THE BOY IN THE JAIL
BY PETER SCHULT

The following is a translation from the original German by John Lohrmann of Der Knabe im Knast by Peter Schult (1928-84), a German boysexual journalist who died of cancer in Munich, Germany, April, 1984, shortly after being released from prison (to which he had been condemned in February 1982 for sex with willing boys).  It appeared in Nambla Journal Seven published by Garrett in San Francisco in 1986, pp. 61-64. No indication was given as to whether or not it was fictional or true, but the circumstances described match Schult’s own.

“Pigs!” muttered the guard as he shoved the brew they called coffee through the food-slot. It was Saturday morning. My questioning look must have irritated him because he snapped: “Is it true they’re locking up kids now?” “You should be used to that by now,” I replied. “That’s really nothing new.” “Well, it makes me mad,” he snarled. “Just look at the little guy in cell thirty. He’s still a boy.” He shut the food-slot with an angry bang.

Cell thirty — not far off down the hallway — is right in the middle of one of the most crowded men’s cellblocks of the interrogation section of Stadelheim. I remained rooted to the spot and placed my coffee absent-mindedly on the table. He must be seeing things, I said to myself. The young ones are always kept separate from the men. They’re put in the youth section in Neubau, apart from the main bulding where we are housed. Up till now I’d scarcely seen any new faces, even by accident, not even a visitor, except for the lawyer’s putting off an appointment, and then only for a fleeting moment. The young ones seldom go to chapel. I had persuaded myself I could get something extra if I went. I felt a movement in my stomach, a light chill in my shoulders that slowly spread down my back, an inner warning signal. Be careful, Old Boy, said the voice. Those who locked you up for relations with boys would like to be rid of you. Don’t risk it. Every guard knows why you’re here. They all know what you’re in for. If there really is a boy in here, they will watch you even more closely. For a moment I sensed a vague suspicion....were they setting me up maybe....a trap, they were capable of anything....so cool it. Maybe the guard had only seen a ghost. No, he had not time for that. There had been a twenty-year-old here recently. He’d looked younger. Right away everyone had started calling him “little guy.”

I tried to restrain my excitement. I must walk calmly as always to the exercise yard. I won’t meet him; I won’t speak with him. I must not let myself be provoked in any way. I won’t offer him a cigarette if I notice he has nothing to smoke. Still, I felt curious. Understandably. It was as if a woman had suddenly come out into the hallway. Possibly all that it comes down to in the end is that a group of young people had been arrested together, and were being separated to prevent contradictory evidence. There was only one youth section, so they had to be put somewhere else. Well, we’ll soon see. At ten o’clock it’s exercise time in the yard.

When I heard the key in the door about ten, I had summoned up all my inner caution. I had decided to stay completely cool. Then it occurred to me. Maybe I knew him. What if he was from one of the youth hostels I knew? He could have landed here from there. Or one of the punkers that had been arrested a few days before. I knew some of them. I lit a cigarette and walked as usual to my neighbor with yesterday’s paper to exchange for another. I glanced along the corridor, but saw nothing of the “boy.” Wait. There was someone coming out of cell thirty. It was a single cell. He looked smaller than the others now streaming out of their cells hurrying to the yard. He was wearing jeans. I saw right away that he had closely cropped hair like a punker....! spotted a dangling earring....a Levi jacket. He did look out of place. He crept off in the direction of the exit as if he didn’t feel comfortable here. A sparrow who had accidently fallen into a nest of crows. It may still not be true he’s a boy. Or could it be they only protect them till they’re twelve or thirteen; but it can’t be they can lock them up with us once they’re fourteen. It looked as though he were running a gauntlet because everywhere heads were turning in curiosity to look at him. I saw the men look up. I heard remarks too, like the one made this morning by the guard. “So now they’re locking up kids.” But I also sense a fascination. Fascination about what? Well, I know life in prison. I know the desire a lot of people who have been in custody for months develop. Sometimes they’re the same people who get all stirred up about queers and “boy-rapists.” No one needed to point it out to me.  

The boy strolled in embarrassment to the exit and squatted on the floor down where the barred doorway was still locked. I was amused. My knees felt weak as if I had pudding in my joints. His little rascally face with its troubled, despairing look. He was trying to look like a “tough guy,” but I’m sure inside he really wanted to scream. That got to me. Something inside urged me to go put my arms around his neck and say: “Come on, don’t hang your head; you won’t be here long. They’ll let you go.” But I didn’t. I kept my distance. Instead I talked as I did every other day with a few prisoners. But my thoughts were elsewhere — with him.

