"The professor has been kidding you," I said to the woman, who gave off a wholesome smell of olive oil, garlic, onions, sweat, and life. "We're not fairies. We were in the Ethiopian war; the natives castrated us."
"You're Italians?"
"We used to be," I replied. "Eunuchs have no nationality. We're cosmopolitans."
She thought it over a little while. "Tu es comique," she then said solemnly, and wagging her giant posterior she went back to the door, where the bar owner took her in hand.
"It's a strange thing about hopelessness," said Schwarz. "Your ego's gone. You don't even know who you are any more. But still there's something in you that clamors to live. And how obstinately it clings to sheer, naked existence! Sometimes you feel a perfect stillness like the dead calm sailors tell about at the heart of a typhoon. You give up—you're like a bug playing dead—but you're not dead. You've only abandoned all effort to concentrate on sheer survival for its own sake. You are wide awake but absolutely passive. You have no strength to waste. The typhoon is raging all around you, but you are becalmed. Fear and despair are gone; even they are luxuries you can no longer afford. The energy you spent on them would detract from your will to survive—so you block it off. You're nothing but eyes and detached, passive readiness. A strange, serene clarity comes over you. In those days I sometimes felt like a yogi, who casts off everything that has to do with the conscious ego, in order to . . ."
Schwarz faltered. "To seek God?" I asked, half mockingly.
Schwarz shook his head. "To find God. We're always looking for Him. But we look for Him as if we were trying to swim with all our clothes on and a full field pack. You've got to be naked. As naked as in the night when I left a safe foreign country to go back to my dangerous homeland, and crossed the Rhine as though it were a stream of destiny, a narrow strip of moonlit life.
"In the camp I sometimes thought of that night. It didn't sap my strength to think of it—it made me stronger. I had done what my life had demanded. I hadn't failed, I had gained a second, heaven-sent life with Helen—and even the despair that had come to me and still haunted my sleep from time to time was possible only because there had been something else: Paris, Helen, and the unbelievable feeling of not being alone. Somewhere Helen was alive; maybe she was living with somebody else, but she was alive. It's horrible to think how much that can mean in times like these, when a man is less than an ant under a boot."
Schwarz fell silent. "Did you find God?" I asked. It was a crude question, but all at once I was very eager to know.
"A face in the mirror," Schwarz answered.
"Whose face?"
"It's always the same. Do you know your own? The face you had before you were born?"
I looked at him with consternation. He had used the same words before. "A face in the mirror," he repeated. "And the face that looks over your shoulder and behind it another— but then suddenly you yourself are the mirror with its endless repetitions. No, I didn't find Him. What would we do with Him if we did find Him? We'd have to stop being human beings. Just to look for Him—that's something else."
He smiled. "And then I didn't even have time and strength enough for that. I was too low. I could think only of what I loved. That's what kept me alive. I stopped thinking of God.
Or justice. The circle had closed. It was the same situation as in the river. Repeated. Once again I was on my own. When that state sets in, there's nothing much you can do. You can't even think. And it's not necessary; thinking would only confuse you. Things happen by themselves. From the ridiculous isolation of a human being you've returned to a world of anonymous events. All you need is to be ready. Ready to go when the invisible hand taps you on the shoulder. You only have to follow; as long as you don't ask questions, you'll be all right. You probably think I'm talking mystical nonsense."
I shook my head. "I know that feeling. People sometimes get it in times of great danger. Soldiers have told me about it. For no reason, something makes you walk out of a dugout that had all the appearance of safety; a moment later a direct hit turns it into a mass grave."
"What I finally did," said Schwarz, "was impossible. But it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. I packed up my belongings. Then one morning I walked out of the camp. Most attempts were made at night. I went to the main gate in broad daylight and told the sentries I had been discharged. There were two of them. I waved Schwarz's passport. At the same time I reached into my pocket, gave them some money, and told them to have a drink to my health. They didn't even ask to see my discharge. How could it occur to those two young peasants in uniform that anyone would have the nerve to leave by the main gate if he wasn't supposed to?
"I walked slowly down the white road. After the first few steps I felt as if the camp gate had turned into a dragon and was sneaking up behind me. But I didn't run. Calmly I put Schwarz's passport away and went on. There was a smell of rosemary and thyme in the air—the smell of freedom.
"After a time I pretended my shoelace had come undone. I bent down and looked back. No one was following me. I began to walk faster.
"I had none of the many papers you could be asked for in those days. My French was fairly good; I hoped people would mistake it for some dialect. The whole country was on the move. The towns were full of fugitives from the Occupied Zone, and the roads were swarming with vehicles of all kinds, many of them piled high with bedding, household utensils, and escaping soldiers.
"I came to a little inn. Off to one side a few tables had been set up, bordered by a kitchen garden and a small orchard. The taproom was floored with tiles and smelled of spilled wine, fresh bread, and coffee.
