# The Jail/Chapter X

X.
As far as the eye could see, a plain on all sides. Nowhere even a small hill, no end of the plain was in sight. And meadows, meadows, fresh, blossoming, fragrant meadows. Above them the blue sky, in the sky not a single cloud, and I stood upon a footpath and looked about me. I felt within me the happiness of this glowing June day and the delight of aman who is not reminded by any inner voice nor by circumstances without that he has any duties, that there is anything he “must” do. I need not hurry anywhere nor make preparations for anything, nor think about anything; there is no "you must" today, there will be none tomorrow. Freedom is the greatest happiness, and I was in full possession of it. I took a deep breath, opened my arms wide, and spread out my fingers like a fan—I wanted to enjoy this fragrant air, to embrace the golden light of day, to let this smiling happiness in at every pore. On the ​summit of high mountains a man can hear the voice of Eternity, in deep forests is the speech of mysterious sorrows, from the surface of the waters of the ocean the unending speaks to him, in a plain he feels the delight of freedom—
Somewhere near by, an express train raced along and with a shrill whistle emitted clouds of steam—
That is not an express train, somebody has been ringing for a long time at the door of my house—
No, I am in jail—that is yesterday's bell—get up, get up.
The light was burning no longer. From several sides came the loud cry: "Auf! Auf!"
Several people gave loud and protracted yawns. Somebody was assuring his neighbour that he had not slept a wink. Somebody else was stretching himself so that his joints cracked audibly. A number lay quite quiet, as if it had been midnight.
"Gentlemen, get up, we will prepare for roll-call" ordered Dušek. He was commandant of No. 60 and responsible for the order there.
And he possessed authority, the last ones had now jumped up from the floor, Papa Declich with Hedrich; Hedrich again wore a cap on his shock of hair—the straw mattresses on our side were lifted up and placed as I had seen them the day before. Voronin had fetched his broom and was sweeping up, on the other side straw mattresses had also been removed from the floor, the tables and forms were arranged, and in a few minutes number 60 had assumed its daily aspect.
"Line up, line up. They're already in the next room", exclaimed Dušek from the door.
The occupants of number 60 formed two ranks in military style. Unkempt, half asleep, not fully dressed, with towels, soap and tum​blers containing tooth brushes in their hands,—thus did they wait. I stood between Declich and Budi.
"I could have slept another two hours" declared Budi sorrowfully. He was 22 years old.
"Attention" commanded Dušek. Keys rattled and turned in the lock, at the doorway stood the superintendent, a warder and an infantry-man in walking-out dress and elegant riding-breeches. He had fixed his moustache in order with a network arrangement—at the first glance it looked as if he had lathered his face for shaving and had been disturbed without being able to dry himself.
In the military manner Dusek reported the "number present", and that nobody was ill. The superintendent counted, the infantry-man made a note of it and announced to us new arrivals, that the medical inspection was at half past nine, and that at ten o'clock we should be taken before the prison commandant.
They went away, the door was left open and the whole of number 60 scrambled out.
"Come on, come on" Dušek urged me, "we will have a wash. Here is a towel and a piece of soap!"
We went along a passage past the open doors of several rooms. All were empty. At a turn in the passage there was a large rectangular recess with washing basins in it. In the wall were a few taps and under them broad lead pipes—man alive, turn on the tap, put your head under it and wash yourself.
Of course—not until there was a little more room. In the meantime there was a squeezing and pushing of a crowd of bodies stripped to the waist, water was splashing on all sides, men were bending over, puffing and brawling; those who had washed, were themselves in the passage or hurrying off to their rooms, and through this bustle a number of convicts pushed their way dragging the night ​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 ​which can be expressed only with difficulty and imperfectly in our native language. It is clear that our forefathers did not go in for imprisoning to such a degree as to create a jail vocabulary, and when we were imprisoned, it had been created by a highly cultured nation, the Germans. We have jail traditions, it is true, and extensive ones, but we lack a terminology.
