"Not 'bread,' but badly baked bread," Nowakowski exploded. "I insist upon an inquiry into the matter."
"Well …" was all the Prosecutor had to say, as he bade us good-bye and went out with the Colonel.
After they had gone, Nowakowski, with his round loaf in his hand, took up his post at the door and watched as a cat watches at the hole of a mouse. Then, just as the authorities accompanied by the Commandant of the Prison and the officer on duty, reached the head of the stairs, Nowakowski jerked the door open, rushed out into the corridor and shouted:
"A bomb! A bomb!" as he assumed the classic pose of the discus thrower and hurled the loaf after them. "The bomb" landed with a thud and bounded along the uneven flooring in their direction. The result was as electric as it was unexpected; for the Prosecutor, the Colonel and after them the Commandant and the watchers, jostling one another in panic, fought to get down the stairs away from the bomb of the angry old man. Only the officer on duty kept his head, waited till the loaf had spent its fury, picked it up and, bending over the banister, called out:
"It is only bread, common bread!"
"No, not 'common bread' but uncommonly badly baked bread," Nowakowski shouted at him.
When the old man was summoned to the prison office for this joke of his, I waited with impatience for his return. Contrary to my fears and expectations, he came back quite pleased and smiling, having left in the office all his spleen and anger, which was often only the result of nerves, that plague the prisoners in their unnatural confinement.
"How did you get out of it?"
"The Prosecutor, putting on a bold front, asked me
