Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/380

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 honor 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, I know him—Mr. Kolbe took me to him on 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 an 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 Superintendentt’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 pockets, 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.”

My first impression of the interior of this apartment was, of a dirty third class waiting room of some provincial railway station. It was full of people; they were sitting, standing, walking about, smoking, some were impatient, some were bored, some eyed the floor resignedly, the train was late but nobody knew how many hours, days, weeks, months, and time, accursed time, never lags so sluggishly as when a man is waiting.

Through three high barred windows the light of the afternoon sun was visible. It did not enter. its radiance rested upon the walls and windows of the building opposite, of that building where in the December of the previous year I had spent a day as a witness in the trial of Dr. Kramář and associates. What is reflected from yonder, falls in here, and there is not much of it; here prevails the sober twilight of an overcast day. And it is cold here as in a cellar on summer days. In the whole room there are only two military beds, two tables, a few benches, on the walls a few barrack racks were fastened, each rack was crammed with bags, boxes, bundles, clothing, tin dishes, glasses and pieces of bread; from the hooks were suspended capes and towels; high up on the ceiling an electric lamp jutted forth, beneath the windows were piled up sacks of straw, three heaps with six or seven sacks on each that was the whole equipment of my new dwelling place. An official notice on the door announced that this was “Strenger Arrest fur 9 Mann” (Close arrest for 9 men) now there were about twenty of us here. Of course, in peace time this room was ample for nine criminals, but now there was a war on, it was a time for economy and self-denial, we had to squeeze in together as best we could.

Prepared and fully armed I entered this place, but if it had not been for my friend Dušek, I do not know how I should have managed. Fate had already provided me with various ups and downs in life, but every time I fell from the third story on the pavement, there always happened to be a straw mattress which somebody was carrying and which broke my fall. But that in room number 60 of the Viennese Military Jail I should fall right into the arms of Dušek, was one of the happiest chances which have occurred to me in the course of my misfortunes.

A man prepares and equips himself with good resolutions, with a heroic spirit, with a most firm will; he says to himself: Prison,—good; loss of