Page:The Jail, Experiences in 1916.pdf/97

 Ah, Friday is here "the most horrible day", so Budi declared to me, but our Papa Declich unwrapped a piece of cheese and butter from his moist rags, opened a box of sardines and we ate. Quietly and without zest, fifteen pairs of eyes looked over to our table in greed and anger, and we ate quickly and in silence, as if we had stolen food somewhere.

"Well, tomorrow we'll eat too“ said the sergeant to Mr. Karl soothingly.

"And we'll drink—I've ordered three bottles of wine."

Let me point out that a bottle of wine sounds promising and thoroughly magnificent, but these bottles of wine were also delivered Saturday after Saturday by the caterer, red and white wine, his own bottling, a mysterious taste (a dash of lemonade, a dash of vinegar, a dash of alcohol, an enormous amount of water), and after drinking it there was a wooden feeling in one's head.

We went to bed before the bell commanded us, and there were none of the usual conversations from mattress to mattress. Nor was there any smoking—there was nothing to smoke. Such a Friday had no other significance except that it brought us twenty-four hours nearer to freedom.

And again I dreamt about it. It seemed to me that I was floating in a boat across the sea. The wind filled my sails, whose ropes I had entwined around my hand, while with the other hand I was steering. The boat, with a slight list, was speeding over the crinkled surface, the furrowed waves beat against its sides, I longed to get further and further onwards—I did not know from whence and what was there—but onward, away.

I was awakened by a rattling at the door. All the heads raised themselves on the straw matresses. Mr. Sponner was bringing in a new fellow-inmate. An elderly man in artillery uniform.