“My honour is my own affair,” I said proudly. “Other people can’t take it from me.”
Smiling sadly, the old man shook his head.
“In any case this is a matter of crime passionel, and the consequences of such an offence are never dishonourable.”
Again the old man sadly shook his head. “That kind of talk,” he said, “I have heard quite frequently within such walls as these, but I would have preferred not to hear it from you. How is the district psychiatrist’s report proceeding? Do you know anything about it?”
I assured him that it was all most favourable, and that the medical officer did not consider it necessary to keep me in the asylum.
“I do hope so, I hope so with all my heart,” cried Herr Holsten. “Well, Herr Sommer, I must go now. And if, despite your present intentions, you need me after all, you can call me at any time. For all my years, I’m not afraid of the long journey from town to this asylum, if only I can help you.”
Rather touched, I thanked him, but I was convinced that I would never require his advice, and that if I were in real need I would undoubtedly go to a younger and cleverer lawyer than he.
55
So the next few weeks passed in relative peace and quiet, a different peace from that which I had felt before the doctor’s interview, a more active peace, full of hopes and plans. I did not sleep well again, but that failed to affect my good mood: I was only a guest in this death-house. Daily I expected the indictment and the date of the hearing, and when it did not arrive, I hoped it would come the next day. In mankind, hope is indestructible, I believe the last thing that runs through the brain of a dying man is hope. The doctor never sent for me any more, I did not see him again after that interview, a sign that he had finished his report and forwarded it to the Public Prosecutor. My comrades tried in vain to make me uneasy.
“What, trust that dirty dog? He says one thing to your face and another thing on paper.”
I gave a superior smile. The doctor might do something of the sort with the likes of them, but to me he had expressed himself so positively that there was no doubt whatever about a favourable result. In any case, the man was judged quite wrongly—I too had misjudged him at first. That was the fault of his overbearing and sarcastic manner, which rather repelled one. But he was a man of knowledge and insight, where he could give anyone a chance. Of course, where it was quite impossible.…
Just one thing had a disturbing effect about this time. The consequences of malnutrition made themselves apparent on me too, I also broke out in distressing boils. So long as these boils—usually they were blind boils, under the skin—appeared only on the arms and legs, it was not too bad, but when they appeared on the nape of my neck and my back, I suffered considerably. Particularly as I now had to lie on my stomach of a night-time, a position in which I have never been able to sleep. Now I joined the long file which lined up each morning outside the medical room and was salved and lanced and finally bandaged by the head-nurse. But even these pestilential “pig-boils” could hardly damp my present high spirits.
“Once I’m out of here …” was the thought that occurred to me a hundred times a day. I now began to pay more attention to my appearance, since I was to be released in such a short time. I began to take care of my hands again, especially my nails, which had suffered from my work. I had my hair cut and washed my feet two or three times a week. I was particularly concerned about my face. The bandages had come off some time ago and my nose had healed. I had always been afraid to look at my face, and it had been made easy for me not to, since there was no official mirror in the asylum and shaving was done by Lexer with the clippers. But now it was different. I knew that Herbst, the orderly, possessed a little mirror which he constantly used when parting his hair. Now I borrowed it from him sometimes.
Of course he sneered: “What do you want a mirror for? Want to look at your conk? Leave it alone, it’s handsome enough without looking at it!”
He had hit on the right reason, quite by chance, but he didn’t have to know that. I murmured something about my boils.
When I saw my nose in the mirror, I got a shock. It was completely deformed by that bite, just before the tip there was a deep hollow, out of which the tip rose crookedly, marked with a flaming red scar. It looked really horrible, I was completely disfigured. (“That damned Lobedanz. He’s the real cause of all my misfortune!”)
Neither did a further examination of my face make me any happier. The consequences of starvation had marked it deeply. It was almost ash-coloured, the eyes sunken deep in their sockets. A five-day’s growth of stubble covered the lower part of my face. The mirror only betrayed that in this sense too I was enrolled in the death-house: I really looked no better than its poorest ghost! No better? Worse, perhaps! and I used to be a tolerably good-looking man, accustomed to wearing a good suit from our best tailor, with style. “What have they made of you?” I said sadly to my image.
With a deep sigh I handed the mirror back to Herbst.
“What, not good-looking enough?” he asked with feigned astonishment.
“These damned boils,” I complained. “If only we got something decent to eat! The carrots we had for lunch today were just plain water again! Nobody can keep healthy on that!”
With that, I had brought him round to the inexhaustible topic of this place: food, and nothing more was said of my personal appearance. Subsequently I often borrowed the orderly’s mirror, but always in his absence and without asking him. At the third or fourth time, I found I had judged my appearance too unfavourably. After I had inspected myself in the mirror a few times, I found that I really looked quite tolerable. In any case, one would quickly get used to this slight disfigurement. I had got used to it, Magda would get used to it, so would my fellow townsmen, so would everybody. There were people who had been much worse disfigured in the World War, and still had married pretty women, and lived happily with them. I was absolutely convinced that this scarred nose would not interfere with my happiness with Magda.
56
I was soon to have the opportunity of putting this to the test. One afternoon the head-warder Fritsch entered my cell and said briefly: “Come on!”
Fritsch, a fleshy man with a rubicund face, was one of those officials to whom a man might put a question. He did not look on us merely as criminals.
“What’s the matter,” I asked. “Is it the doctor?”
“No,” he replied. “Visit. Your wife. The medical officer’s given permission for you to put civilian clothes on. Get a move on, Sommer, your wife’s waiting, and I haven’t much time.”
He conducted me to the clothing store, where my suitcase lay on a shelf, rather lonely. Most of the patients were put in here for life and never needed civilian clothes again. Sitting on a table, the head-warder watched me as I first undressed, then dressed again. All the time he was urging me to hurry. But I couldn’t go so fast. My hands trembled so much, my heart was thumping. A visit from Magda in this death-house, life had come to visit me, soon I would be with her again.… And a deep emotion, a boundless love for my wife filled my breast. She had come to me at last, the long time of trial was over. Love had come back to me again, and I firmly determined, at this very first meeting, to show her how deeply I loved her, that the time of our estrangement was over, and that I put myself entirely into her hands, unreservedly and with complete confidence. Suddenly something dreadful occurred to me! It was Friday and we didn’t get shaved till Saturday: my stubble was in the worst possible condition!