Our Penitentiary: Can be reached in about twenty minutes by car. Low valley, the village suburban, boring, lots of concrete, several factories, wooded horizon. By the way, you can’t say that everyone in our city knows our penitentiary, the four hundred inmates represent barely more than one tenth of one percent of the population. And yet the institution should be familiar to Sunday hikers, even if many of them are more likely to take it for a brewery or an insane asylum. Once you have passed the guarded entryway, however, and are standing in front of the main building, you might almost believe you are standing before an abortive architectural attempt at a church or a chapel of red brick. And the vaguely religious impression stays right with you once you get to the gatekeeper: friendly, gentle faces, à la Salvation Army; a devout silence everywhere, soothing to the nerves, though perhaps somewhat depressing, you automatically yawn in the cool half-light, Justice has assumed her sleepy face, no wonder, really, considering the lady always has her eyes bound. And then there are the other signs of charity and the cure of souls: a bearded priest emerges, busy and unwearied, then the prison chaplain, later a female psychologist, wearing glasses, you can sense that they’re out to save souls, to strengthen, to encourage; from the far end of the dismal corridor, however, comes a shimmer of a more menacing world, although the barred glass doors allow no clear view beyond, and the two men in civvies waiting submissive and somber on a bench outside the warden’s office likewise awaken some faint mistrust, a vague uneasiness. But once the glass doors are opened, you cross over the mysterious threshold, advance into its innermost region, whether as a slightly embarrassed member of a commission, or as a prisoner, delivered here by Justice herself, you stand in astonishment before a paternal realm of strictest, though not inhumane order, before three mighty five-storied galleries, which can be surveyed from a single point all at once, not gloomy at all, but rather flooded with light from above, before a world of cages and bars, yet not without friendliness and individuality, even from here you can spot through some half-open cell door a ceiling painted sky blue and the gentle green of a potted linden, or there, the amiable, contented figures in their brown institutional garb; the inmates enjoy excellent health, the cloistered, regular mode of life, the early lights-out, the simple diet, all work verifiable wonders; the library offers—in addition to biographies and books of travel, in addition to devotional books of both confessions—if not the latest literature, then the true classics, and the administration provides one film presentation per week, this week Whiz Kids Like Us; the percentage of those who attend the sermon substantially exceeds that of the population attending outside these walls; life unwinds slowly and regularly, moderation governs how a man is both kept and entertained, he gets his report card, good behavior pays off, makes conditions easier, though of course only if someone has only a decade or even a few years to serve, in which case the training pays. Whereas in hopeless cases, for those serving life, restrictions are eased without any obligation for self-improvement; such men are in fact the pride of the house: Drossel and Zärtlich, for instance, who, when they were busy at mischief, terrified and alarmed the citizenry, are handled by the guards with timid respect, they are the star prisoners and regard themselves as such. Which is not to deny that, as a result, envy looms up now and then among the ordinary criminals and one of them may, please God, decide that the next time he’ll be more thorough about his business; and the medal of honor that our penitentiary received has its reverse side, but taken as a whole, who wouldn’t grow virtuous there; broken men, fallen from their high positions and posts, begin to hope anew, cutthroats turn to anthroposophy, erstwhile sex offenders and perpetrators of incest take up intellectual endeavors; paper bags are glued, baskets woven, books bound, brochures printed, members of the federal cabinet even have their suits custom-made in the tailor shop; all the while the warm aroma of bread wafts through the place—the bakery is famous, its sandwich buns a marvel (the cold cuts for them are delivered); parakeets, doves, radios can be earned by hard work and good manners, there are evening schools for continuing education, and, not without some envy, it begins to dawn on you, you suddenly realize, that it is this world, and not ours, that is in order.
Conversation with the Warden: To my surprise I was asked to see Zeller, the warden. He received me in his office, in a room with a respectable conference table, telephone, files. On the walls were bulletin boards, black ones, full of memos, lots of calligraphy—among prisoners, as unfortunately everywhere in our country, there are many teachers. The window had no bars, with a view of the prison walls and a piece of lawn—that, too, would have been schoolyardlike had not absolute silence reigned. Not a car horn, not a sound, like an old folks’ home.
The warden greeted me, reserved and cool, and we sat down.
“Herr Spät,” he began the conversation, “the prisoner Isaak Kohler has requested that you pay him a visit. I have approved this meeting, and you will speak with Kohler with a guard present.”
I knew from Stüssi-Leupin that he was allowed to speak to his clients without witnesses.
