Werner would be sure not to write, and then he would have to go and beg the chaplain for help.

The best thing for him would be a decent safe wage—small it might be, but it must be sure. No more dealings with crooks; he would get some quiet little room, where insignificant Willi Kufalt could sit and keep warm through the winter. A cinema now and again. And a nice office job, and so on and so on. He wanted nothing better. Amen.

The bell rang.

He sat up, picked up his cap and scarf, felt for the note to make sure it was still safe in his sock—and there was Steinitz at the open door: ‘Recreation—category three!’

They gathered round the glass cubicle, eleven manikins out of six hundred.

‘All here?’ asked Petrow.

‘No, Batzke’s not here yet.’

‘Having a snooze, is he? Someone go and wake him up.’

‘No, he won’t come.’

‘Oh? Well, I know what’ll happen. They’ll soon knock off the extra recreation period when they see we don’t use it.’

‘Who’s got the football?’

‘We need a new one. This one’s past mending.’

‘Rubbish, shoemaker! Of course it can be mended, you lazy sod.’

‘The gentlemen who are going out tomorrow might cough up ten marks out of their pay, eh?’

‘I need my money for myself, thank you.’

‘Well hello, why are we going through the cellar today, sir?’

‘It’s nearer.’

‘And it’s forbidden.’

‘It isn’t. Who said so?’

‘Rusch.’

‘Oh, I fart at what he forbids.’

‘There’s somebody!’

‘Hi, Bruhn, are you coming with us?’

‘Fine, Emil, we can have a bit of a chat.’

‘Petrow slipped me out, Rusch isn’t in the building. Good work, eh, Willi?’

‘Well, that’s rich! He’s not even category two, Senior Warder, sir!’

‘I don’t see anything. I don’t know how Bruhn came out.’

‘Shut your mouth, you jealous pig. Can’t you let Bruhn come out with us once in a while?’

‘You idiot, when I want anything you get all worked up about it.’

‘It’s different with Bruhn, no warder minds about Bruhn.’

‘Different—because he’s your boyfriend, eh? Listen, I won’t stand for it, I’ll squeal.’

‘All right, squeal if you dare. I know a thing or two about you . . . ’

They were outside. It was the Junior Prison’s recreation ground, where they played football and were allowed to walk about without supervision—Petrow had gone off straight away—as a preparation for freedom, surrounded, of course, by a wall five metres high.

‘Come along, Willi, don’t mind him. I’m here anyhow.’

‘Yes, come on. Let’s walk by the wall, then we won’t disturb the game.’

‘I’ve a good mind to give you one in the jaw—think a lot of yourself, don’t you?’

‘All right, do, if you’ve got any guts.’

‘Guts, eh? I’ll soon show you, you dirty scab . . . ’

‘Now then, shoemaker, are we playing football or not?’

‘I wouldn’t dirty my hands on you—clear off with your boyfriend. But I’ll tell Rusch . . . ’

‘Oh, come on, Willi.’

‘The shoemaker’s a pig, Emil. But I’ll tell you what he’s making all this fuss about. I sold him my two canaries for four packets of tobacco. And Rusch found out. So he’s lost the birds and the tobacco.