The Anarchist Page 5

  “Maybe I’ll shoot the president.”

  Waldeck stared at him, incredulous. “You’re always making these … these claims.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “They’re outrageous.”

  “It’d be easy—easy as shooting a rabbit. It would make history. That’s what I should do: make history.” He picked up the bills—eight dollars—and then continued to clean the second rabbit. “And this money will smell of rabbit in Buffalo.”

  “And then you’ll be back for more. The way you borrow money and never return it, maybe you should become a capitalist.”

  He watched Waldeck leave the barn, and in the distance there was sound of cow piss driving into the mud.

  Cows rarely looked up from their grazing to watch the train pass by, and Czolgosz often envied their sense of purpose. They were only concerned with eating; locomotives meant nothing to them.

  Turning from the window he saw the conductor working his way down the aisle of the Pullman car, punching tickets as he went, speaking briefly to each passenger. His box cap had a blunt shiny bill, and his dark blue uniform gave him an air of authority. Czolgosz had seen him on the train before, but he knew the conductor would never remember him, which he found comforting. As the conductor approached the two elderly women sitting several rows in front of Czolgosz, something changed in their posture; they squared their shoulders and sat up straight, as though presenting themselves for inspection. The conductor punched their tickets with his silver clipper, and as he returned the slips he said something in an Irish brogue that made both women nod their heads. When he moved down the aisle, their shoulders sagged with relief.

  Though he was a stout man in his fifties, the conductor swayed easily with the train’s sideways movement, and his feet shifted in graceful little dance steps as he maintained his balance.

  “Ticket,” he said.

  Czolgosz stared down at his hands, resting in his lap. He just wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

  “Ticket,” the conductor said impatiently.

  Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out the ticket, which the conductor snatched from his hand.

  “Chicago?” It sounded like an accusation. “Can’t talk, boyo?”

  He glanced up at the man, who had muttonchops and a mustache, black with gray, waxed at the corners. Czolgosz had worn a mustache until recently, and regretted shaving it off. Now he looked younger than twenty-eight, but what he missed was the sense of concealment those whiskers provided. Without the protection of a mustache, his mouth, his face, even his thoughts seemed more exposed.

  The conductor held the ticket as though it were a ransom. “Can’t talk English?”

  Czolgosz looked the conductor in the eyes, and the man’s thick eyebrows tilted inward as the hardness of his expression dissolved into fear, or perhaps awe. Since he was a boy, Czolgosz had known that his light blue eyes could have this power over people. As the train started around a curve, there came a screeching of metal from below the car. The conductor rocked back on his heels, though this time he lost his balance momentarily and his other hand reached out instinctively for the back of the empty bench in front of Czolgosz—and in doing so he dropped his ticket punch into Czolgosz’s lap.

  Czolgosz picked up the nickel-plated tool, studied it a moment, and then extended his arm toward the conductor; he might have been holding a gun the way the conductor leaned away.

  “I speak English,” Czolgosz said. “Better than you.”

  The conductor pulled himself upright as the train came out of the bend. He took the clipper, and as he punched the ticket there was a precise metallic click. He returned the ticket and moved down the aisle to the next passenger.

  Czolgosz laid his forehead against the cool window glass and closed his eyes, and at that moment he realized what his duty was: he was supposed to shoot the president. He had thought about this before, many times, but now there was an absolute certainty to it—as though Emma Goldman had whispered in his ear.

  AS Norris walked down Market Street, he saw Hyde standing at the head of the alley next to the Three Brothers Café, looking impatient and worried. Norris decided against going inside the café, and they walked toward the back of the clapboard building. He listened to Hyde and finally stopped him when they reached a cabbage patch. Throughout Buffalo there were such fields between buildings, where people grew vegetables.

  “What did I tell you?” Norris said.

  “I know.”

  “But you went and lost him.” Norris stared across the cabbage field; on the horizon he could see a series of tall stacks rising above Lake Erie, thick smoke angling into the blue sky. He was so disgusted he didn’t want to look at Hyde. “And where does he get the money for all this traveling?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he working?” Norris waited. “You don’t know that, either.”

  “No.”

  “Did he say he was working?”

  “No.” Quietly, like a child.

  “Then maybe someone’s giving him the money? John D. Rockefeller says he received his money from God. Who’s giving it to Leon Czolgosz?” He took out his cigar case, removed a cigar, and put the case away. He didn’t light it but just held it between his fingers, where Hyde could see it. “And according to this Russian whore, he’s an admirer of Gaetano Bresci?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said Czolgosz wouldn’t even go upstairs with a girl.”

  “He did last night.”

  “So he likes women.”

  “I said he’s often shy around them.”

  “He fuck her?”

  “I’m not sure what they did up there in her room.”

  “So what does that tell you, Hyde? Maybe they’re plotting something together.”

  “No.”

  “With Russians, you never know.”

  “I don’t know exactly what they did up there, but she’s no anarchist.”

  “Why don’t you know, exactly? You find out, that’s what you do. It’s hard work, this is, but sometimes it has its little rewards. You get her in the sack and you get her to do to you what she did with him. See? You become him. You got to become Leon Czolgosz, also known as Fred C. Nieman, which is goddamned German for ‘nobody.’”

