The Skin

by Curzio Malaparte

  "I don't know," said General Guillaume in profound astonishment. "I am referring to those unfortunate women who sell men-children in the streets."

  "What mothers?" I said. "What mothers are you referring to? Are they mothers, those creatures? Are they women? And the fathers? Haven't they got fathers, those children? Are they men, their fathers? And we? Are we men?"

  "Ecoutez," said General Guillaume. "Je me fous de vos mères, de vos autorites, de votre sacre pays. But the children—ah, not that! If children are sold in Naples today, it's a sign that they have always been sold there. And it's a disgrace to Italy."

  "No," I said, "children have never been sold in Naples before. I should never have believed that hunger could drive people to such extremes. But the fault is not ours."

  "Do you mean that it's ours?" said General Guillaume.

  "No, it isn't your fault. It's the fault of the children."

  "The children? Which children?" said General Guillaume.

  "The children—those children. You don't know what a terrible breed of children flourishes in Italy. And not only in Italy, but throughout Europe. It's they who compel their mothers to sell them in the open market. And do you know why? To make money, so that they can keep their lovers and lead a life of luxury. Today there's not a child anywhere in Europe who hasn't got lovers, horses, cars, castles and a banking account. They're all Rothschilds. You have no idea of the depths of moral degradation to which children—our children—have sunk, all over Europe. Of course, no one likes it to be mentioned. It's against the law to say these things in Europe. But that's how it is. If the mothers didn't sell their children, do you know what would happen? To make money, the children would sell their mothers."

  They all looked at me in amazement. "I don't like to hear you talk like that," said General Guillaume.

  "Ah, you don't like it when I tell you the truth? But what do you know of Europe? Before you landed in Italy where were you? In Morocco, or in some other part of North Africa. What do the Americans or the British know of it? They were in America, in Britain, in Egypt. What can the Allied soldiers who landed at Salerno know of Europe? Do they think that Europe still contains children—that it still contains fathers, mothers, sons, brothers and sisters? A heap of putrid flesh, that's what you'll find in Europe when you have liberated it. No one likes it to be said, no one likes to be told so, but it's the truth. That's what Europe is today—a heap of putrid flesh."

  They were all silent, and General Guillaume stared at me with lack-lustre eyes. He felt sorry for me, he could not conceal the fact that he felt sorry for me, and for countless others too—for all the others like me. It was the first time that a conqueror, an enemy, had felt sorry for me and for all the others like me. But General Guillaume was a Frenchman; he was a European too—a European like me; his own town, somewhere in France, had been destroyed too; his home, too, was in ruins; his family, too, was living a life of terror and anguish; his children, too, were hungry.

  "Unfortunately," said General Guillaume after a long silence, "you are not the only one to talk like that. The Archbishop of Naples, Cardinal Ascalesi, says the same as you. Terrible things must have happened in Europe to have brought you to such a pass." "Nothing has happened in Europe," I said. "Nothing?" said General Guillaume. "Hunger, air-raids, shootings, massacres, anguish, terror—is all this nothing to you?"

  "Oh, that's nothing," I said. "Hunger, air-raids, shootings, concentration camps are trifles—all trifles, trivialities, ancient history. We've known these things for centuries in Europe. We're used to them by now. These aren't the things that have brought us to our present pass."

  "What has brought you to it, then?" said General Guillaume in a slightly hoarse voice.

  "Skin."

  "Skin? What skin?" said General Guillaume.

