RACK
My hands tied behind my back and followed by a policeman with his bayonet fixed, I had to walk through the lamplit streets. Scores of street urchins ran alongside, bawling and yelling, women flung open windows, waved their wooden spoons and shouted insults at me. In the distance appeared the massive stone cube of the Law Courts, with the inscription over the entrance:
Avenging Justice
Protects the Law-abiding Citizen
Then I was passing through a huge gateway, along a corridor and into a room that reeked of kitchen smells. A man with a bushy beard and wearing a sabre, uniform jacket and cap, his bare feet protruding from long Johns tied at the ankles, stood up, put the coffee mill he had been holding between his knees on one side, and ordered me to take all my clothes off. He looked through my pockets, taking out everything he found in them, and asked me if I was infested with any vermin.
When I said no, he took the rings off my fingers and said that was all, now I could get dressed again. Then I was taken up several flights of stairs and along corridors with large, grey lockable chests standing in the window embrasures. The other side of the corridor was an unbroken row of iron doors with massive bolts and small, barred windows; above each burnt a gas jet.
A giant of a gaoler with a military bearing—the first honest face I had seen for hours—opened one of the doors, pushed me into a dark, closet-like cavity with a pestilential stench, and locked the door behind me. I was in complete darkness, and found my bearings by feeling my way round. My knee bumped against a galvanised iron bucket. Finally—the room was so narrow I could hardly turn round—I managed to find the door-handle to hold on to. I was in a cell: double bunk-beds with straw mattresses ran along the walls on either side, the gap between them scarcely one pace wide. A barred window three feet square high above the back wall let in the dull light of the night sky. The heat was unbearable, the cell filled with the smell of unwashed clothes.
When my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, I saw that one bunk was empty, but the other three were occupied by men in grey prisoners' uniforms sitting with their elbows on their knees and their faces in their hands.
Not one spoke a word.
I sat on the empty bunk and waited. Waited. Waited.
One hour.
Two hours, three hours.
Whenever I thought I heard a step outside, I sat up. Now, I thought, now they're coming to fetch me to see the examining magistrate.
Each time my hopes were dashed. The sound of the steps faded down the corridor.
I tore open my collar, I felt I was going to suffocate. One by one, I heard the groans of the other prisoners as they stretched out on their mattresses.
"Can't we open the window up there?" I put my despairing question to the general darkness around, almost starting at the sound of my own voice.
"No", was the sour response from one of the straw mattresses.
Nevertheless, I felt along the mildewed wall . . . a shelf at chest height . . .two jugs of water . . . a few stale crusts of bread. With difficulty I managed to clamber onto it, grasped the bars and pressed my face to the gap, so that at least I could breathe some fresh air. And there I stood, until my knees started to tremble, staring out into a monotony of dark-grey fog. The cold iron bars seemed to sweat.
It must soon be midnight.
Behind me I heard snoring. There was only one of them who seemed unable to sleep. He tossed and turned on the straw, sometimes moaning softly to himself.
Would morning never come? There! A clock was chiming! And again.
I counted with trembling lips. One—two—three!—Thank God, only a few more hours until it would begin to get light. The chiming continued. Four? Five? The sweat started pouring down my face. Six!—Seven!! . . . It was eleven o'clock! Only one hour had passed since I had last heard the clock strike.
Bit by bit I started to work out what must have happened. Wassertrum had tricked me into accepting Zottmann's watch so that I would be suspected of murder. He must be the murderer himself, or how else could he have come into possession of the watch? If he had come across the corpse somewhere and then stolen the watch, he would certainly have claimed the thousand crowns reward which had been offered for information leading to the discovery , of the missing man. But that could not be the case: the j posters were still up in the streets, as I had clearly seen as I ! made my way to the prison.
What was obvious was that the junk-dealer had informed against me; also that, as far as Angelina was concerned, he was in league with the Superintendent. Why else the interrogation about Savioli? On the other hand, that showed that Wassertrum had not yet managed to get hold of Angelina's letters.
I thought hard.
Suddenly the whole plot was revealed to me with awful clarity, as if I had been there myself. Yes, that's what must have happened: Wassertrum had searched my room with his police accomplice and must have secretly taken my strong box, suspecting it contained compromising material. He wouldn't have been able to open it right away, since I had the key with me . . . perhaps he was in his lair, trying to break it open at this very moment.
In a frenzy of desperation I shook the bars. In my mind I could see Wassertrum rifling through Angelina's letters. If only I could tell Charousek what had happened, so that he could at least warn Savioli in time!
For a moment I clung to the hope that the news of my arrest would have spread through the Jewish quarter like wildfire. I trusted Charousek as I would trust my guardian angel. Wassertrum could not match his fiendish cunning. "I will have him by the throat the very moment he thinks he has Dr. Savioli at his mercy", Charousek had said.
The next moment I rejected the whole idea and was seized with panic. What if Charousek came too late?
Then Angelina was lost.
