The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 4/Number 9/Jail

The case of Dr. Kramář and associates had been held in abeyance for some time. It was said new evidence had been discovered in Belgrade after its capture. It was also said that Dr. Preminger had fallen ill. It was also said that the proceedings would be stopped altogether. In those days of official silence, every event became the subject of a whole series of different versions and explanations, because a man likes to have complete ideas about a thing, and if he cannot get the actual facts, he invents them and tells them to his fellowmen so often, until he believes them himself.

The winter of that year was not severe and ended exactly according to the calendar. During a few evenings in February there were heavy and vicious winds, but one day the sun leapt into the blue sky with such warmth and radiance, that the people quivered with sheer delight and blinked their eyes at the unaccustomed lustre; crows swayed slantingly in the air on their ragged wings as if they wished to expose now their backs, now their bellies to the warmth of the sun; from the roofs fell drops of melted snow and glistened like brilliants; in the streets brooklets trickled merrily, the mud glistened, fur coats, winter costumes and ladies’ dark dresses disappeared; the streets became gay with light overcoats and cheerful colors of women’s dresses; the people rid themselves of the heavy and cautious gait they had acquired during the winter months, and strolled along displaying their contentment in dainty springtime steps; and in the parks where audacious blackbirds scurried about on the freshened grass, there appeared a crowd of nursemaids with and without perambulators, and tiny babies who had been born in the course of the winter blinked with their expressionless little eyes at the golden, radiant air.

And at the same time in the north, south, east and west, cannons, rifles, bayonets and bombs were at the work; war was being carried on upon the earth, under the earth, upon the sea, under the sea, in the air,-war was being carried on by gods and men, machines, vapours, gases, electricity and all the acquisitions of science and art (for war was also being carried on by poets, novelists, savants, philosophers, draughtsmen, painters, pamphleteers, journalists) as if mankind had come to an agreement that it was necessary to slay all those spectres which are called culture, civilization, progress, humanity, morals and religion. Homage had been done to them for centuries,—now they must fall. A few crowns were shaking upon hallowed heads, a few wearers of royal garments were homelessly wandering about Europe, the penny-a-liners who had formerly greeted them on their various visits, now pelted them with coarse jokes,—a new Iliad in which the simple heroes were silent and fell, and only types like Thersites made speeches at the back.

Everybody was tired of the war,—rulers, nations, diplomats, soldiers, but the war went on.

And the spring came with its fresh greenery, skylarks, chafers, blossoms, the first swallows appeared, flitted above the streets and darted into the air with artistic curves, but what else happened and ​what kind of a spring it was, I do not know. For the sword of Damocles now descended upon the head of my freedom.

A few years ago,—heavens, how pluperfect everything is today,—I wrote a little skit in three chapters, entitled “Clericalism Dead.” For reasons given below, it is impossible to explain its contents I can only hint at them. A certain caste of people, Archbishops, Bishops, Prelates, Abbots, Deans and Vicars assemble and say to themselves: we are unmarried, we have an abundance of the possessions of this world,—good, we will do something for our country and nation. And they did so; they took over the National Schools, founded a second University, gave their country-houses to disabled artists and writers,—well it was a skit. And because it was a skit, nobody here had noticed it, but in Zagreb a certain progressive paper took it quite seriously, translated it, printed it and exclaimed: Look here, just see what kind of clergy, what kind of bishops the Czechs have,—and suddenly the satire had its comic side. But that only by the way. So that hoax was called “Clericalism Dead” and the late “Volná Myšlenka” issued it as a pamphlet. It was a green, thin little book. Somewhere about the middle of April 1915 our beloved censorship also had a look at this booklet and confiscated it, which did not surprise me in the least,—not that I was convinced of the pernicious character of its contents, but because I had experiences, both my own and other people’s, in these matters.

Then on April 25th the clerical paper Reichspost published an item of local news about the completed confiscation of this booklet, and very bitterly expressed its astonishment that I was still allowed to write, and to write things which had to be confiscated, surely it was well known that I was undergoing a cross-examination.

To this item of local news our papers bashfully replied that the worthy Reichspost had been wrongly informed, that the pamplet “Clericalism Dead” had appeared several years previously, but what is the good of speaking to them when they are Germans and do not understand you?

Some days later this paper again expressed its astonishment. Masaryk, the traitor, it said, was outside the country, but here was a man walking about in liberty in Vienna—yes, and writing too, as if there were no control,—a man who aimed at proceeding from the destruction of authors to the destruction of thrones, and so on.

I watched everything like the spectator of a bad play in the theatre,—with my mind elsewhere, with the fatalism of a Turk. I did not move a finger, I did not speak or write a single word, I gave no explanation, I did not defend myself. The performance was wearisome, there was no chance of getting away, so I waited for the end.

And I met with it on May 7th.

At home everything had been prepared. In an envelope the telegrams to my family and friends which Josefinka was to send off in case of my non-arrival, in my soul there was calm, in my table-drawer the manuscripts of new books arranged for the publisher,—to be prepared is everything. And I was.

So early one day I went to my office.