  Hyde stood perfectly still. Norris realized this was a man who was accustomed to being chastised; he suspected it had to do with the orphanage. There was a time and place to just take it, to bend but not break. Hyde was smart enough to hold his temper.

  Norris removed his bowler hat, inspected the white satin lining, and then seated it on his head, tapping it down until it was snug. “I was starting to think he was an onanist.” He glanced at Hyde, who was clearly baffled by the word, and he made a back and-forth gesture with his fingers around the cigar. “And then I was half expecting you to report that he, you know—” Norris sucked on the end of the cigar before biting off the tip, which he spit on the ground. “So now it appears our friend enjoys sexual intercourse like any normal man.” He struck a match with his fingernail and took his time lighting the cigar. “You’re both just a couple of normal, God-fearing American men, that it?”

  “He’s left Buffalo,” Hyde said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Norris exhaled cigar smoke and asked, “You know the story of Daniel, the prophet?” He was looking down at the packed dirt and he watched Hyde’s shadow shake its head. “Well, I’ll tell you, Daniel was at a feast in Belshazzar’s court when some writing mysteriously appeared on the walls. No one could read this writing except Daniel, who said it predicted Belshazzar’s death, followed by the division of his kingdom. That’s why we still say ‘read the writing on the wall.’” Norris took his billfold from his coat, counted out five one-dollar bills. “You should study your Bible.” He handed the money to Hyde and said, “You find him. Or you don’t get another penny from me.”

  IN Chicago, Czolgosz spent an entire afternoon pacing the sidewalk in front of Abraham I
saak’s house on Carroll Street. Isaak’s wife, Mary, a heavyset woman who wore a cardigan despite the heat, frequently peeked out from behind the curtains. Finally, Abraham Isaak came outside in his shirtsleeves.

  “I know who you are,” he said. There was a bit of scrambled egg in his full beard.

  “I wish to see Emma Goldman.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Isaak said, looking up and down the street.

  “I only want to talk to her.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “No one.”

  “She’s not here. She’s not in Chicago.”

  “Where is she?” Czolgosz pleaded. “You remember me, don’t you? I came here in July. She was preparing to go to the train station with your daughter. I helped you with the luggage. They were going to Rochester, to visit Emma’s family, and then they were going to visit the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo. She hasn’t returned?”

  “I know what you’re up to,” Isaak said. “They send men to watch us all the time, but they don’t have the nerve to stand right here in front of our house!”

  “I only wish to speak to her—”

  Isaak started up the stairs to his front door, saying over his shoulder, “You keep away from her. You keep away from us!”

  Czolgosz returned to his boardinghouse and spent much of the next few days in bed because his catarrh was particularly bad. He had clogged sinuses, a sore throat, sneezing fits, a hacking cough, headaches, and dizziness. Though he tried various remedies, nothing worked. He was convinced he would die young, which caused him to worry about his place in history.

  At night, when a cool breeze came in off Lake Michigan, he felt a little better and he walked the city streets. He brought English and Polish newspapers back to his room and read everything in them. There was little truth or comfort in the opinions expressed in their pages, though he was particularly drawn to advertisements for elixirs, nostrums, and other health aids: Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound; Syrup of Figs Laxative; Dr. McLaughlin’s Electric Belt, which “stops the drain upon a young man’s vitality.” But it was next to a Sozodent Tooth Powder advertisement (“Good for Bad Teeth. Not Bad for Good Teeth.”) that he read that the president’s visit to the Pan-American Exposition had been rescheduled for the first week of September. The original plan had been that McKinley would pay a visit to Buffalo on his return from his tour of the western states in the spring, but Mrs. McKinley had taken ill. In El Paso the president’s physician, Dr. Presley Rixey, lanced a bone felon on her finger, but when the entourage reached California the first lady collapsed. The president’s train sped north to San Francisco, where the first lady could rest. Her condition grew worse and the press reported that arrangements had been made for a funeral train. The president’s entire schedule had been canceled. But the first lady, as she had done before, rallied, and her health stabilized. They returned to their home in Canton, Ohio, where they spent the summer while she recuperated. Czolgosz wasn’t sure what a bone felon was, but he realized that the first lady’s illness had given him an opportunity.

  On the last night of August he returned to Buffalo. Previously he had boarded at the Kasmareks’ house out in West Seneca, but now he wanted to stay in the city, near the exposition. He entered Nowak’s Hotel on Broadway and asked for lodging. He was wearing the gray flannel suit he had bought in Chicago, and a black shoestring tie. He carried his valise and brown fedora with a yellow band. John Nowak studied his face, and for a moment it seemed he was going to refuse to rent him a room.

  But then Nowak said, “Weekly rate is two dollars, in advance.”

  “Sounds fair,” Czolgosz said.

  Opening the register book, Nowak asked, “Name?”

  “John Doe.”

  Nowak raised his head but he couldn’t meet Czolgosz’s stare, and his eyes drifted toward his assistant. “Frank, you see any women with this fellow?” He smiled, to cover his unease. “I suppose if there was a little woman in that valise, you’d tell me your name was Smith.” He laughed.

