woman. He didn't believe much in woman's revolutionary zeal. But I, coming from Russia, might be different and he would help me. If I were really in earnest, I could find much work to do. You are loved, you are idolized. One can be very lonely among thousands did you know that? I wanted to take his hand, to tell him that I would be his friend. But I dared not speak out. What could I give this man I, a factory girl, uneducated; and he, the famous Johann Most, the leader of the masses, the man of magic tongue and powerful pen?

It was almost daybreak when we left Terrace Garden. Most called a cab and we drove to the Minkin flat. At the door he lightly touched my hand. You said you were Jewish. Slowly I climbed the stairs as the cab rolled away. The next day, when Berkman called, I related to him my wonderful evening with Most.

His face darkened. He should be held to account. I myself will tell him. Is he not entitled to a little joy? Berkman persisted that I was too young in the movement, that I didn't know anything about revolutionary ethics or the meaning of revolutionary right and wrong. I admitted my ignorance, assured him I was willing to learn, to do anything, only not to have Most hurt. He walked out without bidding me good-bye. I was greatly disturbed. The charm of Most was upon me. His remarkable gifts, his eagerness for life, for friendship, moved me deeply.

And Berkman, too, appealed to me profoundly. His earnestness, his self-confidence, his youth everything about him drew me with irresistible force. But I had the feeling that, of the two, Most was more of this earth.

When Fedya came to see me, he told me that he had already heard the story from Berkman. He was not surprised, he said; he knew how uncompromising our friend was and how hard he could be, but hardest towards himself. For a whole week Berkman did not show up. When he came back again, it was to invite me for an outing in Prospect Park. He liked it better than Central Park, he said, because it was less cultivated, more natural. We walked about a great deal, admiring its rough beauty, and finally selected a lovely spot in which to eat the lunch I had brought with me.

We talked about my life in St. Petersburg and in Rochester. I told him of my marriage to Jacob Kershner and its failure. He wanted to know what books I had read on marriage and if it was their influence that had decided me to leave my husband. I had never read such works, but I had seen enough of the horrors of married life in my own home.

Father's harsh treatment of Mother, the constant wrangles and bitter scenes that ended in Mother's fainting spells. I had also seen the debasing sordidness of the life of my married aunts and uncles, as well as in the homes of acquaintances in Rochester.

Together with my own marital experiences they had convinced me that binding people for life was wrong. The constant proximity in the same house, the same room, the same bed, revolted me. My companion said he was glad to know that I felt that way. All true revolutionists had discarded marriage and were living in freedom. That served to strengthen their love and helped them in their common task.

He told me the story of Sophia Perovskaya and Zhelyabov. They had been lovers, had worked in the same group, and together they elaborated the plan for the execution of Alexander II. After the explosion of the bomb Perovskaya vanished. She was in hiding.

She had every chance to escape, and her comrades begged her to do so. But she refused. She insisted that she must take the consequences, that she would share the fate of her comrades and die together with Zhelyabov. I thought that it could not be wrong to die with one's beloved in a common act it was beautiful, it was sublime. He retorted that I was too romantic and sentimental for a revolutionist, that the task before us was hard and we must become hard.

I wondered if the boy was really so hard, or was he merely trying to mask his tenderness, which I intuitively sensed in him. I felt myself drawn to him and I longed to throw my arms around him, but I was too shy. The day ended in a glowing sunset. Joy was in my heart. All the way home I sang German and Russian songs, Veeyut, vitri, veeyut booyniy, being one of them. And will you call me Sasha?

I had begun to work in the corset factory where Helen Minkin was employed. But after a few weeks the strain became unbearable. I could hardly pull through the day; I suffered most from violent headaches. One evening I met a girl who told me of a silk waist factory that gave out work to be done at home. She would try to get me some, she promised. I knew it would be impossible to sew on a machine in the Minkin flat, it would be too disturbing for everybody. Furthermore, the girls' father had got on my nerves.

He was a disagreeable person, never working, and living on his daughters. He seemed erotically fond of Anna, fairly devouring her with his eyes. The two also provided art for the Sunday strip between and In the middle of , Win Mortimer took over the daily strip from Wayne Boring. Stan Kaye continued inking Mortimer's work until Kaye temporarily left, and Mortimer inked his own work until he left DC in to publish his David Crane strip.

