Once a Jailbird

by Hans Fallada

  Kufalt waited three months for the inspector’s promised visit, so as to make his request by word of mouth. The police inspector did not come. In all those five years he had not come again to Kufalt’s cell. He had spoken quite casually, merely to come across as pleasant at the time, and then he had never thought of Kufalt again. He had visited the new arrival once, out of curiosity.

  Kufalt had not forgiven him that. He had never brought himself to make any request to the man, so he now merely said: ‘Sir, there is a clause in the Prison Regulations that a man’s registration card must not show that he has been released from prison. But they want to give me a card headed “The Central Prison”, and stamped with the prison stamp.’

  The police inspector gazed long at the prisoner before him; he wagged his white round head from side to side and looked into a corner, where there was nothing but a filing cabinet full of papers. ‘Again,’ he said regretfully; ‘again.’ And he wagged his head. ‘How deplorable!’

  Kufalt stood before him and waited, wondering what was the point of this performance. That the police inspector should feel regret at anything affecting a prisoner exceeded his powers of belief.

  Behind Kufalt stood the warder who had accompanied him, in a deferential attitude. A clock on the wall, adorned with oak leaves, swords and eagles, ticked out the time very audibly. The police inspector again let his eyes rest on the prisoner. ‘And what are we to do?’

  ‘Give me a card according to the regulations.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the inspector cheerfully. ‘Of course.’

  Again he relapsed into gloom. ‘Except . . . ’—in a soft and confidential voice—‘ . . . there are difficulties.’

  He leaned back in his chair and said: ‘There are two kinds of regulations: those that can be carried out, and those that cannot. I say nothing against this regulation; on the contrary, it is humane and sensible, it is in accordance with the democratic spirit of today, but—it cannot be carried out. Consider, Kufalt; I now speak to you not as to a prisoner, I speak to you as a man of sense and education.’

  The inspector stopped. He looked mildly at Kufalt. Then he continued in a slow and gentle voice: ‘The Central Prison is situated in a town. In the town is a Registration Office. In this office is an index of residents. We provide ourselves, in accordance with the letter of your regulation, with a number of registration cards. We fill them in, we hand them to prisoners on their discharge, and—and . . . ’

  The police inspector again gazed at the corner. Kufalt waited patiently, he had calmed down; he had his plan. Let the man talk, he would get his card all right.

  ‘ . . . And,’ said the police inspector, ‘the prisoner refuses the card. You smile, Kufalt,’—he was doing nothing of the kind—‘you don’t believe me. The prisoner refuses the card. You have not followed me. What is the matter with it? It is not stamped. For what can we do? Either we must use the Central Prison stamp, in which case we violate the regulation, or we leave it unstamped, and then the card is invalid.’

  ‘As a third alternative, you might get a stamp from the local Registration Office.’

  ‘Kufalt! Kufalt! You, a man of sense and education! We are a Central Prison, how could we be in possession of a Registration Office stamp? No,’ he went on, in a gloomy tone, ‘this regulation cannot be carried out, sensible and humane as it is. Don’t you realize this?’

  ‘I ask for a card in accordance with the clause in the Prison Regulations.’

  ‘I would gladly give you one, Kufalt, very gladly. It is impossible. Warder, take this man away, he has had his explanation.’

  ‘If I’m given a card stamped with the Central Prison stamp I shall send it on the day of my release to the Law Officers’ Department, with the explanation now given me . . . ’

  Silence.

  ‘Of course,’ said the police inspector, not gently now, but in a sharp and rasping voice. ‘Of course. You would run your head through a wall. I never expected anything else from you. You are a fool, Kufalt, you think only of your discharge, you don’t think that a time may come when . . . ’

  He broke off. And Kufalt said: ‘When what, please, Herr Inspector?’

  ‘That will do. Warder, take this man away. Tell them that a stamped card is to be got for him from the Registration Office.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  The police inspector merely coughed in reply.

  XI

  Kufalt was back in the Discharge Office. The warder had made out his papers. The other discharges had already gone, their business settled.

  ‘Your sentence is up at twenty minutes past one p.m.,’ said the inspector.

