Along the road stand tall old chestnut trees, which have finished blossoming. The sun is sinking. Now and then, a belated cartload of hay creaks passed us. The people hardly turn their heads after us, they are long accustomed to such a sight around here, in the near vicinity of the asylum. The most that happened was that once a woman threw an inquisitive look at my bandaged face. The warder had tried to question me about my “crime” and my former life, but I had only answered him in monosyllables. But since he has decided to shorten the journey with a little conversation, he now tells me about himself, or rather about a garden which he works with his young wife. He would so much like to rent the neighbouring plot of land, and, weighing the matter up at his ease, he sets out before me all the reasons for and against it—his low salary and the high rent, the soil full of weeds, the doubtful yield—oh, there were only reasons against. The warder breathes out a cloud of blueish-white smoke and says finally: “Well, I’ll rent that plot at all costs. A plot of land—that’s better than a thousand marks in the savings bank!”
I only half-listen to his chatter, and now when he comes to his surprising conclusion I smile bitterly. “It’s with such empty-heads as this that I’m to keep company from now on, and they simply call me ‘Sommer’ without ‘Herr’ and graciously admit that ‘so far I make quite a sensible impression’!”
But aloud I ask: “Is that the institution?”
“That’s it,” replied the warder. “And now we’d better put a bit of a spurt on; it’s nearly office closing-time, and the governor will complain if I bring you in late.”
Seen from the road, the asylum does not make a bad impression. My heart starts to beat easier. Situated on a slight rise, surrounded by tall thick-leaved old trees, it lies as stately as a great manor-house or some old castle. Great windows blink in the light of the evening sun. But as we come nearer, I see the high red walls all round, with iron spikes and barbed-wire along the top, I see the bars in front of the flashing windows, and my companion has no need whatever to explain: “This used to be a convict prison.”
No, I can see for myself this does not look like a hospital but a convict prison. A real moat, quite wide, encircles the whole group of buildings, ducks and geese swim peacefully on it, but on the bridge we are crossing stands an armed guard in a green uniform, and the office to which I am taken is no whit different from the prison office I left an hour and a half ago. Even the officials in it seem to be of the same kind, the same bored, uninterested yet searching glance is thrown at the new inmate, the same slow formality is gone through by which my escort is relieved of me and my personal details are entered.
This evening affords me only one ray of light; I was arrested on a charge of attempted murder, the magistrate had ordered my transfer to an institution on the grounds of homicidal intent, now I am being handed over here with the entry “uttering menaces”. Without my doing anything about it, the seriousness of the charge against me has been considerably reduced; for a moment I tell myself that it is impossible for them to keep me here for any length of time, and to destroy my whole life for such a slight offence.
But then, as I followed my green-uniformed guide with his fattish melancholy face, through all the wretched stone courtyards on which only barred windows looked down, as I was admitted into a gigantic stone building through double iron doors, and mounted the gloomy staircase, as I realised that the so-called hospital differed in no respect from a prison, that here, too, were bars and warders and iron discipline and blind obedience, I thought no more about the great step I had taken from attempted murder to uttering menaces, I believed no more in the slightness of my offence—I felt that anything was possible, I realised how helplessly I stood at the mercy of gigantic and pitiless powers, powers without heart, without compassion, without human qualities. I was caught in a great machine and nothing that I did or felt was of any more consequence, the machine would run its unalterable course, I might laugh or cry, the machine would take no notice.
37
One iron grill and then another iron grill, and now we enter a long gloomy corridor full of pale figures. It stinks here, it stinks piercingly of latrines, cabbage and bad tobacco. Outside the corridor window is the last glow of sunset, above the high iron-spiked wall I see the peaceful evening countryside with its meadows and slowly- ripening cornfields, right across to the low strips of woodland on the horizon. Around me, pale figures are standing, leaning against the walls. Sometimes I see something of their faces, when the glow of their pipes momentarily becomes brighter. A man, a short sturdy man in a white jacket, takes me behind a partition at the end of the corridor. It is his sanctum, the “glass box” as it is called. From this “glass box” the stocky man, who turns out to be the head-nurse, watches everything that happens along the corridor, and he watches very keenly, as I was to discover. He even sees things that he cannot see at all, he knows what happens in the cells, he knows everything that happens at work—he is the stern conscience of Block 3, and the doctor’s information service.
