Lanza and Ridomi sat talking of the massacre of Hamburg, and Lanza, who was near the window, shivered as he peered up at the dark starry sky. In due course Ridomi get up and switched on the radio, in order to hear the latest news from Rome. A woman's voice was singing in a sonorous, metallic void, to the accompaniment of a number of stringed instruments. The voice was warm and it vibrated above the cold, strident sound of steel-stringed aluminium violins and violoncellos. Without warning the singing ceased, the instruments stopped playing, and the sudden silence that followed was shattered by a raucous voice: "Attention! Attention! This evening, at six o'clock, by order of His Majesty the King, the Head of the Government, Mussolini, was arrested. His Majesty the King has entrusted Marshal Badoglio with the task of forming the new Government." Lanza and Ridomi leapt to their feet and remained for a few moments in silence, facing each other across the dark room. The voice resumed its singing. Ridomi pulled himself together, closed the window and turned on the light.
The two friends looked at each other. They were pale, breathless. Lanza rushed to the telephone and rang up the Italian Embassy. The official on duty knew nothing. "If it's a joke," he said, "it's a joke in very bad taste." Lanza asked him whether Ambassador Alfieri, who during the last few days had been in Rome for a meeting of the Grand Council, had telephoned the Embassy. The official on duty replied that the Ambassador had telephoned at five o'clock, as he did every day, to know if there was any news. "Thank you," said Lanza, and he telephoned the Propaganda Ministry: Scheffer was not there. He telephoned Reichsminister Schmidt: he was not in. He tried Reichsminister Braun von Stum: he was not in. The two Italian diplomats looked at each other. They must have more definite information; it was necessary to act quickly. If the news of Mussolini's arrest was true the German reaction would be immediate and brutal. They must take refuge in some safe place in order to escape the first wave of violence, which, as always, would be the most dangerous. Ridomi suggested that they should take refuge in the Spanish Embassy or the Swiss Legation. But what if the news were false? They would be the laughing-stock of Berlin. Finally the two Italian diplomats decided to ring up a Berlin lady, Gerda von H— , with whom they were both on friendly terms. Gerda knew a lot of people in the foreign diplomatic world and in Nazi circles. Perhaps she would be able to give them some advice and help, and offer them asylum for a few days, a few hours, until the situation was clarified.
"Oh, lieber Lanza," replied the voice of Gerda von H— , "I was just going to ring you up. I've got a few very dear friends here with me, do come—tell Ridomi not to be lazy: we'll have a lovely evening. Come at once: I'm expecting you." Lanza had left his car outside the front door, and the two friends rushed down the stairs, jumped into the vehicle, and set off at high speed in the direction of Gerda von H— 's house. They fled as if the Gestapo were already at their heels. Gerda lived in the West End. The streets were dark and deserted. As they approached the West End suburbs the air became misty, the green foliage of the lime-trees floated in the starry sky, the thousand remote sounds of the city dissolved in the blue haze like a drop of coloured liquid in a glass of water, and all the while the transparent veil of mist had a light sonorous hue.
Gerda von H— was wearing a long sky-blue gown, which fell about her bare feet in soft folds, like the grooves in a Doric pillar. With her fair hair swept up above her temples and gathered into a mass on top of her head she looked like Nausicaa emerging from the sea. There was something of the sea, indeed, in her slow, sweeping gestures, in the way she raised her knees as she walked along the sea-shore. Gerda von H— had remained faithful to the ideal of classical beauty which was in vogue in Germany about 1930. She had been a pupil of Curtius at Bonn, had for some time frequented the little world of intellectual and aesthetes who were initiated in the cult of Stephan George, and seemed to live and move and have her being in the conventional setting of Stephan George's poetry, in which the neo-classical architectural designs of Winckelmann and the scenes in the second part of Faust provide a background for the spectral Muses of Hölderling [sic] and Rainer Maria Rilke. Her house, to use her old-fashioned phrase, was a temple in which she received her guests while reclining at her ease on a pile of cushions, in the centre of a group of young women stretched out on thick carpets— comme un détail pensif sur le sable couché. A brilliant smile played about her sad lips. Her eyes were round, their gaze warm and steady.
