J. S. MACHAR
"Those are beans," explained Budi, "and these beans were here on Monday in their original form, but as we sent them back because we couldn't swallow them, on Tuesday they were mixed with fish, but as the fish smelt so bad that we could swallow it still less, we sent it back again; today the fish has been taken out of them, they have been boiled, mixed with vinegar, and now we are expected to call them gruel. But it's no use. we can't get them down even in this disguise", and Budi's dish flew in a curve on to the kneading-board so that the gruel was splashed all about.
There was fresh cursing and abuse. The dishes fell and clattered as they knocked against each other on the board.
"Those are our lunches—now we will have a piece of bread and butter, and make up for it in the evening. Papa, butiro."
Papa Declich unpacked his papers.
The orderlies rushed into the room and cursed at the abundance of mess on the kneading-board.
"Now it will go floating down the sink," explained Hedrich. "How many poor people in Hernals and Ottakring could have been fed with these beans if they had been given to them before the Russian Asiatic spoilt them," and he put his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar: "Mr. Dušek."
We smoked.
"You mentioned the censorists, what are they?"
"A nice business. Only yesterday, just as you came, about 80 Jews joined us. From the censorship, into which they got by a trick. They bribed the commandant of the military censorship of letters, a Captain Moscheni—by the way, he is locked up here too—with four, five or six thousand, and they censored letters, and in certain cases gave information where they found anything compromising. Soldier’s letters, sent by field-post, passed through their
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