Out in the yard, we made our rounds as always. There was one guy I knew from the outside and a second I’d gotten acquainted with inside. We talked like this every day over this and that as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless I was not in control of my thoughts. Again and again my eyes glanced around to see what HE was doing. He was walking by himself, talking to himself. Once I heard “fifteen”, then “robbery”, then “windows.” I tried to concentrate on the conversation of my fellow prisoners. I took out my tobacco and rolled myself a cigarette. Suddenly I heard a voice next to me. “Can I have a puff?” His voice! I pulled back. His high pubertal voice, a sound I’d always trusted that I’d so often heard. No matter where, these voices are like bells, these young, unbroken voices. They so easily knock me over. They so happily ring, so rascally and sometimes so sad, as if they foresaw their departure from childhood. Without looking around I knew it was HIM. I reached out as in a dream-like certainty to the little guy who had come to my side. He inhaled skillfully, and in the act a spark sprang up....an offering, a holy grail, a gift to a guest, a refreshing drink for a tired wanderer, in the no man’s land of dreams. He pulled hungrily on the cigarette. He stayed close as if he’d always been in the yard. He stayed at my side till the last minutes of the exercise walk. He simply stayed, as if he understood my secret desire and was ready to satisfy it.

I found out later that he was fifteen years old and that a couple days before he and some friends had been arrested at three in the morning for breaking some store windows. The police maintained it was a serious offense, but he denied it. It was lucky to be able to walk a few rounds with him. After five months with mostly old, resigned, often broken men, walking with this little, but neatly packaged, bit of youthful custody, this tender rose in the midst of withered leaves....I was revived. I could laugh again. I felt strength flow from him to me. Yes, I admit it. I became so dependent on him. He was like a drug. I have often been reproached, even by my leftist friends, for the unequal dependency ratio of a man/boy relationship. Good. I hereby admit that I am dependent on this boy. Look, my little friend Ludwig could have chosen any partner among the fifty or sixty men here. But he chose me.

Unfortunately, the hour went by quickly, much faster than the countless days before when we used to shuffle around glancing at the clock every few minutes because the conversation was boring or because one was lonely. But now...

Now, of the twenty-three hours in the cell until tomorrow, Sunday, only the one hour in the exercise yard counted. Wait! Today is Saturday. On Sunday they opened up the cells for three and a half hours so that everyone could go from cell to cell from twelve until three-thirty. They called it “Enclosure Time.” Should I ask him if he wanted to come to see me at noon? I thought and pondered....time flew. Already we were again streaming back into the cellblock. But I simply didn’t have the courage to ask the decisive question. To be sure it was uncertain whether there actually would be “Enclosure Time” tomorrow. I reflected on the somewhat chaotic nature of my cellblock. Often it was questionable whether they would open up the cells. After all he was a boy. They would probably want to keep such a youthful offender away from the grown-ups. And what would the guards say if they saw him going into my cell? I remembered a similar situation a few years before when I was in Stadelheim and in the same passageway there was a young boy, a sixteen-year-old, somewhat older than this one, and physically much more developed....a strong guy. At the first Enclosure Time, the guard said to me: “Here’s a boy who’d be your type.” I wanted to spare the nice fellow embarrassment, so I said nothing.

As we regained the cellblock and the cell doors were still open for a few minutes, I saw Ludwig go get a can of hot water to make coffee. I had to go by his cell to the kitchen area myself, and as I went by I heard one of the two Turks from a neighboring cell say to him: “Will you come to us at noon?” I felt a pang in my heart. But I went courageously on to the end of the hall and filled my can with hot water. On the way back, I saw that the other Turk had already offered him a Mickey-Mouse book. Another pang and the thought, “See how these rough men can suddenly become so gentle.” Envy? Something like that. Then the boy suddenly looked up, saw me, and came up. “Tell me, is it true that after lunch we have Enclosure Time?” I nodded. “Can I come to see you?” Oh, the tingling, the weakness in the knees. In my excitement I could only stammer, “Sure!” before rushing back to my cell. Now I really needed strong coffee and a cigarette.

Oh Ludwig, you little fallen angel. What have you done to me? Sure you can come; you can do much more, but here and now I must echo what Lenin asked: “What is to be done?” At best, nothing at all. I will stay in my cell and sit. I will not go out into the hall and look to see if he’s coming. I will not go to his cell and get him. Perhaps others will intercept him, maybe the Turks, maybe the one with the Mickey- Mouse book, maybe the guards. Later he told me during an exercise period that those two Turks, who would scream bloody murder if the other asked for an extra piece of margarine or a piece of bread, had given him two slices of bread with margarine, marmelade, and sugar for his coffee. To think they’d sworn to me they didn’t have a single grain of sugar when I’d asked for a couple spoonfuls. Then too, maybe the guards wouldn’t let him out.

