THE JAIL
"He is right", observed Mr. Fels to Goldenstein, and breathed with relief.
Goldenstein, it seemed, was a sceptic, or else he wanted more of this consolation: "Yes, but for several days now we have heard nothing about our wives, our children—"
"My boy is in the third form at school; here in Vienna we have a private Polish school" declared Mr. Fels.
"You are from Galicia, aren't you? Well now, imagine this again: You are returning home from somewhere by train. Suddenly the train stops,—what's the matter? The bridge in front of you has collapsed into a flooded river. You must return to the nearest station. Does not our room remind you of a dirty provincial waiting-room? Such a waiting-room in that station is now your abode. You are living there and waiting until the bridge has been repaired. When will that be? Nobody knows,—a month, two months, perhaps half a year,—you must wait, since there is no other way."
"He is right", nodded Mr. Fels again.
Mr. Goldenstein was silent.
I went on talking. I explained to them everything that came into my mind, and what might have come into theirs. How everything is relative in this life, how the attitude of society towards jail is changing, the very word "jail" today has not the same meaning among decent people as before the war. (die Masse macht es, that is due to the quantity of people whom military justice has thrust into the jail), how we shall depart, richer by unique memories, how we shall only begin to love freedom afterwards,—and perhaps it was not the reasons formulated in this manner, but my inner conviction which insinuated itself upon them involuntarily,—I gave these people a fragment of my fatalistic calm and mental equilibrium,—they thanked me and shook my hand, and Mr. Fels said with
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