  "Skin," I replied in a low voice. "Our skin, this confounded skin. You've no idea what a man will do, what deeds of heroism and infamy he can accomplish, to save his skin. This—this loathsome skin, do you see?" (And as I spoke I grasped the skin on the back of my hand between two fingers, and kept pulling it about.) "Once upon a time men endured hunger, torture, the most terrible sufferings, they killed and were killed, they suffered and made others suffer, to save their souls, to save their own souls and the souls of others. They would rise to every form of greatness and stoop to every form of infamy to save their souls—not only their own souls, but the souls of others too. Today they suffer and make others suffer, they kill and are killed, they do wonderful things and dreadful things, not to save their souls, but to save their skins. They think they are fighting and suffering to save their souls, but in reality they are fighting and suffering to save their skins, and their skins alone. Nothing else counts. Men are heroes for the sake of a very paltry thing today! An ugly thing. The human skin is ugly. Look! It's loathsome. And to think that the world is full of heroes who are ready to sacrifice their lives for such a thing as this!"

  "Tout de même . . ." said General Guillaume.

  "You can't deny that in comparison with all the other things.... In Europe today everything is for sale—honour, country, freedom, justice. You must admit that selling one's own children is a mere detail."

  "You are an honourable man," said General Guillaume. "You wouldn't sell your children."

  "Who knows?" I replied in a low voice. "It's not a question of being honourable, it means nothing to be a man of principle. It isn't a matter of personal honour. It's modem civilization, this godless civilization, that makes men attach such importance to their own skins. One's skin is the only thing that counts now. The only certain, tangible, undeniable thing is one's skin. It's the only thing we possess, the only thing that's our own. The most mortal thing in the world! Only the soul is immortal, alas! But what does the soul count for now? One's skin is the only thing that counts. Everything is made of human skin. Even the flags of armies are made of human skin. Men no longer fight for honour, freedom and justice. They fight for their skins, their loathsome skins."

  "You wouldn't sell your children," repeated General Guillaume, looking at the back of his hand.

  "Who knows?" I said. "If I had a child perhaps I would go and sell it so that I could buy myself some American cigarettes. One must be a child of one's time. When one is a coward, one must be a coward through and through."

  CHAPTER V - THE BLACK WIND

  THE black wind began blowing towards daybreak, and I awoke, dripping with perspiration. I had recognized its sad voice, its black voice, as I slept. I went to the window and searched the walls, the roofs, the surface of the street, the leaves on the trees, the sky over Posillipo, for signs of its presence. The black wind is like a blind man, who gropes his way, caressing the air and barely touching near-by objects with his outstretched hands. It is blind, it does not see where it is going, it touches now a wall, now a branch, now a human face, now the sea-shore, now a mountain, leaving in the air and on the things that it touches the black imprint of its light caress.

  It was not the first time that I had heard the voice of the black wind, and I recognized it at once. I awoke, dripping with perspiration, and going to the window I scanned the houses, the sea, the sky, and the clouds high above the sea.

  * * * *

  The first time I heard its voice was when I was in the Ukraine, during the summer of 1941. I happened to be in the Cossack lands of the Dnieper, and one evening the old Cossacks of the village of Constantinovka said to me, as they sat smoking their pipes in the doorways of their houses. "Look at the black wind over there." The day was dying, the sun, low on the horizon, was sinking into the earth. Its last pink, translucent rays were touching the topmost boughs of the silver birches; and it was in that sad hour when the day dies that I first saw the black wind.

  It was like a black shadow, like the shadow of a black horse, wandering uncertainly over the steppe, now here, now there, at one moment cautiously approaching the village, at the next fleeing in terror. Something that was like the wing of a night bird brushe
d the trees, the horses, the dogs that were scattered around the edge of the village, so that they immediately took on a dark hue and were tinged with the colour of night. The voices of men and animals seemed like pieces of black paper drifting through the air in the pink light of sunset.

  I made off in the direction of the river, and the water was cloudy and dark. I looked up at the foliage of a tree, and the leaves were black and shining. I picked up a stone, and in my hand the stone was black, heavy, opaque, like a bud that opens at night. The eyes of the girls returning from the fields to the long, low sheds of the kolkhoz were dark and shining, the echoes of their gay, carefree laughter rose into the air like blackbirds. And yet it was still daylight. The trees, the voices, the animals, the men, already so black though it was still daylight, filled me with a vague horror.

