Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/381
liberty—never mind; a jailer,—there must be one; a warder,—there must be one also,—but the reality comes and the prison turns out to be a military jail, a cold and dismal room; loss of liberty turns out to be a complete loss of your own personality; the jailer turns out to be a prison governor, and the warder a Beschliesser; the reality is cruel, coarse, uncouth, and a series of trifles of which you have never thought, here play a very important part.
We sat down together on the straw mattress of one of the beds,—it was Dušek’s bed which the superintendent, a decent German, had put there for him, and we talked together. Dušek was as thoroughly versed in all the details of jail life, as if he had grown up there. He knew the life his tory and circumstances of all the jailers and prisoners, the whole building had not a single secret or mystery for him, he was acquainted with all the conditions of life there and he initiated me into them. Like the chorus of a song, the question was repeated: what are you really here for? That I was there did not surprise him—he had expected me with absolute certainty from that day in December when I gave evidence in the Kramář trial—but what could be the immediate cause? If it had been something political, they would not have locked me up with him, “accomplices” are not allowed to be together; therefore it can be nothing which is connected with the “Čas”, or the Pastor (as we called Professor Masaryk); besides, I had not been concerned with politics, could not be in touch with abroad—well, it is certain that they have something and that they will tell what it is very soon, for every prisoner must be allowed to make a statement within 24 hours—“but it does not matter why they have locked you up,” he observed, “you may be prepared to remain here for the duration of the war, and it is a good thing that we are together.”
He told me about our fellow residents. There were Viennese, Italians, Serbs, Russians, soldiers and civilians, Aryans, Jews, orthodox believers. The room was a kind of clearing-station; four or five were a nucleus as it were, the rest arrived, remained for a few days and then moved out on to the first or second story. He himself formed part of the nucleus, he had remained, so that he knew best who the fresh arrivals were. I should need clean linen, soap, a toothbrush and a spoon. The food was not fit to eat, I should have to buy substitutes for it from the provision dealer, for which money, a good deal of money, was necessary. The money had to be sent to the office, the prisoner was not alowed to have a single heller on him—in the office everything was figured out, and when the things were purchased the superintendent of our floor handed them over. Everything that was not allowed there was done nevertheless; they read newspapers, played cards, each man had a pocket-knife, pencil, paper; smoking was allowed only on Saturday afternoon and the whole day Sunday, but as I could see, smoking went on day after day, and from morning till evening, even at night as well. The money which was in the room was called “black”,—from time to time the warder came, found it, and you parted with it for ever, but so far very little of it had been found. The same applied to knives, pencils, cigars, paper. The currency among the prisoners and the form of gratuity for all kinds of services consisted of cigars—in return for cigars it was possible to obtain newspapers, rum, brandy, everything. Letters which arrived were censored by the examining superintendent, and in the same way, the letters were read which the natives of these parts sent away. Writing was allowed only on Sunday mornings under the supervision of the warder, the jailer or some authority set up by them. Visitors could be received only with the permission of the examining superintendent, who was present on such occasions, and as he was a German, the language spoken must be German. And such a superintendent often proceeded to Bohemia, either to hold a cross-examition, or to carry out a domiciliary search, or else to fetch back more malefactors, it was desirable that the visitors should apply in writing to know the day and hour when he could come.
A warder opened the door. It was Sergeant Sponner, of whom Dušek told me that he barked but did not bite; he called out my name. It was for my cross-examination.
I went.
VIII.
A defence-corps man in front of me, a defence-corps man behind me, both equipped with old Werndl rifles, we walked solemnly along the middle of the street. We went from the Blindengasse, the street of the sightless, where the military tribunal held its sittings, to the Tigergasse, the street of Tigers, the headquarters of the military legal authorities. The Genius Loci is fond of making such unintentional jests.
The sun was still shining. But it was not the sun from which I had parted in the morning, it was a strange sun which somebody has put in the sky in the place of the beloved sun we know so well, and strange are its light and its warmth. Even these familiar streets have a strange appearance, and the people passing through them are not Viennese, but natives of heaven knows what town. And finally, I myself, am I myself? And is this not all a repulsive dream? Two young ladies stood on the pavement and looked at us inquisitively.
“Ein Spion[1]", observed one.
“Oder ein Hochverräter”[2]) replied the other. For a moment their eyes blazed with patriotic indignation, then they burst out laughing.
The defence-corps men marched along in military style, one two, one two, each pace 75 centimetres, 120 paces to the minute. I walked with little civilian steps, and this must have confused my