lided in toward the runway. It was funny how he had really come to detest flying.
Rome was in ruins, he saw, when the plane was down. The airdrome had been bombed eight months before, and knobby slabs of white stone rubble had been bulldozed into flat-topped heaps on both sides of the entrance through the wire fence surrounding the field. The Colosseum was a dilapidated shell, and the Arch of Constantine had fallen. Nately's whore's apartment was a shambles. The girls were gone, and the only one there was the old woman. The windows in the apartment had been smashed. She was bundled up in sweaters and skirts and wore a dark shawl about her head. She sat on a wooden chair near an electric hot plate, her arms folded, boiling water in a battered aluminum pot. She was talking aloud to herself when Yossarian entered and began moaning as soon as she saw him.
'Gone,' she moaned before he could even inquire. Holding her elbows, she rocked back and forth mournfully on her creaking chair. 'Gone.'
'Who?'
'All. All the poor young girls.'
'Where?'
'Away. Chased away into the street. All of them gone. All the poor young girls.'
'Chased away by who? Who did it?'
'The mean tall soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs. And by our carabinieri. They came with their clubs and chased them away. They would not even let them take their coats. The poor things. They just chased them away into the cold.'
'Did they arrest them?'
'They chased them away. They just chased them away.'
'Then why did they do it if they didn't arrest them?'
'I don't know,' sobbed the old woman. 'I don't know. Who will take care of me? Who will take care of me now that all the poor young girls are gone? Who will take care of me?'
'There must have been a reason,' Yossarian persisted, pounding his fist into his hand. 'They couldn't just barge in here and chase everyone out.'
'No reason,' wailed the old woman. 'No reason.'
'What right did they have?'
'Catch-22.'
'What?' Yossarian froze in his tracks with fear and alarm and felt his whole body begin to tingle. 'What did you say?'
'Catch-22' the old woman repeated, rocking her head up and down. 'Catch-22. Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can't stop them from doing.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' Yossarian shouted at her in bewildered, furious protest. 'How did you know it was Catch-22? Who the hell told you it was Catch-22?'
'The soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs. The girls were crying. "Did we do anything wrong?" they said. The men said no and pushed them away out the door with the ends of their clubs. "Then why are you chasing us out?" the girls said. "Catch-22," the men said. "What right do you have?" the girls said. "Catch-22," the men said. All they kept saying was "Catch-22, Catch-22." What does it mean, Catch-22? What is Catch-22?'
'Didn't they show it to you?' Yossarian demanded, stamping about in anger and distress. 'Didn't you even make them read it?'
'They don't have to show us Catch-22,' the old woman answered. 'The law says they don't have to.'
'What law says they don't have to?'
'Catch-22.'
'Oh, God damn!' Yossarian exclaimed bitterly. 'I bet it wasn't even really there.' He stopped walking and glanced about the room disconsolately. 'Where's the old man?'
'Gone,' mourned the old woman.
'Gone?'
'Dead,' the old woman told him, nodding in emphatic lament, pointing to her head with the flat of her hand. 'Something broke in here. One minute he was living, one minute he was dead.'
'But he can't be dead!' Yossarian cried, ready to argue insistently. But of course he knew it was true, knew it was logical and true; once again the old man had marched along with the majority.
Yossarian turned away and trudged through the apartment with a gloomy scowl, peering with pessimistic curiosity into all the rooms. Everything made of glass had been smashed by the men with the clubs. Torn drapes and bedding lay dumped on the floor. Chairs, tables and dressers had been overturned. Everything breakable had been broken. The destruction was total. No wild vandals could have been more thorough. Every window was smashed, and darkness poured like inky clouds into each room through the shattered panes. Yossarian could imagine the heavy, crashing footfalls of the tall M.P.s in the hard white hats. He could picture the fiery and malicious exhilaration with which they had made their wreckage, and their sanctimonious, ruthless sense of right and dedication. All the poor young girls were gone. Everyone was gone but the weeping old woman in the bulky brown and gray sweaters and black head shawl, and soon she too would be gone.
