by Victor Serge
There was a growing circle of people around the jeep. Here, as elsewhere, the vanquished were behaving with curious familiarity. The kids, fairly well dressed, however did they manage? The women, worn to a shadow … The journalist chose Herr Schiff, an average elderly German, former officer and civil servant by the looks of him; he beckoned him to come over. Schiff, fulminating against the universe, didn’t budge. The journalist moved toward him. The children, interested, stepped out of the way. The journalist introduced himself in passable German. He mentioned his press agency, whose name meant less to Herr Schiff than the canals on Mars. The old man introduced himself in turn: “Professor Herman-Helmut Schiff.” “If you’ll allow me,” the reporter said, scrawling a few shorthand signs into his notebook.
“Now then, what do you think about the Americans?”
A didactic question could never catch the professor off guard, for he was constantly putting them to himself, and supplying interminable answers in the form of monologues upon eugenics, the world conceived as a representation, the genius of race, or the political errors of Julius Caesar and Wilhelm II.
“A very great people, the Americans … The United States is presently the foremost industrial power in the world, and superior at waging war … On the other hand, there is a certain lack of social cohesion and spiritual tradition …”
“You think so?”
“Beyond a doubt,” Schiff declaimed, getting into his lecturer’s stride. “You will realize that in fifty years.”
“Phew, we got time to turn around then.”
A swift pencil and shorthand pad recorded the schoolmaster’s extravagant ramblings for the benefit of countless newspaper readers.
“Do you people feel guilty?”
If there was one emotion which had never been experienced by Herr Schiff (at least not since his adolescent religious crises) in his half century of diligent service, that emotion was guilt. It is healthy to live one’s life in the meticulous fulfillment of duty. The school-teacher cocked his head obligingly. “Pardon me. I didn’t quite catch … ?”
“Guilty for the war?”
Schiff’s gaze swept the horizon of the broken city, strewn with the dead doves of humiliation. The grander generalizations existed for him on a different plane from everyday reality. The Second World War was already down as a great historical tragedy — a quasi-mythological one — which neither Mommsen, Hans Delbrück, Gobineau, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, Oswald Spengler, or Mein Kampf could elucidate entirely … The sons immolated themselves upon the altar of blind gods. A new, unholy war, unworthy of human nobility, had begun with the destruction of Altstadt; and this war alone existed in reality.
“Guilty?” Herr Schiff said in flinty tones, with the air of a livid turkey-cock. “Guilty of that?” (And he bobbed his head at the surrounding devastation.)
“No,” the reporter said patiently, not quite grasping the response, “guilty for the war.”
“And you,” Herr Schiff retorted, “do you feel guilty for this?”
Franz could not contain his delight. He slapped his thigh uproariously. “Wunderbar! Wonderful old idiot!” Alain’s hairy face expressed furious disgust.
“My dear Professor,” the journalist began, striving for an offensive politeness, “you started this war … You bombed Coventry.”
“I?” said Schiff, in frank astonishment. “I?”
Several women were following the exchange from the sidelines, noting the green glasses and heavy mustache of the American and Herr Schiff’s upstanding attitude. They were too discreet to come close enough to hear properly, but it seemed certain that important matters for the neighborhood were being discussed. Franz butted in unceremoniously: “Well, I fought in the war, as perhaps you can tell by looking at me. I give you my faithful, one hundred percent amputee’s word of honor that I didn’t start it.”
“Herr Professor,” whispered a daring old lady in a black lace cap, “do ask them whether the soup kitchens will be allowed to continue? Or do the American gentlemen intend to feed the city?” She spoke the last three words more loudly, to make sure that the authority would hear them. The reporter’s eyes popped with outrage behind his shades. No shame, no guilt, not a shred! These folks seem to think we come over, leaving a hundred thousand of our boys underground along the way, just to sort out their next meal! He turned on the old lady.
“Madam, have you ever heard of a place called Dachau?”
Intimidated by his tone, but happy to help out, she quavered enthusiastically: “Oh yes, it’s a pretty little town in Bavaria, where they held interesting popular festivals in the old days …”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, sir …” (The old lady blanched at the covert fury of the question.)