"The girl who waited on me had bare feet. She laid a tablecloth and put down a coffeepot, a cup, a plate, and bread and honey. What luxury! I hadn't seen anything like it since Paris.
"Outside, behind the dusty hedge, the shattered world moved by—here in this privileged spot beneath the trees, there was peace, the buzzing of bees, the trembling golden light of late summer. I drank it all in as a camel stores up water for a trek through the desert. I closed my eyes and basked in the light and drank.
CHAPTER 13
"There was a gendarme standing near the station. I turned back. I doubted that my disappearance could have been noticed so soon, but still it seemed advisable to keep away from the railroad for the present. As long as an internee is safe behind the barbed wire, no one gives him a thought, but the moment he escapes, he becomes hugely important. In camp a crust of bread is too good for him; to catch him when he runs away, no expense is spared. Whole companies are mobilized.
"I hitched a ride in a truck. The driver cursed the war, the Germans, the French government, the American government, and God; but he shared his lunch with me before letting me off. I walked about an hour and finally reached the next railroad station. I had learned not to arouse suspicion by trying to be inconspicuous. I walked right in and asked for a first-class ticket to the next town. The ticket seller hesitated. Fearing that he was going to ask for my papers, I bawled him out for being so slow. Puzzled and intimidated, he gave me my ticket. I went to a café and waited for the train. It was an hour late, but at least it was running.
"It took me three days to get to Helen's camp. Once, a gendarme stopped me, but I shouted at him in German and brandished Schwarz's passport. He was scared stiff and only too glad when I left it at that. Austria was part of Germany; an Austrian passport was as good as the Gestapo's visiting card. It was amazing how much that dead man's passport, a piece of paper with some printing on it, could accomplish. Much more than any man.
"To reach Helen's camp you had to climb a mountain; first there was a heath full of heather and gorse and rosemary, then a forest. It was late afternoon when I got there. The camp had the usual barbed-wire fence, but it didn't seem as dismal as Le Vernet, probably because it was a women's camp. I could look in from the woods and see women in colored dresses and bright headcloths or turbans. The atmosphere seemed almost carefree.
'That
deflated me. I had expected a place of utter gloom, which I would invade like a Don Quixote or a St. George. As it was, there seemed to be no need for me. If Helen was in such a nice place, she'd have forgotten me long ago.
"I remained hidden, trying to get the lay of the land. At nightfall a woman approached the fence. Others joined her. Soon there was a whole group of them. They stood still, hardly speaking to one another. They peered through the wire with unseeing eyes. What they wanted to see was not there— freedom. The sky turned violet, the shadows crept up from the valley, here and there one could see screened lights. The women became shadows that had lost their colors and even their shapes. Pale, formless faces hovered in an uneven row over the flat black silhouettes behind the wire. Then the ranks thinned; one after another the women went back into the camp. The hour of despair had passed. That was their name for it, as I later found out.
"Only one woman was still standing by the fence. I approached cautiously. 'Don't be afraid,' I said in French.
" 'Afraid?' she asked after a time. 'Of what?'
" 'I'd like to ask a favor of you.'
" 'You can save your breath, you swine,' she answered. 'Isn't there anything else in your rotten bones?'
"I gaped at her. 'What do you mean?'
" 'Don't pretend to be dumber than you are. You're nothing but a lot of pigs. Haven't you any women in your village? Why do you have to hang around here?'
"At last I understood. 'You've got me wrong,' I said. 'I've got to speak to a woman who's here in the camp.'
" 'That's what you all want. Why one? Why not two? Or the whole lot?'
" 'Listen to me!' I said. 'My wife is here. I've got to speak to her.'
" 'You, too?' the women laughed. She didn't seem angry, only tired. 'That's a new dodge. Every week you fellows think up something new.'
" 'I've never been here before.'
" 'You've learned fast. Go to hell.'
" 'Won't you listen to me,' I said in German. 'I just want you to tell a woman in the camp that I'm here. I'm a German. I was in a camp myself. In Le Vernet.'
" 'That's a good one,' said the woman calmly. 'He knows German, too. Damned Alsatian! I hope you die of syphilis. You and your damn friends that line up here every night with your merchandise. I wish you'd get cancer in your merchandise. Haven't you any feelings, you damn pigs? Don't you know what you're doing? Leave us alone. Leave us alone! You've locked us up. Isn't that enough? Leave us alone!' In the end she was screaming.
"I heard others coming and jumped back from the fence.
I spent the night in the woods. I didn't know where to go. I lay among the trees. The light faded and the moon rose over a countryside pale as white gold and already swathed in the cool mists of autumn. In the morning I went back down the mountain and managed to exchange my suit for a set of mechanic's overalls.
"I returned to the camp. At the sentry post I said I had come to check the electric wiring. My French stood the test; they let me in without any questions. Who would want to go into an internment camp?