So we went out for exercise. It was in that tiny courtyard where I once saw the Russian officers walking. Perhaps two, perhaps three hundred square metres. The windows of the rooms pour out all their stench upon it, the feet slip in the coughed-up phlegm and spittle. Here close on two hundred were walking, of all ages, all nationalities, all religions, old men and jail-birds who had scarcely left school, Jews from Poland and Jews from Vienna, soldiers of all possible units, thieves, robbers, murderers and we, guilty of treason. Defence-corps men with fixed bayonets guarded us, as we walked in threes and fours, and high above our heads was the scanty blue of the morning sky and upon it flitted a number of black points, swallows who probably were also out for exercise.
"Dušek, is it possible; this dirt, this stench, this company, all this because of four poems?"
"What do you expect? Austria…"
Across a low wall dividing us from the other large courtyard, we looked at the tower.
"That window with the flowers is where Kramář is kept. Rašín is yonder" said Dušek pointing. We went on moving round a small ellipse. The blue haze from cigarettes and the gray haze from cigars mingled and rose like the smoke from the scene of a fire. People were talking, gesticulating, standing still, laughing, brawling. Only a few walked along like shadows with their heads bowed to the ground—perhaps they did not want to show their life's misery. I ​should also have walked like that, if I had not found Dušek there.
Mr. Sponner appeared in the doorway. He was our second warder, a former sergeant—with voice, appearance and features of a boor, a Viennese from Hernals.
"Fall in" (the German word was "einrücken", again with quite a different colouring.)
The key grated behind us.
We sat on the bed.
"We shall make the acquaintance of the others when we have seen a little of them. I will tell you their histories when you return from your inspection and parade", said Dušek.
Hedrich got me ready. He shaved me, dressed my hair and gave me a cigar, a good lad. And he explained to me once more the business with the spoons. He wanted to have a souvenir of Belgrade, he took them, they were not worth a couple of crowns. His mother's house was searched, nothing was found, but his mother herself gave them up of her own accord. Well, he was happy. Mr. Dušek was such a nice gentleman, and all were pleasant and friendly to him.
Papa Declich was busying himself with something by his bed. Budi had clambered up on the pile of straw mattresses and was asleep. Two were absorbed in a game; they had cut out squares on the table and were playing wolves and sheep. They had cut up pegs, and shoved these discs as carefully as if thousands were at stake. Others were looking on. The time crawled as if it had gout in its legs.
​He led us through passages on the left in which were doors into other rooms, on the right were barred windows of ground-glass. These looked out on to the street, to freedom.
At last we reaced the doctor. Dr. Prince Arpad, assistant physician and medical superintendent of the jail. A well-nourished gentleman, a Jew. One of his Polish co-religionists, a member of our number 60, knew him from Karlsbad. They were deep in a very lengthy conversation. We others waited.
At last it was my turn.
"Are you ill?"
"No."
"What are you here for?"
"Verses."
"What? Verses againt Austria? I'd have sent you to the trenches. Why do you write such things?"
"Sir, am I before a doctor or a magistrate?" I snarled.
"Ah, you answer back, do you? Of course—a Czech. Get away."
The medical inspection was over.
Mr. Sponner looked at me in astonishment.
We again went through passages, mounted staircases and stopped in a passage in front of the office.
From a room, the door of which bore a tablet inscribed : "Rechnungsunteroffizier I. Klasse Alfred Papritz", a sergeant-major majestically strode forth. His cloak unbuttoned, in the manner favoured by Generals, an officer's long sword, an upturned moustache, a capital I in his glance,—he stood before us and looked at us for a moment witheringly. Somebody in the rear rank whispered. The sergeant-major flashed lightning in that direction and thunderingly bellowed for silence.
​"I've been writing verses."
"Oh", and passed on to the next man.
At the third man he began to bellow. This one had been having a little scuffle in the room. The sergeant-major brandished his fist in front of his face, and threatened to chop him up.
After that he worked himself up into a temper a few times more.
When he had examined everybody, he made us line up, and ordered: "Don't move your left feet,—ruht (stand at ease)." Heavens, just like in the army, just like it used to be in the army.
The commandant of the jail, Lieutenant Colonel Werner, arrived.
"Habt Acht!" (attention.)
"What is your name, and why have you been arrested?"
I told him.
"Hm, hm,"—he said nothing else.
And with this hm, hm, he received all the members of today's batch. Only the sergeant-major flew into rage a few times more on his behalf.
We were ready.
And with this, all the formalities connected with our reception were finished, and I was now a regular member of the jail.