Gerda von H— took Lanza by the hand, and walking lightly on her bare feet led the way into the drawing-room, in which were assembled five girls. Tall and ephebic of frame, they had lean faces and calm, steady, lustrous blue eyes, which shone forth from under deep brows. Their lips were of rich ruby colour, slightly modified by that faint green tinge which is sometimes discernible in the lips of blonde women. Their ears were small and pink, like stems of coral. But there was something indeterminate about their faces, that vague, nebulous quality which is apparent in a face reflected in a mirror, when the contrast with the icy brilliance of the crystal makes the image dull and remote. They wore low-necked evening gowns, which revealed their shoulders—sun-tanned, rounded, smooth, the colour of honey. They had somewhat thick ankles, as German girls do, but their legs were well-shaped, long and supple, with rather prominent, bony knees. She who appeared the boldest, and looked like Diana among the huntresses, said that they had spent the day boating on the Wannsee, and that they were still drunk from the sun. She laughed, throwing back her head, and the movement revealed her lean throat and her ample, muscular Amazonian bosom.
The champagne was tepid, and as the windows had been closed for the black-out the atmosphere of the room was humid and oppressive, and full of the acrid smell of tobacco. The young women and the two Italian diplomats talked of Rome, Venice and Paris. The girl who looked like Diana had returned from Paris a few days before, and the tone in which she spoke of the French gave Lanza and Ridomi a disagreeable shock: it was a tone in which affection was mingled with bitterness, and jealousy with spite. It seemed that she was in love with France and at the same time hated it. Here was the love of a woman who had been betrayed. "The French hate us," said Gerda von H— . "Why do they hate us?" As Lanza and Ridomi conversed their minds were far away, obsessed by the thought which was troubling them, and every so often they exchanged anxious glances. A dozen times already Lanza had been on the point of revealing to Gerda and her friends the reason for their perturbation, but each time an obscure sense of foreboding restrained him. Meanwhile time was passing, and the uncertainty in the minds of the two Italian diplomats was turning to anguish.
Lanza was already on the point of getting up, of drawing Gerda aside, of telling her the truth, of asking her for advice and help. He was already getting up, he was already going over to her, when she spread out her arms, rested a hand on his shoulder and said: "Would you like to dance?"
"Yes, yes!" cried the other girls, and one of them switched on the radio.
"It's late," said Ridomi. "All the stations have closed down."
But the girl was turning the knob, and in due course she picked up Rome. The sound of a dance orchestra filled the room. "A whole night with you," sang a woman's voice.
"Wunderbar!" said Gerda. "Rome is still singing."
"It'll sing a lot more soon," said Ridomi.
"Why?" asked Gerda.
"Because . . ." answered Ridomi, but he said no more, because of that obscure sense of foreboding which, in his mind and in that of his companion, was gradually ripening into fear.
To the ears of the two Italian diplomats the voice sounded faint and very remote, like a thin mist of sound rolling through the night; and the two friends felt their hearts trembling within them, assailed as they were by the fear that at any moment that tender voice would become raucous and harsh, and proclaim the dread news.
"Dance with my friend," said Gerda, pushing Lanza into the arms of the girl who looked like Diana, and with innocent grace pulling the fat, slow-moving Ridomi towards her by the hand. The other four girls h
ad split up into couples and were dancing languidly, each pressing her bosom and hips close against her partner's. Lanza's partner clung tightly to him and gazed into his eyes, smiling and constantly fluttering her eyelids. Lanza felt the vigorous beating of her heart close to his own, felt the motion of her flanks against his, felt her stomach pressing hard against his stomach. But his thoughts were elsewhere, and in his mind was a confused picture of Mussolini, the King and Badoglio indulging in a free fight, getting mixed up together, disengaging themselves, rolling on the floor, and trying to handcuff one another, like acrobats when they engage in a rough-and-tumble on a mat.
