Julius Fucik. A report from a noose around his neck (№ 352704)

He came to Nazism, hoping for an easier life. It turned out to be more difficult than he imagined. Since then, he has lost the ability to laugh. He put a bet on Nazism. It turned out that he bet on a dead horse. Since then, he lost his temper. At night, walking in soft shoes in the prison corridors, he was automatically left on the dusty shades of the traces of their thoughts. "Everything went in the outhouse" - poetically wrote it with a finger and contemplated suicide. Day goes to him and prisoners and colleagues, he yells a shrill, broken voice, hoping to drown out the fear.