# The Jail/Chapter XXII

XXII
What the superintendent's idea was of an "Intelligenz-Zimmer,—heaven alone knew. I watched the daily ebb and flow in our number 60, and could not help smiling. Or did he really want to give me an opportunity of becoming familiar with as many and varied human destinies as possible? He was a German from Mödling in Lover Austria, a well-to-do man. The war had taken him from his fields and vineyards, and turned him into a keeper of criminals and convicts. He assuredly was bored there and found his services irksome. He was an intelligent man; I used to speak a few words with him now and then. The ideas he expressed were not couched in common language, and one could not help surmising that he had read, observed and reflected. He was anxious to become acquainted with some of my work; he had heard that this or that had been translated, and asked whether I had it. I referred him to the time when I should leave that place as a free man, he waved his hand, as much as to say: Ah, I shall have to wait. Then he was very much interested as to how I should write my recollections of my sojourn there, what I should relate in them, who would be mentioned. I assured him that he would see himself too, and that the jail would be so thoroughly depicted and described that it would form a souvenir of the war for him also.
People entered the cell, not a day passed but one or two new faces appeared. In truth, the superintendent was turning number 60 into an observation-centre for me. They came, told their stories, and they were either put onone side and not troubled about any further, or they were watched until they again departed. They did not stay with us long; after two days, Sponner or Schmied would come and take them away into another room or to another floor. ​And it was as if the water had closed above their heads; nothing more was spoken or known about them, and if we met with them during exercise, they loked at us either as strangers or else angrily,—number 60 had obviously become a cell which could not be forgotten, and which was looked up to as a seat of the elect.
​And when he was summoned for cross-examination, he departed like a toreador into the arena. Victorious and self-assured. But when he returned half an hour later, he was downcast and silent. He opened his box, took off his black coat and slipped on a grey house-jacket, pulled off his patent leather boots and donned comfortable shoes.
Mr. Lamm watched him during this process with great interest, and when he had finished, he said to him benevolently: "It is a good thing if a man has an extra outfit with him, then he can at least make himself at home immediately."
Mr. Fels questioned me as to whether I had heard his avowed intentions towards the superintendent, and told me to have a look at this hero now,—that, he said, was the whole Magyar character for which Austria has such awesome respect, brag, nothing but brag. The present-day Magyars, he declared, were not those of the year 1848; every other one was somebody whose name had been different a short time previously; everything had become Jewish, and he, Fels, knew these Jews,—they are just as great braggarts as they are cowards, as soon as you show them your fist.
We lost the sergeant. He was not transferred anywhere, but he went whither we were all yearning to go—to freedom. He was summoned on the Saturday morning, whether to a cross-examination or to a trial, it was difficult to say; he did not tell us, and we did not discover from any other quarter. An hour later he came back beaming with joy; he was to be discharged that day. He went from one man to another, he assured each one that he would remember him to his dying hour, he declared to each one that he would not remain long there either, and would also be set at liberty; that his trifling offence would evaporate and vanish like those cigarettes of his. He bequeathed his wine to Karl, he had ordered five ​bottles of wine, and was to have received them in the afternoon. Karl, he said, should drink his health and have a little souvenir of him.
He departed in the afternoon, and it was as if somebody had swept and aired the room; it was cleaner and pleasanter. These Viennese anti-Semites are a peculiar-people; they agree to every opinion and every utterance in a pleasant and affable manner, indeed, they themselves speak to a man according to what they think is his type; they adopt the attitude of realizing and understanding everything, and yet there are no greater dissemblers, sneaks and toadies than they are. Anybody who has that fortunate sixth sense for the emanation of character which proceeds from each man with whom they are speaking, is heartily sick of such a Viennese after a minute of his company, I was glad when the doors closed behind that man.
And they act meanly; when the caterer's weekly delivery was issued, Karl returned from the superintendent‘s office with empty hands and raged. "The lowhound. He waited there until the caterer came, and took his wine off with him."
Papa Declich smiled: "Fallot". Whenever the talkative sergeant had addressed him, he had never answered him; he had not understood because he did not want to understand. The sergeant had taken it good-humouredly and excused him with a shrug of the shoulders and the nick-name "Katzelmacher",—this being what the Viennese call the Italians.
Karl was furious throughout that Sunday; he said that the sergeant had received four weeks imprisonment for those cigarettes, and the four weeks had been deducted from his two months under arrest. That was why he had been discharged, and he was a "Gauner", ​who had spread the worst reports about each of us in number 60 etc.
It was possible, who could tell? On the Monday nothing more was said about him.
