Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

During Fischer’s third year at the camp, on the morning of the first seasonal rain, he had been dragged from his damp cubicle and sent to the cookhouse. Normally the work of cleaning pots and pans was done out of doors, in the prison compound, but because of the rain Fischer was allowed inside. He worked next to a table where Haller, the fat Nazi cook, stood dicing potatoes and tossing them into a watery slop. Fischer’s eyes took in the small pieces of batter that clung like snails to the damp table legs. A shudder ran through him. Perhaps it was the rain, but he knew that the day would be a long one. He wondered what game he might play to occupy his mind, to help pass the time, and his eyes went to the mound of potatoes. Of course! He would steal one. Not that he would actually take one of the potatoes — the risk was absurd — but, if he put himself on a rigid schedule, he might spend the remainder of the day planning such an offense. The important thing was that he devise a game to occupy his mind. Lethargy was a luxury that could destroy him, turning his brain into a spongy waste. He began to plan. Rank, greasy water was splashed over the front of his shirt, and soon he would exude a sour odor. If he were able to slip one of the potatoes into his shirt, a cursory search by the guards might fail to detect it. The plan had a certain amount of appeal. Its daring amused him. By noon the thought had risen in his mind, dashing out of control, until he realized that he would actually test its soundness. His brain had become fogged with the enormity of what he was about to do. He waited until Haller’s back was turned. Then, carefully, he inched his left hand toward the table. His fingers closed around a gritty potato. It was done! He was about to snatch the prize away when he felt Haller’s knife crush through his knuckles. He screamed. The crack of bone came to him like the familiar sound of snapping violin strings. After what seemed like a long time, he got to his feet and stumbled dazedly out of the cook-house into the prison compound, the sound of Haller’s oily chuckle ringing in his ears.

Fischer walked along slowly. He had been walking aimlessly for an hour. Down one street, across at the intersection, up the next street. There was still plenty of time. He carried the violin case and a small package of liverwurst, a special treat, he had purchased at Liebermann’s.

At exactly four forty-five he turned onto Trimble Street. He was only vaguely aware of the cab that cruised slowly past him looking for a fare, of an old man with newspapers under his arm, of a cat that watched him from the warmth of a porch chair. He stopped a few yards down from the familiar brownstone and looked around him wearily. The rain had stopped during the night, but it was colder now, and the snow had frozen into ice underfoot.