Curt Swan took over the daily strip on June 18, , along with Stan Kaye. Swan continued on the strip until November 12, As for the stories in the Superman strips, Jerry Siegel originally wrote them until he was drafted in Whitney Ellsworth, who had begun on the strip in , continued until Jack Schiff began his writing on the strip in and worked on the strip off and on until Alvin Schwartz first started writing for the Superman strip in October Between and , Schwartz was the only writer on the Superman strip, and he continued on the strip until Bill Woolfolk wrote one story for the dailies in In , Bill Finger started scripting stories, and he worked through the series' end in During this final period, Jerry Siegel resumed his duties writing some stories.

Lois Lane, Girl Reporter was a newspaper comic strip and topper to the Superman comic strip, featuring Superman's supporting character Lois Lane. Lois Lane accompanied the Superman Sunday strip in the Cleveland Plain Dealer , running irregularly between October 24, , and February 27, ; a total of twelve Lois Lane topper strips were produced.

McClure Syndicate , concerned and fearing newspapers would cancel the popular Superman strip if it could not appear regularly and on time, appealed to DC to instead create a spin-off strip, Lois Lane, Girl Reporter , for McClure to use as a filler material for newspaper syndication.

In The Library of American Comics started to collect all the Superman comic strips, daily and Sundays, originally published between and in six sub set hardcover collections, see Superman: The Complete Comic Strips From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Superman Ad announcing the beginning of the Superman strip. Comics Buyer's Guide. Retrieved 10 June January 11, January 14, Jerry Siegel Joe Shuster Other writers and artists. In film. Superman franchise media. Superman Atom Man vs. It's a Bird It's a Plane It's Superman. Lego Superman. Lois Lane in other media Lex Luthor in other media Supergirl in other media.

Fawcett Publications, Inc. Superman publications and storylines. Whom Gods Destroy. The Terminator: Death to the Future. Portal : Comics. Categories : comics debuts comics endings Comic strips started in the s American comic strips Superman titles Superman in other media Public domain comics Superhero comic strips. Hidden categories: All articles with unsourced statements Articles with unsourced statements from May Namespaces Article Talk.

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If even the Hijazi is. Next you keyboard, assuming file V. It all set the Session Expression engine.

What size image should we insert? This will not affect the original upload Small Medium How do you want the image positioned around text? Float Left Float Right. Cancel Insert. Go to Link Unlink Change. Cancel Create Link. Disable this feature for this session. Rows: Columns:. Enter the URL for the tweet you want to embed. This edit will also create new pages on Comic Vine for: Beware, you are proposing to add brand new pages to the wiki along with your edits. Alfred takes him to a cave under the manor and shows Bruce the ship which brought him to Earth, revealing his alien origins.

Meanwhile, the robbers return to their employer, who kills them for their failure. Bruce creates a costume for himself as the "Batman", and begins to brutally strike back at the criminals in Gotham. Lex Luthor , a Metropolis -based industrialist who survived a life-threatening industrial accident the year before, moves his corporate headquarters to Gotham and organizes a buyout of Wayne Enterprises. To everyone's shock, Bruce arrives just as the contract is about to be signed and shuts down the deal, announcing that he will take personal control of the day-to-day running of his businesses moving forward.

Weeks later, Batman rescues Lois from a gang of assailants. Horrified at the vicious superpowered beating he delivers, she angrily rebuffs him when he tries to help her up. Lex arrives to kidnap Lois and reveals that the accident he suffered bleached his skin chalk-white, turned his lips ruby-red, and drove him insane.

He also reveals he has been using his vast fortune to attempt a total military takeover of Gotham with a huge army of heavily-armed mercenaries and armored vehicles. Batman stops the takeover and captures Lex, who seems to care little about his failed coup and the loss of life it has caused. Bruce is eventually persuaded by Lois that Gotham needs the idealistic Bruce Wayne more than the violent Batman, and he decides to give up his costumed identity, assuming a new mantle: Superman.

The comic was released as a page prestige format one-shot comic book ISBN From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Superman publications and storylines. Whom Gods Destroy. The Terminator: Death to the Future. Hidden categories: Title pop Redundant infobox title param.

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