. ’

‘They were all on at me, the governor, and the schoolmaster and the chaplain, to apply for probation. But I’m not such a fool. When I come out on Wednesday, I’m in the clear . . . ’

‘But your application was refused,’ butted in one of the orderlies.

‘Refused? I didn’t make one; you’d better get your ears cleaned out.’

‘Well, that’s what the storeman’s orderly told me.’

‘Oh, did he? And what kind of bastard do you think he is? He kicks the kids’ behinds and pinches the pennies their mums have given them to go and buy the supper. To hell with him! Got any polish?’

‘And the orderly also said . . . ’

‘Oh, bollocks. Got any polish? Show me—good, I’ll have it. You won’t get it back again. I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do. Now don’t you start talking. Besides I’ve got a bar of soap among my things, I’ll give you that in exchange. Come to the discharge cell on Wednesday. Shall I slip a letter out for you too? Right. Discharge cell, Wednesday morning.’

The C2 orderly remarked: ‘Getting above himself, he is. All uppity because he’s out the day after tomorrow.’

Kufalt suddenly turned on him: ‘Uppity, am I? You’re crazy! It’s all shit to me whether I stick in here a couple more weeks or not. I’ve done 260 weeks—1,825 days—mind that—and you think I’m uppity because I’m getting out?’

Then he turned more calmly to little Bruhn: ‘Now listen, Emil—ah, you want to bunk. Recreation will soon be over. Get up to category three at twelve o’clock today . . . ’

‘I can manage. Petrow’s on duty with our lot on F landing. He’ll fix it.’

‘Good. I’ve got something to say to you. And now get lost.’

‘Bye, Willi.’

‘Bye, Emil.’

‘And now .