J. S. MACHAR
Spasibo. Hedrich returned, and from his pockets he produced his week's pay; cigars and cigarettes.
"Never mind hunger, as long as there's something to smoke", declared the sergeant.
The orderlies dashed in with the kneading-board. What was there? Vegetables. Invectives and curses.
The pieces of meat were fished up out of the soup, but nobody touched the vegetables. Hedrich explained about the Russian Asiatic and what a scoundrel he was.
That afternoon there was no exercise—we were to receive the provisions we had ordered. The caterer had just delivered them.
Again a gallop to the superintendent's office. The superintendent was sitting there in quiet meditation smoking a pipe. Dušek was writing, Mr. Fiedler was distributing butter, cheese, ham, salami, sardines, marmalade, wine, Krondorfer, glasses, spoons,—whatever had been ordered. We carried our "Ausspeise" back to the room in our caps and hats.
And now it was already time for the evening roll-call. The superintendent, the warder and Mr. Fiedler counted us, the door closed—the end of the day. It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. If anybody were to be taken fatally ill now, it would be no use, he would have to wait until the next morning.
Jaws were busy and smoking went on as well.
And the room rumbled beneath the steps of the squad of "scorchers". That was the new phrase.
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