I bit my lips till the blood came, and tore my breast with remorse at not having burnt the letters straight away. I swore a solemn oath that I would kill Wassertrum the moment I was free again.
What did it matter to me whether I died by my own hand or on the gallows?!
Not for a single moment did I doubt that the examining magistrate would believe me if I told him the story of the watch and of Wassertrum's threats. I was sure to be free by the morrow, and at the very least the court would order Wassertrum's arrest on suspicion of murder. I counted the hours, praying for them to pass more quickly. All the while I stared out into the black murk outside.
After an interminable time it began to get lighter and, first as a dark patch, then clearer and clearer, a huge copper disc appeared out of the mist: the face of an old clock on a tower. But—yet another torment—the hands were missing.
Then five o'clock struck.
I heard the other prisoners waking up and starting a conversation in Czech. One voice seemed familiar. I turned round and clambered down from the shelf. There was the pock-marked Loisa sitting on the bunk opposite mine and staring at me in amazement. The other two were hard-faced rogues who scrutinised me contemptuously. "Embezzler, don't you think?" the one asked his mate in an undertone, giving him a dig in the ribs at the same time.
The other muttered some disparaging remark, rummaged around in his mattress, pulled out a black piece of paper and lay it on the floor. Then he splashed a little water from the jug onto it, knelt down and used it as a mirror as he combed his hair into a kiss-curl with his fingers. Then he dried the paper with solicitous care and hid it in his mattress again.
"Pan Pernath, Pan Pernath." Loisa kept muttering my name to himself, staring at me wide-eyed, as if he had seen a ghost.
"You gentlemen appear to be acquainted, if you'll allow the remark", said the prisoner with uncombed hair in the slightly stilted manner characteristic of Viennese Czechs, sketching a mocking bow in my direction. "Permit me to introduce myself: Vossatka's the name, Black Vossatka. Arson", he added an octave lower, his voice throbbing with pride.
The man with the kiss-curl spat through his teeth, stared at me contemptuously for a few seconds, then said laconically, pointing to his own chest, "Breaking and entering."
I remained silent.
"Well, and what's brought you here, Count?" the Viennese Czech asked after a short pause.
I thought for a moment and then said calmly, "Murder in the course of robbery."
The two started in surprise, the scornful expression on their faces giving way to a look of utmost respect as, with one voice, they exclaimed, "An 'onour to share a cell with you."
When they saw that I took no notice of them, they withdrew to a corner where they held a whispered conversation. Then the one with the kiss-curl stood up and came over to me, silently felt my biceps and returned to his companion, shaking his head.
In a low voice, so the other two would not hear, I asked Loisa, "I suppose you're being kept on suspicion of having murdered Zottmann as well?"
He nodded. "Yes, a long time now."
More hours passed. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. Suddenly I heard Loisa calling softly, "Herr Pernath, Herr Pernath!"
"Yes?" I pretended to wake up.
"Please—excuse me, Herr Pernath, but—please—do you know what Rosina's doing? Is she at home?" the poor lad stammered. I felt extremely sorry for him as he stood there staring at me with his bloodshot eyes, convulsively wringing his hands with worry.
"She doing well. She's . . . she's a . . . waitress at . . . the Old Toll House Tavern", I lied. I could hear his sigh of relief.
Two convicts brought in a tray with enamel bowls containing the liquid left over from boiling sausages and, without a word, left three in the cell. After a few more hours the bolts rattled and the gaoler took me to the examining magistrate. My knees trembled with suspense as we went up and down stairs.
"Do you think it's possible I might be let out today?" I asked the gaoler anxiously.
I saw him repress his smile, out of pity for me. "Hm? Today? Hmm? God, everything's possible."
A chill ran down my spine.
Again I was looking at a door with a name on an enamel sign:
Karl, Freiherr von Leisetreter
Examining Magistrate
Another bare room and another two desks with three-foot high panels. In front of one stood a tall, old man with a white bushy beard neatly parted down in the middle, a black frock coat, thick red lips and creaky boots.
"You are Herr Pernath?"
"Yes."
"Gem engraver?"
"Yes."
"Cell 70?"
"Yes."
"Held on suspicion of the murder of Karl Zottmann?"
"Baron Leisetreter, may I first—"
"Held on suspicion of the murder of Karl Zottmann? "
"Probably. At least, that's what I imagine. But—"
"Have you made a confession?"
"What is there to confess, Baron Leisetreter, I'm innocent?"
"Have you made a confession? "
"No."
"Remanded in custody. Gaoler, take the man out."
"Please listen to me, your Honour. It is imperative that I get home today. I have important things to do—"
Behind the second desk someone cackled.
Baron Leisetreter grinned.
"Gaoler, take this man out."
The days crept by, week followed sluggish week, and still I was sitting in my cell. At twelve o'clock every day we were allowed out into the prison courtyard with the other convicts and prisoners on remand to trudge round on the damp earth for twenty minutes.
Talking to each other was forbidden.