Suddenly the music stopped, the tender feminine voice was silent, and a hoarse, breathless voice announced: "Before we read the proclamation by Marshal Badoglio here is a summary of the latest news. At about six o'clock this evening the Head of the Government, Mussolini, was arrested by order of His Majesty the King. The new Head of the Government, Marshal Badoglio, has addressed the following proclamation to the Italian people . . ."
At the sound of that voice, of those words, Lanza's partner broke away from him, repelling him with a shove that seemed to Lanza like a blow of the fist. Each of the other couples disengaged themselves from their embrace, and before the eyes of the two bewildered Italian diplomats their occurred the most extraordinary thing imaginable. The movements, the postures, the smiles, the voices, the expressions of the girls gradually underwent an amazing metamorphosis. Their blue eyes darkened, the smiles died away on their lips, which had suddenly become pale and thin, their voices grew deep and harsh, their movements, which a moment before had been languid, became abrupt, their arms, just now plump and soft, grew hard and wooden, as when the branch of a tree is torn off by the wind, and, with the gradual drying up of its vital sap, loses its bright greenness, the sheen on its bark, that suppleness which is characteristic of trees, so that it becomes hard and rough. But the change which comes over a branch of a tree gradually was wrought in those girls instantaneously. As Lanza and Ridomi stood face to face with the young women they were conscious of the same bewilderment and terror as had seized Apollo when Daphne was transformed from a young girl into a laurel before his eyes. In the space of a few seconds those fair-haired, gentle girls turned into men. They were men.
"Ach, so!" said the one who a moment before had looked like Diana, in a harsh voice, staring at the two Italian diplomats with a menacing expression. "Ach, so! Do you think you can get away with it? Do you think the Führer will let you arrest Mussolini without bashing your heads in?" And turning to his companions, "Let's go to the camp at once," he went on. "I've no doubt our squadron has already received orders to start. In a few hours we shall be bombing Rome."
"Jawohl, mein Hauptmann," answered the four Air Force officers, clicking their heels loudly. The captain and his companions bowed silently to Gerda von H— , and without deigning to look at the two stupefied Italians departed in great haste with virile strides, making the floor ring with the sound of their heels.
* * * *
The girl's sudden cry, her words, her gesture, the noise of the slap, were the signal for all the youths to disengage themselves from their partners' embrace. Letting the feminine mask drop from their faces, shaking off their languor, their inertia, the superficial effeminacy of their gestures, expressions and smiles, and becoming men again in the space of a few seconds, they pressed menacingly round the girl. Pale and breatheless, she stood in the middle of the room, staring at Fred with eyes full of hatred.
"Cowards!" she repeated. "You're a lot of cowardly Trotskyites, that's what you are!"
"What? What? What did she say?" cried the youths. "We're Trotskyites? Why? What's come over her? She's mad!"
"No, she's not mad," said Fred. "She's jealous." And he burst into a fit of laughter so shrill that I expected every moment to see it turn to tears.
"Ha! ha! ha!" chorused the other youths. "She's jealous! Ha! ha! ha!"
Meanwhile Jeanlouis had gone up to the girl and, caressing her shoulder with a gesture full of tenderness, was whispering something in her ear, to which she, her face deathly white, assented with a slight nod of the head. I had risen, and was surveying the scene with a smile.
"That man—what does that man want with us?" cried the girl suddenly, brusquely repelling Jeanlouis and looking me boldly in the face. "Who let him in? Isn't he ashamed to be among us?"
"I'm not at all ashamed," I said, smiling. "Why should I be ashamed? I like being in the company of fine fellows. Isn't it true that at heart they are all fine fellows?"
"I don't understand what you're referring to," said one of the youths with a provocative air, coming so close to me that he was almost touching me.
"But aren't you fine fellows?" I said, resting the flat of my hand on his chest. "Why, yes—you're all fine fellows. If it weren't for you there would be no one who had won the war." And laughingly I made for the door and descended the stairs.
Jeanlouis caught me up in the street.
He was a little embarrassed, and for a long while we did not speak. In due course he said to me: "You shouldn't have insulted them. They are suffering."