  To which Kufalt replied: ‘I ask to be released in the morning, as usual.’

  ‘What do you mean, as usual?’ growled the inspector. ‘You think you know all about the Prison Regulations. The prisoners are to be released at such time that they may reach their place of destination on the day of their release. You are for Hamburg; so you have plenty of time to reach your place of destination in the afternoon.’

  ‘But all the prisoners will be released tomorrow at seven o’clock,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘You leave that to us. You might complain if we robbed you of a bit of your sentence.’

  Kufalt stood silent. After all, he might be glad to get clear without trouble. There were many ways of giving hell to a prisoner during his last twenty-four hours.

  The inspector began again: ‘Your pay for work done comes to 315 marks 87 pfennigs.’

  ‘May I see the account?’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Ellmers, give Kufalt the account for his inspection and approval.’

  Kufalt looked at the account. It was only the last total that interested him, and there it was—only sixteen units were entered, not seventeen.

  He reflected whether he should pipe up again, but thought better of it and was silent.

  ‘I want to apply for an advance on my pay today to buy a pair of shoes. My old ones have got too tight from my wearing slippers.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll tell the storeman to give you a pair of the working boots used by the outdoor labourers. They will do for you perfectly well.’

  ‘But I can’t . . . ’

  ‘Then you’ll have to, Kufalt . . . You’ll need five marks for your fare to Hamburg, and ten marks to keep you for the first week. Fifteen marks eighty-seven will be paid out to you on discharge, and the rest transferred to the Welfare Office.’

  ‘But the governor said . . . ’ Kufalt stopped and pondered.

  ‘Well, what did the governor say? Out with it, Kufalt. I’ve nothing to do today except settle your business.’

  ‘The governor arranged that the money I’ve earned should be paid to me in full on my discharge.’

  ‘Is that so? And why do I know nothing of this arrangement?’

  ‘The governor approved it early this morning,’ insisted Kufalt.

  ‘That’s a lie, Kufalt. The governor can’t have made any such arrangement, it’s contrary to the Prison Board’s instructions. You want to squander all the money in a week, and then have the taxpayers support you, eh? I don’t think so!’

  ‘The governor arranged it.’

  ‘Then it would be entered in your papers. But it isn’t.’

  ‘I want my money in full.’

  ‘Right. Fifteen marks eighty-seven. And now you must counter-sign the account.’

  ‘I demand to see the . . . ’

  ‘Well, who’s it to be this time?’ said the inspector, with a contemptuous grin.

  Kufalt had an inspiration: ‘The chaplain!’

  ‘The chaplain?’

  ‘Certainly, the chaplain!’

  ‘Warder—but this is the last time I shall send you to see anyone. I’m just about fed up with you! Warder, take this man to the chaplain!’

  ‘What a fuss you’re always making, Kufalt!’ said the warder disapprovingly, as they went down the corridor. ‘Can’t you stop spoiling it all?
You look as though you’ve been spat on the wall.’

  ‘They ought to do their duty by us,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ said the warder. ‘If you’d sucked up to the inspector a bit, like Batzke, you’d have got all your money in full. But you will go on annoying him!’

  ‘I demand my rights,’ said Kufalt resolutely.

  ‘That’s just where you’re a fool,’ said the warder.

  ‘Sir,’ said Kufalt to the clergyman, who eyed him angrily, ‘I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ll sign the admission form for the Home of Peace.’

  ‘Oh, you will, will you? And suppose I don’t think you’re fit to be admitted to such an admirable institution?’

  ‘The governor said I should go there.’

  ‘Then the governor did not know you. Very well, sign here.’

  Kufalt wrote his name.

  On his return he said loftily to the inspector: ‘My pay is to be transferred to the Home of Peace. The chaplain has approved my admission.’

  ‘You’re going to the Home of Peace? Oh, Kufalt, Kufalt, you have got a nerve, my lad.’ The inspector quivered with delight.

  Kufalt glared at him in fury.

  ‘You’re properly for it, my poor little Kufalt! Well, you’ll think of me and how I laughed.’

