Once a Jailbird

  He grew desperate, and for some time he wondered how long he could hold out. He walked like a broken man, his face was yellow and there was never a night but he woke up with a start and a shriek. The whole world was his enemy; the only time he felt he could breathe was during the few brief minutes of his interviews with the governor.

  There he was disappointed.

  Recently, a new ploy had started: every morning when he came to work he found his bench covered with excrement. It was thoroughly rubbed in, and amid the loud protests of the section Bruhn had to spend half an hour every morning fetching water, and washing and scrubbing, until he could start work.

  However early he came, his bench was always filthy.

  Bruhn complained to the management, but he was informed that the nightwatchman had found his bench clean at half past six; he had better turn up to work rather more punctually, and conduct himself so as not to be victimized by such childish pranks.

  It was clear to Bruhn that this was a plot; and it was only possible to expose it if he could catch the culprit in the factory at night.

  One night he got into the factory.

  VII

  It was easy to gain entry. The factory backed onto a narrow alley that was almost deserted at night. When the solitary gas light was extinguished, it was perfectly easy to climb over the relatively low wall and drop into the yard.

  Bruhn put out the light and climbed over. The dogs, who were waiting for the nightwatchman—it was not yet nine o’clock—barked once and then came whining up to him; they fawned around his feet; they recognized him from the nights when he had regularly got into the factory to damage the goods ready for delivery.

  He threw them some bread and glanced up at the four-storeyed front of the factory, towering up into the starless sky. He stopped; there was still a light in the wages clerk’s office.

  For a moment he stood and thought. Then he decided that someone had forgotten to turn out the light; who could be in the wages clerk’s office at that time? He took out the skeleton key he had used on previous occasions, softly opened the door, chased the dogs away and immediately locked it behind him.

  Again he stood for a moment and listened, took off his boots, hid them behind a pile of planks and went slowly down the corridor to the workshops. It was quite dark, and Bruhn did not dare to use a light; the nightwatchman was always on his rounds at about nine and might see the glimmer of a light at one of the windows. But he groped his way along the wall until he felt the staircase beneath his feet, and slowly and cautiously walked up it.

  The stairs creaked, but that was nothing; there was so much woodwork in the factory that on winter nights, when the furnaces died down, it rasped as it contracted, so such sounds would not arouse any attention.

  Bruhn was now by the door of his own workroom. He took out a second key, felt with his finger, found the keyhole, thrust in the key and turned it. The lock clicked, he grasped the door handle, it yielded, but the door did not open.

  Once more he pressed the handle, but again the door did not open. For a moment he stood there thinking, then he began to run his fingers over the door; there must be something to prevent it opening.

  Suddenly he stopped. Surely it must be his enemy who was holding the door on the inner side. He stood stock still and listened. Not a sound; only his heart beating with a slow and almost sluggish throb, and the rapid ticking of his watch.

  The wave of fear had passed; he could lift the latch, how could the enemy be holding the door? Bruhn tried again. He couldn’t make it out in the darkness, but there seemed to be something like a small hole above the latch, while the proper keyhole was under the latch—what could it be? He must flash his pocket torch on it for a moment.

  He did so. It was as he had feared. The management were sick of that disgusting trick, and a safety lock had been fitted above the catch. He could now go home. Kania would be sure to know about this, and would not come; he would not catch him, and once more the reckoning must be postponed.

  Intense, bitter anger surged up within him. Tomorrow there would be certainly some new abomination, devised by Kania, and applauded by all the others—and he had so longed to have it out with the bloke that night. Why hadn’t they waited a day before putting on their bloody Yale lock!

  He stopped. After all, had the lock been fitted that day? It could not be seen in daylight; the door always stood wide open so as to let the timber trucks through, the lock might well have been on the door for some time. And yet Kania got in; it was untrue that the nightwatchman had inspected his bench at half past six and found it clean. Kania had accomplices—perhaps the watchman gave him the key. Bruhn had waited outside Kania’s lodging in the early morning; Kania was not very early at the works; he did not leave his room until quarter to seven, so it cannot be true that the bench was still clean at half past six. But all this was of no use. He could not stand and wait for Kania. The watchman would find him, Kania would catch sight of him and he could not get involved in an open fight with Kania; he must hide and catch him in the act.

