PRINCES OF THE PRISON
ONE day I was sitting in the large common cell, teaching the difficult art of writing. One of the prisoners formed the intricate letters with especial care. His name was Simon Saloff; he was an old man with long, silvery locks and beard, which gave him the appearance of a patriarch from the Bible but which did not prevent him from being a firebrand and a recidivist.
During the lesson I heard a signal in the corridor and, some moments later, I saw a group of people stopping before the grilled door of the cell. Among them I recognized the Prosecutor, the Chief of Police and some other officials. As they entered the room, the Commandant of the Prison ordered every one to his feet and, when we were all standing, whispered something to a greyhaired, grave-looking official with stripes on his sleeve indicating a high rank. This man turned to me and said:
"I thank you for teaching the prisoners. It is a very commendable act on your part."
"I take it that it is no act of special merit but simply a duty which I perform in place of the Government, since it pays no attention to this side of the prison life," I answered with a bow.
The high official looked sharply at me and said, as though to no one in particular:
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