  Kufalt was nervous, he did not like the sound of this. ‘What’s wrong with the Home of Peace?’

  ‘Why, what should be wrong? No, there’s nothing wrong. On the contrary. But in that case you won’t want fifteen marks, of course. Five marks for your fare are quite enough. Make a note of that, Ellmers: 5 marks 87 to pay out, 310 marks to the Home of Peace.’

  Kufalt thought of the hundred-mark note in his sock, and made no further protest.

  ‘There—and now, thank God, we’re through with the man, warder. Take him to his cell. Three more like you, Kufalt . . . ’

  As Kufalt passed the glass cubicle, the chief warder raised his head again and again eyed Kufalt. But again he said nothing.

  ‘There’s something up,’ said Kufalt to himself; and when back in his cell he twisted the letter and the registration slip into a tiny tube and fastened it to the side of one of the peephole bars so that it was invisible both from outside and in.

  Then he took the note out of his sock, rolled it up tight, and pushed it firmly up his rectum.

  He did not like the look of things; Rusch had glared at him so strangely.

  However, he slammed down his bed and flung himself on it, utterly exhausted.

  XII

  He must have slept very soundly. When he woke up he saw—his back towards him—a short stocky figure standing by his cupboard, in uniform, topped by a thick close-shaven skull: Chief Warder Rusch.

  He held the songbook in his hand. He gripped it by the two covers, shook it—and nothing fell out. Then he peered down the binding at the back.

  He put the book back in the cupboard and took out the Bible. ‘Have a good look,’ said Kufalt to himself, and lay with open eyes.

  The chief warder shut the cupboard door, went up to the table, squatted on his heels and looked underneath it. As he rose, he caught the prisoner’s eye. But the chief warder was quite unperturbed. He walked up to the bed. ‘What. Asleep? Daylight long ago; get up and work.’

  ‘They’ve taken my work away,’ said Kufalt.

  ‘Clean your cell, man. Table’s filthy! Get on with it!’

  ‘Very good, sir. And I’ll clean underneath the table too,’ said Kufalt, and hurried to the table.

  ‘Stop! When did you last get letters?’

  ‘When? Oh a long time ago, sir. Let me see . . . ’

  ‘You haven’t had a letter today?’

  ‘No. Is there a letter for me? Fine, it’ll be from my brother-in-law, sending me money.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said the chief warder, surveying his prisoner once again, and he growled: ‘Get on with it now! Put your bed up!’ and left the cell.

  ‘And my letter?’ shouted Kufalt, but the chief warder had already gone.

  He attacked the table with great vigour; he had never thought of cleaning the underside of it before. And when he had finished he took down his little cupboard and scoured the back of it.

  While he was doing this he noticed an unusual noise throughout the building. On all the landings cell after cell was being opened and something shouted inside; Kufalt jumped up and listened. But he did not catch what it was, until he heard the word ‘letter’; then something to the effect that a letter had gone astray; and he grinned.

  The disturbance gradually approached his cell; now they were at the cell next door, and now . . .

  His door opened, a warder put his head in: ‘Have you got a letter that doesn’t belong to you . . . Oh, it’s you, Kufalt—no, everything is all right.’

  ‘What’s up, sir?’

  But the man had gone.

  When Kufalt had cleaned his cupboard, he saw that he would have to polish the floor of his cell. It was strenuous work. The building was full of the faint suppressed noises of the day: the clink of the net-maker’s iron rod, the clatter of a bucket lid, someone started to whistle and suddenly broke off, a few rolls of yarn were thrown down in front of a cell nearby. The sun was now high, and his cell quite light.

  He was curious to see what they would do.

  It was just before supper time, so after five o’clock, when the door of his cell was again opened. Three men came in: the police inspector, chaplain and chief warder. The door was carefully shut behind them. Kufalt positioned himself under the window, facing the officers, and waited.

  The chaplain began: ‘Listen, Kufalt, there has been a mistake, we don’t yet quite know how it happened. A letter came for you today . . . ’

  ‘Yes, I know. The chief warder told me. From my brother-in-law, containing money.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you,’ growled the chief warder; ‘that’s a lie. Nothing of the sort. You told me.’

