# The Jail/Chapter XIV

XIV.
The evening shadows fell upon the windows of the building opposite and crept into the greyish mist of our number 60. Eating had stopped, and smoking had increased accordingly. And the room was pervaded by an affable, peaceable mood. The sergeant knelt down beside old Nicolodi and was explaining to him that this would be over one day, that we should be set at liberty, that Nicolodi would proceed to the warm south, and he, the sergeant, would return to his coffee-house. Mr. Fröhlich was telling Dr. Smrecsanyi about his son, a lad of ten, a marvelloust gifted child, whereupon Mr. Smrecsanyi described to him the beauty and the intellectual attainments of that lady whom he ought to have met when he was in our midst. Mr. Fels and Mr. Goldenstein were deep in a conversation about some artful Galician sharper, and were mutually recalling his knavish tricks. Platoon-leader Kretzer was walking about with Mr. Karl, and they were whispering what must have been very interesting things, for they were deaf to everything that was taking place around them. At the other table the artillery-man was playing wolves and sheep with Hedrich who was so taken up by the game that he had even forgotten to smoke. A few spectators were following the contest; Voronin silently, while others were criticising and advising. This irritated the artillery-man so much that he began to curse and warned everyone in a very incisive manner. We were sitting with Dušek, Declich and Budi at our table, and were quietly discussing our fellow-inmates. Papa Declich termed the political prisoners "patriots", the remainder "Fallot",—we were patriots, Voronin was a patriot, the old man Nicolodi was a patriot, but otherwise the whole lot here were "Falloti", with the exception of Hedrich, who was neither a patriot nor a ​"Fallot", but a poveretto, a poor wretch: massimo “Fallot” was questo Tironi.
Tironi was a tiny little man, nearly as tiny as Nicolodi; he was bloated, disagreeably unclean, he laughed loudly until he started coughing, and he smelt of several smells, for which reason everybody whom he came near sought to get rid of his company as speedily as possible. He had been an apothecary at Scutari and was supposed to have got mixed up with both the Serbs and the Austrians. The Austrians had taken and locked him up. Whether he was an Albanian or an Italian was difficult to say. He spoke German well, he spoke Italian, Turkish, Serbian and Greek well,—a Fallot in all languages, in all nationalities according to Budi, a native of Cattaro, who knew him from previous years and vowed that he was a man capable of anything. Tironi was always in a rosy mood, for everyone whom he looked at he had a sweetish smile and a cringing joke,—a stunned conscience bestows upon its bearer just as joyous a calm as does a pure conscience.
And behold, speak of the devil,—and the massimo Fallot was slouching up to us and sat down beside Budi. Papa Declich addressed himself to me with a gesture of loathing, slipped off and went to his bed. Tironi with senile prurience was describing to Budi a visit he had paid to some famous haunt of ill-repute at Constantinople…
"Dušek, Saturday is over."
He guessed what this sentence referred to: “Frank? didn't I tell you beforehand? How many such Saturdays have yet to pass?"
The sound of singing penetrated to us from without. One voice began and then a whole chorus chimed in.
"What is that?"
"The ‘Polish Jews in number 64. Students for the rabbinate. ​There are about twenty-five of them. They wanted to sneak out of the army,—with Polish Jews nobody knows where he is. Not even a court-martial. They have had them here for several months now and can get nothing out of them. They have no documents, they say that everything was destroyed during the Russian invasion; all they have is an endorsement from the heads of their local authorities that they are actually students for the rabbinate, but several of these heads are locked up here with them to be on the safe side, for these endorsements are exceedingly suspicious. You see them at exercise; one was a shop-keeper, one was an official in a Savings Bank, one was a tenant of an estate, one was a barber, one was a private gentleman,—the war came and he described himself as a student for the rabbinate, that is, as one who was learning the sacred theology of the Jews and who had a claim to exemption from military service. Their authorities gave them papers confirming that they actually were studying, one with this rabbi, the other with that one, another again was studying at home; at last the whole affair became suspicious to the military and they took them. They eat according to their ritual. That is, a Jewish benevolent society here provides them with food prepared according to the ritual. Papritz, a great anti-Semite, has fits of rage from time to time and forbids it to them; the Jews starve, deputations proceed in the meanwhile to Papritz, until he graciously gives permission again, only to forbid them afresh after a few days. And on the Sabbath they sing their religious songs."
