Ernst Haffner - Blood Brothers

The official at the peephole is heartily used to the sight. Eating, drinking, sleeping, answering the call of nature and crying, the whole gamut from silent contained weeping to hysterical wailing. A nice job, allowing the prisoner to beat himself up, by depriving him of the least thing that might take him out of himself, be it no bigger than a fly. That self-recrimination during pretrial detention spares the investigative magistrate quite a bit of trouble later. The worn-down captive will confess everything and more, just to escape the modern torture of remand and get to face a court.

The following morning Ludwig is told: “Get ready … you’re moving to remand prison in Moabit.” Along with a dozen other prisoners, he is pushed into the waiting-pen. The official calls out their names from a list. After each name, he appends the bleak destination: “Tegel,” or “Plötzensee,” or “Moabit,” as he does after Ludwig’s name. “Everyone out!” Into the van that does the rounds of the various prisons. Through a tiny gap, Ludwig is able to see a few inches of Alexanderplatz, and before long they’ve reached Moabit, their first destination. Policemen accompanying the van deliver the prisoners and their files into the hands of the prison guards. Through the ground-floor office windows, Ludwig is once more afforded a glimpse of free people, speeding cars and ding-a-linging trams. Then there’s the stereotypical summons: “Come along with me.” A glass-roofed and flower-grown passageway connects the office space to the prison itself. The official unlocks the door.

All at once there’s no more flowers or friendliness. Prison is gray-on-gray chiaroscuro. Spiraling up into infinity is a system of bare-iron staircases. Floor upon floor. Cell by cell, in a radial pattern, all dominated by the tall watchtower in the middle, where alarm bells go off at the least suspicion. Trusties in blue prison uniforms polish the linoleum floors of the corridors to an even deeper shine. The iron brooms scratch back and forth, back and forth. There’s plenty of time here. Many months, if not years. Guards snoop through peepholes at their quarry, lawyers weighed down with files hurry into the consulting rooms to be taken to their clients — their murderers or black marketeers. Little squads of remand prisoners are marched off to the bathroom, to the doctor or to exercise. A prison full of bustle, but the human voice belonging to prisoner number so-and-so is just a shy whisper. Ludwig is taken to reception. Taken everywhere. Here in this well-secured prison, not one prisoner takes a step outside his cell without the law three paces behind him.

“Empty your pockets,” says the guard. Shirt and socks are taken off Ludwig as well. Then a shower of institutional property rains down on Ludwig. Wool blankets, sheets, shirt, socks, handkerchief and neckerchief. Each item carries the stamp of the institution. Next, a shower. “D’you have lice?” “No, sir.” The guard stands by as Ludwig reluctantly strips off, and then greedily grabs at his clothes. Turns the pockets inside out, checks the linings, feels the material for any items that might have been sewn in, looks in his boots, searches for contraband: money, knife or rope that might be used in a suicide or attempted escape. And lo, in the corner of a pocket, he finds a little end of string that might do to squeeze a throat shut. It’s promptly confiscated and noted, and joins the rest of the impounded stuff. From the shower he goes to the governor. A prison file on Ludwig comes into being. A senior guard takes the new bod to his cell, instructs him in the house rules, on bed-making (very important!) and on keeping his cell clean.

The heavy door clangs shut, Ludwig is on his own. He makes his bed, eyes the three tattered books on the shelf, and sees a few square yards of sunlit sky through the barred window. That’s about the size of it for the next few months. And then? A few more, courtesy of the institution. But already Ludwig is certain he will take the first opportunity he gets to run away from the institution. Back to Berlin. He’s going to find the wretch who played the trick with the left-luggage ticket on him.

Over the next few days, Ludwig has a couple of meetings with the investigating magistrate. After that, the straightforward case is ready to go to court. Of course the boy stole wallet and luggage ticket at the same time. Take him away, sergeant. Ludwig gets the odd visitor in his cell. The work inspector asks whether Ludwig wants to work or not. Threading glass beads, it’s well paid. For ten thousand beads a tad bigger than the head of a pin, the state will pay ten pfennigs … so long as the prisoner hasn’t lost his marbles after the first five thousand. The prison teacher comes along, and asks about the level of Ludwig’s education, what he likes to read, whether he wants to take part in the curriculum. The evangelical minister promises to send along his Catholic colleague, and a representative of the youth department takes lots of notes. The next day Ludwig is taken to the prison doctor: “Any syphilis or clap?” “No.” “Okay, take him away. Next, please. Any syphilis or clap?”

With the mark that cost him so dear, Ludwig buys cigarettes. Fifty at two pfennigs apiece. The smell of the rough tobacco wafts out into the corridor and tickles the nostrils of a desperate trusty. He takes a look round: no guards. He raps quietly on the door of Ludwig’s cell, then, with his mouth pressed to the crack, whispers: “Mate, this is yer trusty. You got ’nything to smoke in there?” Ludwig answers in the affirmative. “Can you slip me a couple of fags at supper time? So that the guard doesn’t see.” Ludwig promises him five cigarettes, and he has an idea. He asks the trusty whether there was any chance he could smuggle a note to the outside. The trusty thinks there is, in the next couple of days some pals of his are being released, they could take a note. But now Ludwig doesn’t have a pencil. He says the words through the crack in the door for the trusty to take down. To Jonny, in Schmidt’s pub, on Linienstrasse. Arrested for stealing left-luggage ticket, but I’m innocent! Get me some food and smokes, Ludwig. The trusty promises, but says: ten cigarettes! Okay. That evening at supper, ten cigarettes are slipped into the trusty’s waiting grip.

Three days later. The guard unlocks the door: “Okay, come with me to the governor, there’s a package waiting for you.” Jonny’s got the note, it flashes through Ludwig’s mind. Right. Before Ludwig’s eyes, the governor opens the parcel. On top is a letter, Ludwig recognizes Jonny’s writing straightaway. Dear Ludwig, I’ve learned of your misfortune through the Welfare Office, and am sending you food and cigarettes. Thinking of you always, Auntie Elsie. PS Uncle Jonny sends his best. The governor disregards the harmless note, and carefully checks the contents of the parcel for hidden missives. All he finds though is cake, chocolate, salami, cigarettes and a bag of sugar. As a remand prisoner, Ludwig is allowed to take it all back to his cell with him. But it’s not just the possession of foodstuffs that makes him so deliriously happy. No, it’s the fact that Jonny and the other lads outside are thinking of him, and sent a parcel the instant they got his note, the fact that they didn’t let him stew once he was gone, that’s what makes him so boisterous. Carefully he deposits cake, salami and everything else in the little wall cupboard. And of the hundred cigarettes, he sets ten aside to give the trusty for the prompt execution of his wishes. He means to give him a share of the other things as well, if it’s all right with the guard.

He’s just picked up the bag of sugar when it splits open, and white sugar rains down into the bottom of the box. Could have been worse. In fact it wasn’t bad at all. Ludwig holds the empty bag and gawps inside it. The inside of the paper is covered with writing! Jonny’s hand. The bag is a magnificent messenger. Ludwig leans back against the door so that no one can watch him through the peephole. Then he carefully takes apart the bag at the seams. What happened, old man? What’s with this luggage receipt you keep talking about? The note you sent us is completely baffling. What are you in for? For running away from the home? Or was there really some story with a left-luggage receipt? There’s no chance of seeing you, of course. First, we’re not relatives, and then it’s safer not to, innit? Write again, as before. But not to us, in case the police pick up anything. When the time comes for them to take you back to the home, then make a break for it! We’re all expecting you. Jonny, aka Auntie Elsie, and the rest of the Blood Brothers.