“Well,” said Robinson, “bread was distributed this morning at eight o’clock. There will not be any further distribution until to-morrow morning at the same hour.” It was less than encouraging.
“But,” I said, “there must be means of getting nourishment. Surely they will not deny my request when they know that I have been without food for so long. There must be a means to get food of some kind, somehow?”
That same sad smile and their demeanor told me as convincingly as any words could that my hopes were useless. They knew from their experience that I would get nothing to eat until the next morning.
“However,” said one of them, “I have some bread left over from this morning. I will give it to you, and Robinson will make some coffee.”
Robinson, a short, good fellow, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, brought from under the table an alcohol lamp and proceeded to the making of coffee. What a contrast to the comfort of the large hotels!
At about half-past nine o’clock that day I took my first meal in jail. It consisted of a crust of black bread and a cup of coffee, without milk or sugar. But to one as famished as I was, even this seemed a feast, and I expressed the gratitude I felt to my new companions for their kindness.
As I sat at the table, eating my frugal repast, my companions paced around the room. It was really a cell. An iron-barred window about six feet above the floor ran up the rest of the wall to the ceiling. From where I sat, the sky was visible above the walls of the prison yard. In the cell were four beds, made up as bunks. Placed at the table from which I was eating were four small wooden seats, without backs or arms. The walls were whitewashed, and in the centre of the massive iron door was a grating which would permit the guards to observe everything that took place in the chamber. There was a daily inspection, at about ten o’clock in the morning. The sergeant-major appeared and going from floor to floor he ordered the door of every cell opened in turn. He would scrutinize every occupant haughtily and then make his departure.
Seated at the table, my back towards the door, I was absorbed with my own thoughts–and my black bread–when Robinson, gliding towards me, lightly pulled my sleeve to invite me to get up. Realizing that something was going on behind me I half turned and I saw the sergeant-major, more Prussian-like than ever, standing in the doorway.
After we all had risen, he cried out in a stentorian voice: “Guten morgen!” It sounded to my ears more like an insult than a morning salutation. “What did he say?” I asked Mr. Aaron.
“Merely good morning,” he replied and at once added: “But every time this man bids you good morning, it sounds as though he were saying: ‘Go to the devil!’” He was Sergeant-Major Gotte.