  For a while he stood and pondered.

  It was uncertain which way Kania had got into the place. Bruhn could not hide down in the corridor, nor in the engine room gangway. There were three ways by which Kania could get in, and it would be foolish to concentrate on one; he would probably wait all night in vain. Bruhn must get into the room, and if not through the door, then . . .

  He put the key into the door and turned the lock. The watchman must not find anything unusual.

  The roof, of course, was a possibility, but Bruhn was no climber; his short, stocky body had stiffened during his years in prison. Besides, he should first have assessed the ascent by daylight. To break through the wall from an adjacent room, at night, and without proper implements, with the nightwatchman about, was out of the question.

  Bruhn turned to go. It was no good, he always had the worst of luck. How gratifying it would have been to ambush Kania and thrash him so that he would be laid up for three weeks and yet could never prove it was Bruhn! But his luck was always out.

  He walked down the stairs again.

  And then stopped.

  Far below he saw a glimmer of light. It might be the nightwatchman, but he could also hear a voice. The escape route was barred.

  He could go through the glue room into the sawdust room and from there slip through the air shaft into the boiler room . . .

  He made his way back—and suddenly heard an unmistakable voice.

  He crept up to the top of the stairs and listened.

  Yes, it was the voice of the enemy; he heard him shout, ‘Come on down, you bastard. I know you’re up there, I saw you get over the wall!’

  Bruhn had nothing handy, only the two keys, but they were large and heavy; he gripped them and flung them down the stairs at the gleam of light.

  He heard a cry; no, not Kania’s voice, nor the watchman’s voice, which was harsh and deep; it was a shrill, thin, clamorous voice, which he knew . . . There were several of them there . . . the hunt was on.

  ‘Let me see, Herr Kesser . . . It’s nothing much, just a scratch . . . ’

  A face came into the light of the lamp—well well, it was the pay packet man; well, serve him right, he had had enough rows with him.

  ‘It’s only a scratch,’ said the watchman to Kesser, who was still whimpering. ‘You’d better stay where you are, it’s going to be a bit of a job to catch this brute.’

  The stairs were suddenly lit up. Somebody—Kania, of course—had turned on the light, and Bruhn could just see that he was in danger; noiselessly, also in stockinged feet, Kania bounded upstairs.

  Bruhn took to his heels; he ran out of the light into darkness, which made pursuit more difficult, and dashed into the glue room—it was very dark in there and the trapdoor would be difficult to lift.

  He heard Kania rattling at the door of the workroom, where he had just been standing; where was the ring on the trapdoor? It must be over in the corner, and as he groped
for it he glanced towards the door, which was open and, in the reflection from the staircase, stood sharply outlined against the black wall.

  He had not found the ring when he saw a shadow in the doorway. The man’s breath came quickly, and he listened. Bruhn crouched in his corner. He groped with his hand and grasped an iron glue-pot; he looked at the ceiling . . .

  The light flashed on, and Kania roared with pleasure. ‘There you are, Emil, come on out, and I’ll beat your head in, blast you!’ Then a crash, darkness, a scatter of glass splinters. Bruhn had smashed the bulb.

  He slipped round to the opposite corner of the glue room behind the glue oven and watched his enemy, who stood cursing in the doorway.

  Then all was silence . . . He looked at the dim figure; the figure stood motionless, and listened . . .

  ‘Come on, Emil,’ said Kania. ‘Are you scared? You needn’t be scared. I’ve got something that’ll put you to sleep in no time.’

  And he brandished a club.

  Bruhn had been groping noiselessly on the glue oven, found what he wanted and with one heave of his arm he flung an iron glue-pot at the figure in the doorway.

