There were two men in that room with me, and neither one of them looked much like a torturer. They were wearing double-breasted suits and silk ties. One of them had a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and the other had a cherrywood pipe clamped, unlit, between his teeth. The one wearing the pipe in his face picked up the water jug and poured some water into a dusty-looking glass and handed it to me. I wanted to throw the water in his face, but instead I tossed it down my throat. The one with the glasses lit a cigarette and threaded it between my lips. I sucked at the smoke like mother’s milk.

“Was it something I said?” I grinned feebly.

Out of the first-floor window was a view of the garden and the conical roof of a little white tower in the prison wall. As far as I knew, it wasn’t a view that any red jacket in Landsberg was accustomed to seeing. Blinking against the sun streaming in through the window and the smoke streaming into my eye, I rubbed my chin wearily and took the cigarette from my mouth.

“Maybe,” said the man with the pipe. There was a mustache on his upper lip that matched the size and shape of his little blue bow tie. He had more chin than would have made him handsome, and while it wasn’t exactly Charles V, there were some, myself included, who would have grown a short beard on it to make it seem smaller, perhaps. But in my eyes leprosy would have looked a lot better on him.

The door opened. No keys were required to open this cell. The door just swung open and a guard came in carrying some clothes, followed by another guard bearing a tray with coffee and a hot meal. I didn’t much like the clothes, since these were the ones I’d been wearing the previous day, but the coffee and the food smelled like they’d been prepared in Kempinski’s. I started to eat before they changed their minds. When you’re hungry, clothes don’t seem that important. I didn’t use the knife and fork, because I couldn’t yet hold them properly. So I ate with my fingers, wiping them on my thighs and backside. I certainly wasn’t about to worry about my table manners. Immediately, I started to feel better. It’s amazing how good even an American cup of coffee can taste when you’re hungry.

“From now on,” said the man with the pipe, “this is your cell. Number seven.”