XVI.
I was doing the third kilometre with Messrs Fels and Goldstein.
A few people were looking at us, a few were watching the game of wolves and sheep at the other table, the sergeant had got Mr. Karl to whistle a tune from the Csardasfürstin and was endeavouring to whistle it after him. Papa Declich was standing on the pile of mattresses, cleaning his cap and taking a sly peep into the big yard where the imprisoned officers were exercising. Now and then Warder Sponner burst into the room, yelled out somebody's name, which meant that the man had a visitor; he would be led into the hall, where in the presence of the superintendent he would be allowed to converse for a few minutes about harmless topics. Everybody was smoking, and all the signs of a holiday mood were displayed in the cell and among the people.
Mr. Fiedler came in: "Is anybody going to attend mass in the chapel?"
Nobody came forward.
"Heathen", was his abusive comment, and he turned to me: "Wouldn't you like to have a look at it?"
"Thanks, but I am of no denomination."
"That doesn't matter. Jews are the only ones we don't let in there, that would be a bit too much. But haven't you some acquaintance with whom you would like to talk?" and Mr. Fiedler smiled mysteriously.
"I understand, but I have none. I alone was reponsible for my verses. But how's your head,—does it ache?"
"Ach, Mr. M. as if somebody had been pounding it for me. Man is below the animals, far below the animals. An animal does not get in such a state. But this much I will say: If I have a boy, and that boy takes to drink, I'll kill him, I will, if l am the least bit fond of him" and he turned to the door.
"Mr. Fiedler, Mr. Fiedler" called several voices.
Mr. Fiedler waved his hands around his head, as if he were driving away a swarm of troublesome bees, and he was already outside. Warder Sponner shouted: "Those who have put their names down for writing letters today,—follow me. Wait,—no censorists. Other arrangements will be made for them."
Mr. Sponner led us through the corridor and explained to me: "A man has to shout, yes, shout,—but don't suppose that it causes me any amusement. A quiet word produces no effect. Nobody has an idea of what a gang these Polish Jews are. You'd need lungs like a blacksmith's bellows." (It occurred to me that there were no Polish Jews in our cell, but Mr. Sponner shouted there all the same; if one day I should write about this jail, I will print his explanation,—besides, that was the only reason he gave it me).
We entered the isolation room for those with infectious diseases. A few beds were prepared there, even a washing basin was ready; now two tables had been thrust in and pushed up against the beds on one side, and on the other they had put some forms. There was ink on the tables, they lent us pens and distributed paper, envelopes and post-cards, according to the number of applications. It was then possible to write. Forty or fifty people crowded round the tables, others were waiting until a place and a pen were available, and a defence-corps man with a bayonet stood at the door. When a man had finished writing, he waited till the warder came, handed over what he had written and then he could return to the cell. He was not allowed to fasten down the envelope, the letter would be handed over to the examining superintendent who would read it through, would cross out any compromising words or sentences beyond recognition, and, if it was God's will, would send it on. If a man wrote in his native language, the superintendent had the letter read,—and in certain cases also translated,—by a reliable interpreter, a process which always took several days. Interpreters were few and they were burdened with work of a much more important character,—the translation of confiscated letters, documents, pamphlets, books and, in my case, of verses as well.
It was like the inside of a hive,—one knocked against the other, all possible and impossible things were being asked for, pens were scraping, men were abusing them and everything, the stench was overwhelming. I had made up my mind to write as little as possible to those who were dear to me. but I wrote still less,—I am well, I am thinking of you, don't expect me, it certainly isn't pleasant here, enough.
And I was already back again in our cell and discovered that it was possible to heave a sigh of content even in jail.
Mr. Fels was sitting at our table with Mr. Goldenstein and they both had their heads propped up in their hands. A batch was just doing its turn of marching until the floor rattled. I sat down on the bed opposite the two brooders, and indulged in memories and thoughts,—nothing great,—only of the scratchy pen today. You see, forty and more years ago something of the same kind had irritated me. It was when I was beginning to learn to write. It was at Brandeis,—I was a poor schoolboy who did not venture to ask his poor parents for a farthing. Once by chance I discovered a store of pens,—there were always several of them lying beneath a window of the Archduke's castle at Brandeis. The revenue office was up there and the clerks used to throw them away when they were no longer fit for use. And I collected them and wrote with them in school and wrote my exercises at home with them. I wrote cumbersomely; the figures involuntarily acquired small pairs of slippers, the letters little black paunches. The teacher grumbled at me and threatened and finally also punished me,—it was no use, I could not help it. And I could not help it even when he sternly commanded me to buy new pens. Today a scratchy pen had returned into my life, and would come again a week later, a fortnight later, a year later, two years later,—now that I have learnt to write and have been put here for writing in a certain way. Fate has a confounded instinct for making circles in human life, and closes them exactly where they were begun."Do you know, Mr. M., that I did not sleep all night?" said Mr. Fels suddenly in despair.
