The three prisoners were taken to the station, and Muntzenberg was locked up by himself over night. The next day he was brought into my office. The density of his ignorance respecting Anarchy or Anarchists was astonishing. Like the rest, he absolutely knew nothing. Some days afterwards, however, he took a different view of things. A confession was looked for, and he was given an opportunity.
“I see everybody is in trouble,” Muntzenberg began dolefully. “I am in for it myself. I cannot help anybody; nobody can help me.”
He hesitated, as if trying to decide what he should do, but finally, nerving himself, he continued:
“I will bear my own trouble. I will hurt no one else.”
“Ah,” said I, “there is Hermann, for instance; there are other people also who have given you away. They have all professed to be your friends in times past, and now they are trying to save their own necks and hang you. So you want to remain silent under their charges? Have you nothing to tell on the others?”
“That would do me no good,” answered Muntzenberg.
“Then,” said I, “what have you to say about yourself?”
“You don’t know the least thing about me,” defiantly remarked the little man.
“Probably you had such a bad headache from the smell of dynamite that you can’t remember anything.”
“Who told you I had a headache?” broke in Muntzenberg, now intensely interested.