# The Jail/Chapter VI

VI.
The case of Dr. Kramář and associates had been held in abeyance for some time. It was said new evidence had been discovered in Belgrade after its capture. It was also said that Dr. Preminger had fallen ill. It was also said that the proceedings would be stapped altogether. In those days of official silence, every event became the subject of a whole series of different versions and explanations, because a man likes to have complete ideas about a thing, and if he cannot get the actual facts, he invents them and tells them to his fellow men so often, until he believes them himself.
The winter of that year was not severe,and ended exactly according to the calendar. During a few evenings in February there were heavy and vicious winds, but one day the sun leapt into the blue ​sky with such warmth and radiance, that the people quivered with sheer delight and blinked their eyes at the unaccustomed lustre; crows swayed slantingly in the air on their ragged wings as if they wished to expose now their backs, now their bellies to the warmth of the sun; from the roofs fell drops of melted snow and glistened, like brilliants; in the streets brooklets trickled merrily, the mud glistened, fur coats, winter costumes and ladies' dark dresses disappeared; the streets became gay with light overcoats and cheerful colours of women's dresses; the people rid themselves of the heavy and cautious gait they had acquired during the winter months, and strolled along displaying their contentment in dainty springtime steps; and in the parks where audacious blackbirds scurried about on the freshened grass, there appeared a crowd of nursemaids with and without perambulators, and tiny babies who had been born in the course of the winter blinked with their expressionless little eyes at the golden, radiant air.
And at the same time in the north, south, east and west, cannons, rifles, bayonets and bombs were at work; war was being carried on upon the earth, under the earth, upon the sea, under the sea, in the air,—war was being carried on by gods and men, machines, vapours, gases, electricity and all the acquisitions of science and art (for war was also being carried on by poets, novelists, savants, philosophers, draughtsmen, painters, pamphleteers, journalists) as if mankind had come to an agreement that it was necessary to slay all those spectres which are called culture, civilization, progress, humanity, morals and religion. Homage had been done to them for centuries,—now they must fall. A few crowns were shaking upon hallowed heads, a few wearers of royal garments were homelessly wandering about Europe, the penny-a-liners who had formerly greeted them on their various visits, now pelted them ​with coarse jokes,—a new Iliad in which the simple heroes were silent and fell, and only types like Thersites made speeches at the back.
Everybody was tired of the war,—rulers, nations, diplomats, soldiers, but the war went on.
And the spring came with its fresh greenery, skylarks, chafers, blossoms, the first swallows appeared, flitted above the streets and darted into the air with artistic curves, but what else happened and what kind of a spring it was, I do not know. For the sword of Damocles now descended upon the head of my freedom.
A few years ago,—heavens, how pluperfect everything is today,—I wrote a little skit in three chapters, entitled "Clericalism Dead." For reasons given below, it is impossible to explain its contents—I can only hint at them. A certain caste of people, Archbishops, Bishops, Prelates, Abbots, Deans and Vicars assemble and say to themselves: we are unmarried, we have an abundance of the possessions of this world,—good, we will do something for our country and nation. And they did so; they took over the National Schools, founded a second University, gave their country-houses to disabled artists and writers,—well, it was a skit. And because it was a skit, nobody here had noticed it, but in Zagreb a certain progressive paper took it quite seriously, translated it, printed it and exclaimed: Look here, just see what kind of clergy, what kind of bishops the Czechs have,—and suddenly the satire had its comic side. But that only by the way. So that hoax was called "Clericalism Dead" and the late "Volná Myšlenka" issued it as a pamphlet. It was a green, thin little book. Somewhere about the middle of April 1915 our beloved censorship also had a look at this booklet and confiscated it, which did not surprise me in the least,—not that l was convinced of the pernicious character of ​its contents, but because I had experiences, both my own and other people's, in these matters.
Then on April 25th the clerical paper Reichspost published an item of local news about the completed confiscation of this booklet, and very bitterly expressed its astonishment that I was still allowed to write, and to write things which had to be confiscated,—surely it was well known that I was undergoing a cross-examination.
To this item of local news our papers bashfully replied that the worthy Reichspost had been wrongly informed, that the pamplet "Clericalism Dead" had appeared several years previously, but what is the good of speaking to them when they are Germans and do not understand you?
Some days later this paper again expressed its astonishment. Masaryk, the traitor, it said, was outside the country, but here was a man walking about at liberty in Vienna—yes, and writing too, as if there were no control,—a man who aimed at proceeding from the destruction of altars to the destruction of thrones, and so on.
I watched everything like the spectator of a bad play in the theatre,—with my mind elsewhere, with the fatalism of a Turk. l did not move a finger, l did not speak or write a single word, l gave no explanation, I did not defend myself. The performance was wearisome, there was no chance of getting away, so l waited for the end.