“Stüssi-Leupin has our complete trust,” the warden said in reply to my question. “By which I don’t mean to imply that we don’t trust you, but we don’t know you yet.”
“I understand.”
“And there’s something else, Herr Spät,” the warden continued, somewhat friendlier now. “Before you speak with Kohler, I’d like to share with you my opinion of the prisoner. Perhaps it’s something important for you to know. Please don’t misunderstand me. It’s no business of mine why people are under my supervision here. That’s immaterial. My job is to carry out their sentences. That’s my only job. And for that reason I shall say nothing about Kohler’s crime, but I must admit to you that I am personally confused by the man.”
“In what way?” I asked.
The warden hesitated a little before he answered: “The man appears to be completely happy,” he then said.
“But that should please you,” I suggested.
“Well, yes—I don’t know,” the warden responded.
“Your operation is after all a model prison,” I said.
“I do my best,” the warden sighed, “but nevertheless. A multimillionaire sitting happily in his cell, that sounds indecent.”
Up on the prison wall, a large fat blackbird was out for a stroll, hoping apparently that he could stay on, having been lured by the twitters, songs, and whistles of the well-tended birds in their cages, whose occasionally overpowering calls could be heard coming from the barred windows. It was a hot day, summer appeared about to flare up again, above the woods clouds were gathering, and from the village came the booming strokes of the steeple clock. Nine o’clock.
I lit a Parisienne. He shoved an ashtray over to me.
“Herr Spät,” the warden continued, “imagine a convict who dares to tell you to your face that he finds his prison wonderful, the guards first-rate, that he is perfectly happy and needs nothing else. Incredible. It really disgusted me.”
“But why?” I asked. “Aren’t your guards first-rate?”
“Of course they are,” the warden replied, “but that’s for me to say, not the prisoners. People don’t shout for joy in hell.”
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“It made me furious and I ordered that the rules be strictly enforced, although the Ministry of Justice has instructed me to be as lenient as possible, and no prison regulations in the world forbid a prisoner to be perfectly happy. But it’s made a complete emotional mess of me. Herr Spät, you’ve got to understand this. Kohler was placed in our customary solitary confinement, cut off from daylight—well, I admit, that’s forbidden, actually—but even after a few days I was struck by how the guards took to Kohler, practically revered him.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now I’ve got used to it,” the warden grumbled.
“You revere him as well?”
The warden gave me a thoughtful look. “You see, Herr Spät,” he sa
id, “when I sit there in his cell and listen to him—damn it all, a power seems to come from him, a confidence, that could make a man almost believe in humanity, in everything good and beautiful, even our chaplain has been swept away by it, it’s like a plague. But thank God I was born a healthy realist and don’t believe in people who are perfectly happy. And least of all in the ones in penitentiaries, however much we try to make life easier here with us. We’re not beasts, after all. But criminals are criminals. And that’s why I tell myself: The man can be dangerous, must be dangerous. You’re new at your profession, and so be careful that he doesn’t set a trap for you; perhaps you’d best stay out of it entirely. Of course that’s just a piece of advice, you’re a lawyer after all and can decide for yourself. If only I didn’t feel so torn. The man is either a saint or a devil, and I consider it my duty to warn you, which I have done.”
“Many thanks, Warden,” I said.
“I’ll have them get Kohler for you,” the warden said with a sigh.
The Job: The conversation with the perfectly happy man took place in an adjoining room. Furniture and view were the same. I stood up as the guard led in Dr.h.c Isaak Kohler. The old man was wearing his brown prison garb; his black-uniformed guard looked like a mail carrier.
“Please, do sit down, Spät,” Dr.h.c. Isaak Kohler said, acting very much the host, generous and jovial. Impressed, I thanked him and took my seat. Then I offered the prisoner a Parisienne. Kohler declined it.
“I don’t smoke anymore,” he declared. “I’m using this opportunity to combine utility with pleasure.”
“You find the prison experience to be an especially pleasurable one, Herr Kohler?” I asked.
He gazed at me in surprise: “You don’t?”
“I’m not confined to one,” I answered.
He beamed. “It’s splendid. The peace! And quiet! My previous life was, I grant, a rather grueling one. The trust and all.”
“I can well imagine,” I concurred.
“And no telephone,” he said, “and I’ve got my health back. Just look.” He did several knee bends. “I couldn’t do that a month ago,” he declared with pride. “We even have a gymnastics club here.”
“I know,” I said.
The fat blackbird was still walking hopefully around outside, or maybe it was a different one. The perfectly happy man regarded me benevolently. “We ran into each other on a previous occasion,” he said.