“What about the concentration camp?”
“Ooh, that may be, I can’t tell you about that, I’m afraid … I so seldom read the newspapers.”
Franz was grinning maniacally. Alain’s face too was that of a madman, a dangerous one. The old lady felt inexplicable tears wetting the corners of her eyes. She murmured, very humbly, “I beg the gentleman to excuse me if I offended him,” for these were clearly military persons of influence. Schiff was aware that his height, his age, and tonight’s thirty barbiturate pills gave him the edge over the other man, whose exasperation was patent. “I bid you good day, mister journalist!” he stated with pointed courtesy, and turned his back.
“They don’t look like bad men,” a woman was saying. Schiff paused, looking sternly down his nose at this housewife. “The Americans are not bad men,” he informed her sententiously. “No more than are the Chinese, dear Madame. But we have been defeated, Madame, and you must never forget it.” “Certainly not, Herr Professor.”
The burly officer with the round beard, like a sailor in an old-fashioned illustration, hailed the reporter. “We’re leaving, old man! Happy with your little interview?” “They are staggeringly unconscious of everything,” the journalist said, climbing back into the jeep. “Well, if you’re looking for consciousness from bombed-out towns …”
Ilse carried her full bucket inside. Franz inhaled the fragrance of a cigarette from across the seas, incontestably superior to the Party cadres’ special-issue reserve rolled with the last of the Bulgarian tobacco. “They take good care of themselves, these victors. Victors always do,” he said to himself, feeling queerly elated and at the same time inert. An exquisite satisfaction weighted his whole body down with languor, as though he had just made love well, his arms and legs intact, with a vigorous, clean-smelling woman. It was only an hour ago that Herr Blasch, vicious dog of the Special Surveillance Unit, was getting ready to mount his bicycle, knapsack on back, swaddled in musette bags, pockets bursting with banknotes and forged documents, when suddenly he saw the barrel of a revolver appear between his eyes at the same time as he heard the cripple say, “Have a nice trip, Herr Blasch!” amplified by the trumpet blast of the Last Judgment … The ants were presently taking care of this turd of officialdom. “I sure fixed him!” thought Franz sarcastically. “My war’s over. The sun’s out.”
* * *
Stupendous lawn! The thick grass was pampered as men nowhere are! Mowed to the perfect length, watered every day, and doubtless nourished with vitamin-rich chemical fertilizers … The lawn sloped down to the river, on the far side of which more gardens rose toward their villas. I’ll be damned! Some people were living the good life right up until yesterday. People for whom “the Great Reich in danger” was more than a hollow phrase!
In every war there is a rear that holds better than the front, a rear fat with noble sentiments, creature comforts, and lucrative deals; this rear, which balances the front, makes the insanity total … The beaches of California still exhibit, in season, a full complement of pretty women with smiling thighs: such is the natural order of things. After all, there’s philosophical solace to be found in the fact that some still live while others die, an obvious improvement on everyone dying … But it is no longer p
ossible to embark upon a coherent line of reasoning without falling into absurdity. Thinking this way, Alain felt indulgence, tinged with temptation, toward those pretty Californians. What had they to do with these people, this upper crust of profiteering slavers? He floundered in contradictions. The villa next door belonged to a Standartenführer (to be killed, no discussion!) whose two daughters were said to be charming … Innocent, you think? Innocent? He dimly hoped they would fall into the hands of the most brutal convicts … Have I become a brute myself?
Alain, after waking between fresh sheets, had just shaved. He was “swimming” inside his new clothes, but the fabric was luxurious and the trouser pleats ironed … This manicured landscape, twenty miles outside the corpselike city, carpets over the parquet flooring, all the faultless appointments of a civilized gentleman’s home … A bastard, in any case, the civilized gentleman: the worthy pastor, a Lutheran and a Nazi for good measure, a fat Christian, blesser of executioners, is probably trudging along the highways of defeat right now, among the uniforms at last marked out for a just destruction … Alain stood before a crucifix, his face blurred by sadness. “He made a proper fool out of you, Nazarene, didn’t he, this pastor of your flock of bastards?”