And I met with it on May 7th.
At home everything had been prepared. In an envelope the telegrams to my family and friends which Josefínka was to send off in case of my non-arrival, in my soul there was calm, in my table-drawer the manuscripts of new books arranged for the publisher,—to be prepared is everything. And I was.
​It was a beautiful golden day, the streets swarmed with people, everybody was hurrying in pursuit of some aim—office machines; for years and years we have known their faces, their gait, their movements; if one of them disappears, nobody misses him, the the others will press on in same way tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, a year hence, five years hence.
I sat down at my desk and began to work.
At ten o'clock I was called on the telephone by Dr. Sieghart, the managing secretary. I was to take my hat and coat.
Now "it" is here, flashed through my mind.
I went up. The secretary's face was very solemn, and softly and slowly he began to say that "leider muss ich Ihnen."
“Arrested?” I said jerkily.
"Yes. A detective is waiting in the next room."
"Good, let us go."
I was told that I had about an hour if I wanted to write home.
Unnecessary. I had already seen to that. But I should like to write a few lines to Josefínka asking her to bring me a handbag with clean linen.
They said I could. Here was paper, a pen, an envelope.
I wrote. Clean linen, soap, a toothbrush,—and where was I to have it sent me?
Perhaps to the police, they thought. However, we would ask the detective.
The detective came in. It was neither Mr. Kolbe nor the other taciturn person,—it was quite a strange detective. Yes, to the police, he thought.
"Have you a warrant for the arrest?" I asked. ​He had. Signed by the military commander, and I was arrested unter paragraph 65a.
"Doctor, have you a manual of law here? Please find out for me what that is."
The Doctor turned over the leaves, 65a,—offending against the interests of public order,—the penalty from two years upwards.
"You must obtain a counsel, perhaps Dr. Pressburger" remarked the secretary, "he is rather expensive."
"A counsel? What for? Not a bit of it."
"But allow me to—"
"My dear doctor, you do not understand my situation. A poet cannot be concerned about a trial, a poet has nothing to hush up, a poet must be his own counsel."
"Well, think the matter over, a military court is no joke."
"We shall see. And now, my guardian angel," I said turning to the detective, "let us go."
And we went to the police headquarters. I looked at the May sunshine, which covered the streets, the houses, the trees trembling in the air, and thought and thought. What have they against me…? Two years… Military court… Family… Friends, but come what may, the portion of national honour which I now possess must not be sullied.
At the police headquarters various formalities had to be seen to. Documents or something of that kind. I had to wait.
They assigned me a small room where a fat man was sitting at a table writing with a very squeaky pen. From time to time he took a deep breath, pondered and went on writing. Another human machine, it occurred to me.
After a while the constable came in. If I wanted any lunch, he ​would bring me something. Perhaps I should like to look at the menu—
I looked.
He brought in the lunch and I invited the fat man to join the feast. He did not refuse.
And again his pen squeaked and time went on. Hour after hour.—What have they against me?—Two years,—military court,—army prison, family,—the honour of myself and the nation —how this fellow puffs.—
I stood up and walked through the room. Now and then somebody peeped in,—perhaps to make sure that I was still there.
The fat clerk put on his coat and took his leave of me. The machine had completed its day's work and would be a man again.
I was alone. For how long, I do not know. I had ceased even to think.
Then a constable came to take me to the chief commissary.
Ah, l know him—Mr.Kolbe took me to him on the previous occasion.
The formalities, it seemed, were settled. The detective could now hand me over.
I mentioned my clean linen.
That, I was told, was a matter for the military superintendent in charge.
Good. We will go.
Outside, the detective suggested whether I wanted to take the tram.
No, let's go on foot.
We went and I bade farewell to the sunshine, freedom, to everything. I looked at the houses, the people, the sky, watched for the final sight of some familiar face, and wondered who it might be. ​I met nobody. The streets were full of bustle, trams rattled, carriages, motor-cars drove to and fro,—my freedom, my life, farewell.
We reached the well-known building. But we entered by a different door. Instead of a porter, a sergeant-major stood there. The detective showed him the paper. He let us in. Sentries with bayonets, grey walls, everything grey and drab.
In the chief Superintendent's office, the detective handed me over. A grumpy sergeant-major took the papers from him, drew up an acknowledgment of receipt, then the superintendent called upon me to empty my pocket-book, watch, pencil,—the money was counted out and the amount noted in the report. I signed.
An old sergeant with a bundle of keys in his belt led me away. He opened the barred door guarded by defence-corps men with bayonets, he led me through grey and gloomy passages and finally stopped at door number 60.
He opened. "Mr. Dušek, a new gentleman."
Editor Dušek stood in the doorway and held out both his hands towards me. "I have been expecting your for some time."
"Thank you."