'Gone,' she grieved, when he walked back in, before he could even speak. 'Who will take care of me now?' Yossarian ignored the question. 'Nately's girl friend--did anyone hear from her?' he asked.
'Gone.'
'I know she's gone. But did anyone hear from her? Does anyone know where she is?'
'Gone.'
'The little sister. What happened to her?'
'Gone.' The old woman's tone had not changed.
'Do you know what I'm talking about?' Yossarian asked sharply, staring into her eyes to see if she were not speaking to him from a coma. He raised his voice. 'What happened to the kid sister, to the little girl?'
'Gone, gone,' the old woman replied with a crabby shrug, irritated by his persistence, her low wail growing louder. 'Chased away with the rest, chased away into the street. They would not even let her take her coat.'
'Where did she go?'
'I don't know. I don't know.'
'Who will take care of her?'
'Who will take care of me?'
'She doesn't know anybody else, does she?'
'Who will take care of me?' Yossarian left money in the old woman's lap--it was odd how many wrongs leaving money seemed to right--and strode out of the apartment, cursing Catch-22 vehemently as he descended the stairs, even though he knew there was no such thing. Catch-22 did not exist, he was positive of that, but it made no difference. What did matter was that everyone thought it existed, and that was much worse, for there was no object or text to ridicule or refute, to accuse, criticize, attack, amend, hate, revile, spit at, rip to shreds, trample upon or burn up.
It was cold outside, and dark, and a leaky, insipid mist lay swollen in the air and trickled down the large, unpolished stone blocks of the houses and the pedestals of monuments. Yossarian hurried back to Milo and recanted. He said he was sorry and, knowing he was lying, promised to fly as many more missions as Colonel Cathcart wanted if Milo would only use all his influence in Rome to help him locate Nately's whore's kid sister.
'She's just a twelve-year-old virgin, Milo,' he explained anxiously, 'and I want to find her before it's too late.' Milo responded to his request with a benign smile. 'I've got just the twelve-year-old virgin you're looking for,' he announced jubilantly. 'This twelve-year-old virgin is really only thirty-four, but she was brought up on a low-protein diet by very strict parents and didn't start sleeping with men until--'
' Milo, I'm talking about a little girl!' Yossarian interrupted him with desperate impatience. 'Don't you understand? I don't want to sleep with her. I want to help her. You've got daughters. She's just a little kid, and she's all alone in this city with no one to take care of her. I want to protect her from harm. Don't you know what I'm talking about?' Milo did understand and was deeply touched. 'Yossarian, I'm proud of you,' he exclaimed with profound emotion. 'I really am. You don't know how glad I am to see that everything isn't always just sex with you. You've got principles. Certainly I've got daughters, and I know exactly what you're talking about. We'll find that girl if we have to turn this whole city upside down. Come along.' Yossarian went along in Milo Minderbinder's speeding M & M staff car to police headquarters to meet a swarthy, untidy police commissioner with a narrow black mustache and unbuttoned tunic who was fiddling with a stout woman with warts and two chins when they entered his office and who greeted Milo with warm surprise and bowed and scraped in obscene servility as though Milo were some elegant marquis.
'Ah, Marchese Milo,' he declared with effusive pleasure, pushing the fat, disgruntled woman out the door without even looking toward her. 'Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have a big party for you. Come in, come in, Marchese. You almost never visit us any more.' Milo knew that there was not one moment to waste. 'Hello, Luigi,' he said, nodding so briskly that he almost seemed rude. 'Luigi, I need your help. My friend here wants to find a girl.'
'A girl, Marchese?' said Luigi, scratching his face pensively. 'There are lots of girls in Rome. For an American officer, a girl should not be too difficult.'
'No, Luigi, you don't understand. This is a twelve-year-old virgin that he has to find right away.'
'Ah, yes, now I understand,' Luigi said sagaciously. 'A virgin might take a little time. But if he waits at the bus terminal where the young farm girls looking for work arrive, I--'
'Luigi, you still don't understand,' Milo snapped with such brusque impatience that the police commissioner's face flushed and he jumped to attention and began buttoning his uniform in confusion. 'This girl is a friend, an old friend of the family, and we want to help her. She's only a child. She's all alone in this city somewhere, and we have to find her before somebody harms her. Now do you understand? Luigi, this is very important to me. I have a daughter the same age as that little girl, and nothing in the world means more to me right now than saving that poor child before it's too late. Will you help?'
