The sergeant drew breath and looked at me severely. I was most indignant at this quite unexpected effect of my account, and I said crossly, “I didn’t tell you this story so that you could give me a moral lecture, Schulze.…”
“Sergeant Schulze, if you don’t mind, Sommer!” Schulze corrected me severely.
“But I thought,” I continued furiously, “that you might take the trouble to set about catching this scoundrel immediately.”
“That’s good,” laughed the sergeant ironically. “First of all, in your drunken stupor you have to hand over all your goods and chattels to some criminal, and then you yell for the police and expect us to say, ‘Dear, oh dear!’ and break our necks running after a handful of spoons for you. I tell you again, you don’t deserve anything better, and if it wasn’t that your poor wife has to bear all the burden of your stupidity, I wouldn’t lift a finger over this affair. But for your wife’s sake, Sommer—mark that, for your wife’s sake—I will, as soon as I’ve seen you safe in clink and made my report to the inspector. It’s still possible this bird hasn’t flown yet—perhaps he doesn’t expect us so soon. But now get on a bit faster, I’d like to hand you over before you get into any more mischief. One never knows what to expect from you. My God! I’m never going to be taken in again by such a fellow as you, in all my life. I used to marvel at what a clever man you were, but probably your wife did it all. How’s she ever going to forgive you for all the muck-up you’ve made of things?”
With that, we went on, and did not exchange another word until we got to the police-court. Probably Schulze was inwardly busy with his report for the inspector, but I was truly deeply offended at all the unjust things which this low-grade policeman had said so rudely to my face. If the fellow couldn’t see that I had merely been ill, a helpless invalid at the mercy of a rogue, there was no help for him, he was a stupid fool. Anyhow, I certainly wasn’t. I had simply been ill, and still was.…
28
In the course of my business career, I had several times had dealings with the police-court, and I knew the lay-out of the place fairly well. But I had never before been in the part to which Sergeant Schulze was taking me now. We went through the whole building (it adjoins the district court) to a rather narrow inner yard which was shut off on one side by a high wall, and on the other three by tall buildings pitted from top to bottom with small, almost square windows, all protected with strong bars.
“I’m going to live up there for weeks and weeks, perhaps,” I thought, and I was overcome by fear. I would have liked to ask my companion a number of things about the customs and regulations of such a prison, but it was too late for that now. Schulze pressed a bell-push, a huge iron door opened, and a blue-uniformed man greeted Schulze with a handshake and me with a cool searching look.
“A new arrival, Karl,” said Schulze. “The papers will be coming this afternoon from the Public Prosecutor’s office.”
“Stand over there!” said the man in uniform, and I obediently placed myself where he ordered me.
The two policemen whispered, and looked across at me several times. Once I heard the words “attempted murder”—it did not seem to make any special impression.
Then Schulze called to me from some distance, “Well, keep your chin up, Sommer,” and the door closed behind him; he had gone back into freedom, and I felt as if I had lost a friend.
“Come with me,” said the man in uniform carelessly, and led me into an office which was quite unoccupied.
“Turn out your pockets and put everything on the table.”
I did so. It was little enough: a bunch of keys, a pocket knife, a rather dirty handkerchief.
“That all you’ve got? No money? Well, hold up your arms.”
I did so; and now he felt me up and down, presumably for any hidden belongings.
“All right,” said the blue-uniformed man. “I’ll put you in Eleven for the time being. The governor’s not here just now. It’s the lunch-break.”
I asked politely whether I might have some lunch too. I hadn’t had anything yet.
“Lunch is over,” he answered coolly. “There’s none left.”
“But I haven’t had any breakfast either!” I cried excitedly. Up till the present my appetite had not been very large, but now it seemed ravenous. I felt my rights were being violated; even a prisoner must eat!
“You’ll enjoy your supper all the more,” he answered, unmoved. “Come on now!”
He led me along a corridor, through an iron grill, up a stairway, through an iron door. I saw a long gloomy corridor and many iron-studded doors with locks and bolts, then again up a stairway, up another stairway, again an iron door—the man had to keep unlocking and locking all the time, and he did it all so casually … but my heart sank: all these doors that now lay between me and the outside world made me realise so clearly how trapped I was, how difficult it was going to be to get free again. From the very first moment I felt the truth of that saying which I was to hear often in prison: “Easier to get in than out.”
My guide had stopped before an iron door with a white “11” on it. Behind this, then, I was to live. He unlocked the door, and beyond it appeared another door. This, too, he unlocked.
“Get in,” said my companion impatiently, and I entered. From a narrow bed, a strange figure arose, a tall man of remarkable girth, with a bald head and spectacles.
“A bit of company?” he asked. “Well, that’s nice. Where are you from?”
I was so astonished to find that I had a room-mate in my cell that I only noticed much later that the turnkey had gone and I was finally and irrevocably shut in.
“Sit down on that stool,” said the fat man. “I’m staying in bed for a bit. You’re not supposed to, but Fermi doesn’t say anything. Fermi’s the one who just brought you up.”
I sat on the stool and stared at the man lying on the bed. Like me, he wore civilian clothes, a once-elegant suit from a good tailor, which was now crumpled and stained.
“Are you a prisoner too?” I finally asked.
“I should say so!” laughed the fat man. “Do you think I’d be sitting in this hole for fun?” He stretched, and gave a groan as he did so. “I’ve been stuck in this place eleven weeks already. But d’you think they’ve charged me yet? Not a hope. These fellows take their time, as far as they’re concerned you could rot before they’d stir themselves. What are you up for?”
“The Public Prosecutor had me arrested for the attempted murder of my wife,” I answered with modest pride, and I quickly added, “But it isn’t true. Not a word of it is true.”
The fat man laughed again.
“Of course it’s not true,” he laughed. “There’s only innocent men in here—when you ask them.”
“But in my case it really isn’t true,” I insisted. “I never tried to murder my wife. We just had a bit of a quarrel.”
“Ah well,” said the fat man, “in time you’ll get it all off your chest. Everyone who isn’t used to clink starts to talk after a time. Only you want to be careful who you’re talking to. Most of ’em want to be the governor’s pet and they go crawling to him with everything—and then you’re for it.”