The cultural standards of the penal establishments were to be raised by educational means, such as musical performances, which would enliven the spirit, and well-chosen lectures on the basic moral laws governing human society and on the fundamental principles of ethics and other such themes.
The senior prison officials were to devote more attention to the individual prisoners and to their psychological troubles. The prisoner himself, owing to a three-degree system offering many kinds of contractual privileges hitherto unknown, could gradually advance, by means of good behavior, diligent work, and proof of a change of heart, to the third degree and thus obtain an early release on probation. In optimum cases he could obtain a remission of half his sentence.
I myself was the first of approximately 800 prisoners to reach the third degree. Up to the time of my release there were not more than a dozen who, in the opinion of the authorities, were worthy of wearing the three stripes on their sleeve. In my case all the aforementioned qualifications were present. I had never been given any kind of house punishment or even a reprimand; I had always completed more than my daily work task; I was a first offender who had not been deprived of civil rights, and I was classified as guilty of a “crime of conviction.” Since, however, I had been condemned by the political tribunal, I could only be released before completing my sentence as the result of an Act of Grace on the part of the President of the Reich, or of an amnesty.
Almost as soon as I had begun to serve my sentence, I finally realized the full nature of my predicament. I came to my senses. There could be no doubt that I was faced with the almost certain prospect of serving a sentence of ten years’ hard labor. A letter from one of my defending lawyers on the matter at last confirmed what I now knew to be the case. And I accepted the reality of this ten-year sentence. Up to then I had enjoyed each day as it came, had taken the good with the bad, and had never given a serious thought to my future. Now I had leisure enough to reflect on my past life, to recognize my mistakes and my weaknesses, and to train myself for a richer and more rewarding life in the future.
I had indeed found, in the periods between my Freikorps activities, a profession that I enjoyed and loved and in which I could do well. I had developed a passion for farming and had done well as a farmer; witnesses who gave evidence at my trial confirmed this.
But the real essence of life, that which makes living a true fulfillment, was still unknown to me at the time. I began to seek for it, absurd as this may sound, behind my prison walls, and found it, later!
I had been taught since childhood to be absolutely obedient and meticulously tidy and clean; so in these matters I did not find it difficult to conform to the strict discipline of prison.
I conscientiously carried out my well-defined duties. I completed the work allotted me, and usually more, to the satisfaction of the foreman. My cell was a model of neatness and cleanliness, and even the most malicious eyes could see nothing there with which to find fault.
I even became accustomed to the perpetual monotony of my daily existence, which was rarely broken by any unusual event, although this acceptance was quite contrary to my restless nature. My former life had been extremely hectic and lively.
An outstanding event during the first two years was the arrival of the letter which we were allowed to receive every three months. I would think about it for days before it came, imagining and envisaging everything it might possibly contain. The letter was from my fiancée. At least she was my fiancée as far as the prison administration was concerned. She was the sister of a friend of mine and I had never seen her or heard of her before. Since I was only allowed to correspond with relatives, my friends, when I was in Leipzig jail, had produced a “fiancée” for me. This girl wrote to me faithfully throughout all the long years of my imprisonment. She did everything I asked of her, kept me informed of all that went on in my circle of friends outside, and passed on all my own news.
Yet I never became accustomed to the petty chicanery of the junior officials. This always had an extremely disturbing effect on me, especially when it was deliberate and malicious. The senior officials, up to the prison warden himself, always treated me correctly. So too did the majority of the junior officials with whom I came in contact during the course of the years. But there were three of these who, for political reasons, being Social Democrats, bullied me whenever they could. This bullying usually consisted of mere pinpricks, but they nevertheless managed to wound me severely. In fact they hurt me much more in this way than if I had been physically beaten.
Every prisoner who lives a sensitive inner life suffers far more from unjustified, malicious, and deliberate acts of spite, in a word, from acts of mental cruelty, than ever he does from the physical equivalent. Such acts produce a far more ignominious and oppressive effect than does corporal maltreatment.
I often tried to make myself indifferent to this, but I never succeeded.
I grew accustomed to the crude language of the junior guards, whose delight in the power they wielded increased in proportion to the lowness of their mentality. I also got used to the senseless orders which these same narrow-minded officials would give, and I would carry them out without demur, and even with an inward chuckle.
I became accustomed, too, to the disgusting language used by the prisoners when they met.
But though it happened every day, I could never accustom myself to the common, cynical, and filthy way in which the prisoners treated everything good and beautiful, everything which many men regard as sacred. They became especially vicious when they noticed that a fellow prisoner could be hurt by such talk. This kind of behavior has always affected me strongly.
I have ever regarded a good book as a good friend. Up to then my restless life had given me little time or leisure for reading. But in the loneliness of my cell books became my all, and this was especially so during the first two years of my sentence. They were my one relaxation, and they enabled me entirely to forget my situation.
Toward the end of the first two years, which had passed monotonously and without any special incident, I was overcome by a most peculiar state of mind. I became very irritable, nervous, and excited. I felt a disinclination to work, although I was in the tailoring shop at the time and had hitherto thoroughly enjoyed this work. I could no longer eat and I brought up every mouthful that I forced myself to swallow. I could not read any more and became completely unable to concentrate. I paced up and down my cell like a wild animal. I lay awake all night, although I had up to then always fallen at once into a deep and almost dreamless sleep. I had to get out of bed and walk round and round my cell, and was unable to lie still. Then I would sink exhausted on to the bed and fall asleep, only to wake again after a short time bathed in sweat from my nightmares. In these confused dreams I was always being pursued and killed, or falling over a precipice. The hours of darkness became a torment. Night after night I heard the clocks strike the hour. As morning approached, my dread increased. I feared the light of day and the people I should have to see once more. I felt incapable of seeing them again. I tried with all my strength to pull myself together, but without success. I wanted to pray, but my prayers dissolved into a distressed stammering. I had forgotten how to pray, and had lost the way to God. In my misery I believed that God had no wish to help me, since I had forsaken Him. I was tormented by the memory of my definite secession from the Church in 1922. Yet this had been the ratification of a state of affairs that had existed since the end of the war. In my heart I was already leaving the Church during the last years of the war. I reproached myself bitterly for not having followed the wishes of my parents, for my lack of piety. It was strange how all this worried me while I was in this plight.