In the middle of the yard was a bare, half-dead tree; an oval picture of the Virgin Mary painted on glass had grown into the bark. Along the walls ran a scraggy privet hedge, its leaves almost black from soot; all around were the barred windows of our cells from which, occasionally, we could see a putty-coloured face with anaemic lips looking down at us.
After the twenty minutes it was back up to our living tombs and bread, water and sausage broth; on Sundays we had putrid lentils.
In all that time I had had only one further interrogation. Did I have any witnesses that 'Herr' Wassertrum had given me the watch?
"Yes. Herr Shemaiah Hillel . . . that is . . .. no" (I remembered that he had not been there) "but Herr Charousek . . . no, he wasn't there, either."
"In brief: no one else was present?" "No, no one else was there, Baron Leisetreter." Again the cackle from behind the other desk followed by: "Gaoler, take this man out."
My anxiety about Angelina had turned into a dull feeling of resignation. There was no longer any point in worrying about her, I told myself; either Wassertrum had succeeded in carrying out his revenge or Charousek had stepped in.
Now it was my concern for Miriam that was almost driving me mad. I imagined her waiting hourly for the 'miracle' to happen again, running out to meet the baker every morning and examining the bread with trembling hands; perhaps she was worrying herself sick with fears for my safety.
Often during the night these anxieties would hound me from my sleep, and I would clamber up onto the shelf and stare out at the copper face of the clock in the tower, consumed with the desire that my thoughts might reach Hillel, might scream out to him to help Miriam and liberate her from the torment of waiting for a miracle.
Then sometimes I would throw myself onto the straw mattress and hold my breath until I almost burst, trying to force the image of my double to appear so that I could send it to comfort her. Once it did even appear beside my bunk with the words Chabrat Zereh Aur Bocher in mirror writing on its breast. I was about to shout out loud with joy that everything would be all right now, but it disappeared into the ground before I could order it to go to Miriam.
And why no news from my friends? I asked my cellmates whether letters were forbidden. They did not know. They had never received any, but then they had no one who could write to them, they said. The gaoler promised to make enquiries when the opportunity arose.
My nails were all torn because I had to bite them to keep them short, and my hair was a tangled mass, for we were not allowed scissors, a comb or brush. Nor was there any water for washing.
Most of the time I was fighting against nausea because they used soda instead of salt in the sausage broth, a prison regulation 'to combat the sexual urge'.
Time passed in awful, grey monotony; I was stretched out on the rack of the hours and minutes.
There were moments—all of us at some time fell prey to them—when one or another would jump off his bunk ; and pace up and down for hour after hour like a wild animal, finally to collapse back onto his mattress and lie there listlessly waiting—waiting—waiting.
When evening came the bugs appeared in droves, crisscrossing the walls like ants. It made me wonder why the fellow with the sabre and long Johns had even bothered to ask me whether I was carrying any vermin. Perhaps the court was worried about cross-breeding producing new species of insects?
Usually on Wednesday mornings a man with flapping trouser-legs and a slouch-hat over his piggy eyes and fat snout would appear—Dr. Rosenblatt, the prison doctor—to assure himself that we were all in the best of health. If ; any of us claimed to be ill, he would prescribe zinc ointment for rubbing on the chest, whatever the complaint.
Once the president of the district court—a tall, perfumed scoundrel from so-called 'good' society who had the crudest vices written all over his face—even accompanied him, to see that everything was in order or, as my cell-mate with the kiss-curl put it, "whether any of us 'as topped 'isself."
I went over to put a request to him, at which he immediately jumped behind the gaoler, pointed a revolver at me and screamed, "What do you want?"
I asked politely whether there were any letters for me. For answer Dr. Rosenblatt gave me a push in the chest and then quickly made his escape. The president of the court also left, jeering at me from the safety of the doorway that I would do better to confess to the murder. Only then would I receive any letters this side of the tomb.
I had long since become accustomed to the heat and bad air. I was shivering with cold all the time, even when the sun was shining. The occupants of two of the bunks had changed several times, but I ignored the newcomers. One week it would be a pickpocket and a footpad, the next a counterfeiter and a fence.
Everything happened one day, was forgotten the next. Nothing could touch me apart from my gnawing concern for Miriam. There was only one thing that had made an impression on me, sometimes a distorted version even haunted my dreams:
I had been standing on the shelf to stare up at the sky when I suddenly felt a sharp object sticking into my thigh. When I looked I discovered it was the file which had made a hole in my pocket and found its way into the lining of my jacket.. It must have been there for a long time, otherwise the man who checked my clothes would have found it. I took it out and tossed it onto my straw mattress. When I climbed down from the shelf, it had disappeared, and I had no doubt that it could only have been Loisa who had taken it. A few days later they took him out to transfer him to a cell on the next floor down. It was quite wrong, said the gaoler, for two remand prisoners such as Loisa and myself, who were accused of the same crime, to be kept in the same cell.
With all my heart I hoped the poor lad might manage to escape with the help of the file.