“I know.”
“At the Café Du Théâtre, which has indeed played a certain role in my life. You watched me play billiards.”
“I don’t understand anything about billiards.”
“Still don’t?”
“Still don’t, Herr Kohler.”
The prisoner laughed and turned to his guard: “Möser, would you be so kind as to give our young friend a light?”
The guard leapt up, came over with a lighter.
“Why of course, Herr Deputy, the least I can do.” He was beaming too.
Then the guard sat down again. I began to smoke. The cordiality of the two exhausted me. I would have liked to open the large barred windows, but that was probably not allowed in a prison.
“You see, Spät,” he said, “I am a simple inmate, nothing more, and Möser is one of my guards. A splendid fellow. He has initiated me in the mysteries of beekeeping. I already feel like a beekeeper, and I’m learning Esperanto from Brunner, another guard—whom I’d like you to meet as well. All our conversations are in that language. You can observe it all for yourself: serenity, coziness, good will everywhere, the profoundest peace. And before? My God!… I’m reading Plato in the original, weaving baskets—do you need a basket, Spät?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Herr Deputy Kohler’s baskets are masterpieces,” the guard proudly confirmed from his corner. “I taught him myself how to weave baskets, and now he surpasses all our other basket-weavers. Really, I’m not exaggerating.”
I expressed my regrets. “I’m very sorry, I don’t need one.”
“What a shame, I really would have liked to give you one.”
“Kind of you.”
“As a memento.”
“Can’t be helped.”
“What a shame. What a rotten shame.”
I was growing impatient. “Could you tell me now why you’ve asked me here?” I inquired.
“Of course,” he replied. “The least I can do. I completely forgot that you’ve come from out there, are in a hurry, caught up in the whirl. So down to business: You told me that evening in the Du Théâtre, perhaps you recall yourself, that you hoped to work for yourself.”
“I’ve got my own practice now.”
“So I’ve been told. How’s business?”
“Herr Kohler,” I said, “that’s hardly to the point here.”
“Bad, then.” He nodded. “Thought so. And your office is in a garret on Spiegelgasse, correct? That’s bad too. Very bad.”
I had had enough and stood up. “Either you now inform me what you want of me, Herr Kohler, or I’m leaving,” I said bluntly.
The perfectly happy man stood up as well, suddenly taking on an irresistible power, pressed me back down into my chair with both hands, which lay like weights on my shoulders.
“Stay,” he commanded menacingly, almost malevolently.
I had no choice but to obey. “As you please,” I said, and sat there silent. The guard too.
Kohler sat down again. “You need money,” he observed.
“That’s not up for discussion here,” I answered.
“I’m prepared to offer you a job.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to reinvestigate my case.”
I flinched. “Meaning you want to appeal it, Herr Kohler?”
He shook his head. “If I were to pursue an appeal, that would necessarily imply that there is something wrong with my sentence, but there is nothing wrong with it. My life is a closed case, it’s been filed away. I know that the warden sometimes thinks I’m a fraud and you, Spät, probably think so too. That’s understandable. But I am neither a saint nor a devil, I’m simply a man who’s discovered that you don’t need anything more to live than a cell, hardly more than you need to die, a bed will do for that, and later a coffin, because man’s destiny is contained in thought, not in action. Any jackass can act.”
“Fine,” I said, “those are laudable principles. But now I’m supposed to act in your stead, to reinvestigate your case. Might this jackass inquire what you’re really up to?”
“I’m not up to anything,” Dr.h.c. Isaak Kohler answered simply. “I’ve been thinking. About the world, about humankind, maybe even about God. But I need some material for the task, otherwise my thoughts circle in a vacuum. What I’m asking of you is nothing more than a little help with my studies, which you may simply regard as a millionaire’s hobby. Nor are you the only person that I’m asking to lend a helping hand. Do you know old Knulpe?”
“The professor?”
“That’s the one.”
“I studied under him.”
“You see. He’s retired now, and just to keep him from vegetating, I’ve given him a job as well. He’s doing a piece of research: the consequences of a murder. He’s determining the effects resulting from the somewhat violent demise of his colleague, including the ongoing effects. He’s having great fun with it. The idea is to plumb the depths of reality, to measure exactly what effects one deed has. But as far as your task goes, my good man, that’s of quite a different nature, set up, in a certain sense, as a counterbalance to Knulpe’s work.”
“In what sense?”
“You are to reinvestigate my case under the presumption that I was not the murderer.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are to create a fiction, nothing more.”
The Execution of Justice Page 4