And again a new man entered. A corporal of the defence-corps, with two medals on his breast. For murdering his wife, it was said. Absurd. A wretch like that, he declared, you can at the most thrash or beat black and blue, but kill her? He had been fond of her, the beast, he had married her two months before the war, had joined the army, had written to her. Sweetheart, dear wife, when a man is in the trenches and the bullets are whistling and buzzing over his head, he thinks differently of the woman he likes than in civil life. He wrote whenever he had the chance, death raged around him, but he wrote. And today he would box her ears for every word which he had sent her, for every sigh when he had thought of her. The bitch, the bitch! Now and then she let him know that she could not write,—there was the farm, the vineyard, always something or other. Suddenly he received a letter, looked at it,—no signature. When the master of the house, it said, does not look after the farm, another must see to it, and when a bed is made for two, one alone cannot lie in it. And more such allusions . . . He went to his captain, told him what had been sent him, and asked for leave. He had obtained none since the beginning of the war, he had performed his duties efficiently,—he was granted leave instantly. And the captain urged him not to let himself he carried away by anger, and not to commit any folly. He travelled day and night. And it was night when he arrived. He knocked, beat at the window,—for a long time there was no answer. At last she opened the peep-hole and asked who was there. It was he, she was to come down and open the door. A while passed, a considerable while, before he got into the room. She was much taken aback and, as it ​seemed, very drowsy. You're glad, eh? he burst forth. But you're sleepy, tomorrow will do. He undressed. She looked at him askance like a thief. He lay down, she put out the light and lay down beside him. All without a word. She waited awhile, then she began and wanted to make love. He pushed her aside and turned away. He was hungering for her, but everything within him wept with doleful rage. And he was so tired out that he fell asleep. Scarcer had morning broke than he got up. She pretended to be asleep, but he could see quite well that her eyelids were trembling, and that she was watching him. He dressed. And now get up.
She crept out of bed, then he went for her with a strap. And struck and struck, and thrashed and thrashed. Without asking any questions, and without saying a word. She did not scream, she only sobbed and tried to parry his blows with her hands. Well, he did not strike her face, it was just that face with the blue eyes that he had always been so fond of. And he struck and struck, until her body under her chemise was red and striped like a Scottish plaid. Then he opened the door of the room and the door of the house; clear out. She fled as she was, in her chemise. Day came. He cooked his breakfast, drank coffee, and his tears fell into it.
Then he went to look in the stables, at the garden, the vineyard,—on the other side of the fence he saw the neighbours, who looked at him inquisitiver and talked for talking's sake about the war and what it was like at the front. "But at noon the gendarme came, wanted to know where my wife was. I said l did not know, in the morning I had thrown her out of the house and she had not said where she was going. When had I arrived? In the night, I said. He asked for my papers. Good, the papers were there. He looked at them, the stamp was on my travelling warrant, everything was in order. He said he would have a look round the farm. Good, l went ​with him, he inspected the stables, the garden, the vineyard to see if there were any signs of recent digging. Then he examined the room and again asked about her. I told him how I had arrived and what had happened to her that morning. He had a look, asked a few questions, what else could I tell him? He went away, said that a search must be made. Let them search, they are sure to find her a creature of that sort would never do anything desperate. They searched on Sunday, on Monday,—nowhere a trace of her. We have an arched-in gulley, they dug up the arch to a distance of thirty yards—again nothing. They arrested me, I was to go to Vienna. Good, Vienna. But I shan't stand my trial, she's bound to turn up. And then, to the front, to the front. The devil has taken everything I have, what is left? To destroy people, just as I have been destroyed myself. The farm, the garden, the vineyard will never see me again. I don't care about them, I don't care about anything. I am a born soldier, and if I had not got mixed up with farming, I should not have had this experience. You know, gentlemen, what you read about the soldier in old histories. Wherever he comes, everything is his—rooms, food, drink, women. But not a wife. No, not a wife. All of them,—yes. ln Poland we came to a castle, some prince or other, the devil alone knows. Polakincki, there was only a steward in the castle. The Prince, he said, what do we care about your Prince, bring us food, bring us drink. We ate, we drank. And then we made black coffee. Ourselves,—why call that slave again? There was plenty of wood, the whole room was lined halfway up with shiny carved wood, we pulled it down and made our black coffee. We made it all night—"
At this the warder called him for cross-examination.
​We waited. Nobody spoke.
A quarter of an hour later he was back again.
"They found her. Do you know where they found her? She was at her father's, the old rogue knew about it all and helped her in everything. A telegram is there. The superintendent asked me whether I wanted to spend the rest of my leave at home. I said no, I wanted to go back to the front immediately. He praised me for that. Well, I'm going on with my soldiering, food, drink, the trenches with the music of the bullets, Goodbye, gentlemen."
And he was already outside. He had blown in like the wind, he had turned round like the wind, and like the wind he was off again.
"I think he's still fond of her," remarked Mr. Fels.
Hedrich sat there with wide-opened eyes. "A man oughtn't to marry, no, he oughtn't" he remarked.
And I thought of this primitive corporal, and above his story I saw a countenance arise with a livid, terror-stricken gaze, the countenance of the female-animal. As a girl she had grown up to get married, and when she had married, the meaning of her life had departed to the war. Assuredly she had waited, had defied her young blood, until . . . How many such tiny destinies were wedged in amid this great war, how many lives was it trampling upon and crushing, directly or indirectly?
I wanted to busy myself with Molière, but at the second page I noticed that my mind was not taking in what I was reading with my eyes. I put it aside.