  The old Cossacks, with their wrinkled faces, each with a large twisted tuft of hair crowning his shaven skull, said: "It is the black wind, the chorny vetier"; and they shook their heads, watching the black wind as it meandered uncertainly about the steppe like a frightened horse. I said: "Perhaps it is the shadow of evening that gives the wind its black tinge." The old Cossacks shook their heads. "No," they said, "it is not the shadow of evening that tinges the wind. It is the chorny vetier, which tinges with black everything it touches." And they taught me to recognize the voice of the black wind, and its smell, and its taste. One of them took a lamb in his arms, blew on the black wool, and the roots of the fleece were seen to be white. Another held a little bird in his hand, blew on the soft black feathers, and the roots of the feathers were seen to be tinged with yellow, red and blue. They blew on the plaster of a house, and beneath the black down left by the wind's caress the white lime could be seen. They sank their fingers into the black mane of a horse, and the reddish-brown hair became visible once more between their fingers. Whenever the black dogs that played in the little village square passed behind a fence or a wall, where they were sheltered from the wind, they assumed that brilliant tawny colour which is peculiar to Cossack dogs, and lost it as soon as they got into the wind again. An old man dug up with his nails a white stone that had been buried in the soil, placed it in the palm of his hand and threw it into the teeth of the wind. It looked like a star whose light had been extinguished, a black star sinking into the clear pool of the day. I learned in this way to recognize the black wind by its smell, which is reminiscent of dry grass, by its tang, which is strong and bitter, like the tang of laurel leaves, and by its marvellously sad voice—the voice of Cimmerian night itself.

  The next day I was on my way to Dorogo, which is three hours' journey from Constantinovka. It was already late, and my horse was weary. I was going to Dorogo, in order to visit the famous kolkhoz which was the breeding-ground of the finest horses in the whole of the Ukraine. I had left Constantinovka about five o'clock in the afternoon, and I was counting on reaching Dorogo before nightfall. But the recent rains had transformed the track into a quagmire and had carried away the bridges over the streams, which are very numerous in that region. As a result I was forced to make my way along the undulating bank in search of a ford. And I was still a long way from Dorogo when the sun, which was low on the horizon, sank into the earth with a dull plop. On the steppe the sun sets abruptly; it falls into the grass like a stone, with the plop of a stone hitting the earth. As soon as I had left Constantinovka I had joined a group of Hungarian cavalrymen who were on their way to Stalino, and I had accompanied them for many miles. They smoked long pipes as they rode, and every so often they stopped and talked among themselves. They had soft, musical voices. I thought they were deliberating as to which road they should take, but in due course the sergeant who was in command of them asked me in German if I was willing to sell my horse. It was a Cossack horse, and knew all the smells, all the flavours, all the sounds of the steppe. "It is my friend," I replied. "I don't sell my friends." The Hungarian sergeant looked at me with a smile. "It's a fine horse," he said, "but it can't have cost you very much. Can you tell me where you stole it?" I knew how to answer a horse-thief, and I replied: "Yes, it's a fine horse. It runs like the wind all day without getting tired. But it's got leprosy?" I looked him in the face and laughed. "It's got leprosy," said the sergeant. "Don't you believe me?" I said. "If you don't believe me touch it, and you'll find it will give you leprosy." And caressing the horse's flank with the toe of my boot I slowly rode off, never looking back. For quite a while I heard them laughing and shouting and hurling insults at me, then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that they had turned off towards the river and were galloping along in close formation, waving their arms. After a few miles I met some Rumanian cavalrymen who were out on a marauding expedition. Across their saddles were thrown piles of silk dressing-gowns and rams' skins, which they had without doubt stolen from some Tartar village. They asked me where I was going. "To Dorogo," I replied. They would have liked to accompany me, they said, as far as Dorogo, in order to protect me in case of accidents, since the steppe (they added) was infested by bands of Hungarian robbers; but their horses were tired. They wished me bon voyage and made off, looking back every so often to wave to me.