"Not even after all that walking?"
"That doesn't lie in the body, that lies in the soul,—just ask Goldenstein here."
Goldenstein gazed mournfully into vacancy and nodded: "Neither of us slept. Nor did Fröhlich. We lay thinking, and when our thoughts led to nothing, we looked at the lamp."
"And what are your troubles? What is it that worries you?"
"Business, business", sighed Mr. Goldenstein.
"They dragged us away and locked us up,—a man can't speak, he's not allowed to write, the officials are helpless and indifferent,—God knows what is happening", explained Mr. Fels.
"Very well. Business. Imagine that you had just read the letters in your office, let us say,—suddenly you fall from your chair, the doctor is called, examines you and diagnoses inflammation of the intestine,—an operation is most urgently necessary. You are taken to a sanatorium, and after a few hours you're on the operating table. You are cut open, the inflammation was acute, you rest in a small room, the nurse is sitting with you, you are only half alive, without interest for anything in the world, you cannot think or speak, but you feel only one thing: I am on the threshold of death, life may be closed to me at any moment. Business,—what do you care about business? Correspondence,—what folly. To live, above all and solely to live. You are here in jail, it is true, but how much better than in hospital. And, as is customary in Austria, everything has been forbidden you, but after a few days you will be allowed to write, visitors will arrive, and finally you will manage your affairs from here, just as well as from a sanatorium.""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 emotion that he would certainly otherwise have done "something rash".
And Mr. Goldenstein declared that he would sleep well that night.
After 11 o'clock the orderlies brought the midday meal. Papa Declich fished the meat out of the soup, but he only pecked at the vegetables and with a smile put the dish back on the kneading board. There was no cursing today, but merely the announcement that "it isn't fit for food"—yesterday's supplies from the caterer were not as yet used up.
Sunday was a day when prisoners were allowed to have supplies of washing and clothing brought them,—the clothing had to be disinfected, and a written declaration given as to the completed disinfection, and the declaration had to make it clear that they had been disinfected within the course of the last twenty-four hours.
They were given out to us immediately after the meal. Josefínka had brought me a cushion, a blanket, Odol and washing. My shirt was already as black as the floor and, being a modest man, I felt exceptional happiness at being able to put on clean linen.
One o'clock in the afternoon. Roll-call. This was the evening roll-call. We were counted, and that brought the day to an end. Today there would be no exercise.
But at two o'clock the door opened to admit a new colleague. There entered an elderly man with a straw hat, with pince-nez, with a bag in his hand and wearing a waterproof overcoat. He put the bag down by the wall, stood beside it and declared: "Gentlemen, I have been brought here by mistake,—within an hour I shall certainly be led out again."
We smiled.
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Six o'clock. He was still standing and waiting.
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Eight o'clock. We had supper. Our new arrival had sat down on his bag. But by the door.
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It was before nine. The skylark began to sing again. The skylark, the only creature which of its own accord inhabited this building. The straw mattresses were thrown about, people undressed. Mr. Karl asked the newcomer whether he would lie down. Yes, he would lie down, he was tired, but he would not undress. They would certainly call him and take him away that same night.
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Half-past nine. He was lying in his overcoat and had removed only his hat. His skull was completely bald.
"I say", said the artillery-man who was his neighbour, "take off that overcoat, it smells horrible, and what's your name?"
"Simon Lamm", replied he, and took off his overcoat.
"Lamm from Brody?" asked Mr. Fels.
"Yes. And I am here by mistake. They said I wanted to keep my son out of the army, but my son had already joined, he lost his left hand, has an artificial one now and works in an office,—they're sure to take me away from here to-night."
"Take off your things, Mr. Lamm, and try and get to sleep." Mr. Fels stood up, came over to me and said softly: "One of the best Polish Jews in Galicia. A landed proprietor,—of course he's a beggar today. The Russians are managing his estates, but he was the benefactor of the whole district."Mr. Simon Lamm undressed: "Well, if they come and fetch me, I shall be dressed in five minutes."
The room roared with laughter.