# The Jail/Chapter XXX

XXX.
And now everything was unravelled in the same way as it had been entangled.
Saturday passed off without any special incidents. Only Mr. Fels remarked to me towards evening that he did not believe in my release, that the governor had been amusing himself at my expense,—and he remarked this with an undisguised joy, which was easy to understand; in such a cell there is only one person whom a man does not begrudge the excursion to freedom,—and that is himself.
I slept peacefully, I had no dreams.
Sunday.
I rose without haste, during exercise I walked with the engineer who also had doubts about my liberty; I returned to number 60 and did my spell of marching with my batch. Then I sat down on my bed.
And now I began to feel strange. Like a man who in the waiting room of an out-of-the-way station is waiting for a train, which is sure to be very late. Doubts began to arise; who knows, perhaps this Frank,—Mr. Wilder came up to me and remarked that it certainly would not be today, but that he would like to be in my place, it would be tomorrow or the day after for certain.
And the day outside was magnificent. There was a golden flicker in the air, the sky was as blue as the glance of amorous azure eyes,—all my nerves were aquiver with a feverish unrest; and ​when I considered that I should not get out that day, that perhaps it would not be until the next day or even the day after, my eyes and my soul were filled with gloom, and everything within me cried out: It is impossible, I could not endure it.
Half past nine,—at last. To the Tigergasse.
My escort consisted this time of a single person. The superintendent considered that it would be unnecessary for two defence-corps men to be worried; one was enough, he said, but it must be someone of rank. And so I was put in charge of a corporal.
We walked along in friendly conversation slowly, as if we were going for a walk. The corporal cursed the war and asked me how much longer "this madness" was going to last. He had two ham-and-beef shops,—both were closed; he had two sons,—both were in the army, one on the Russian, the other on the Italian front; he himself had been serving for ten months. He was guarding soldiers under arrest. To hell with it all—
We entered the street of the Tigers, number 11, and on the stairs we met a strange Lieutenant-Superintendent, who stopped and asked: "Mr. M?"
I assented.
"Then let's go up. I am on duty today in place of Dr. Frank who is not here, and upon me has devolved the pleasant task of liberating you, master. I am Dr. Schieber."
"Master",—once again "Master".
On the stairs a fat man with a boy came down towards us. He looked at me closely, then he said to the superintendent: "I ought to know this gentleman."
​We were sitting in the well-known room again. How much more agreeable and friendly it now was than it had been during my previous visits.
"A brief report, a few lines,—then you will sign and we shall be finished" said Dr. Schieber as he began to write. Suddenly he stopped: "There are two bottles of wine and a fruit tart from Sacher for you,—where am I to send it?"
"My dear sir, we can drink one bottle at once,—to celebrate this festive Sunday."
He became somewhat embarrassed: "You don't mean it seriously?"
"Why not."
"Then perhaps you don't know that you are being released, but that investigations against you are being continued," he informed me still in embarrassment.
"Oh, in this case it would of course be an attempt to bribe an official; you shall get nothing, I will drink the wine myself. Who left it for me?"
"A commissionaire. He did not say from whom."
"I'll send for it to-morrow."
"Then please sign the report."
I signed and we parted. I assured him that he was the most pleasant of all the superintendents whose acquaintance I had made in the Street of the Tigers, and that it would always be a pleasure to me whenever and wherever I might meet him.
The corporal remarked that the cross-examination had been very short this time. I told him that I had signed a report relating to my release. He showed a sincere interest, and declared that they ought to release the whole jail, and then send the ​defence-corps men home; all this arrangement, he said. was no use, led nowhere, and altogether had no sense.
A magnificent day, a truly magnificent day. How happy were these people, all these strange people in the streets today, how solemnly the trams clattered; whatever can it be that is in the air, in the sky, upon these old, grimy houses! Everything was so happy, everything so festively joyful. You are right,—enjoy yourselves, life is really beautiful after all.
The engineer was waiting in the corridor. Aha, for his inheritance. Well, he shall receive it. Blanket, pillow, linen,—there it is for you, poor fellow; outside, the sun is so golden, happiness is also golden and warm, perhaps these trifles will give you at least a little of what my spirit contains in such abundant measure. He beamed and carried the things off into his cell,—good luck to you.
Kranz also came to say goodbye.
"Kranz, good fellow, thanks for everything. I shan't forget you. And have you anybody there, outside, whom I could help?"
"Nobody. I am alone. But if you would like to do something, send me a postcard here. It will be a souvenir for me" and he dashed out of the room.
Papa Declich was sad. Papa Declich,—a revederci. We shall see each other again and, I hope, soon. They'll release you too, this folly can't last for ever.
They all surrounded me. They wanted me to say a few more words to them.
