The “latrine hop” worked well only with Etsa, who understood the degree of lift needed as I began each takeoff. In fact, his arm and my leg, working in sync, produced such remarkable strides that I felt airborne. Other attendants simply placed a hand beneath my armpit, providing no lift. Because of this, on one occasion I caught my toe on the stone floor and went headlong into some food pots, which were sent flying, producing a considerable din followed by complete silence. All activity in the corridor halted and each cell held a prisoner whose ears were tuned to whatever might come next. Undoubtedly, the other inmates had been able to picture the daily hopping scene, but now weren't certain whether I'd been thrown among the tinware or had merely fallen. I swore, but wasn't injured, and in a few seconds the startled attendant helped me up and it was business as usual.

Before the unique mode of travel was adopted, another latrine event occured which made waste elimination much easier for me. Recall, if you will the architecture in the latrine, and try to imagine using that facility with one leg almost totally useless. The first morning I was, somehow, able to adjust my clothing to the required position and, with the help of a crutch to place myself over the slot. I even carried through to the end (no pun intended) without falling over and becoming wedged in the slot. Well, it didn't take a bookmaker to realize that the odds on my being able to continue, day after day, without “shooting the shoot” were about the same as the odds on my growing two legs, one green and the other blue, to replace the one I'd lost.

Someone must have observed my acrobatics; because the next day, there was a piece of furniture in the “inhouse.” (It couldn't be called an outhouse; because it wasn't out. But it sure smelled like one.)

Etsa accompanied me into the inhouse; and with as close to a smile as I'd ever seen on his face, he pointed to the corner. There sat what had been an old armchair. It still had the well-worn, stuffed back, but it now had a board seat into which had been cut a large hole. Nailed around the legs was a tin splash guard. He placed the chair over the slot then returned it to the corner. He indicated that I should try to duplicate the maneuver. Using it as a crude walker, I was able to place it where it was needed quite easily. I'd never seen a toilet with armrests, so I sat there chuckling to myself. This arrangement certainly lent credibility to the term “throne.”

I don't know if Etsa was a member of the Communist Party, but I do know he was good at his job. At first I thought he was lazy when he concocted the latrine hop, thus eliminating the need to bring the crutches to my cell each time. But to him it wasn't a matter of avoiding work, or even a humane consideration. It was simply a matter of practicality. I suspect the throne was his idea, a practical one. Furthermore, if I could handle it myself, even in my crippled state, it was not only demeaning for someone else to place it for me, it was impractical.

I doubt that Etsa knew anything about psychology, but not needing my crutches to go to the latrine and being able to handle the throne myself had a beneficial effect on me; I was able to function on my own to some degree.

Etsa and I were not friendly, but dealt with each other on a purely functional level. To the best of my knowledge, he was not unkind to me. I say this with reservations, however. While I suspect it was someone higher in the chain of command who decided when reading material should be withheld, or when I should be deprived of outdoor exercise, I was not certain enough of Etsa's authority to hold him blameless.

I do recall a severe reprimand I got from him, which I guess I deserved, though it was a natural “sin” committed out of differences in living standards. I was frequently upset after interrogations and could not eat much of my meal. Consequently, one day I took only a bite from a steamed roll, sending the remainder back with the rest of my uneaten meal. Another attendant had picked up my containers, but it was Etsa who, moments later, threw open my cell door. Holding the roll with a bite out of it, he proceeded to give me one hell of a tongue lashing. His complaint was, If I hadn't intended to eat all the roll, I should have broken off a piece, not taken a bite from it. The implication was that someone else could have eaten it if I hadn't bitten into it.

This presented a mixture of considerations. Having other things on my mind and having been raised with plenty of food available, I hadn't thought about a possible shortage. Then there was the matter of hygiene. True, I had bitten off a piece of bread. But I didn't wash my hands before each meal. Hygienically, it seemed a toss up. Nevertheless, I apologized, though the tone was heavy with sarcasm. After all, I hadn't asked to be there. I'm certain he picked it up, because, after I told him in Chinese that he was good and I was no good, he hesitated, with a thoughtful look on his face as we stared at each other. Then, apparently deciding to accept what I'd said as an indication that I'd learned my lesson, he left.