  ‘No, not containing money, my dear young friend. There was a key inside it.’

  ‘Oh?’ drawled Kufalt. ‘May I have the letter?’

  ‘That’s just it. The letter has gone astray. It will turn up again. But you are going out tomorrow . . . ’

  ‘Gone astray?’ said Kufalt, with an air of surprise. ‘But nothing gets lost here. Inspector, the governor gave orders that my pay should be given to me in full, and the Discharge Office will only give me six marks. That’s unfair. If the governor gave orders . . . ’

  ‘Now, now, Kufalt, keep calm. We may be able to discuss that later. But . . . ’

  ‘But the money from my brother-in-law, it’s my money. You’ve got to let me have it. Why won’t you give me the letter?’

  ‘Kufalt,’ said the chief warder, ‘that will do. There was no money in the letter. The chaplain knows that for certain. The letter was taken away from me.’

  ‘I had just read your letter,’ went on the chaplain. ‘Your brother-in-law did not write himself, he wrote through his secretary to the effect that he could not help you. He also refused to send you money, as you had what you had earned in prison . . . ’

  ‘But I’m not to get that either!’

  ‘And your brother-in-law is sending you a part of your belongings. You can have the rest later.’

  ‘I have made inquiries, Kufalt. Your trunk has already arrived. As a special favour you may, after the cells are locked, examine its contents today; we will have it opened in your presence. The storeman will stay late on your account.’ The police inspector was being very obsequious . . .

  ‘Kufalt,’ said the chief warder, ‘the letter cannot be found. If you insist, the police inspector will have to write a report, and I shall be held responsible.’

  The police inspector said: ‘You are a man of education and good sense, Kufalt. Why make difficulties for Herr Rusch? Accidents will happen everywhere.’

  Kufalt surveyed the three men: ‘And when my socks were pinched when I was having a bath, I got three days’ deprivation of warm food,
and had to pay for them out of what I earned, didn’t I? Those were your orders then, sir. Why should Rusch get off scot-free because he’s let someone pinch my letters?’

  All three started at the bald reference to ‘Rusch’.

  Then the chaplain said: ‘We must all be able to forgive, my dear Kufalt. You will one day make mistakes and stand in need of forgiveness.’

  This was too much for Kufalt, and he turned on the chaplain in a fury: ‘Get out of my cell! Get out! I’ll knock everything to pieces! And you, Inspector, get out too!’

  ‘Really, this is intolerable . . . ’ the inspector burst out.

  And the chaplain: ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Kufalt? . . . ’

  But Rusch was quite emphatic: ‘Please leave me alone with the man.’

  And, with angry glares at Kufalt, the others went.

  Kufalt stood and looked at the door. He was still beside himself with fury, and he said excitedly: ‘Why do you bring those two, Chief? Liars, the pair of them. The very sight of those slimy brutes makes me wild . . . Look, Chief, you’ve never done me wrong, will you promise that I’ll get my pay in full tomorrow?’

  ‘I promise, Kufalt.’

  ‘Give me the form, I’ll sign the receipt for the letter.’

  The chief warder did not give him the form. He pondered: ‘How did you know it was a registered letter, Kufalt?’

  ‘Well, my brother-in-law would hardly send a key in an ordinary letter.’

  Rusch still pondered.

  And Kufalt added: ‘How can a registered letter go astray?’

  The chief warder took the form out of his pocket. ‘Kufalt, you’re a tricky one. Well, sign. You shall have your money all the same.’

  XIII

  It was the morning of the next day, about eleven o’clock.

  Kufalt stood in the discharge cell. The trunk, the large trunk sent by his brother-in-law Pause, lay on the floor beside him. He stood and waited.

  Time crept on, he could do nothing. There were books in the trunk, but who could read at such a moment? In two hours, five years would have passed over his head, in two hours he would be a free man; he could go where he liked, he could speak to whom he pleased, he could go out with a girl, drink wine and sit in a cinema . . . it was beyond imagination still . . . the burden of his imprisonment yet lay upon him . . .