It was a beautiful golden day, the streets swarmed with people, everybody was hurrying in pursuit of some aim office machines; for years and years we have known their faces, their gait, their movements; if one of them disappears, nobody misses him, the others will press on in the same way tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, a year hence, five years hence.

I sat down at my desk and began to work.

At ten o’clock I was called on the telephone by Dr. Sieghart, the managing secretary. I was to take my hat and coat.

Now “it” is here, flashed through my mind.

I went up. The secretary’s face was very solemn, and softly and slowly he began to say that “leider muss ich Ihnen.”^[1]

“Arrested?” I said jerkily.

“Yes. A detective is waiting in the next room.”

“Good, let us go.”

I was told that I had about an hour if I wanted to write home.

Unnecessary. I had already seen to that. But I should like to write a few lines tto Josefinka asking her to bring me a handbag with clean linen.

They said I could. Here was paper, a pen, an envelope.

I wrote. Clean linen, soap, a toothbrush,—and I where was I to have it sent me?

Perhaps to the police, they thought. However, we would ask the detective.

The detective came in. It was neither Mr. Kolbe nor the other taciturn person,—it was quite a strange detective. Yes, to the police, he thought.

“Have you a warrant for the arrest?” I asked.

He had. Signed by the military commander, and I was arrested under paragraph 65a.

“Doctor, have you a manual of law here? Please find out for me what that is.”

The Doctor turned over the leaves, 65a,—offending against the interests of public order,—the penalty from two years upwards.

“You must obtain a counsel, perhaps Dr. Pressburger” remarked the secretary, “he is rather ex‘pensive.”

“A counsel? What for? Not a bit of it.”

“But allow me to—”

“My dear doctor, you do not understand my situation. A poet cannot be concerned about a trial, a poet has nothing to hush up, a poet must be his own counsel.”

“Well, think the matter over, a military court is no joke.”

“We shall see. And now, my guardian angel,” I said turning to the detective, “let us go.”

And we went to the police headquarters. I looked at the May sunshine, which covered the streets, the houses, the trees trembling in the air, and thought and thought. What have they against ​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 ​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.

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^[2]", observed one.

“Oder ein Hochverräter”^[3]) 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 ​guard at the back, for he kept on changing step and stamped to correct my pace.

The street of tigers is a quiet little street in the 8th circuit. For the greater part it consists of old, low-roofed little houses above which rises here and there a high and more modern tenement building People were hurrying to and fro on the pavements, they looked at us, and from the open windows we were met by inquisitive glances of conjecture; I also looked at them, but really I saw, I felt nothing whatever. It was as if my soul had fallen asleep. I was indifferent to everything that had been, that was, and that would be, I had no interest in anything, least of all for my own fate. I was not even inquisitive now to know what they had against me. The day had brought too many impressions, it was not possible to take them in and my senses were blunted. Only the fragment of some Viennese tune sounded obstinately in my ears, and I could not get rid of it. In front of a high tenement building,—on it was a tablet with an eagle and the number eleven. The man in front of me, he of the defence-corps, stopped. He read the inscription, compared the number of the house with what was written on his official paper, made a sign to us that this was the place, and entered.

The first story, the second, the third,—on the door a tablet marked Oberleutnant Auditor Dr. Frank, this was it. The defence-corps man went in to announce my arrival, the second kept guard over me meanwhile in the little ante-room.

The fragment of that wretched tune kept ringing in my ears.

The defence-corps man came back and beckoned to me to go in. A small room with two windows, by the left window a writing table with the clerk belonging to it; further, two tables at one of which was an officer of no great height, giving somehow an impression of cleanness; he was clean-shaven, his hair carefully brushed, he had cold blue eyes,—Dr. Felix Frank, in civil life on the staff of the Viennese magistracy, now lieutenant-superintendent and searcher out of guilty Czech hearts and souls.

Let me say at once that it was certainly a relief to us all that the military persecution did not employ our own people, Czech people as its instruments. I am absolutely incapable of imagining them in this capacity, as an author I have a feeling for unity of style, and this would certainly have been impaired to a considerable extent. Dr. Frank had taken over Czech affairs and Czech people from Dr. Preminger of Bukovina.

He asked me to sit down, and his voice was agreeable and clear with a metallic note in it.

From a drawer he took out a file—my file—and I noticed also that his hands were clean and well-cared for.

And he asked me whether I wished to appeal against my imprisonment.

Of course I did.

He drew my attention to the fact that this was a formality, that my appeal would change nothing, but might protract the course of my proceedings by several weeks. And he advised me not to appeal.

Good, I will not appeal then, but the jail was not to my liking, and of this I informed him.

He smiled, disclosing two rows of clean teeth stopped with gold, and dictated the report to the youth at the writing table. That I did not enter an appeal. The machine clattered, the yellowish official paper kept emerging from its teeth covered with symmetrical rows of writing.

Then from a drawer he drew out a book. Heavens, my own books, my verses entitled “Drops.”

Did I guess why I had been arrested?

No.

For four poems from this book.

I saw marked with blue pencil:
“In memory of November 5th 1908.”
“Hospital Humanitarianism.”
“To Dr. Frant. Měšany.”
“Twenty Years.”

