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stool placed there to work a frame…up on them。 It had been done
before； to Oppenheimer； and he had paid dearly for the confidence he
reposed in Warden Atherton's tool。
To my surpriseyes； to my elation be it saidboth my fellow…
prisoners knew me through my record as an incorrigible。 Even into
the living grave Oppenheimer had occupied for ten years had my fame；
or notoriety； rather； penetrated。
I had much to tell them of prison happenings and of the outside
world。 The conspiracy to escape of the forty lifers； the search for
the alleged dynamite； and all the treacherous frame…up of Cecil
Winwood was news to them。 As they told me； news did occasionally
dribble into solitary by way of the guards； but they had had nothing
for a couple of months。 The present guards on duty in solitary were
a particularly bad and vindictive set。
Again and again that day we were cursed for our knuckle talking by
whatever guard was on。 But we could not refrain。 The two of the
living dead had become three； and we had so much to say； while the
manner of saying it was exasperatingly slow and I was not so
proficient as they at the knuckle game。
〃Wait till Pie…Face comes on to…night；〃 Morrell rapped to me。 〃He
sleeps most of his watch； and we can talk a streak。〃
How we did talk that night！ Sleep was farthest from our eyes。 Pie…
Face Jones was a mean and bitter man； despite his fatness； but we
blessed that fatness because it persuaded to stolen snatches of
slumber。 Nevertheless our incessant tapping bothered his sleep and
irritated him so that he reprimanded us repeatedly。 And by the
other night guards we were roundly cursed。 In the morning all
reported much tapping during the night； and we paid for our little
holiday； for； at nine； came Captain Jamie with several guards to
lace us into the torment of the jacket。 Until nine the following
morning； for twenty…four straight hours； laced and helpless on the
floor； without food or water； we paid the price for speech。
Oh； our guards were brutes！ And under their treatment we had to
harden to brutes in order to live。 Hard work makes calloused hands。
Hard guards make hard prisoners。 We continued to talk； and； on
occasion； to be jacketed for punishment。 Night was the best time；
and； when substitute guards chanced to be on； we often talked
through a whole shift。
Night and day were one with us who lived in the dark。 We could
sleep any time； we could knuckle…talk only on occasion。 We told one
another much of the history of our lives； and for long hours Morrell
and I have lain silently； while steadily； with faint； far taps；
Oppenheimer slowly spelled out his life…story； from the early years
in a San Francisco slum； through his gang…training； through his
initiation into all that was vicious； when as a lad of fourteen he
served as night messenger in the red light district； through his
first detected infraction of the laws； and on and on through thefts
and robberies to the treachery of a comrade and to red slayings
inside prison walls。
They called Jake Oppenheimer the 〃Human Tiger。〃 Some cub reporter
coined the phrase that will long outlive the man to whom it was
applied。 And yet I ever found in Jake Oppenheimer all the cardinal
traits of right humanness。 He was faithful and loyal。 I know of
the times he has taken punishment in preference to informing on a
comrade。 He was brave。 He was patient。 He was capable of self…
sacrificeI could tell a story of this； but shall not take the
time。 And justice； with him； was a passion。 The prison…killings
done by him were due entirely to this extreme sense of justice。 And
he had a splendid mind。 A life…time in prison； ten years of it in
solitary； had not dimmed his brain。
Morrell； ever a true comrade； too had a splendid brain。 In fact；
and I who am about to die have the right to say it without incurring
the charge of immodesty； the three best minds in San Quentin from
the Warden down were the three that rotted there together in
solitary。 And here at the end of my days； reviewing all that I have
known of life； I am compelled to the conclusion that strong minds
are never docile。 The stupid men； the fearful men； the men ungifted
with passionate rightness and fearless championshipthese are the
men who make model prisoners。 I thank all gods that Jake
Oppenheimer； Ed Morrell； and I were not model prisoners。
