silence falls on the prisoner like a first layer of dust.
From window to window, from measurement to search, from search to shower, from shower to compartment, we move on. I think of grains of sand sifting through a complicated, extremely dirty sieve, and falling deeper with every instant into sordid obscurity. They already searched us when we were first arrested; there is nothing more they can take, it seems, except perhaps that pin, that cigarette butt, that tiny pencil stub, even that gold piece which experienced prisoners know how to carry past any obstacle.
The ceremony is repeated, nonetheless, and in a slightly more odious form. Two or three hulking guards strut out in front of a line of naked men. “Open your mouth! Bend over! … More … Lower, dammit, you jerk, lower! … Legs apart … Come on … Next man forward!” A fat thumb prods the inside of a suspicious jaw. A guard with a crumpled
képi
inspects the rear end of a tough-looking mug who has been put over the bar; the bar is designed to make you bend over in such a manner that any object hidden in the anus is supposed to be revealed …
The grimy gang of new arrivals rushes toward the showers—a gallop of bare feet smacking on the tiles of the wide corridor. The first ones in run into the last of the group coming out, cleansed and ridiculous. Their physiques are grotesque: Men dredged up and thrown together by the accident of their misfortune are usually misshapen and ugly in the nude, deformed by their misery. They gesticulate, shiver, struggle with heaps of clothes. While they were in the shower, the clothes they had been wearing were sent through the steam press: an instantaneous disinfecting from which—pulverized under the enormous pressure— they emerge like rags, honeycombed with wrinkles that can almostnever be removed. I catch only a quick glimpse of them getting dressed: a grotesque scene. We are herded forward, hustled, bullied by shouts of “Come on, faster, get a move on! Hurry, goddamn it! Hurry!” The machine works so fast that now we are already lined up in the hot, sticky wooden tubs. A shower of nearly boiling water; the slimy black soap sticks to the skin. “Out! Get a move on! Hurry up!” Another gallop of bare feet smacks down the corridor.
Roll call again. Each one of these ritual operations begins with a roll call. Nonetheless, I find myself interested each time by the different tone of the voices answering, “Here”: stifled by physical fear; hurried with that special haste of the bashful, who are somehow always a little late; low, lingering, coming out almost reluctantly; nonchalant, among the old-timers. After roll call we file, two at a time, into rather well-lit compartments along a wide corridor. A little light is good for the eyes. We have at least an hour to wait: rest (which turns to boredom in a quarter of an hour; our inner agitation will only calm itself after a long time) and vacant time. My companion in this cage is my neighbor from the lineup: the poor wretch with drooping mustaches who now looks like a castaway. He cheered up momentarily when he saw our Rumanian-officer-financier-adventurer coupled with a fidgety little fag. Alone together, we can talk in whispers. After all, it makes a comfortable noise.
“Things going badly?” I ask.
He answers with a meaningful glance and a nod.
“What a lousy break. I got nabbed in the Galeries Lafayette. I was warned: It shouldn’t have happened to me. You see there’s a store dick there, a real bastard … He had me spotted right away … Oh, boy, now I’m in for it …”
He is still wearing the cause of his good or bad fortune—the tool of his trade—an ordinary beige overcoat. But this overcoat is full of false pockets and false linings. Hands in pockets, he looks like a gentleman walking through the crowd, brushing against the counter of the store; in reality, his hands, free within the folds of the open garment, are operating with great dexterity.
From window to window, from measurement to search, from search to shower, from shower to compartment, we move on. I think of grains of sand sifting through a complicated, extremely dirty sieve, and falling deeper with every instant into sordid obscurity. They already searched us when we were first arrested; there is nothing more they can take, it seems, except perhaps that pin, that cigarette butt, that tiny pencil stub, even that gold piece which experienced prisoners know how to carry past any obstacle.
The ceremony is repeated, nonetheless, and in a slightly more odious form. Two or three hulking guards strut out in front of a line of naked men. “Open your mouth! Bend over! … More … Lower, dammit, you jerk, lower! … Legs apart … Come on … Next man forward!” A fat thumb prods the inside of a suspicious jaw. A guard with a crumpled
képi
inspects the rear end of a tough-looking mug who has been put over the bar; the bar is designed to make you bend over in such a manner that any object hidden in the anus is supposed to be revealed …
The grimy gang of new arrivals rushes toward the showers—a gallop of bare feet smacking on the tiles of the wide corridor. The first ones in run into the last of the group coming out, cleansed and ridiculous. Their physiques are grotesque: Men dredged up and thrown together by the accident of their misfortune are usually misshapen and ugly in the nude, deformed by their misery. They gesticulate, shiver, struggle with heaps of clothes. While they were in the shower, the clothes they had been wearing were sent through the steam press: an instantaneous disinfecting from which—pulverized under the enormous pressure— they emerge like rags, honeycombed with wrinkles that can almostnever be removed. I catch only a quick glimpse of them getting dressed: a grotesque scene. We are herded forward, hustled, bullied by shouts of “Come on, faster, get a move on! Hurry, goddamn it! Hurry!” The machine works so fast that now we are already lined up in the hot, sticky wooden tubs. A shower of nearly boiling water; the slimy black soap sticks to the skin. “Out! Get a move on! Hurry up!” Another gallop of bare feet smacks down the corridor.
Roll call again. Each one of these ritual operations begins with a roll call. Nonetheless, I find myself interested each time by the different tone of the voices answering, “Here”: stifled by physical fear; hurried with that special haste of the bashful, who are somehow always a little late; low, lingering, coming out almost reluctantly; nonchalant, among the old-timers. After roll call we file, two at a time, into rather well-lit compartments along a wide corridor. A little light is good for the eyes. We have at least an hour to wait: rest (which turns to boredom in a quarter of an hour; our inner agitation will only calm itself after a long time) and vacant time. My companion in this cage is my neighbor from the lineup: the poor wretch with drooping mustaches who now looks like a castaway. He cheered up momentarily when he saw our Rumanian-officer-financier-adventurer coupled with a fidgety little fag. Alone together, we can talk in whispers. After all, it makes a comfortable noise.
“Things going badly?” I ask.
He answers with a meaningful glance and a nod.
“What a lousy break. I got nabbed in the Galeries Lafayette. I was warned: It shouldn’t have happened to me. You see there’s a store dick there, a real bastard … He had me spotted right away … Oh, boy, now I’m in for it …”
He is still wearing the cause of his good or bad fortune—the tool of his trade—an ordinary beige overcoat. But this overcoat is full of false pockets and false linings. Hands in pockets, he looks like a gentleman walking through the crowd, brushing against the counter of the store; in reality, his hands, free within the folds of the open garment, are operating with great dexterity.
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