The night before, Alain and his companions, having entered the picture-perfect little town like a gang of scary tramps, were shocked at the sight of prosperous homes with well-tended parterres of flowers and windows nestling in ivy. It was such a strange spectacle that they had to force themselves to enter a garden and knock on a door. As soon as their fists touched this door, they wanted to smash it in. A white-haired woman opened it. “Was wünschen Sie, meine Herren? What do the gentlemen wish? The reverend is out …” Now they were “gentlemen,” now they could have “wishes”! The old housekeeper recognized a Dutch laborer among the group, who began shouting hysterically at her: “Out, you bet he’s out, and he won’t be coming back neither, the old swine!” A torrent of abuse followed. Fortunately, having heard nothing but seemly language during her forty years in service, Frau Hermenegilda failed to comprehend the epithets directed at her. She was deafened by bursts of shrill, stallion laughter. Hairy paws were almost on her, like in one of those horror films. Images of rape and murder flashed through her crafty child’s brain. Must push the door, slam it shut! Mein Gott! Several beggars shoved past her. The Frenchman said in a voice you didn’t argue with: “Get out, Madame. Take your clothes, your guts, and go. I give you ten minutes to vanish, you old tittle-tattle. This house is requisitioned, understand?” Requisitioned is a word everyone understands immediately, and here the hairy young man’s rough German was as plain as day. But “old tittle-tattle”? What did that mean? Was it very rude? Frau Hermenegilda, backed against the wall, clutching the silver crucifix on her bosom, drew courage from the fact that requisitions are legal procedures — the reverend himself drove a requisitioned automobile … “Might I see a warrant, sir?” This reasonable query opened the floodgates. A gorilla in rags lurched into the drawing room and, grabbing a valuable bronze, hurled it against the family portrait. The noise of splintering glass was followed by that of imprecations and a scuffle, as the others fought to overpower the vandal. A demonic mouth was snarling into the old retainer’s ear, “Raus! Get out! Clear off, you sawdust fart, you old boiled tarantula! If you weren’t so puckered up I’d … Beat it or I’ll kick your ass inside out! Raus!” What godless bandits were these? Frau Hermenegilda shrieked for help, but she lost her voice and all that came out was a plaintive meow. A flat blow, as one beats a carpet, silenced her; when she came to her senses her cheek was swelling, the doors of neighboring villas were being kicked in and the Frenchman was leading her to the kitchen, saying, “Put a wet towel on your face, there’s nothing to fear, Madame, just get your things and scram, that’s all we ask.” He cuffed the Dutchman in passing. “Leave the prune alone, Petersen, we’re not that desperate …”
Frau Hermenegilda showed proof of character. “So the war is over. And not an American policemen in sight! My God!” She donned her mistress’s best remaining coat and took nothing with her except a jewelry box overlooked by the reverend, and him such a careful man as a rule. He won’t see his baubles again, thought Frau Hermenegilda severely, serve him right for leaving me in the lurch. She ran away across the lawn, a little black crocheted hat squashed over her white hair. When she reached the hedge along the river, she spotted, through the branches, a switch of ginger hair that could only belong to Paulina, Doctor-at-Law Freidrich Ochsen’s junior housemaid. “Paulina!” Frau Hermenegilda cried. “Come here quick, girl, the most disgraceful things are going on!” Where had the little redhead got to? The old servant was sure they’d be safer, the two of them, hidden under the hedge. And then, suddenly, for an unforgettable instant, all she could see was the open mouth and staring eyes of Paulina, her hair spread out on the grass. A man was arched over her, Paulina was gasping. Frau Hermenegilda ran away down the river path. “Jesus and Mary, Jesus and Mary!”
Unimaginable house! The victorious prisoners saw themselves in a picture-book setting — ready to burn the fucking thing down! The semicircular drawing room, the organ, the framed photographs, the books in their glass cases, the pure-white kitchen that made one want to spit all over it, the bedrooms … Petersen crawled into the marital bed, boots and all, chortling with satisfaction. But when he spied a photo of the newlyweds on the wall — the handsome officer, the bride in white — he jumped out of bed for the pleasure of grinding it under both heels.
