We are all curious. “But why did you say you did it? It wasn’t you at all!”
He grins. “That doesn’t matter. I have a shooting license.”
Then, of course, we all understand. Whoever has a shooting license can do just whatever he pleases.
“Yes,” he explains, “I got a crack in the head and they presented me with a certificate to say that I was periodically not responsible for my actions. Ever since then I’ve had a grand time. No one dares to annoy me. And nobody does anything to me.
“I reported myself because the shot amused me. If they open the door again to-morrow we will pitch another.”
We are overjoyed. With Josef Hamacher in our midst we can now risk anything.
Then come the soundless, flat trollies to take us away.
The bandages are stuck fast. We bellow like steers.
★★
There are eight men in our room. Peter, a curly black-haired fellow, has the worst injury;—a severe lung wound. Franz Wächter, alongside him, has a shot in the arm which didn’t look too bad at first.
256
