Leon
Czolgosz, the son of Polish-Russian immigrants,
was born in Detroit, Michigan, in 1873. His parents had six other
children and in 1881 it was decided to move to a small farm near Cleveland
in 1881. Czolgosz found work in a wire mill but in 1898 he suffered
a mental breakdown and returned to the family farm.
Czolgosz rejected his family's Roman Catholic
beliefs and in 1900 became excited by the news that the Italian immigrant,
Gaetano Bresci, had returned to Italy
and assassinated King Umberto. He kept newspapers cuttings of the
assassination and started to read anarchist
newspapers.
On May 6, 1901, Czolgosz travelled to Cleveland to hear Emma
Goldman make a speech at the Federal Liberal Club. Afterwards
Czolgosz spoke briefly to Goldman. He also followed her back to Chicago
and attended other meetings where she made speeches on anarchism.
Abraham Isaak became convinced that Czolgosz was a spy and issued
a warning about him in his journal, the Free Society.
While in Chicago Czolgosz read that President
William McKinley was planning to visit
the Pan American Exposition in Buffalo. On 3rd September Czolgosz
bought a pistol and two days later was in the audience when McKinley
gave a speech at the Temple of Music. Although surrounded by fifty
bodyguards, Czolgosz was able to walk up to McKinley and fire two
shots at him. Hit in the chest and abdomen, McKinley shouted out "Be
easy with him, boys" as secret service agents beat Czolgosz with
fists and pistol butts.
William McKinley was taken to hospital
where it was discovered that the chest wound was superficial but the
other bullet had torn through the stomach wall. For the first few
days his condition improved and newspapers reported that he would
recover. However, the path of the bullet that had passed through the
wall of the stomach and his kidney, had turned gangrenous and he died
on the 14th September, 1901.
When questioned Czolgosz claimed he had been incited to kill McKinley
by the speeches of Emma Goldman. She
was arrested and imprisoned for questioning. When she was finally
released she shocked the public by stating that: "He (Czolgosz)
had committed the act for no personal reasons or gain. He did it for
what is his ideal: the good of the people. That is why my sympathies
are with him."
Leon Czolgosz was tried and found guilty of killing McKinley. Before
being executed on 20th October, 1901, Czolgosz remarked that: "I
killed the President because he was the enemy of the good people -
the good working people. I am not sorry for my crime."
Leon Czolgosz
after assassinating
William McKinley in September, 1900.
(1)
In her autobiography, Living My Life, Emma
Goldman described her two meetings with Leon Czolgosz who at the
time was using the name Nieman.
The subject of my lecture in Cleveland, early in May of that year,
was Anarchism, delivered before the Franklin Liberal Club, a radical
organization. During the intermission before the discussion I noticed
a man looking over the titles of the pamphlets and books on sale near
the platform. Presently he came over to me with the question: "Will
you suggest something for me to read?" He was working in Akron,
he explained, and he would have to leave before the close of the meeting.
He was very young, a mere youth, of medium height, well built, and
carrying himself very erect. But it was his face that held me, a most
sensitive face, with a delicate pink complexion; a handsome face,
made doubly so by his curly golden hair. Strength showed in his large
blue eyes. I made a selection of some books for him, remarking that
I hoped he would find in them what he was seeking. I returned to the
platform to open the discussion and I did not see the young man again
that evening, but his striking face remained in my memory.
The Isaaks had moved Free Society to Chicago, where they occupied
a large house which was the centre of the anarchist activities in
that city. On my arrival there, I went to their home and immediately
plunged into intense work that lasted eleven weeks. The summer heat
became so oppressive that the rest of my tour had to be postponed
until September. I was completely exhausted and badly in need of rest.
Sister Helena had repeatedly asked me to come to her for a month,
but I had not been able to spare the time before. Now was my opportunity.
I would have a few weeks with Helena, the children of my two sisters,
and Yegor, who was spending his vacation in Rochester.
On the day of our departure the Isaaks gave me a farewell luncheon.
Afterwards, while I was busy packing my things, someone rang the bell.
Mary Isaak came in to tell me that a young man, who gave his name
as Nieman, was urgently asking to see me. I knew nobody by that name
and I was in a hurry, about to leave for the station. Rather impatiently
I requested Mary to inform the caller that I had no time at the moment,
but that he could talk to me on my way to the station. As I left the
house, I saw the visitor, recognizing him as the handsome chap who
had asked me to recommend him reading matter at the Cleveland meeting.