"Cautiously I explored the streets of the camp. The barracks were like big crates, partitioned with curtains. Two stories. There was a corridor down the middle with curtains on both sides. Many of the curtains were open; you could look in and see how the cubbyholes were furnished. Most contained only the barest essentials, but some of the occupants had achieved a pathetic personal note with a piece of cloth, a photograph, or a postcard or two. I strolled through the half-dark barracks. The women stopped working and looked at me. 'News?' one of them asked me. ^ " 'Yes—for somebody called Helen. Helen Baumann.'
"The woman reflected. Another woman came up. 'Isn't that the Nazi bitch that works in the store? The one that whores around with the doctor?'
" 'She's not a Nazi,' I said.
" 'Neither is the one in the store/ said the first woman. 'I think her name is Helen.'
" 'Are there Nazis here?' I asked.
" 'Of course. It's all mixed up. Where are the Germans now?'
" 'I haven't seen any.'
" 'A military commission is supposed to be on its way. Have you heard anything about it?'
" 'No.'
" 'They're supposed to be coming to let the Nazis out. But I've heard the Gestapo is coming, too. Do you know anything about it?'
" 'No.'
" They say the Germans aren't going to bother with the Unoccupied Zone.'
" 'That sounds just like them.'
" *You haven't heard anything?'
" 'Just rumors.'
" 'From whom is the news for Helen Baumann?'
"I hesitated. 'From her husband. He's free.'
"The second woman laughed. 'He's got a surprise coming to him.'
" 'Can I go to the store?' I asked.
" 'Why not? You're French, aren't you?'
" 'Alsatian.'
" 'Are you afraid?' asked the second woman. 'Why? You got something to hide?'
" 'Who hasn't nowadays?'
" 'You can say that again,' said the first woman. The second said nothing. She looked at me as if I were a spy. She gave off a cloud of perfume—lily of the valley.
" Thank you,' I said. 'Where is the store?'
"The first woman told me the way. I passed through the half-darkness of the barracks as though running the gauntlet. At both sides faces appeared and inquiring eyes. I felt as if I had dropped in on a colony of Amazons. Then I was out in the street again, surrounded by sunlight and the tired smell of captivity that covers every camp like a gray glaze.
"I felt as if I had gone blind. I had never given Helen's fidelity or infidelity a thought. The question was beside the point, insignificant. Too much had happened; the only thing that mattered was to stay alive. Even if such a thought had come to me at Le Vernet, it would have been an abstraction, an idea that I myself had invented, wiped away, and taken up again.
"But now I was among her companions. I had seen them by the fence the night before, and now I saw them again, these starved women, who had been alone for months. They were women in spite of their captivity; in fact it made them all the more aware of their womanhood. It was all they had.
"I went to the store. A pale, red-haired woman was standing at a counter, selling what food there was to a group of inmates. "What do you want?' she asked. I closed my eyes and motioned with my head. Then I stepped aside. She made a quick count of her customers. Til be through in five minutes,' she whispered. 'Good or bad?'
"I understood that she meant good or bad news. I shrugged my shoulders. 'Good,' I said, and went outside.
"A little while later the woman came out and motioned to me. 'We have to be careful,' she said. 'Whom have you news for?'
" 'Helen Baumann. Is she here?'
" 'Why?'
"I said nothing. I saw the freckles on her nose and her uneasy eyes. 'Does she work in the store?' I asked.
" 'What do you want?' the woman asked back. 'Information? For whom? You're an electrician?'
" 'For her husband.'
" 'Not so long ago,' she said bitterly, 'a man asked the same question about another woman. Three days later someone came for her. She promised to let us know how things went. We never heard from her. You're no electrician.'
" 'I'm her husband,' I said.
" 'And I'm Greta Garbo,' said the woman.
" 'Why else would I be asking about her?'
"'A lot of people have come around asking questions about Helen Baumann,' said the woman. 'Weird people. Do you want to know the truth? Helen Baumann is dead. She died and was buried two weeks ago. That's the truth. I thought you had news from outside.'
"'She's dead?'
" 'Yes. And now leave me alone.'
" 'She's not dead,' I said. 'That's not what they say in the barracks.'
" They talk a lot of nonsense in the barracks.'
"I stared at the red-haired woman. 'Could you give her a letter? I'll be going, but I'd like to leave you a letter.'
"'What for?'
" 'Why not?
A letter can't hurt anybody.'
" 'No?' asked the woman. 'Were you born yesterday or the day before?'
" 'I don't know. I've grown in fits and starts. Can you sell me something to write a letter with?'
"'You'll find paper and pencil on the desk over there,' she said. 'But what's the good of writing to a dead woman?'
" 'It's the latest style.'
"I took a sheet of paper and wrote: 'Helen, I am here. Out by the fence. Tonight. I'll be waiting.'
"I didn't seal the letter. 'Will you give it to her?' I asked the woman.
" 'There's a lot of lunatics in the world nowadays.'