Incarcerated Freedom

By Christina M. Schumacher

Never did I imagine, at the young age of seventeen when I decided to follow my lifelong dream into journalism, that I would find myself seated on a hard wooden chair, staring through the bars of a cell which harbored a convicted murderer.

My storytelling abilities had been honed to perfection, starting as soon as I was able to form words on paper, so when I saw the advertisement in the St. Paul Pioneer Press, I considered it fate. The editor, however, was not of the same mind. My age and inexperience were a definite concern to him, and I must say that it took a great deal of groveling, but I finally managed to land the assignment. I still believe to this day, although he never admitted it, that the editor gave in to my pleas only because he was a friend of my father. I think he figured that I'd lose interest and he would never see me again or, that giving me an assignment in a prison would scare me enough that I'd never come back for more. On the contrary. I ended up being a flea on his back and one of his best journalists.

I have to admit that, when I peered into the cell for the first time, the excitement I'd felt upon getting the assignment turned into immediate disappointment. Within seconds, I made an evaluation, in the inexperienced manner of a novice, that my interviewee was quite unspectacular for someone who was serving life for murder. Having never been this close to a convicted criminal before, nor even anyone who had committed a petty crime, I had imagined him, before I'd ever stepped foot into the prison, somewhere along the lines of Dracula or Frankenstein. My first observation made me doubt that there was any validity to the crime he was serving time for.

The preliminary sheet I had been given told me that the man in the cell was seventy-two years old and that he'd spent the last forty-five years of his life making the prison his home. It stated that he'd been incarcerated at the age of twenty-eight for the cold blooded murder of two men in a small town in Minnesota in the year 1879.

My father had taught me that people weren't always what they appeared to be and I knew that this man may have been a far different man at the time of the murders, but as I watched him, my eyes saw something so gentle in his manner, something so calm, that it became almost impossible for me to believe he could have harmed anyone. Only his eyes kept me harboring the belief that it could be possible. They appeared so out of character that I kept thinking they should have belonged to a different man, but there they were... dark and piercing, seeming to peer through me into the depths of my most private self... into my soul.

There was no doubt that he was in his seventies with his silver gray hair, shaggy gray eyebrows, silver mustache, and an abundance of wrinkles that had consumed his once young face, but his eyes were still bright and astute, even prideful, as he met my gaze time and time again. I am ashamed to admit that I was the one, during those first few weeks, who always broke eye contact as his unflinching gaze, which I must say again seemed to be more through me than at me, caused my skin to rise in gooseflesh and my hair to stand tall on the back of my neck. The notes I scribbled were my salvation at such times as I would quickly pretend to have discovered something of drastic importance which needed to be written immediately, but I doubt I ever really fooled him.

Visiting every day, sitting in that dark, dank smelling corridor for four or five hours at a time, I was thankful that the editor had given me this assignment with no deadline as the prisoner refused to speak to me. I began to wonder if the warden had made a mistake about the man's ability to speak English because nothing I said brought any reaction from him at all. Finally, I resorted to silence, allowing him the opportunity to get used to my presence, treating him much as I would treat a captured wild animal I wished to tame, in the hopes that his curiosity about the constant scribbling I was doing would get the better of him.

In that year of nineteen hundred and twenty-five, there were other prisoners within the section I sat, about sixteen if my memory serves me right, but they were all lifers and apparently no longer had any interest in kicking up their heels. The silence amongst them was incredibly heavy, and I had no doubt that I had made a good choice in my own silence because speaking out loud had made me feel as though I were breaking some kind of unspoken sacred vow. I was not comfortable with the feeling, nor did I like the strange looks of disapproval I received from those seasoned veterans staring out at me from behind their bars as I made my way through the long corridor each day to my chair. Once I had chosen to be quiet, they ceased to notice my comings and goings.

I don't know what kept me going day after day since I was definitely making no progress. I had made as many notes as I could about the surroundings, the prisoner's cell, his mannerisms, and even his fellow prisoners and, in desperation, had even begun to write down my own feelings. I left each day with the full intention of telling the editor that I didn't appreciate his cruel joke, but something inside me - pride maybe - kept bringing me back.

It took almost three full weeks of visiting, but the prisoner finally spoke to me. The sound of his voice was not at all what I had expected. Standing about five foot five inches I would guess and of stocky build, I expected his voice to be deep and sinister. Instead, what reached my ears was soft... almost musical with a deep resonating tone. His German accent was thick, and I struggled to understand his words, even thinking at first that he wasn't speaking English at all. Clearly, he saw my confusion, repeating himself four or five times until the dawn of understanding lit my face. The dawn of understanding was the recognition of his words, but it wasn't until several months later, after my interview with him was over, that I understood what I believe was the actual meaning of his words.