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"Yes", she whispered, her large form towering above Frankl's, yet awe of him widening her eyes. "What's your name?" said he. "My name is Rachel Oppenheimer", said she. "All right: come up and dress". She followed him up to a back room, where was a lamp, a glass, etc., and on an old settee evening-dress complete, shoes, roses, head- wrap.
A year ago, as everybody who reads the newspapers knows, they hanged Jake Oppenheimer, right here in Folsom, for a precisely similar offence . . . only, in his case of battery, he was not guilty of making a guard's nose bleed. He cut a convict unintentionally with a bread-knife. It is strange life and men's ways and laws and tangled paths.
I had to wait six months after that before I could write my first letter, but when I did I asked mother about it. And she said yes, it had changed." "Did you read that grocery sign?" Jake Oppenheimer asked. "Sure thing I did," was Morrell's response. "Or how could I have known it?" "All right," rapped Oppenheimer the unbelieving. "You can prove it easy.
I was never able to do it but that once, and that one time was wholly unplanned and unexpected. It was merely after unconsciousness had come to me that I found myself in his cell. My body, I knew, lay in the jacket back in my own cell. Although never before had I seen him, I knew that this man was Jake Oppenheimer. It was summer weather, and he lay without clothes on top his blanket.
We had given two rounds of cheer, one for the Union and one for Oppenheimer, which were a total loss, so it was agreed that if Oppenheimer would give three cheers for the Union and three for us we would pay him for the beer, if he would agree to set 'em up for us, at his own expense.
Lowiewski seemed barely able to keep his impatience within the bounds of politeness. "Of course, it's out of my line, but the mathematics seems sound." He started to move away. "You're not going anywhere," MacLeod told him. "The chess game is over. The red pawns are taken the one at Oppenheimer Village, and the one here."
It was a great day, for the two lifers had become three, although they accepted me only on probation. As they told me long after, they feared I might be a 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.
The Warden with a quart of champagne. I have dispatched it down Murderers Row. Queer, isn't it, that I am so considered this last day. It must be that these men who are to kill me are themselves afraid of death. To quote Jake Oppenheimer: I, who am about to die, must seem to them something God-awful. . . . Ed Morrell has just sent word in to me.
"Just for that you get an extra cinching," he informed me. "I made you a sporting proposition, Warden," I said quietly. "You can cinch me as tight as you please, but if I smile ten days from now will you give the Bull Durham to Morrell and Oppenheimer?" "You are mighty sure of yourself," he retorted. "That's why I made the proposition," I replied. "Getting religion, eh?" he sneered.
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.
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