I played with my lunch without great appetite, scarcely noticing what I ate. I was nervous and excited. If he should come, I’d made up my mind that I would act as if it were nothing, nothing to be said, no hint, absolutely nothing to indicate how I felt about boys. I would not tell him anything about the Schwabing quarter of Munich, nothing about movies, about all that I knew, especially about sex. You never know what could happen, especially when in the back of your mind you’re paranoid. Will he provoke me? Had the public prosecutor sent him maybe? No. Even the Bavarian public attorney would not go so far as to bait me with a boy in my cell. Stay cool, Old Man, I said to myself, as I smoked one cigarette after another.

Finally the keys began to rattle. The cells were opened. I remained sitting quietly, noticing only that today all the cells were indeed being opened. Usually they opened only the single cells because they took the view that the double and three-man cells had enough company. Enclosure Time was only for those who had to live alone in a cell. And there was no way my acquaintances in the yard could ever come to me in my cell. For the preceding weekends, I had always been alone. Well, I’d rather write or sleep than get friendly with those guys. What could I share with them? I didn’t like to play cards. Time was too precious. There were now about three men nearby. The only one who didn’t show up was little Ludwig. Maybe it was for the best. But I couldn’t hide a certain disappointment, and as the guards came by I tried to be calm, as if I weren’t interested in the answer to the question I asked: ‘“Say, did they let the boy out?” Am I really that bad an actor? The three of them grinned. They knew why I had been locked up. One of them said: “Sure, they did. I saw him in the hallway.” I felt another pang. He had gone to someone else. What should be done? What’s past is past. I knew the unpredictability of the young. Sometimes they could be little monsters, especially when they suspected something. Perhaps something had happened in the meantime. I’m an old fool. How could I imagine he would find me attractive, that he would rush to come to me. Let me talk about something else. Suddenly the key turned in the lock and turned. The door opened. And as the guards went by Ludwig strolled casually into the cell. The sun has risen! I glowed inside and out. The others knew exactly what I was feeling, watching, smiling indulgently. I was somewhat embarrassed and wondered what could have happened for the boy to come now. But he walked in unconcerned and with no shyness right past them and sat down on the bed beside me. “What’s up?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “Couldn’t you find my cell?” “Oh,” he said carelessly, “I just had a talk with one of the guards. He wanted to know why I’d been locked up. Then I asked if I could come to your cell. It’s so boring being alone.” Now things seemed precarious. “And what did he say?” I asked. “He said I shouldn’t. I was supposed to be kept separate.”

Scarcely had we begun talking when the door opened once more and a guard motioned the boy outside and the door clanged shut. “Now comes the warning!” I said. “Now he’s checked my file in the office. He knows exactly why I’m here and he’ll warn the boy about me. That’s a bit much. First they lock him up, almost a child, and now they want to protect him from the ‘Dangers of Prison.’ If he had gone to a car thief or a respectable burglar, there would have been no problem. But this was a matter of his spiritual welfare. A fine society we have....it’s typical.” I am angry and at the same time sure that he will not come back. I’ll see what he says tomorrow. Mandy, the Turk in the next cell, began to talk about a film he’d seen shortly before his arrest. It took place in a Turkish prison where they had tried to rape the hero. Then the door opened and Ludwig came back in.

“Guggie,” I said, and smiled at him. He shot back a wink. The light in his eyes pierced me like a ray of sunshine. I burned like a flame. Guggie!

“Well,” I asked, “did they warn you about me?” Ludwig nodded. “And what did you say?” “I told them I wanted to come back to your cell. But tell me, what are you actually in for this time?” I answered: “For seducing a minor.” “And what did you seduce him into?” he wanted to know. Instead of answering I handed him a copy of the warrant. He read it carefully, laid it aside, and muttered: “Nothing but jerking off and they lock you up and make you serve a stretch.” Mandy went on telling about the movie, describing the scene in which a Turkish prison bully tried to screw an Englishman in the ass. Ludwig sat down next to me and listened attentively. I felt the warmth of his body on my thigh because the cell is quite narrow and there’s not much room on the bed. When Mandy had ended his description, Ludwig said coolly: “If that had happened to me, I would have asked the guy to let me give him a blow job. Then I would have bitten his cock off.” We laughed. His eyes roamed curiously around the cell and came to rest on a stack of books in the corner. He reached for the top one. It was The Return of the Imagination, for which I’d written a chapter. I showed him my picture in the book. He grinned and said “Cool dude!” Laughter again. I was fascinated. I sensed a breath of youthful naivete, an assumed cool toughness that didn’t ring true. Actually he told me some time later that when he’d been arrested he’d almost had a nervous breakdown. The police had given him Valium. How philanthropic of the cops. First they arrest him and lock him up and when he breaks down, they give him a tranquilizer. I learned that he was still in school, tenth grade in high school. How nice we are to kids. We help them with Valium when they go to prison. But horrors, if a boy-lover comes near, we fly into a panic. Is that what “children” should be protected from? Our fine society.