Hanging on to the straps on the elevated train, Nieman told me that
he had belonged to a Socialist local in Cleveland, that he had found
its members dull, lacking in vision and enthusiasm. He could not bear
to be with them and he had left Cleveland and was now working in Chicago
and eager to get in touch with anarchists.
(2)
Abraham Isaak, the editor of the anarchist journal, Free Society,
issued a warning that he believed Leon Czolgosz was a spy.
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 a short time, while
in Cleveland he disappeared when the comrades had confirmed themselves
of his identity and were on the point 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.
(3)
The Wichita Daily Eagle (7th September, 1901)
It was shortly after 4 p.m. when one of the throng which surrounded
the presidential party, a medium sized man of ordinary appearance
and plainly dressed in black, approached as if to greet the president.
He worked his way amid the stream of people until he was within two
feet of the president.
President McKinley smiled, bowed and extended his hand in the spirit
of congeniality his American people so well know, when suddenly the
sharp crack of a revolver rang out loud and clear above the hum of
the voices, the shuffling of myriad feet and vibrating waves of applause.
There was an instance of almost complete silence. The president stood
stood still, a look of hesitancy, almost of bewilderment on his face.
Then he retreated a step, while a pallor began to steal over his features.
Then came a commotion. Three men threw themselves forward, as with
one impulse, and sprang toward the would-be assassin. Two of them
were United States secret service men who were on the lookout, and
whose duty it was to guard against such a calamity. The third was
a by-stander, a negro, who had only an instant previously grasped
the hand of the president. In a twinkling the assassin was borne to
the ground, his weapon was wrestled from his grasp, and strong arms
pinioned him down.
(4)
The New York Times (8th September,
1901)
All the official bulletins showed great gains and inspired those near
the President to state positively that he would recover rapidly. The
strain on the heartstrings of the Nation has been relieved.
(5)
Jane Addams, Twenty Years at Hull House
(1910)
It is impossible to overstate the public excitement of the moment
and the unfathomable sense of horror with which the community regarded
an attack upon the chief executive of the nation, as a crime against
government itself which compels an instinctive recoil from all law-abiding
citizens. Both the hatred and the determination to punish reached
the highest pitch in Chicago.
It seemed to me then that in the millions of words uttered and written
at that time, no one adequately urged that public-spirited citizens
set themselves the task of patiently discovering how these sporadic
acts of violence against government may be understood and averted.
We do not know whether they occur among the discouraged and unassimilated
immigrants who might be cared for in such a way as enormously to lessen
the probability of these acts, or whether they are the result of anarchistic
teaching.
As the details of the meager life of the President's assassin were
disclosed, they were a challenge to the forces for social betterment
in American cities. Was it not an indictment to all those whose business
it is to interpret and solace the wretched, that a boy should have
grown up in an American city so uncared for, so untouched by higher
issues, his wounds of life so unhealed by religion that the first
talk he ever heard dealing with life's wrongs, although anarchistic
and violent, should yet appear to point a way of relief?
(6)
Alice Hamilton, Exploring the Dangerous
Trades (1943)
Prince Peter Kropotkin was one of the most lovable persons I have
ever met. He was a typical revolutionist of the early Russian type,
an aristocrat who threw himself into the movement for emancipation
of the masses out of a passionate love for his fellow man, and a longing
for justice.
He stayed some time with us at Hull House, and we all came to love
him, not only we who lived under the same roof but the crowds of Russian
refugees who came to see him. No matter how down-and-out, how squalid
even, a caller would be., Prince Kropotkin would give him a joyful
welcome and kiss him on both cheeks.
It was most unfortunate that his visit to us came just a short time
before the assassination of McKinley. That event woke up the dormant
terror of anarchists which always lay close under the surface of Chicago's
thinking and feeling, ever since the Haymarket riot. It was known
that Czolgosz, the assassin, had been in Chicago at the time when
both Emma Goldman and Kropotkin were there, and a rumor started that
he had met them and the plot had been of their making - Czolgosz had
been their tool. Then the story came to involve Hull House, which
had been the scene of these secret, murderous meetings.
