IX.
"Military justice,—that is a polypus with a multitude of arms and tentacles, and once it has seized anyone, he never escapes its clutches again. Even if you wriggled away from one tentacle, two others will grip you close, and three more will be brandished above your head. It has strength, but scarcely anything else. Together with Rašín and Kramář, the unfortunate Zamazal happened to slip into its grasp—good, it squeezed Zamazal with them. But here there can certainly be no question of a malicious joke,—anything but a joke" remarked Dušek.
We sat on the bed. Number 60 was pervaded by the mood of an ending day. lts occupants were smoking. A sergeant of the Uhlans was whistling a sentimental Viennese street song. On everything the melancholy of evening had settled. The highest windows of the building opposite were gleamingredly, the light of day was fading into dusk.
"We will have supper. Let me introduce you to our domestic arrangements. Here we have a small communist settlement, whose guest you are until you become a member. And you will become a member next Saturday as soon as you can contribute towards the supplies" explained Dušek.
I did not quite understand, but I assented. I entrusted myself entirely to my experienced friend, for even when I was at liberty, I had no very strong instinct for these various necessities of life.
Dušek made a sign to a man, the man came up, and looked at him questioningly. Dušek nodded, then he introduced us. The man's name was Declich. He gave me his hand without saying a word, went away again and searched for something under the other bed, by the window and in his box.
"An Istrian peasant, a Slav name, but he is an Italian. At the beginning of the war with Italy he was interned; then they searched his house, discovered pictures of Dante, Manzoni and Cavalloti, and our dear Papa Declich (we all call him papa,—he is our house-keeper) arrived here. Whether they have anything else against him, I do not know. Every man in this building has a corner in his soul which he allows nobody to see—all except the thieves, murderers, sharpers, robbers—they'll tell you everything, in fact more than everything, to make themselves interesting in your eyes."
In the meanwhile Papa Declich had put a bottle of wine on the table, a small dish of butter, and from an old newspaper he unwrapped some salami sausage, ham, cheese; salt he had in a match-box; then be searched for glasses, cut up the bread—the feast was ready.
"Budi, Hedrich, Voronin" called out Dušek to our fellow-diners.
A tall, good-looking infantry volunteer came up briskly and was already sitting at the table. Budi, a handsome fellow, a Dalmatian Serb,—"they have kept him here for weeks, and heaven knows what they want to pump out of him.""About secret societies, communications with the kingdom of Serbia,—about everything that a man knows nothing whatever about" said Budi smiling. He knew my name and had read some of my work in translations.
Hedrich was bashful. He was a little infantry-man; he had thin legs, a small body, a large head, a cap thrust upon a thick shock of hair, and a cigar with a long holder in his mouth. He held it between his teeth in such a way that it stuck up in the air; and he had kindly blue eyes and honesty in his face.
Papa Declich also had blue eyes, but they were not so wide open; they were shrewd, sharp eyes which could both speak and keep silence, laugh sincerely and hurl lightning, see everything and nothing, understand and fail to understand.
Voronin did not want to sit down. He was shy. The best thing was to let him have his way. Papa Declich gave him a share of everything, Voronin thanked him with his "Spasibo", sat down in a corner on a straw mattress and ate. He was a Russian, was supposed to have been a doctor somewhere near Moscow; in some way or other he had reached our lines, and was imprisoned on suspicion of espionage. What there was in him nobody knew. He did not speak about himself, did not answer a direct question, and performed the coarsest labour in number 60. When he had arrived, he was hungry, and possessed only what he had on him. A collection was made to provide him with a shirt; he was given a good pair of trousers. Voronin took what he was given, thanked them for it, but not even by these acts of kindness could they extract a trustful word from him. And his name was not Voronin, he had received this name from the office by mistake, he had kept it, answered to it and had not corrected it in any way. Somebody discovered that he had not the slightest notion of medicine.Budi was talking Italian with Declich—the Italian of Istria which sounded entirely strange to me. Hedrich was from Zwittau; he had been a barber in Vienna and did not understand Czech. He gave me an account of his history. He had been an officer's servant and had reached Belgrade with his master. There his master had taken a few carpets as souvenirs. Hedrich a few spoons—not silver ones, just ordinary spoons. His master had been remanded, Hedrich was in jail. But he was satisfied there, and did not long for freedom. He did shaving and hair-cutting for the superintendents, the warders and the prisoners; he was comfortable, wanted nothing—except that things should remain as they were.
Supper was over. Papa Declich cleared away and removed all the remains. Hedrich distributed cigars. They were his fees for shaving.
Again I had the impression of a waiting-room at a provincial railway station. People passed to and fro, smoked, talked, whistled, but still the train did not come.
"The days are long here, each one like an ocean. And dull, infinitely dull. On the other hand, you will see how short the weeks and months are" explained Dušek. Papa Declich remarked—this was his only German sentence—that the first two years here were the worst and then life became easier—well, there was something in that. "Yes, if a man gets used to it" continued Dušek. "I feel now as if I had never been free and as if I never shall be so again. I came here from jail at Prague—ah, it was different there; visits, sufficient food, and I was at home. Here before I got into the way of everything… In those awful days this Istrian peasant became my friend. It was difficult to carry on a conversation, but we understood each other. In winter—the winter here is dreadful, darkness the whole day, frost, a regular frost—we sat wrapped up in blankets, and talked. He told his story, I told mine; and it was a comfort to each of us that somebody was listening to him."
Suddenly light poured into the room. The electric lamp on the ceiling burst into a glow and illuminated the waiting-room. Voronin fetched something that had once been a broom and swept up. The straw mattresses were brought out and laid on the floor.
I came into conflict with Dušek, he offered me his bed. I lost, I could not help losing. Hedrich jumped up and made the bed. He turned the straw mattress, spread the blanket over, and put Dušek's cushion on the hard pillow.
"Will the lamp be kept burning?" I asked.
"Of course, so that our guard can keep watch on us. At 9 o'clock a bell will ring, and everybody has to go to bed. Of course, only those sleep who want to. We talk, smoke, play cards,—and then sleep in the day-time. Obstinacy is ingrained in the human character. The lamp reminds me. Recently two Englishmen were being taken through Vienna. They had captured them at Salonica and were taking them to Berlin. For the night they had them put here in the military jail. In the evening the lamp began to burn. The officers had undressed and they tried to put it out. It was no use. The elder Englishman, a staff officer, began to bang at the door. The guard asked what he wanted. Bring the superintendent here, ordered the Englishman. At last the warder arrived. This light must be put out, we are used to sleeping in the dark. The warder shrugged his shoulders and said that the lamp must burn. And he went away. The Englishman took a boot, flung it at the ceiling, the lamp was smashed and went out. After a while, an uproar, the warder, the superintendent,—but the Englishman yelled out that he had nothing more to say to them. In the morning the commandant of the jail arrived, the Englishman explained to him briefly and emphatically that he had wanted the light put out, that the warder had refused, and so he had put it out himself."
The piercing sound of a bell echoed through the jail.
"9 o'clock. That is how they will wake us up tomorrow at five."
I got into bed. White shapes slipped under the blankets. Talking went on in a whisper. And smoking continued as well.
By my bed there was some sort of ventilation. An oblong opening on to the passage, covered with perforated sheet-iron. I turned in such a way that I could breathe the air that poured in.
And I began to arrange the day's impressions—it had been a very exciting day—and I weighed up my first impressions of the jail. Everything was quite different from what I had supposed.