I'm Not Stiller Read Free

do you know all this?'
    'How do I
know
?' said my warder. 'Why, from the papers.'
    I can't find out much else.
    'Eat,' says my warder. 'Eat the soup while it's still hot, and don't lose your grip, Mr White. That's what they're waiting for, these Herr Doktors, I know them.'
    The soup, a
minestra,
was good; in general I can't complain about the food here, and I think my warder has a soft spot for me; at any rate he doesn't address me (like everyone else) as Herr Stiller, but as Mr White.
    ***
    So they want me to tell them my life story. And nothing but the plain, unvarnished truth. A pad of white paper, a fountain pen with ink that I can have refilled whenever I like at the expense of the State, and a little good will—what's going to be left of truth, when I get at it with my fountain pen? And if I just stick to the facts, says my counsel, we'll get truth in the corner so to speak, where we can grab it. Where could truth escape to, if I write it down? And by facts, I think my counsel means especially place-names, dates that can be checked, details of jobs, and other sources of income, for example, duration of residence in different towns, number of children, number of divorces, religion, and so on.
    Â 
    P.S. Where was I on 18 January 1946?
    ***
    Walking in the prison yard.
    It's not nearly so bad, not nearly so humiliating as you expect, and as a matter of fact I'm glad to be able to walk again, even if it's only round and round in a circle. The yard is pretty big—paving-stones with moss growing in between, a fine plane tree in the centre, ivy on the walls, and of course the fact that we are not yet wearing convict's clothes, but the civilian clothes we had on when we were arrested, makes a lot of difference. If we widen the circle in which we have to walk we can see a flat roof with flapping washing; apart from this there is only sky around the roofs, which are covered with cooing pigeons. Unfortunately, we have to keep in single file, which makes proper conversation impossible. In front of me walks a fat man with a shiny bald patch (like myself) and folds of fat on the back of his neck, who paddles himself along with his arms when he's made to walk—probably a newcomer; when a friendly warder tells him it's time for his walk, he looks round (which costs him a physical effort) half stubbornly, half bewildered, dumbly seeking support. Support against what? Behind me goes the Italian who is so fond of singing in the shower-bath, and the warders can't help laughing at his comic imitation of myself. Once I looked round to see my portrait. It was funny enough: hands behind the back, the attitude of a thinker, always slightly out of line through absent-mindedness, a look of nostalgia for distant places combined with yearning glances over the nearest brick wall, a man who shyly flatters himself he doesn't belong here, and on top of this the awkward cordiality of the intellectual. It's probably a good likeness, anyhow even the Jew has to laugh, the only intellectual among the prisoners, who unfortunately walks in the other half of the circle, so that we can only converse in grimaces and gestures. He seems to have very little faith in Swiss justice...
    Suddenly someone began playing football with a raw potato; there were a few brisk passing movements before the head warder, a very correct man who always takes it as a personal insult when anything discreditable happens, finally spotted the potato. Squad halt! A serious inquiry as to where the potato came from. We stood in a circle grinning, not saying a word. The head warder walked from man to man, the peeled potato in his hand, and looked each of us in the eye. Everyone shrugged his shoulders. The head warder had missed the chance of simply throwing the potato away, against his wish the matter had suddenly become important, a matter of principle. I had the feeling it was all a farce and the head warder himself was finding it hard not to laugh and dismiss the lot of us.