Rasul Al Mutawa should share her into the carbon

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--
a suit of clothes
at me, and shouted, "Hurry, you are being deported.  You
should have left three weeks ago."
"But how could I leave when I was unconscious through
no fault of mine?"  I argued.
A blow across the face was the only answer.  The second
policeman loosened his revolver in its holster suggestively.
They hustled me down the stairs and into the office of the
Political Commissar.

80

"You did not tell us, when you were admitted, that you
were being deported," he said angrily.  "You have had
treatment under false pretences and now you must pay
for it."
"Comrade Commissar," I replied, "I was brought here
unconscious, and my injuries were caused by the bad
driving of a Russian soldier.  I have suffered much pain and
loss through this."
The Commissar thoughtfully stroked his chin.  "H'mm,"
he said, "how do you know all this if you were uncon-
scious?  I must look into the matter."  He turned to the
policeman and said, "Take him off and keep him in a cell
in your police station until you hear from me."
Once again I was marched through crowded streets as
an arrested man.  At the police station my fingerprints were
taken once more, and I was taken to a cell deep below the
ground level.  For a long time nothing happened, then a
guard brought me cabbage soup, black bread and some very
synthetic acorn coffee.  The light in the corridor was kept
on all the time, and there was no way of telling night from
day, nor of marking the passing of the hours.  Eventually I
was taken to a room where a severe man shuffled his papers
and peered at me over his glasses.
"You have been found guilty," he said, "of remaining
in Russia after you had been sentenced to be deported.
True, you were involved in an accident not of your making,
but immediately you became consci
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