Alain chose for himself a girl’s bedroom on the second floor, whence an unexpected view of the wide green lawn brought him down to earth like a billy club to the kidneys. A short redhead, her fists screwed into her eyes, burst from the bushes and began stumbling across the grass. A black figure came after her, joined her, pulled her back toward the hedge. The little redhead didn’t struggle … “Fine time for a marital squabble!” thought Alain. Then, as he understood, he shrugged his shoulders. He sat down on the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands, concentrating on the blue cornflowers of the pitcher on the washstand. Drunken giants’ footfalls reverberated on the stairs. A door was broken down in the attic. His buddies made as if to enter more than once, but each time Alain turned toward the door, looking like a crazed invalid, and in a mechanical voice said, “Leave me alone, huh!” He only knew one thing, something he could not articulate even to himself. It’s all over. Finished. What is finished? Dry-eyed, he wept. He wept in spasms, his whole body trembling.
That was yesterday. Today he was washed clean, replete with half a chicken brought in by scavengers, and draped in an excellent suit that was baggy at the armholes but too short in the sleeve and leg (the pastor must have been slightly obese): Alain was becoming himself again, like the others. The atmosphere of this wealthy suburb spared by the bombers gave him a bitter feeling of well-being. The Croat’s blood spread into a puddle on the cement. Brigitte’s throat bore the shadow of petals pressed there by a strangler’s fingers. The ruins stank, the ruins snickered. And all the time this lawn was basking, gilding itself in the sun, and the reverend and his missus were being served lunch in the dining room. A little worried to be sure, but not for reasons of remorse … The world was in its death throes, we were dying like flies, these people were dining in their customary way, official, overweight, at ease, accomplices in everything … No one will ever understand it!
Alain was beginning to own things again: the Botticelli book lay open among the covers of his bed. Would you understand it, pure eyes, unveiled by Sandro? The very silence of those eyes seemed to say: Peace, be at rest, we see the other side of the world, think about what we see! And little by little, silence actually overcame the tumult. Alain roamed from room to room. He let his fingers idle over the organ keys, releasing an invisible treasure of colors and tears. Church music, the tango, Rachmaninoff, Debussy, they still exist somewhere! The idea was oddly funny and painful enough to make your head spin. Alain contemplated the flowers, he stopped to admire those of the ca
rpet, he bent to touch them. He took men’s shirts with starched fronts out of the drawers, he felt like slashing them, but they would find buyers on the black market, got to be practical. Someone had already made off with the silver from the sideboard, but the glassware remained, useless transparence, limpid transparence; when Alain raised them carefully to the light, tiny leaves etched into the crystal sprang alive with rainbows … There were Bibles, theological tracts, books of canon law — canon law, tell me if that isn’t splendid! Burn them, burn the lot! But he couldn’t summon the energy to do it.
In the study he took the pastor’s chair, tinkered with a pencil, opened a leather folder and found blank sheets of headed consistory paper. His hand, unprompted, began to draw. The elongated body of a woman, hanging, with a thick rope around her neck and a smile of ecstasy upon her face. A rough-hatched sketch of the Arc de Triomphe at the top of the Champs-Élysées. Ruins and helmets. A skull, frontal view, superimposed. In one of the sockets a clear pale eye, a Botticelli eye, a gaze of sad innocence, a gaze of forgiveness …
He stood up, eyes moist, teeth chattering, shouting, “There is no forgiveness! There will never be forgiveness! Not for them, not for us, not for anyone!”
Alain tore the sketch into tiny pieces, flung the pencil out of the window, and ran to put his head under the faucet.
* * *
It was on the path along the river’s edge, reminiscent of a path along the banks of the Seine, that he recovered his peace of mind. An extraordinary woman was strolling toward him under the yews and willows. She arrived on an old-fashioned tram. Erna, not pretty, better than pretty. “I was looking for you. How are you feeling, Alain?”