​But what was this all at once? From the other side came the sound of music, military music,—drums, trumpets, the drums were especially powerful—and on top of this shouts, as if the military music were playing in a circus, as if the showmen were giving orders to a lady equestrian, or had charge of jumping lions,—a hellish music, the drums and cymbals drowned everything else,—the singing of the Jews was overwhelmed amid it and perished; only from time to time did some higher note still emerge,—what could that be?
"The orderlies, Kranz" explained Hedrich who in a state of excitement had left the wolves and sheep and had sat down with us. "Kranz is doing the circus, the orderlies provide the music. He doesn't like the Jews and thats's how he spoils their devotions."
"And who are these orderlies?"
"Convicts. Each of them has still several years to serve. Kranz has six now. Fiedler is also among them. They keep the jail clean. They are all in one room, they have to get up in the morning before anyone else, sweep up, carry out the buckets, fetch the breakfast, clean the passages, and they live in a state of huge prosperity. They have their profitable little deals, they attend to everything that is wanted, nobody discovers how they do it, they move about in the jail freely, they eat and drink to their heart's content, and on Saturdays this is how they amuse themselves."
The din of the music continued. A dry music, without trumpets and bassoons, only drums and cymbals. And the shouting, the uproar, the yells,—the whole jail must have heard it, and not only the jail, but the streets round about as well. Bang, bang, bang bang, bang, bang, trrrrr, crash, crash, crash.
Today I shall not hear my skylark.
​"Let's go to bed", said Budi welcoming it as a means of getting rid of Tironi.
The straw mattresses flew about and fell to the ground. Voronin scraped the floor with his broom. The tables were pushed away, everyone was contented, and it looked as if they would sleep peacefully.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, trrrr, crash, crash, crash.
"What do they do it with?"
"With everything that will make a noise. They whack the tables, the ground, beat one dish against another, play the drum with their knives on the woodwork,—there are twenty of them."
"And Fiedler?"
"He drinks, smokes and yells. But you will see what it will look like to-morrow."
Hedrich made my bed. He made it skilfully. He smoothed and spread everything out, he hung up my towel so that the light would not fall in my face,—a pleasant, sterling lad.
Bang, bang, crash, crash, crash.
I don't mind it, I can sleep in any noise, I can always sleep when I want to.
On the floor conversations were proceeding from mattress to mattress. The artillery-man was again lying on the table. And smoking went on the whole time.
Bang, bang, crash, crash, crash, trrrrrr.
Frank has not sent for me, has not cross-examined me,—this occurred to me. Still,—only calm, calm. We are here bearing a fragment of our country's honour, and therefore: No weakness. Poets mould the spirit of a nation. Poets and philosophers. Not politicians, not lawyers, not surgeons, not engineers. And therefore it is quite right of them to lock us up. The spirit of the nation is ​rebellious,—that is our work. In former times poets created gods for mankind—Homer, the poets of the Old Testament, poets of the New Testament. Now they create men. As long as they created god, it was well with them,—seven cities disputed the honour of Homer's birth-place, nature submitted to them. Orpheus tamed wild animals. Arion was saved by the dolphin from drowning. lbycus was avenged by the cranes. Death did not venture to lay hand on Aeschylus, and an eagle had to drop a tortoise on his skull in order that his earthly fate might be fulfilled. Yes, that is how it was once, and afterwards, later, poets were the great judges,—Dante, Shakespeare, they judged Emperors, Kings, Popes,—all mankind, but from the time when poets moulded the souls of their nations, the mighty of this world have locked them up. Gods,—yes, men,—no, and I can fall asleep peacefully,—he who is my man, is firm and strong,—yes, I can fall asleep, bang,—bang,—trrrrr,—crash, crash, crash.—