CHAPTER VI
There is more than the germ of truth in things erroneous in the
child's definition of memory as the thing one forgets with。 To be
able to forget means sanity。 Incessantly to remember； means
obsession； lunacy。 So the problem I faced in solitary； where
incessant remembering strove for possession of me； was the problem
of forgetting。 When I gamed with flies； or played chess with
myself； or talked with my knuckles； I partially forgot。 What I
desired was entirely to forget。
There were the boyhood memories of other times and placesthe
〃trailing clouds of glory〃 of Wordsworth。 If a boy had had these
memories； were they irretrievably lost when he had grown to manhood？
Could this particular content of his boy brain be utterly
eliminated？ Or were these memories of other times and places still
residual； asleep； immured in solitary in brain cells similarly to
the way I was immured in a cell in San Quentin？
Solitary life…prisoners have been known to resurrect and look upon
the sun again。 Then why could not these other…world memories of the
boy resurrect？
But how？ In my judgment； by attainment of complete forgetfulness of
present and of manhood past。
And again； how？ Hypnotism should do it。 If by hypnotism the
conscious mind were put to sleep； and the subconscious mind
awakened； then was the thing accomplished； then would all the
dungeon doors of the brain be thrown wide； then would the prisoners
emerge into the sunshine。
So I reasonedwith what result you shall learn。 But first I must
tell how； as a boy； I had had these other…world memories。 I had
glowed in the clouds of glory I trailed from lives aforetime。 Like
any boy； I had been haunted by the other beings I had been at other
times。 This had been during my process of becoming； ere the flux of
all that I had ever been had hardened in the mould of the one
personality that was to be known by men for a few years as Darrell
Standing。
Let me narrate just one incident。 It was up in Minnesota on the old
farm。 I was nearly six years old。 A missionary to China； returned
to the United States and sent out by the Board of Missions to raise
funds from the farmers； spent the night in our house。 It was in the
kitchen just after supper； as my mother was helping me undress for
bed； and the missionary was showing photographs of the Holy Land。
And what I am about to tell you I should long since have forgotten
had I not heard my father recite it to wondering listeners so many
times during my childhood。
I cried out at sight of one of the photographs and looked at it；
first with eagerness； and then with disappointment。 It had seemed
of a sudden most familiar； in much the same way that my father's
barn would have been in a photograph。 Then it had seemed altogether
strange。 But as I continued to look the haunting sense of
familiarity came back。
〃The Tower of David；〃 the missionary said to my mother。
〃No！〃 I cried with great positiveness。
〃You mean that isn't its name？〃 the missionary asked。
I nodded。
〃Then what is its name； my boy？〃
〃It's name is 。 。 。〃 I began； then concluded lamely； 〃I； forget。〃
〃It don't look the same now；〃 I went on after a pause。 〃They've ben
fixin' it up awful。〃
Here the missionary handed to my mother another photograph he had
sought out。
〃I was there myself six months ago； Mrs。 Standing。〃 He pointed with
his finger。 〃That is the Jaffa Gate where I walked in and right up
to the Tower of David in the back of the picture where my finger is
now。 The authorities are pretty well agreed on such matters。 El
Kul'ah； as it was known by〃
But here I broke in again； pointing to rubbish piles of ruined
masonry on the left edge of the photograph
〃Over there somewhere；〃 I said。 〃That name you just spoke was what
the Jews called it。 But we called it something else。 We called it
。 。 。 I forget。〃
〃Listen to the youngster；〃 my father chuckled。 〃You'd think he'd
ben there。〃
I nodded my head； for in that moment I knew I had been there； though
all seemed strangely different。 My father laughed the harder； but
the missionary thought I was making game of him。 He handed me
another photograph。 It was just a bleak waste of a landscape；
barren of trees and vegetation； a shallow canyon with easy…sloping
walls of rubble。 In the middle distance was a cluster of wretched；
flat…roofed hovels。
〃Now； my boy； where is that？〃 the missionary q