On the palm of his hand I discovered a tattoo. I took his hand in mine to see it closer. His tender hand felt like velvet in my coarse paw. The whiteness and softness of his skin made my blood pulse. He opened his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled up his T-shirt, and bashfully showed me his tattooed nickname: “Guggie.”

On Sunday, before the exercise hour, Guggie slipped into my cell with a roll and an egg in his hand. “It’s for you. The guards fed me too much.” I stroked his hair and said: “Merci.”

A roll and an egg. I don’t get as much enjoyment from that as I would if someone gave me a pack of tobacco. It’s not by chance. It’s just they’re not the thing I really need. I eat very little. I even let the egg lie around. But it was the gesture that moved me. Dear Guggie, if you knew what this little gift meant to me. This act of silent understanding, this expression of affection, this feeling that you were in no way influenced by the guard’s warning, the discretion you perhaps unconsciously demonstrated. Again we could walk around for an hour. What should have disturbed me now was the mistrustful eyes of the guards. But I saw only you, Guggie.

Today, there was no Enclosure Time, unfortunately. But after dinner we did see the western “El Dorado” with that arrogant law-and-order actor, John Wayne, Reagan’s unattainable role model. The only part he can act is that of president. Guggie lay down next to me without my asking. That is he sat on the arm of the chair at my side so he could see better. Thus my cheek or shoulder touched his thigh every time he moved. It crackled through me, this urge, it streamed through me. I felt the warmth, the youthful warmth of his beautiful body, the tightness of his jeans made every part of his body visible. I sensed the twitches and play of his muscles. I could not prevent myself, after the show, from walking behind him up the stairway back to our section.

That evening I lay awake long after the lights had been turned out, “rolling my own movie” as they say here in jail. Guggie had been transferred to my cell. He lay above me in the bunkbed. Then he came down, sat on the edge of the bed, and lit a cigarette. After he had lighted it, he slid his hand under the blanket, groped his way over my stomach and thigh to the perpendicular standing mast. He enclosed it in his purposeful grip. His fingers played with its acorn tip, before he lowered his upper body, down and down as his blue eyes winked at me in the half-darkness of the cell, until the mast disappeared between his lips. I held out for a few moments, then I pulled his body up, pulled his head to me, and plunged my tongue into his mouth, playing with his small white teeth, seeking out the tip of his tongue. Slowly Guggie freed himself from me, rolled over and down beside me and stopped, his back turned to me, and lay next to me. I pressed my lips to his shoulder, kissed the tattoo on his upper arm, suddenly feeling my thing against his nether cheeks, bucking back and forth until the brown rosette found its goal and the mast sank in. With backward movements he shoved his body back and forth, and with each movement the mast was taken more deeply into him. My hands roamed his body, his thighs, playing, loving, tender, expertly... Guggie...my lips formed the words, stammered into his tiny ears, until they formed one single sentence: “I love you...” The movie had run its course. I lay alone in my cell and felt a sticky liquid on my upper thigh.

On Monday morning the guard opened my cell and told me I was being transferred to the Ettstrasse for a session of the administrative court of justice. He left the cell open and I took the can and went to the kitchen at the end of the hallway to get hot water. The food-slot had just been opened and coffee was being poured. I glanced at Guggie’s cell. He was just packing his things and told me he had to change clothes. No more civilian clothes, but prison uniforms, that ugly sack clothing that shames the body. I quickly gave him some tobacco and said: “See you tomorrow!” He grabbed himself furtively by the cock, a delicious boyish gesture whose effect was arousing even though unconsciously carried out. He murmured: “So long.”

At Ettstrasse I had to wait for hours and only got back to Stadelheim late in the evening after the cells had been locked. Tomorrow, I thought, perhaps I’ll be granted a brief glimpse of this naked boyish body in the showers. But when I went to the yard past his cell on Tuesday to greet him it was empty. I found out from the guard he’d been transferrred, no one knew where; perhaps to Neubau, perhaps he’d been let out. Fortunately for me on that damp, grey, overcast November morning, none of my acquaintances went to the exercise yard. So I could swallow my pain, and alone and lonely make my rounds.