You’ve never done a stroke of work in your life. What were you, swine? A businessman?”
I was past caring. But I had to take his threat of killing me seriously, so I straightened up and looked him directly in the eye.
“I was a doctor—a specialist.” “What? A doctor? I bet you got a lot of money out of people.”
“As it happens, I did most of my work for no money at all, in clinics for the poor.”
But, now, I had said too much. He threw himself on me and knocked me down, shouting like a madman.
He threw himself on me and knocked me down, shouting like a madman. I can no longer remember what he shouted.
I want to show with this apparently trivial story that there are moments when indignation can rouse even a seemingly hardened prisoner—
indignation not about cruelty or pain, but about the insult connected with it.
That time blood rushed to my head because I had to listen to a man judge my life who had so little idea of it, a man
(I must confess: the following remark, which I made to my fellow-prisoners after the scene, afforded me childish relief)
“who looked so vulgar and brutal that the nurse in the out-patient ward in my hospital would not even have admitted him to the waiting room.”
Fortunately the Capo in my working party was obligated to me;
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