"I didn't insult them," I answered.
"You shouldn't have said that they alone had won the war."
"Didn't they win the war, then?"
"Yes—in a sense, yes," said Jeanlouis. "But they are suffering."
"Suffering? What from?"
"They are suffering," said Jeanlouis, "because of all that has happened during these years."
"You mean because of Facism, and the war, and our defeat?"
"Yes, because of that too," said Jeanlouis.
"It's a fine pretext," I said. "Couldn't you have found a better pretext?"
"Why do you pretend not to understand?" said Jeanlouis.
"But I do," I said. "I understand you very well. You have taken to playing the harlot in desperation, because of your grief at losing the war. Isn't that right?"
"No, it isn't quite like that, but it comes to the same thing," said Jeanlouis.
"And Fred? Is Fred suffering too? Has he, perhaps, taken to playing the harlot because Britain has won the war?"
"Why do you insult him? Why do you call him a harlot?" said Jeanlouis with a gesture of petulance.
"Because if he is suffering, he is suffering as a harlot suffers."
"Don't talk nonsense," said Jeanlouis. "You know very well that-young men have suffered more than the rest during all these years."
"Even when they applauded Hitler and Mussolini and spat at those who went to gaol?"
"But don't you understand that they were suffering? Don't you understand that they are suffering?" cried Jeanlouis. "Don't you understand that everything they do is done because they are suffering?"
"It's certainly a fine excuse," I said. "Luckily not all young men are like you. Not all young men play the harlot."
"It isn't our fault if we're reduced to this," said Jeanlouis.
He had slipped his arm through mine, and as he walked at my side he leaned against me with all the weight of his body, just like a woman who wants to be forgiven for something, or a weary child.
"And then, why do you call us harlots? We aren't harlots, and you know it—it's unfair that you should call us harlots."
He was talking in a whimpering voice, exactly like a woman who wants to arouse pity, or a weary child.
"Are you starting to cry now? What do you expect me to call you?"
"It isn't our fault—you know very well it isn't our fault," said Jeanlouis.
"No, it isn't your fault," I said. "If it were only your fault do you think I would say to you some of the things I am saying? It's always the same old story after a war. The young men react against heroism, against rhetorical talk of sacrifice and heroic death, and they always react in the same way. When they get sick of heroism, noble ideals, heroic ideals, do you know what young men like you do? They always choose the easiest form of revolt—degradation, moral indifference, narcissism. They th
ink they're rebels, nihilists, they think they're blasé, emancipated, and really they're only harlots."
"You have no right to call us harlots!" cried Jeanlouis. "Young men deserve to be respected. You have no right to insult them."
"It's a question of the meaning of words. I knew thousands like you after the other war who thought they were dadaists or surrealists, and were really only harlots. You'll see, after this war, how many young men will think they're Communists. When the Allies have liberated all of Europe, do you know what they'll find? A horde of disappointed, corrupt, desperate young men, who will play at being pederasts as they would play tennis. It's always the same old story after a war. Young men like you, when they get sick and tired of heroism, nearly always end up as pederasts. They assume the role of Narcissus or Corydon to prove to themselves that they aren't afraid of anything, that they have risen above bourgeois prejudices and conventions, that they are truly free—free men—and they don't realize that this is just another way of acting the hero!" I laughed. "You can never get away from heroism! And their excuse for all this is that they are sick of heroism!"
"If you call all that has happened during these years heroism," said Jeanlouis in a low voice.
"And what would you call it? What do you think heroism is?"
"Heroism is your bourgeois cowardice," said Jeanlouis.
"The same thing always happens after proletarian revolutions," I said. "Young men like you think that pederasty is a form of revolutionism."
"If you're referring to Trotskyism," said Jeanlouis, "you're making a mistake. We're not Trotskyites."
"I know you aren't Trotskyites either," I said. "You are poor boys who are ashamed of being bourgeois, and haven't the courage to become proletarian. You think that to become a pederast is just one way of becoming a Communist."
"Stop! We're not pederasts!" cried Jeanlouis. "We're not pederasts, do you understand?"
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