THE JAIL
buckets from the cells—these were the house orderlies. From the opposite direction others were marching, always in twos, with large kneading-boards upon which stood cups of a black liquid, black coffee, breakfast. There was shouting, cursing, quarrelling, the water poured from the taps and beat against the sheet iron, acquaintances were telling each other the latest news, warders were shouting at them to hurry up—a hellish din.
At last I got to a tap; icy water beat against my head, neck and back, Dušek beside me declared that this was the greatest enjoyment of life in jail.
We returned to number 60. Papa Declich had already put our breakfast on the table. He poured condensed milk into the black liquid, cut up the bread and invited us to sit down.
Heavens, if this had been coffee and if these tin dishes had not borne visible traces of food from a whole week and perhaps a month!
The warder poked his head in at the door: "Quick, quick, time for exercise."
I should like to observe in passing that in many respects we are very much behind the great cultured German nation. For example, in jail vocabulary. A man continues his narrative, and in every sentence he sees we are completely lacking in a jail vocabulary. "Warder". That is not the "Beschliesser", Mr. Gehringer, who in peace time was a barber at Ottakring, and now keeps watch over suspicious and dangerous individuals of Czech nationality. And what a completely different sound there was about his: "Schnell, schnell, Spaziergang" to my feeble translation. The German word "Zimmer"
also has quite a different tinge to our word "room", how to translate the term "Hausmeister" (I shall refer to this worthy in due course), I really do not know, and there are several other things
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