'Si, Marchese, now I understand,' said Luigi. 'And I will do everything in my power to find her. But tonight I have almost no men. Tonight all my men are busy trying to break up the traffic in illegal tobacco.'
'Illegal tobacco?' asked Milo.
' Milo,' Yossarian bleated faintly with a sinking heart, sensing at once that all was lost.
'Si, Marchese,' said Luigi. 'The profit in illegal tobacco is so high that the smuggling is almost impossible to control.'
'Is there really that much profit in illegal tobacco?' Milo inquired with keen interest, his rust-colored eyebrows arching avidly and his nostrils sniffing.
' Milo,' Yossarian called to him. 'Pay attention to me, will you?'
'Si, Marchese,' Luigi answered. 'The profit in illegal tobacco is very high. The smuggling is a national scandal, Marchese, truly a national disgrace.'
'Is that a fact?' Milo observed with a preoccupied smile and started toward the door as though in a spell.
' Milo!' Yossarian yelled, and bounded forward impulsively to intercept him. ' Milo, you've got to help me.'
'Illegal tobacco,' Milo explained to him with a look of epileptic lust, struggling doggedly to get by. 'Let me go. I've got to smuggle illegal tobacco.'
'Stay here and help me find her,' pleaded Yossarian. 'You can smuggle illegal tobacco tomorrow.' But Milo was deaf and kept pushing forward, nonviolently but irresistibly, sweating, his eyes, as though he were in the grip of a blind fixation, burning feverishly, and his twitching mouth slavering. He moaned calmly as though in remote, instinctive distress and kept repeating, 'Illegal tobacco, illegal tobacco.' Yossarian stepped out of the way with resignation finally when he saw it was hopeless to try to reason with him. Milo was gone like a shot. The commissioner of police unbuttoned his tunic again and looked at Yossarian with contempt.
'What do you want here?' he asked coldly. 'Do you want me to arrest you?' Yossarian walked out of the office and down the stairs into the dark, tomblike street, passing in the hall the stout woman with warts and two chins, who was already on her way back in. There was no sign of Milo outside. There were no lights in any of the windows. The deserted sidewalk rose steeply and continuously for several blocks. He could see the glare of a broad avenue at the top of the long cobblestone incline. The police station was almost at the bottom; the yellow bulbs at the entrance sizzled in the dampness like wet torches. A frigid, fine rain was falling. He began walking slowly, pushing uphill. Soon he came to a quiet, cozy, inviting restaurant with red velvet drapes in the windows and a blue neon sign near the door that said: TONY'S RESTAURANT FINE FOOD AND DRINK. KEEP OUT. The words on the blue neon sign surprised him mildly for only an instant. Nothing warped seemed bizarre any more in his strange, distorted surroundings. The tops of the sheer buildings slanted in weird, surrealistic perspective, and the street seemed tilted. He raised the collar of his warm woolen coat and hugged it around him. The night was raw. A boy in a thin shirt and thin tattered trousers walked out of the darkness on bare feet. The boy had black hair and needed a haircut and shoes and socks. His sickly face was pale and sad. His feet made grisly, soft, sucking sounds in the rain puddles on the wet pavement as he passed, and Yossarian was moved by such intense pity for his poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly face with his fist and knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad, sickly children in Italy that same night who needed haircuts and needed shoes and socks. He made Yossarian think of cripples and of cold and hungry men and women, and of all the dumb, passive, devout mothers with catatonic eyes nursing infants outdoors that same night with chilled animal udders bared insensibly to that same raw rain. Cows. Almost on cue, a nursing mother padded past holding an infant in black rags, and Yossarian wanted to smash her too, because she reminded him of the barefoot boy in the thin shirt and thin, tattered trousers and of all the shivering, stupefying misery in a world that never yet had provided enough heat and food and justice for all but an ingenious and unscrupulous handful. What a lousy earth! He wondered how many people were destitute that same night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes were shanties, how many husbands were drunk and wives socked, and how many children were bullied, abused or abandoned. How many families hungered for food they could not afford to buy? How many hearts were broken? How many suicides would take place that same night, how many people would go