By David Irving
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Extra resources for Banged Up: Survival as a Political Prisoner in 21st Century Europe
Two days before the trial, I began practicing in front of the cracked mirror in my wet-room—as the toilet space was called—on how to manipulate the heavy volume and open fountain pen in my manacled hands, so that my fingers did not obscure either the title or the late Führer’s likeness. It was more difficult than it sounds. banged up on the morning of the trial, February 20, 2006, I put on the blazer Bente had posted to me some weeks earlier, polished my black Church’s shoes on a prison towel, and waited.
So the letters arriving were entirely in favour, “fan mail”. Shut away in my cell with no access to radio, television, or newspapers, and receiving no mail at all, even from my family, I was unaware of all this media interest. Kresbach informed me that Judge Liebetreu had indicated that if I “played along” I would be given a sentence which would result in my im- The Trademark Pen Apprehension Fearing a riot by my supporters in the courtroom, Judge Peter Liebetreu secretly calls for special security measures by anti-terror police—proof of the world of paranoia in which the Left now lives.
Schaller and I—that Liebetreu had concealed a profound malice in his heart, and had held out for the stiffest possible sentence against me during the jury discussion. the British embassy had insisted from the outset that I should get a cell to myself, which might be called solitary confinement, I suppose; but it suited me. The cell’s living space was six feet wide and ten feet long, with a WC in the wet room and a two-tier cot; the cot had an inch-thick foam mattress on wooden boards. There were two iron chairs and a two-foot square table with a torn surface, a narrow cupboard, and that was all.