Good: "Dear criminals!" I comforted and admonished them, pointed to the door through which lead the way out. I pointed myself out to them as an example, and urged them to imitate me. They laughed mournfully and nodded. Mr. Fels ordered Karl to ​uncork the bottles,—we drank each other's healths. Declich had tears in his eyes—
And the warder was already there to take me to the head staff-superintendent.
"Goodbye, goodbye. Papa Declich, addio. Papa Declich, coraggio." The door closed behind me, the key rattled.
In the office I received my things back. Watch, pocket-book, ring. And I signed accounts,—I drew more than 50 crowns. A grumpy sergeant-major stood up and introduced himself: (I did not catch his name). "On the editorial staff of the Zeit". "Pleased to meet you,—aversion to the trenches?" He nodded and smiled.
"Could your order a taxicab for me?"
The head staff-superintendent sent a defence-corps man.
In the next room my box was to be examined. "There's nothing in it, but in my head I have an unwritten book about everything that I have seen and experienced". The superintendent smiled.
I went out of that grey building. For the first time alone; I looked at it,—from the office they were looking back at me,—the head staff-superintendent, the grumpy sergeant-major and some others. My taxicab rattled round the corner.
A few weeks later, somebody rang at my door; it was Papa Declich in the defence-corps uniform.
"Papa Declich, have they discharged you?"
They had discharged him and put him into uniform. And why they had discharged him, he did not know, just as he had not known previously why they had imprisomed him.
​We sat and smoked. It had been sad when I went, but soon afterwards Dušek had returned to the room. They had brought him back from the Rossau barracks, and were getting ready for his trial.
"And the rest?"
"The censorists have been placed on trial."
"I read about it. Mr. Fels declared during the proceedings, when it was objected that such a sum as 5.000 crowns was not given bona fide to a sergeant-major 'for a benevolent purpose', that today, when millions and milliards are being squandered, 5.000 crowns are a ridiculous trifle."
"And they were condemned to several months which were deducted from the time they had been remanded in custody. Now they are all in military uniforms, but it seems that they won't be in them long and have already discovered a method of taking them off."
"And the engineer?"
"Fallot, fallot", and Papa Declich looked at me with a triumphant glance, the glance of clear-sighted common-sense which was now triumphing over a hoodwinked intellectual."
"The engineer,—a fallot?" I asked again inquisitively, as if I only wanted to defend my lost position; there flitted through my mind everything that I had heard from this man and about him,—his sufferings, the injustice that had been done him, the false accusation of espionage, the long imprisonment, the cross-examinations, his wife, his children, the chains on his feet,—the whole unmerited tragedy of his life.
"The engineer,—a fallot?"
​"What is he then?"
"What he is, nobody knows; we only know what he is not and was not. Now he's serving his time at Möllersdorf. Five years,—for theft,—common fraud. Fallot."
I was silent for a while.
"And the rest?"
"Dr. Jonas committed suicide,—a few days after you left. He tore up a sardine tin and swallowed the strips. He suffered ghastly agony. A nervous weakling,—and there was nobody to keep up his spirits after you had gone."
Papa Declich stopped speaking. He was tired with his effort,—as long as he had lived he had not spoken so much for whole weeks and months at a time as in those few minutes.
"And how are you getting on?"
"I'd be glad to go back to number 60" declared Papa Declich emphatically.
Then I received a few postcards from him. From Galicia. Un saluto dalla indimenticabile Galizia. From Odessa; a photograph,—Papa Declich is standing in a military kitchen amongst gigantic basins with a large ladle in his hand; evidently he was company cook.
I will conclude.
The persecution found us unprepared. As a shower of rain comes upon people who have gone for a walk without an umbrella beyond the town. During it, our movements were exceedingly unskilful, and we had to find our way about with an effort.
​Assuredly we all think with horror of those days, weeks and months. If I were to have the choice of passing through them again or of having my leg cut off at the knee, I would say without hesitation: the leg. But this does not mean that I would move a finger or would cringe for the purpose of evading and escaping the danger if it were to arise again. No. That's what we are here for.
But assuredly not one of us regards this suffering as a merit. By chance it came upon us, as by chance it might have come upon others. And we did nothing more than the man who was surprised by a shower of rain and was without an umbrella,—we got wet through. The romanticism of "martyrdom" is now a thing of the past. It would be an extremely passive glory if anyone wished to glorify us on this account. There is only one thing we can do for ourselves: to try and forget and give the others a helping hand with their work.
But for all that, the members of our nation must not forget. Not for our sakes, but for theirs. It was they who were to have been hit, it was they who were aimed at. And they feel it and will not forget. We see this and believe.
For that reason, and for that reason alone, it is a good thing to relate what was experienced there by us, the nation's atoms, its units.
And that we, inexperienced as we were, nevertheless did not soil its shield and its honour there,—that too is not a merit, but an obvious duty towards ourselves.
No merit whatever then?
None whatever.
​Honour is due only to them who went forth in darkness and staked everything upon their labours.
Completed August 27th 1918.