“Leave your suitcase down here, Sommer,” says the head-nurse. “I’ll give you your institution clothes tomorrow, civilian clothes are forbidden here. And now I’ll show you your bed, it’s bed-time already. We go to bed at half-past seven here, and get up at a quarter to six in the morning …”
“Might I perhaps have some supper?” I ask. “I didn’t have any there.…”
I expect to get a “No” as I did on my first arrival in prison. I did not really intend to ask, having already learned that a prisoner should say nothing, ask nothing, question nothing. But—wonder of wonders—the head-nurse nods his head and says: “All right, Sommer, go and sit in the day-room for a while.”
I am put into the day-room. It is a long, three-windowed room, containing nothing but scrubbed-down wooden tables once painted white, primitive wooden benches without backs, and a sort of kitchen clock on the wall. I sit down on a bench. By the clock it is shortly after half-past seven.
Outside, the cry echoes: “Bed-time! Clothes out!” A violent shuffling begins (what an incredible number of people there must be in this block). Doors slam; in a neighbouring room, which is probably the lavatory, an uninterrupted rush of water begins. In bed at half-past seven, like children! How am I to get through the night? And the thirty-six nights of the observation period? And perhaps many many more nights to come? The weight of an infinite length of time in which nothing happens, descends on me like lead. This bare room, containing only the essentials, seems an image of my future life. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to wish for, nothing to hope for … a life in which every minute is empty and the future will be empty, too …
An aluminium bowl is set before me, a spoon is put by it … This is done by a little man in a dirty linen jacket. His face is ugly, and is made even uglier by the fact that all his upper teeth are missing, except two fang-like yellowish-black eye-teeth.
The man looks like some malevolent animal.
“Who are you?” he asks in a high-pitched insolent voice. “Where are you from? What have you done? What’s up with your nose?”
I do not answer him at all, silently I begin to dip into my aluminium bowl. It is nothing but cabbage and water. Warm salt water with very little cabbage.
“Is this your supper?” I ask. “No bread at all?”
Around me, though it is bed-time already, several figures are creeping, in worn-out brownish clothes which in many cases are in rags.… The little man with the fangs laughs shrilly.
“Is that our supper, he wants to know! He thinks it ought to be cooked specially for him. He thinks he’s in a restaurant. He’s so posh, he won’t talk to the likes of us. No bread, he says!”
He laughs again, and suddenly all is quiet. There are six or seven figures slinking around me or leaning silently against the walls. I put my spoon down in the bowl—what is the good of filling ones belly with warm water? I stand up, take a step toward the door. At the same instant uproar breaks out behind my back. They have thrown themselves on my barely half-emptied bowl, they struggle together like animals. Suppressed cries are heard … the clapping sound of blows … Oh God, they fight like beasts over a pint of hot cabbage-water! A high yelling neigh of triumph rings out—it is the little man with the fangs, he is the victor! “Will you get out and let me through! I’ll report you to the head-nurse! I brought the new fellow the bowl, it belongs to me! You give me the grub, didn’t you, new fellow?”
I hurry to get out of the door. I stand again in the corridor, by the glass box. The head-nurse comes out.
“Well, come along, Sommer. Is your bandage still all right? I’ll have a look at it tomorrow morning.”
In the long corridor, before each cell door, lies a bundle of clothes.
“You put your clothes outside the door too. You’re only allowed to keep your shirt on inside.”
“Mayn’t I fetch some pyjamas out of my suitcase?”