My listless weariness fell from me at a blow. What, really for this? And in all my literary activity you found nothing else besides these four trifles? Tell me, is it possible?

Yes, for these four poems.

Joy, inexpressible joy, set me astir. I will fight for my liberty. How could this be a menace to Austrian power and order? I was prepared for all kinds of things, but that I should be imprisoned and cross-examined on account of such trifling verses, no, that I had not expected.

Like lightning there flashed through my mind the memory of Count Jáchym Ondřej Šlik. Slavata in his “Memoirs” quotes as if in mockery the letter written by him on March 2nd 1621 to Prince Liechtenstein. He said that he was not the instigator of that unfortunate deed wich flung the Emperor’s representatives from the window, that he had only heard of it about an hour and a half previously, that he could not even give them any warning, that he had opposel Mates von Thurn “almost to bodily violence”, that Mates von Thurn was a “false and notorious man”, who had shamefully misled and deceived the gentleman of rank, that šlik had not laid hands on the Emperor’s representatives,—poor rebel, this explanation availed him nothing; on March 18th he was seized by the Kurfürst of Saxony, handed over to the Emperor’s justices, and on June 21st he was executed in the square of the Od Town. Every revolution, whether active or passive, produces people such as Šlik; they undertake and carry them out in the conviction that their cause is just, but then when their cause comes to grief, they desert it, disguise it, deny it and conceal it,—as if defence of this kind had ever helped those who were defeated, and could ward off the vengeance of those who had conquered.

My case was clear and free from guile,—thank God. All these poems were written long before the war, printed several times,—I did not need to ​deny and conceal, I could not indeed have played so pitiable and aimless part as Count Jáchym Ondřej Šlik.

And so I dictated for the report: The first three poems appeared in Čas in the years 1905, 1908 and 1913, without arousing any objections; the last one appeared in Samostatnost in 1913. . In book form they were issued,—again without arousing any objections, in my collected feuilletons, then “bei Umgruppierung meimer Werke”^[4] (to use the modern term), I included them in a volume of short and topical lyric poems entitled “Drops”, which I might call my diary.

“And by printing them during the war you have committed a new criminal offence” remarked Dr. Frank.

“Only that they were confiscated as far back as September 27th 1915, and the poetaster has only just been arrested, that is, seven months later” I objected.

“That makes no difference. Nothing gets out of date here. Do you make any changes in your printed verses when you prepare them for volume form?”

“Very often. Rhyme, phrases, whole stanzas.”

“What are your criteria in making such changes?”

“Artistic ones.”

“You have not changed anything—in the poems concerned, in order, for example to bring out their chief features more prominently?”

“No.”

“Has your publisher any influence on the contents of the book? Does he read it before he sends it to press?”

“No he does not. He sends it to press just as he receives it from me. I alone take responsibility for everything.

He dictated the continuation of the report. The machine clattered, the paper rustled.

—Tomorrow I may be out of it—was the thought that occurred to me. For everything was so clear and obvious. An error, a judicial error. If they are human, I shall be among my books tomorrow.

“Did you extract only these four poems from the books of feuiletons referred to, or others as well?” continued Dr. Frank, and studied his pink fingernails.

“Quite a number. In fact all the verse writings which they contain.”

“Could you mark them for me in the contents?”

I marked them and noticed that they formed a good third of “Drops.”

“Here is your letter which you wrote when you were arrested. What is there in it? And who is Josefina Procházková?"

“She is my servant and I asked her to send me my clean linen to the jail.”

“Good, I will have it forwarded. Your case is a very simple one, a matter of a few days; we will investigate your statements on Friday or Saturday,—today is Tuesday,—I will have you sent for and we shall proceed to hear the case on its merits. You will then obtain counsel to defend you.”

“I shall not have counsel!”

“Why not?”

“There is nothing to defend. The matter is clear. I wrote and printed such and such a thing, here it is, I alone can explain it,—if there is anything punishable in it, punish me.”

“But you must have counsel.”

“No. You take a man and lock him up,—I did not ask you to do so,—and then you say: have a counsel. I have nothing to hush up, and I permit nobody to twist and turn my verses. What I have written, I have written.”

“As you like. I will now read to you the report of today’s cross-examination.”

“There is no need, I have heard it.”

“I will read it through. You will sign.”

He read it. I signed.

Then he wrote on a piece of paper how long the cross-examination had lasted, and handed it and me to the defence-corps men.

And again we went through the strange streets. A defence-corps man in front, a defence-corps man behind, one two, one two, I with short civilian steps between them.

It is impossible for them to keep me here longer than the end of the week. Such a paltry matter. After all, we are in the twentieth century. Within a week I shall certainly be among my books—such were my thoughts, and I felt like a cockchafer which is preparing to fly; it raises the covering of its wings, stretches the delicate membranes of its netlike wings, and moves them as if testing them; and its whole body moves as if it were taking breath for a magnificent flight.

Dušek, a sceptical person, dampened my ardour: “Don’t believe them; you will find that your case won’t be heard on Friday, or Saturday either. They will keep you here on ice like me and all of us.”