  It was already dusk when I discerned, far ahead of me, the glare of fires. It was undoubtedly the village of Dorogo. Suddenly I recognized the smell of the wind, and my heart froze within me. I looked at my hands: they were black and dry; they looked almost like pieces of charcoal. Black, too, were the few trees that were dotted about the steppe; the stones were black, the ground was black: but the atmosphere was still bright, and had a silvery look. The last fires of the day were dying in the sky behind me, and the wild horses of night were rushing towards me at a gallop from the far horizon to the east, raising black clouds of dust.

  I felt the black caress of the wind on my face and the black night of the wind filling my mouth. An oppressive, sticky silence covered the steppe; it was like a stagnant, turbid lake. I bent over my horse's neck and whispered in its ear. The horse listened to my words, whinnying softly, and turned its great oblique eye upon me, its great dark eye, in which there shone a light of madness, chaste and melancholy. Night had already fallen, and the fires of the village of Dorogo were near, when suddenly I heard human voices floating high above my head.

  I raised my eyes, and it seemed to me that a double row of trees flanked the road at that point, bending their boughs above my head. But I did not see their trunks, or their boughs, or their leaves. I was conscious only of being surrounded by trees, of a strange presence, of an element of strength pervading the black night, of something living that was immured in the black wall of the night. I stopped my horse and strained my ears. Yes, I could hear voices above my head, human voices floating through the blackness above me. "Wer da?" I shouted. "Who goes there?"

  Ahead of me, on the horizon, a faint pink glimmer was spreading into the sky. The voices floated high above my head. They were human voices; they spoke in German, Russian, Hebrew. They were conversing in loud, but rather shrill tones. Sometimes they were harsh, sometimes they were cold and brittle as glass, and often at the end of a word they broke with the tinkling sound of glass when it is struck by a stone. Again I shouted: "Wer da? Who goes there?"

  "Who are you? What do you want? Who is it? Who is it?" answered several voices, drifting high above my head.

  The rim of the horizon was pink and transparent as the shell of an egg. As one looked at the skyline it did indeed seem as if an egg were slowly emerging from the womb of the earth.

  "I am a man; I am a Christian," I said.

  A shrill laugh rippled across the black sky. It faded away into the distance and was lost in the night. A voice, louder than the rest, shouted: "Ah! A Christian, are you?" I answered: "Yes, I am a Christian." Scornful laughter greeted my words. It drifted high above my head into the distance, and gradually died away in the night.

  "And aren't you ashamed of being a Christian?" shouted the voice.

  I was silent. Bent over my horse's neck, with my face buried in its mane, I wa
s silent.

  "Why don't you answer?" shouted the voice.

  I was silent: I was watching the horizon as it gradually lightened. A golden radiance, transparent as an egg-shell, was slowly spreading across the sky. It was in truth an egg, that thing which was taking shape on the skyline, gradually appearing from beneath the ground, slowly rising from the deep, dark, tomb of the earth.

  "Why don't you speak?" shouted the voice.

  And high above my head I heard a rustling sound, as of branches shaken by the wind, and a murmuring as of leaves in the wind. I heard a furious laugh, and harsh words drifting across the black sky, and I felt something that was like a wing brush my face. They were of course birds, those creatures up there—large black birds, crows perhaps, that had been roused from sleep and were flying away, flapping their thick black wings as they made off. "Who are you?" I shouted. "For God's sake answer me!" The sky was bathed in the faint light of the moon. It was in truth an egg, that thing which was issuing from the womb of the night, it was in truth an egg that was issuing from the womb of the earth, and climbing slowly above the horizon, I saw the trees which flanked the road gradually emerge from the night and roughly outline themselves against the golden sky, while black shadows stirred high up among the branches.