You must complain to the medical officer.’

‘I’d like to know why it’s allowed too,’ said Kufalt softly to Bruhn. ‘I’ve caught a dozen colds standing around on this cold floor.’

‘So we won’t scratch the orderlies’ lino,’ said Batzke.

‘Wrong,’ said Bruhn, who knew everything. ‘Six or eight years ago a prisoner hit the doctor over the head with his slippers. Since then all prisoners have had to wait in their socks.’

‘It’s a bloody shame,’ growled Kufalt. ‘We have to catch cold here just because . . . ’

‘We’re just cattle,’ said Batzke. ‘But outside I’ll show folks what sort of animal I am!’

The prisoners had melted away like snow in the sun; there had been more outbursts, more shouts, indignant protests and whining, but in the end the infirmary chief warder’s heavy shoulder had edged them through the door, where Petrow received them, listened sympathetically to their complaints, and bustled them away, delighted to have got them back from the infirmary.

The only ones left were the two lifers and the discharges.

‘Now for a row,’ said Kufalt warningly.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Bruhn sceptically. ‘I’d be surprised if there was.’

And in five minutes the two reappeared from the doctor’s room, with the same expressionless faces, followed this time by the medical officer himself. ‘The chief warder will bring you the medicine. And the cotton wool. Right.’

‘Those lads know how to fix him,’ said Kufalt enviously.

‘Oh, he’s just a coward,’ said Bruhn. ‘They’re lifers, probably—and they don’t risk anything if they give him one on the jaw. A lifer’s always a lifer. The doctor knows that well enough.’

‘Eyes ahead! These are the men due for discharge this week, sir.’

‘Right.’ The medical officer did not look up. ‘They can be taken away. All in good health, all fit for work, chief warder.’

‘And that’s what we’ve waited an hour for,’ said Bruhn.

‘Well, I’ll put in a stiff complaint when I get out,’ said Kufalt.

‘Cattle must be treated like cattle,’ grinned Batzke. ‘The old pillpusher’s right.’

VII

When Kufalt got back to his cell, he found something else to make him indignant. Dinner had been given out in the meantime and his bowl stood on the table, but there was only one ladleful in it. Lousy bastards! Was he to go on an empty belly these last few days? Peas too—which he liked so much!

But as Kufalt sat there and crammed the food into his mouth—he had to bolt it, as the bell for the category three men’s recreation might ring at any moment—a sudden nausea came over him. That had happened several times during his five years; for weeks and even months he could not get the sloppy mixture down.

Listlessly he stirred the bowl, to see whether a bit of pork might have strayed into it—in vain.

He tipped the stuff into his bucket, cleaned the plate and smeared a slice of bread with dripping. His dripping tasted fine; the tailors stewed it up for him on the ironing stove, with apples and onions. They were very decent to him, and never took more than a quarter off the pound for their ‘work’; others had to give up a half or even three-quarters, and the new boys got nothing back at all. The tailors always told them that the chief warder had confiscated it and that it was very decent of them to take all the blame. And they had to put up with it.

Kufalt squatted on his stool and yawned. He would like to have had a bit of a snooze on his bed, but the chief warder might ring the bell at any moment; it was already time.

How the time dragged, these last few days and weeks! It would not pass, it stayed, it stuck, it would not pass. Every free minute he had he had always sat down to knot, but now he could not, he would never knot another mesh. He cared for nothing now. The thought of freedom left him cold.