The hatch in the door clanged open and a guard peered in.
“Back against the wall!” he commanded.
But I stayed on my bed, hands behind my head, listening to the radio. I thought the news of a general strike was far more interesting than anything the guard could offer. But I was wrong.
“Accused 592744, you are being transferred.” The guard marched into my cell.
“Why?” I was sitting up now, wondering what they were planning to do with me.
“We can no longer guarantee your safety in this institution. Now get up!”
“Where are you taking me?”
Instead of answering the guard pulled me to my feet and wound choke cuffs around my wrists. He prodded me down the echoing corridors, closed cell doors to either side, barred gate at the end. We were buzzed through the gate and I was taken out of the cell block and into the yard.
Inmates were coming out of the next block and being marched to assembly work in the workshops on the other side of the prison.
“Hey!” I shouted, “I’m Martin Grobe, they’re taking-” I didn’t get any further because I was on my knees in pain as the guard twisted the cuffs tight around my wrists.
A couple of prisoners saw what was happening, and word spread through the work party. They ignored the warders, moving as one towards me. After that, I was hardly aware of what was happening around me, bile was rising in my throat, fighting with the air that was screaming out of my lungs as the cuffs were twisted tighter. I would have fallen over, but the chain around my wrists was pulling me upright. My stomach heaved and the pain in my wrists eased, I must have vomited and collapsed full length on the concrete because the next thing I knew, another prisoner was helping me sit up. My vision cleared and my hearing returned, a klaxon was wailing, my guard sat on the floor, his own choke cuffs bound his wrists, tying them tight behind his back. Other guards sat close to him, all surrounded by prisoners.
“You’re Martin Grobe? They said you’d escaped.”
My breathing was heavy and ragged, my wrists burned, pain shot up my arms when I moved my fingers. A part of my brain nagged me to get a grip, to work out what was happening.
I stood up, glad of the hand given by a burly man with a tattooed skull. I looked down at my former guard, he was being held now, kneeling on the floor, two prisoners grasping a shoulder each, waiting for me to kick him, hit him, do whatever I wanted to him.
“Let him go.”
The two prisoners shrugged and released the guard.
“We’ve got this far without spilling blood.” My breath was ragged, my words came in spurts. “We shouldn’t start now just because the old order is fighting back.” The other prisoners were grumbling. “Remember Bautzen? We can do that here, now!”
“Bautzen?”
“We all know what happened in Bautzen prison four years ago, we know how they took over the jail, set up a Prisoners’ Council. Isn’t it time we did that here?” I looked around at the work party, they were all listening to me, the warders unattended. “Out there, beyond these walls, Kaminsky is trying to destroy the Round Tables and the Workers’ Councils. So what better answer than to set up our own Prisoners’ Council? This is our first step towards freedom. Who’s with me? Let’s see some hands!”
There was no need to take hands, the prisoners were ready.