  Kania spat out a savage curse that was half a roar of pain; Bruhn had hit him. Kania had gone, he could hear him shouting on the landing, ‘Bring that torch, bastards; how the hell can I get him in the dark?’

  The stairs creaked.

  Now was the moment. He grasped the ring of the trapdoor and raised it up; beneath him was a dark abyss into which he lowered himself, and the door slammed down above his head with a thunderous crash.

  He had fallen softly, onto a heap of sawdust. Above him he heard voices shouting and talking, how far away he could not tell. He must hurry. He crawled over the sawdust—no use looking for the door, it was bound to be shut, he must find the air shaft.

  He thought he remembered it was in the opposite corner, and he found it; the shaft was very narrow, but perhaps he could manage. He tore off his jacket and trousers, raised his arms above his head and got in, legs first. Then he began slowly to push himself backwards, using all his strength to squeeze himself down the narrow metal tube.

  He was not far from the mouth of the shaft, not more than two or three metres, when a light appeared; the others were in the sawdust room. He heard them talking excitedly, but could not catch what they said; the air in the narrow tube was foul, his progress very laborious, there was roaring in his ears and a red mist before his eyes.

  They would be searching for him in the sawdust. It would be some while before they realized he was not there, and happened on the air shaft. Doggedly he thrust himself downwards, centimetre by centimetre. Before they noticed where he was hidden he must reach the joint in the shaft, after which it dropped vertically into the boiler room on the ground floor; he could then slip down and be off before they got to the bottom of the stairs . . .

  The circle of light darkened—something had blocked it—and he heard a voice: ‘Give me the lamp, perhaps he’s here.’

  A flash of light dazzled him and a triumphant voice shouted: ‘There he is! Give me the pistol and I’ll shoot him in the face. Give me the pistol, watchman!’

  For a moment he was paralysed by mindless terror, then he jerked himself back, so that his muscles and his bones cracked . . . and again, and yet again . . .

  The opening to the shaft was clear for a moment; they were probably quarrelling over the pistol . . .

  Surely they couldn’t shoot him there and then, he had put up no resistance . . .

  And he went on jerking himself backwards . . .

  The light flashed again and dazzled him completely. Would the joint never come! Oh God, the man was going to shoot him in the face . . .

  His legs swung loose; he gave a frantic push and shot downwards . . . he was choking—his lungs were bursting—he fell and fell, his mind was a blank, it was over, all over . . .

  When he came to he was sitting on a heap of sawdust by the big circular saw. He looked around and listened; silence. He staggered to his feet, shivering in his thin underclothes. He listened; not a sound. Perhaps he had been unconscious merely for a second, surely they would soon be here? No, not a sound.

  Then he remembered that they would for sure be looking for him in the boiler room. He had expected to drop into the boiler room, but that was of course absurd; he now realized it was not so wide a shaft; he had fallen straight into the engine room. It was dark, but he felt his way about and stumbled against the door, which was of course shut. What a fool he had been to throw away the keys—one of them might have fitted. They would be sure to come now, and they would kill him.

  What should he do?

  He was confused; the fall down the shaft had partly stunned him and he could barely move.

  Then he thought of the windows. He was on the ground floor; he had fallen three storeys; the windows opened onto the yard; he could climb through the ventilator over them.

  He shuffled painfully towards a window. It was strange that they were not here by now. They could take him quietly, he was so exhausted. There were good beds at the police station, and the main thing was that a man could lie down on his backside.

  The phrase pleased him. ‘A man can’t do without lying down on his backside,’ he thought; but he made his way to the window, pulled the ventilator cord and looked up. It was nine feet above his head, but the windows were small wired glass panes in fixed iron frames; he would have to crawl through.

  He was so weary that he had to hold on by a transmission belt; he half wished that they would come.

