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Authors: Joe Bandel
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the
tower, Englishmen and Englishwomen led by the sergeant of the
watch. He showed them the poor prisoners with the large numbers
sitting there so forlorn. They were moved with sympathy and with
“oohs” and “ahs” asked the sergeant if they could give the
miserable wretches anything.
“That is expressly forbidden,” he said. “I
better not see any of you doing it.”
But he had a big heart and turned his back as
he explained the region around them to the gentlemen.
“There is Koblenz,” he said, “and over there
behind it is Neuwied. Down there is the Rhine–”
Meanwhile the ladies had come up. The poor
prisoner stretched out his hands behind him, held them open right
under his number. Gold pieces, cigarettes and tobacco were dropped
into them, sometimes even a business card with an address.
That was the game Frank Braun had contrived
and introduced up here.
“That is a real disgrace,” said No. fourteen.
It was the cavalry captain, Baron Flechtheim.
“You are an idiot,” said Frank Braun. “What
is disgraceful is that we fancy ourselves so refined that we give
everything to the petty officers and don’t keep anything for
ourselves. If only the damned English cigarettes weren’t so
perfumed.”
He inspected the loot.
“There! Another Pound piece! The Sergeant
will be very happy–God, I made out well today!”
“How much did you lose yesterday?” asked No.
two.
Frank Braun laughed, “Pah, everything I made
the day before plus a couple of blue notes. Fetch the executioner
his block!”
No. six was a very young ensign, a young
pasty faced boy that looked like milk and blood. He sighed
deeply.
“I too have lost everything.”
“So, do you think we did any better?” No.
fourteen snarled at him, “And to think those three scoundrels are
now in Paris amusing themselves with our money! How long do you
think they will stay?”
Dr. Klaverjahn, marine doctor, fortress
prisoner No. two said, “I estimate three days. They can’t stay away
any longer than that without someone noticing. Besides, their money
won’t last that long!”
They were speaking of No.’s four, five and
twelve who had heartily won last night, had early this morning
climbed down the hill and caught the early train to Paris–“R and
R”–a little rest and relaxation, is what they called it in the
fortress.
“What will we do this afternoon?” No.
fourteen asked.
“Will you just once think for yourself!”
Frank Braun cried to the cavalry captain.
He sprang down from the wall, went through
the barracks into the officer’s garden. He felt grumpy, whistled to
get inside. Not grumpy because he had lost the game, that happened
to him often and didn’t bother him at all. It was this deplorable
sojourn up here, this unbearable monotony.
Certainly the fortress confinement was light
enough and none of the gentlemen prisoners were ever injured or
tormented. They even had their own casino up here with a piano and
a harmonium. There were two dozen newspapers. Everyone had their
own attendant and all the cells were large rooms, almost halls, for
which they paid the government rent of a penny a day. They had
meals sent up from the best guesthouses in the city and their wine
cellar was in excellent condition.
If there was anything to find fault with, it
was that you couldn’t lock your room from the inside. That was the
single point the commander was very serious about. Once a suicide
had occurred and ever since any attempt to bring a bolt in brought
severe punishment.
“It was idiotic thought,” Frank Braun, “as if
you couldn’t commit suicide without bolts on your door!”
The missing bolt pained him every day and
ruined all the joy in it by making it impossible to be alone in the
fortress. He had shut his door with rope and chain, put his bed and
all the other furniture in front of it. But it had been useless.
After a war that lasted for hours everything in his room was
demolished and battered to pieces. The
tower, Englishmen and Englishwomen led by the sergeant of the
watch. He showed them the poor prisoners with the large numbers
sitting there so forlorn. They were moved with sympathy and with
“oohs” and “ahs” asked the sergeant if they could give the
miserable wretches anything.
“That is expressly forbidden,” he said. “I
better not see any of you doing it.”
But he had a big heart and turned his back as
he explained the region around them to the gentlemen.
“There is Koblenz,” he said, “and over there
behind it is Neuwied. Down there is the Rhine–”
Meanwhile the ladies had come up. The poor
prisoner stretched out his hands behind him, held them open right
under his number. Gold pieces, cigarettes and tobacco were dropped
into them, sometimes even a business card with an address.
That was the game Frank Braun had contrived
and introduced up here.
“That is a real disgrace,” said No. fourteen.
It was the cavalry captain, Baron Flechtheim.
“You are an idiot,” said Frank Braun. “What
is disgraceful is that we fancy ourselves so refined that we give
everything to the petty officers and don’t keep anything for
ourselves. If only the damned English cigarettes weren’t so
perfumed.”
He inspected the loot.
“There! Another Pound piece! The Sergeant
will be very happy–God, I made out well today!”
“How much did you lose yesterday?” asked No.
two.
Frank Braun laughed, “Pah, everything I made
the day before plus a couple of blue notes. Fetch the executioner
his block!”
No. six was a very young ensign, a young
pasty faced boy that looked like milk and blood. He sighed
deeply.
“I too have lost everything.”
“So, do you think we did any better?” No.
fourteen snarled at him, “And to think those three scoundrels are
now in Paris amusing themselves with our money! How long do you
think they will stay?”
Dr. Klaverjahn, marine doctor, fortress
prisoner No. two said, “I estimate three days. They can’t stay away
any longer than that without someone noticing. Besides, their money
won’t last that long!”
They were speaking of No.’s four, five and
twelve who had heartily won last night, had early this morning
climbed down the hill and caught the early train to Paris–“R and
R”–a little rest and relaxation, is what they called it in the
fortress.
“What will we do this afternoon?” No.
fourteen asked.
“Will you just once think for yourself!”
Frank Braun cried to the cavalry captain.
He sprang down from the wall, went through
the barracks into the officer’s garden. He felt grumpy, whistled to
get inside. Not grumpy because he had lost the game, that happened
to him often and didn’t bother him at all. It was this deplorable
sojourn up here, this unbearable monotony.
Certainly the fortress confinement was light
enough and none of the gentlemen prisoners were ever injured or
tormented. They even had their own casino up here with a piano and
a harmonium. There were two dozen newspapers. Everyone had their
own attendant and all the cells were large rooms, almost halls, for
which they paid the government rent of a penny a day. They had
meals sent up from the best guesthouses in the city and their wine
cellar was in excellent condition.
If there was anything to find fault with, it
was that you couldn’t lock your room from the inside. That was the
single point the commander was very serious about. Once a suicide
had occurred and ever since any attempt to bring a bolt in brought
severe punishment.
“It was idiotic thought,” Frank Braun, “as if
you couldn’t commit suicide without bolts on your door!”
The missing bolt pained him every day and
ruined all the joy in it by making it impossible to be alone in the
fortress. He had shut his door with rope and chain, put his bed and
all the other furniture in front of it. But it had been useless.
After a war that lasted for hours everything in his room was
demolished and battered to pieces. The
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