it’s completely dark in there, so from eight a.m. to eight p.m. one weak lightbulb is left on.

«You ask, what milieu is he from? Well, how shall I put it. … He is twenty-four years old, he is a peasant, it is unlikely that he finished even a village school, he was what is called ‘an honest Communist,’ studied only political literacy, which in our book signifies trying to make blockheads out of knuckleheads-that’s all I know. Oh, if you want I’ll show him to you, only remember, mum’s the word!»

Martin went into the corridor. Petya and I followed. The old man in his cozy house jacket really did look like a prison warden. He produced the key as he walked, and there was something almost professional in the way he inserted it in the lock. The lock crunched twice, and Martin threw open the door. Far from being some ill-lit hole, it was a splendid, spacious bathroom, of the kind one finds in comfortable German dwellings. Electric light, bright yet pleasing to the eye, burned behind a merry, ornate shade. A mirror glistened on the left-hand wall. On the night table by the bathtub there were books, a peeled orange on a lustrous plate, and an untouched bottle of beer. In the white bathtub, on a mattress covered with a clean sheet, with a large pillow under the back of his head, lay a well-fed, bright-eyed fellow with a long growth of beard, in a bathrobe (a hand-me-down from the master) and warm, soft slippers.

«Well, what do you say?» Martin asked me.

I found the scene comical and did not know what to answer. «That’s where the window used to be,» Martin indicated with his finger. Sure enough, the window was boarded up to perfection.

The prisoner yawned and turned toward the wall. We went out. Martin fondled the bolt with a smile. «Fat chance he’ll ever escape,» he said, and then added pensively, «I would be curious to know, though, just how many years he’ll spend in there. …»