58
PARTISAN REVIEW
the outside world in the spring sunlight. The buoyant movements of
passersby , dressed in their light summer clothing, carried me away ,
took my mind off my own misery for a few minutes . It was only six
days since I had been torn away from this world offree beings, but it
was as if I had found it again after a very long and painful separa–
tion. Not for a single second could I forget that I was being taken to–
ward an unknown fate , that I was not being released from protective
custody but was on my way to prison, and that the most terrible of
my nightly fears might soon happen to me.
With several other prisoners I was asked the usual questions
and searched as a formality . We went down long passageways; my
cell lay at the outermost edge. An SS man entered it first, surveyed
suspiciously the dirty wall, spattered in places with blood, kicked the
bedstead, threw a glance at the bucket by the door, then at the barred
window, and went back into the passageway. The guard explained
that I was not allowed to lie or sit on the bed during the day, and that
trying to climb up toward the window was strictly forbidden . Until
further notice I would keep my own clothing. I was entitled to a bar
of soap and a washcloth, which lay by the washbasin . There were no
books from the library, nor were people of my sort permitted to
receive packages. And until further notice no letters.
Loud voices, the sound of a ladle scraping against a pot, woke
me. I took the bowl, the cup, and the spoon from the shelf, the door
was unlocked , another guard stood there. I received a plate of
potatoes and cabbage, along with some liquid, presumably a soup of
some sort, a piece of bread and a brownish beverage. Before the
door banged shut, the guard said, "Hey, it's not that bad." The food
was bearable , and I applied myself to it eagerly; the bread was even
tasty. The drink smelled of herring.
In the first few days I enjoyed the silence, said not a word to the
guards who brought the food, answered, when it was required , with
a look, a gesture . Just as in the police jail, I ate as much as was
necessary not to be hungry, and was becoming weaker every day .
This did not trouble me. My exercise in the cell, marching stren–
uously from the door to the window and back, had to be interrupted
more and more often while I rested on the stool.
On the night of the third day a terrible form of self-torture
broke out in me: the oscillation between a stubborn hope, a feverish
expectation of being released any day now, or at the latest by the end
of the week, and deep despondency, the conviction that I was lost,