insane? How many cockroaches and landlords would triumph? How many winners were losers, successes failures, rich men poor men? How many wise guys were stupid? How many happy endings were unhappy endings? How many honest men were liars, brave men cowards, loyal men traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt, how many people in positions of trust had sold their souls to blackguards for petty cash, how many had never had souls? How many straight-and-narrow paths were crooked paths? How many best families were worst families and how many good people were bad people? When you added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the children, and perhaps with Albert Einstein and an old violinist or sculptor somewhere. Yossarian walked in lonely torture, feeling estranged, and could not wipe from his mind the excruciating image of the barefoot boy with sickly cheeks until he turned the corner into the avenue finally and came upon an Allied soldier having convulsions on the ground, a young lieutenant with a small, pale, boyish face. Six other soldiers from different countries wrestled with different parts of him, striving to help him and hold him still. He yelped and groaned unintelligibly through clenched teeth, his eyes rolled up into his head. 'Don't let him bite his tongue off,' a short sergeant near Yossarian advised shrewdly, and a seventh man threw himself into the fray to wrestle with the ill lieutenant's face. All at once the wrestlers won and turned to each other undecidedly, for now that they held the young lieutenant rigid they did not know what to do with him. A quiver of moronic panic spread from one straining brute face to another. 'Why don't you lift him up and put him on the hood of that car?' a corporal standing in back of Yossarian drawled. That seemed to make sense, so the seven men lifted the young lieutenant up and stretched him out carefully on the hood of a parked car, still pinning each struggling part of him down. Once they had him stretched out on the hood of the parked car, they stared at each other uneasily again, for they had no idea what to do with him next. 'Why don't you lift him up off the hood of that car and lay him down on the ground?' drawled the same corporal behind Yossarian. That seemed like a good idea, too, and they began to move him back to the sidewalk, but before they could finish, a jeep raced up with a flashing red spotlight at the side and two military policemen in the front seat.
'What's going on?' the driver yelled.
'He's having convulsions,' one of the men grappling with one of the young lieutenant's limbs answered. 'We're holding him still.'
'That's good. He's under arrest.'
'What should we do with him?'
'Keep him under arrest!' the M.P. shouted, doubling over with raucous laughter at his jest, and sped away in his jeep.
Yossarian recalled that he had no leave papers and moved prudently past the strange group toward the sound of muffled voices emanating from a distance inside the murky darkness ahead. The broad, rain-blotched boulevard was illuminated every half-block by short, curling lampposts with eerie, shimmering glares surrounded by smoky brown mist. From a window overhead he heard an unhappy female voice pleading, 'Please don't. Please don't.' A despondent young woman in a black raincoat with much black hair on her face passed with her eyes lowered. At the Ministry of Public Affairs on the next block, a drunken lady was backed up against one of the fluted Corinthian columns by a drunken young soldier, while three drunken comrades in arms sat watching nearby on the steps with wine bottles standing between their legs. 'Pleeshe don't,' begged the drunken lady. 'I want to go home now. Pleeshe don't.' One of the sitting men cursed pugnaciously and hurled a wine bottle at Yossarian when he turned to look up. The bottle shattered harmlessly far away with a brief and muted noise. Yossarian continued walking away at the same listless, unhurried pace, hands buried in his pockets. 'Come on, baby,' he heard the drunken soldier urge determinedly. 'It's my turn now.'
'Pleeshe don't,' begged the drunken lady. 'Pleeshe don't.' At the very next corner, deep inside the dense, impenetrable shadows of a narrow, winding side street, he heard the mysterious, unmistakable sound of someone shoveling snow. The measured, labored, evocative scrape of iron shovel against concrete made his flesh crawl with terror as he stepped from the curb to cross the ominous alley and hurried onward until the haunting, incongruous noise had been left behind. Now he knew where he was: soon, if he continued without turning, he would come to the dry fountain in the middle of the boul