‘I’d sooner have done paper bags. This yarn tears your hands to shreds.’

‘That’s only for the first few weeks,’ said the instructor comfortingly. ‘You’ll get used to it. Paper bags is much worse. All those who stick bags come to me.’

‘You’ll have to get me a pair of nail scissors—all my nails are torn . . . ’

‘You must report that to the storeman on Wednesday. He’s got a pair of nail scissors. Then you’ll be sent for to cut your nails.’

‘When?’

‘When the storeman has time. Saturday or Monday—maybe even Friday.’

‘You’re crazy!’ shouted the other. ‘What do you think my hands’ll be like by Monday? The whole net’s covered with blood—you can see for yourself!’

His voice rose to a roar.

Kufalt, outside the door, grinned. He knew what it was like when your hands began to bleed from the sharp sisal yarn and the harsh threads were drawn through the cuts next day. True, no one had told him that the storeman had a pair of scissors. He had trimmed his torn nails with bits of broken crockery.

‘That’s right, get mad, my friend,’ he thought to himself. ‘I hope you’ll be doing a long stretch and find out all about it for yourself. But my bucket’s started stinking like hell again. I’ll have to clean it out with hydrochloric. If I go before the doctor today, I’ll get the infirmary orderly to cough up a bit . . . ’

‘Hand over that ten marks. I won’t have you fool me. I want my money.’

‘Now we don’t need to quarrel, do we, Herr Rosenthal?’ said the instructor imploringly. ‘What do you want with money in this place? I get you everything you need. I’ll even buy you a pair of nail scissors—but cash in prison, that might get us into a real mess.’

‘Don’t play the fool with me,’ said prisoner Rosenthal. ‘You’re not a real official. You haven’t taken any oaths. You’re just an agent of the net manufacturers, to give out the work. You don’t run any risks.’

‘But what do you want with cash? Tell me that, anyhow.’

‘I want it to buy tobacco.’

‘That can’t be true, Herr Rosenthal.