In the evenings, when he couldn’t fall asleep for hours, he would cry softly. He didn’t know why. But the tears brought him relief. And when late at night he would finally drift off, he dreamed of the war and the occupation. People often dream about the best moments of their lives, and so he was not an exception, although a Freudian analyst would have had little use for him. Because when Wiktor Suchowiak dreamed of a wardrobe, it didn t mean in the slightest that he wanted a woman.

Perhaps you’ll awake in a strange body, 
beyond the walls of an asylum with unknown victims 
perhaps on a square 
red from blood; 

naked, 
nameless 
with a dead tongue, 
mute heart; 

Perhaps you won’t awake 
perhaps you won’t return; 

perhaps you’ll meet Jan Palach, 
your contemporary, 
who burned helpless in the heart of Europe 
protesting alone against foreign armies: 
your vanquished country’s army 
among them; 

perhaps you’ll meet the workers from the coast 
bearing stigmata 
on their wounded foreheads; 

perhaps you’ll meet no one, 
perhaps you’ll meet no one, 

perhaps you’ll awake in me.

He wrote to Mästlin: I do not speak like I write, I do not write like I think, I do not think like I ought to think, and so everything goes on in deepest darkness. Where did these voices come from, these strange sayings? It was as if the future had found utterance in him.