  Czolgosz was tempted to tell him he had a single-shot pistol in his valise. Instead, he put two dollars on the counter. “I promise you, no woman in here.”

  Nowak picked up the bills. “You can pay, you can stay. You make trouble, you go. No refund.”

  Frank led Czolgosz up the stairs, and when they reached the second-floor hall, he said over his shoulder, “John Doe?”

  “Well, I’m a Polish Jew and if I told him that do you think he’d let me stay?”

  “Doubt it.” Frank unlocked the door to room number eight. “Besides, I don’t believe you’re Jewish. What’s your real name?”

  Czolgosz entered the room, which had a single bed, a straight-back chair, and a bureau with a water pitcher and a basin. The furniture was old but the bedspread looked clean. “Nieman,” he said. “Fred C. Nieman.”

  Frank had a hollow right cheek and it appeared that he was missing some teeth back on that side. He placed the room key on the bureau and turned to leave.

  “You want to know the real reason I gave a false name?” Czolgosz asked. “My mother’s maiden name was Nowak. If I got into my family tree with your boss, I’d never get up here, and I really just want to rest. This heat, you know.”

  Frank appeared skeptical, rubbing his jaw with his hand, but then he seemed to come to a decision. “Well, there must be a lot of them’s come over, ’cause you see the name Nowak a lot.”

  “Swear it’s the truth,” Czolgosz said. “If there’s one thing a man can’t lie about, it’s his mother’s name.”

  The next day, the first of September, he read the announcement in the new issue of Free Society.

  Attention!

  The attention of the comrades is called to another spy. He is well dressed, of medium height, rather narrow shouldered, blond, and about 25 years of age. Up to the present he has made his appearance in Chicago and Cleveland. In the former place he remained but a short time, while in Cleveland he disappeared when the comrades had confirmed themselves of his identity and were on the point of exposing him. His demeanor is of the usual sort, pretending to be greatly interested in the cause, asking for names, or soliciting aid for acts of contemplated violence. If this individual makes his appearance elsewhere, the comrades are warned in advance and can act accordingly.

  He wasn’t surprised. This was Abraham Isaak’s doing. It was just like what happened to Gaetano Bresci—none of his comrades in Paterson believed he was capable of killing the king of Italy until he had accomplished the deed.

  Czolgosz could do nothing but go about his business. He arose early and was downstairs by seven. He never took meals at the hotel—the portions were small, the meat greasy. He would buy cigars from Nowak before setting out for the day. When he returned in the evening, with a bundle of newspapers tucked beneath his arm, he usually went straight up to his room. Occasionally he paused briefly in the saloon for a whiskey, always top-shelf. Several times he visited the Pan-American Exposition grounds. The streetcar was a dime; admission fifty cents.

  In his valise he carried a single-shot pistol, which he knew would not be sufficient. One morning he went into the Walbridge Company Hardware Store on Main Street and bought a small, nickel-plated .32-caliber Iver Johnson five-shot revolver for four dollars and fifty cents. Manufactured in Fitchburg, Massachusetts, it was identical to the pistol Gaetano Bresci had used to kill the king of Italy.

  September 3, the night before the president was to arrive in Buffalo, Czolgosz went by himself to Big Maud’s.

  When he told the madam that he wanted Motka for the entire night, she said, “Splendid choice, darling, but it will require twenty-five dollars.”

  To her surprise, he produced a roll of bills and peeled off three tens.

  “You can have drinks on the house at the bar,” the madam said. “Motka should be able to receive you soon.”

  “Who is she with now
? Hyde?”

  “You understand that we respect a gentleman’s privacy in this house,” she said. “Of course.”

  He spent about half an hour at the bar. During that time several men came downstairs, but none of them was Hyde.

  When he went up to Motka’s room, she was wearing a black silk bathrobe with red flowers. She was lighting her candles, a ritual she must perform for each man who came up to the third floor. “I am most pleased to see you again,” she said.

  “One day you won’t have to use candles,” he said. “Everywhere you will turn a switch and the room will be lit.”

  “Electric lights will never come to houses like this.” She waved out the matchstick. “Maybe in—what was it?—the year 2000?” He tugged the book from the pocket of his suit coat and gave it to her. “You brought it!” she said. She took his hand and they sat on the bed. She studied the cover and read slowly, “Looking Backward.”

  “I brought it so you could practice.”

  She raised her head, her blue eyes concerned, even fearful. “This is really about life in the year 2000?”

  “Yes.”

  Motka got up off the bed, went to the bureau, and opened the top drawer. She turned around, a silver flask in her hand, and then came back to the bed and stood in front of him. “Let’s drink to the year 2000.”

  He was about to begin reading, but she took the book and put it on the nightstand. She stood close to him as she untied her robe and let it slide down her arms. The material dropped to her hips, where it bunched momentarily before falling to the floor. She was wearing a silk slip with a tiny flattened pink ribbon stitched to the border between her breasts. Her nipples, pushing against the sheer fabric, were enormous. She knelt on the bed, straddling his thighs, and whispered in English, “This cannot be the same with electric lights.”