  He grasped the belt and started to pull himself up by his hands. The pain in his arms was agonizing, there seemed no strength left in them. But his legs were worse; he tried to use them to support himself against the wall, so as to take the weight of his body off his arms, but they would not obey him. However, he slowly mounted, hand over hand, and could almost touch the edge of the ventilator when the belt began to slip round the flywheel, and he crashed to the floor.

  His body struck the side of a sawing bench and he lost consciousness for a second time.

  When he opened his eyes, Kania was standing in front of him. The engine room lights were on, Kania stood and looked at him with his small, black, twinkling eyes, dangled his rubber club and said nothing.

  Bruhn said nothing either; he lay where he was, rigid and deadly weary. His blue lips moved, but merely set into a faintly troubled smile. His fear had gone.

  ‘Get up, you bastard!’ shouted Kania suddenly, and kicked Bruhn in the side.

  Bruhn’s body yielded to the blow; he rolled slowly over and closed his eyes again.

  ‘Will you get up, you wretch!’ roared Kania, and seized Bruhn by the collar.

  But the moment he let him go, Bruhn collapsed once more.

  ‘Do you expect me to carry you?’ shouted Kania, and struck Bruhn savagely on the head with his rubber club. Bruhn raised his head slightly, his body stiffened as though he were going to get up; then he fell back with a faint sigh, his eyes turned to Kania with a last blue flicker of a glance . . .

  ‘Don’t sham, you pig,’ shouted Kania and struck him again.

  Bruhn lay still, his firm, broad, toil-worn hand had opened and the skilful fingers hung limp.

  Kania looked at him, bewildered. Then a misgiving came into his mind, his lips quivered, he bent down over the lifeless form and called in a low voice, with a glance at the open door: ‘Emil! Emil!’

  Emil did not answer.

  The murderer looked anxiously at the door; no, they would not come yet—he had time to get away. He jumped up, ran out into the passage, switched out the light and turned it on again.

  He hurried into the room without a glance at the silent body on the floor, ran to the planing machines, collected a heap of shavings and scraps of wood, flung them onto a pile of planking, pulled out some matches . . . a small blue flame leapt up, he blew on it . . .

  Then he dashed out. He forgot to turn out the light, he slammed the door, so that it lo
cked, and ran down the corridor into the yard . . .

  The watchman and the wages clerk came out of the engine room.

  ‘Well, have you found him?’

  ‘Not a sign of him,’ said Kania.

  ‘He must have got through a window. Or is he hiding behind some timber?’

  ‘We’ve got to find him!’

  ‘Damn the pig!’ said Kania wearily.

  He stood with his back to the engine room and watched the men’s faces.

  ‘Well, I’ll search the whole factory with the dogs,’ said the watchman.

  ‘Oh, God,’ cried the wages clerk suddenly; ‘look!’

  Behind the windows of the engine room a great tongue of flame leapt up and up—they could hear it roaring.

  ‘He’s set fire to the place,’ cried Kania. ‘Look, the ventilator’s open!’

  ‘He’s done what he threatened to do,’ said the wages clerk.

  ‘Run to the fire alarm, you fool,’ shouted the watchman. ‘Telephone the police. Kania, you go to the boiler room and shut the elevator hatch or the whole place will catch fire.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Kania. ‘Look!’

  The third-floor windows were suddenly as light as day; they could hear roaring and crackling, and shouts from behind the yard wall . . .

  ‘Ruined! Everything ruined,’ said Kania. ‘And I’ll be out of a job again, damn the bastard!’

  VIII

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Kufalt.’

  ‘Christian name!’

  ‘Willi Kufalt.’

  ‘Wilhelm, you mean. Come along.’

  The old, old refrain—how well he knew it.

  Kufalt walked in front of the warder; a tramp was roaring in a cell, begging for schnapps: ‘Just a drop! Just a little drop!’

  Then the iron door clanged, they crossed the yard; the town hall was full of people who threw curious or embarrassed glances at Kufalt.

  It was nearly noon the following day, but Kufalt, to whom all this was so familiar, wondered why he had been sent for so soon. Or was there to be a second confrontation?