(7)
In her autobiography, Living My Life, Emma
Goldman described being arrested after the assassination of William
McKinley.
Some of the reporters did not seem to be losing sleep over the case.
One of them was quite amazed when I assured film that in my professional
capacity I would take care of McKinley if I were called upon to nurse
him, though my sympathies were with Czolgosz." You're a puzzle,
Emma Goldman," he said, "I can't understand you. You sympathize
with Czolgosz, yet you would nurse the man he tried to kill."
"As a reporter you aren't expected to understand human complexities,"
I informed him. "Now listen and see if you can get it. The boy
in Buffalo is a creature at bay. Millions of people are ready to spring
on him and tear him limb from limb. He committed the act for no personal
reasons or gain. He did it for what is his ideal: the good of the
people. That is why my sympathies are with him. On the other hand,"
I continued, "William McKinley, suffering and probably near death,
is merely a human being to me now. That is why I would nurse him."
"I don't get you, you're beyond me," he reiterated. The
next day there appeared these headlines in one of the papers: "EMMA
GOLDMAN WANTS TO NURSE PRESIDENT; SYMPATHIES ARE WITH SLAYER."
Buffalo failed to produce evidence to justify my extradition. Chicago
was getting weary of the game of hide-and-seek. The authorities would
not turn me over to Buffalo, yet at the same time they did not feel
like letting me go entirely free. By way of compromise I was put under
twenty-thousand-dollar bail. The Isaak group had been put under fifteen-thousand-dollar
bail. I knew that it would be almost impossible for our people to
raise a total of thirty-five thousand dollars within a few days. I
insisted on the others being bailed out first. Thereupon I was transferred
to the Cook County Jail.
The night before my transfer was Sunday. My saloon-keeper admirer
kept his word; he sent over a huge tray filled with numerous goodies:
a big turkey, with all the trimmings, including wine and flowers.
A note came with it informing me that he was willing to put up five
thousand dollars towards my bail. "A strange saloon-keeper!"
I remarked to the matron. "Not at all," she replied; "he's
the ward heeler and he hates the Republicans worse than the devil."
I invited her, my two policemen, and several other officers present
to join me in the celebration. They assured me that nothing like it
had ever before happened to them - a prisoner playing host to her
keepers. "You mean a dangerous anarchist having as guests the
guardians of law and order," I corrected. When everybody had
left, I noticed that my day watchman lingered behind. I inquired whether
he had been changed to night duty. " No," he replied, "
I just wanted to tell you that you are not the first anarchist I've
been assigned to watch. I was on duty when Parsons and his comrades
were in here."
Peculiar and inexplicable the ways of life, intricate the chain of
events! Here I was, the spiritual child of those men, imprisoned in
the city that had taken their lives, in the same jail, even under
the guardianship of the very man who had kept watch in their silent
hours. Tomorrow I should be taken to Cook County Jail, within whose
walls Parsons, Spies, Engel, and Fischer had been hanged. Strange,
indeed, the complex forces that had bound me to those martyrs through
all my socially conscious years! And now events were bringing me nearer
and nearer - perhaps to a similar end?
The newspapers had published rumours about mobs ready to attack the
Harrison Street Station and planning violence to Emma Goldman before
she could be taken to the Cook County Jail. Monday morning, flanked
by a heavily armed guard, I was led out of the station-house. There
were not a dozen people in sight, mostly curiosity seekers. As usual,
the press had deliberately tried to incite a riot.
Ahead of me were two handcuffed prisoners roughly hustled about by
the officers. When we reached the patrol wagon, surrounded by more
police, their guns ready for action, I found myself close to the two
men. Their features could not be distinguished: their heads were bound
up in bandages, leaving only their eyes free. As they stepped to the
patrol wagon, a policeman hit one of them on the head with his club,
at the same time pushing the other prisoner violently into the wagon.
They fell over each other, one of them shrieking with pain. I got
in next, then turned to the officer. "You brute," I said,
"how dare you beat that helpless fellow?" The next thing
I knew, I was sent reeling to the floor. He had landed his fist on
my jaw, knocking out a tooth and covering my face with blood. Then
he pulled me up, shoved me into the seat, and yelled: "Another
word from you, you damned anarchist, and I'll break every bone in
your body!"
Available
from Amazon Books (order below)
