The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  LEBEAU: Gypsy?

  GYPSY, drawing closer a copper pot at his feet: Gypsy.

  LEBEAU, to Monceau: Gypsies never have papers. Why’d they bother him?

  MONCEAU: In his case it might be some other reason. He probably stole that pot.

  GYPSY: No. On the sidewalk. He raises the pot from between his feet. I fix, make nice. I sit down to fix. Come police. Pfft!

  MARCHAND: But of course they’ll tell you anything. . . . To Gypsy, laughing familiarly: Right?

  Gypsy laughs and turns away to his own gloom.

  LEBEAU: That’s a hell of a thing to say to him. I mean, would you say that to a man with pressed pants?

  MARCHAND: They don’t mind. In fact, they’re proud of stealing. To Gypsy: Aren’t you?

  Gypsy glances at him, shrugs.

  I’ve got a place in the country where they come every summer. I like them, personally—especially the music. With a broad grin he sings toward the Gypsy and laughs. We often listen to them around their campfires. But they’ll steal the eyes out of your head. To Gypsy: Right?

  Gypsy shrugs and kisses the air contemptuously. Marchand laughs with brutal familiarity.

  LEBEAU: Why shouldn’t he steal? How’d you get your money?

  MARCHAND: I happen to be in business.

  LEBEAU: So what have you got against stealing?

  BAYARD: Are you trying to provoke somebody? Is that it?

  LEBEAU: Another businessman.

  BAYARD: I happen to be an electrician. But a certain amount of solidarity wouldn’t hurt right now.

  LEBEAU: How about some solidarity with Gypsies? Just because they don’t work nine to five?

  WAITER—a small man, middle-aged, still wearing his apron: I know this one. I’ve made him go away a hundred times. He and his wife stand outside the café with a baby, and they beg. It’s not even their baby.

  LEBEAU: So what? They’ve still got a little imagination.

  WAITER: Yes, but they keep whining to the customers through the shrubbery. People don’t like it.

  LEBEAU: You know—you all remind me of my father. Always worshiped the hard-working Germans. And now you hear it all over France—we have to learn how to work like the Germans. Good God, don’t you ever read history? Whenever a people starts to work hard, watch out, they’re going to kill somebody.

  BAYARD: That depends on how production is organized. If it’s for private profit, yes, but—

  LEBEAU: What are you talking about, when did the Russians start getting dangerous? When they learned how to work. Look at the Germans—for a thousand years peaceful, disorganized people—they start working and they’re on everybody’s back. Nobody’s afraid of the Africans, are they? Because they don’t work. Read the Bible—work is a curse, you’re not supposed to worship work.

  MARCHAND: And how do you propose to produce anything?

  LEBEAU: Well that’s the problem.

  Marchand and Bayard laugh.

  What are you laughing at? That is the problem! Yes! To work without making work a god! What kind of crew is this?

  The office door opens and the Major comes out. He is twenty-eight, a wan but well-built man; there is something ill about him. He walks with a slight limp, passing the line of men as he goes toward the corridor.

  WAITER: Good morning, Major.

  MAJOR—startled, nods to the Waiter: Oh. Good morning.

  He continues up the corridor, where he summons the Guard around the corner—the Guard appears and they talk unheard.

  MARCHAND, sotto: You know him?

  WAITER, proudly: I serve him breakfast every morning. Tell you the truth, he’s really not a bad fellow. Regular army, see, not one of these S.S. bums. Got wounded somewhere, so they stuck him back here. Only came about a month ago, but he and I—

  The Major comes back down the corridor. The Guard returns to his post out of sight at the corridor’s end. As the Major passes Marchand . . .

  MARCHAND, leaping up and going to the Major: Excuse me, sir.

  The Major slowly turns his face to Marchand. Marchand affects to laugh deferentially.

  I hate to trouble you, but I would be much obliged if I could use a telephone for one minute. In fact, it’s business connected to the food supply. I am the manager of . . .

  He starts to take out a business card, but the Major has turned away and walks to the door. But there he stops and turns back.

  MAJOR: I’m not in charge of this procedure. You will have to wait for the Captain of Police. He goes into the office.

  MARCHAND: I beg your pardon.

  The door has been closed on his line. He goes back to his place and sits, glaring at the Waiter.

  WAITER: He’s not a really bad fellow.

  They all look at him, eager for some clue.

  He even comes at night sometimes, plays a beautiful piano. Gives himself French lessons out of a book. Always has a few nice words to say, too.

  LEBEAU: Does he know that you’re a . . . Peruvian?

  BAYARD, instantly: Don’t discuss that here, for God’s sake! What’s the matter with you?

  LEBEAU: Can’t I find out what’s going on? If it’s a general identity check it’s one thing, but if—

  From the end of the corridor enter First Detective with the Old Jew, a man in his seventies, bearded, carrying a large sackcloth bundle; then the Second Detective, holding the arm of Leduc; then the Police Captain, uniformed, with Von Berg; and finally the Professor in civilian clothes.

  The First Detective directs the Old Jew to sit, and he does, beside the Gypsy. The Second Detective directs Von Berg to sit beside the Old Jew. Only now does the Second Detective release his hold on Leduc and indicate that he is to sit beside Von Berg.

  SECOND DETECTIVE, to Leduc: Don’t you give me any more trouble now.

  The door opens and the Major enters. Instantly Leduc is on his feet, approaching the Major.

  LEDUC: Sir, I must ask the reason for this. I am a combat officer, captain in the French Army. There is no authority to arrest me in French territory. The Occupation has not revoked French law in southern France.

  The Second Detective, infuriated, throws Leduc back into his seat. He returns to the Professor.

  SECOND DETECTIVE, to Major, of Leduc: Speechmaker.

  PROFESSOR, doubtfully: You think you two can carry on now?

  SECOND DETECTIVE: We got the idea, Professor. To the Major: There’s certain neighborhoods they head for when they run away from Paris or wherever they come from. I can get you as many as you can handle.

  FIRST DETECTIVE: It’s a question of knowing the neighborhoods, you see. In my opinion you’ve got at least a couple thousand in Vichy on false papers.

  PROFESSOR: You go ahead, then.

  As the Second Detective turns to go with the First Detective, the Police Captain calls him.

  CAPTAIN: Saint-Père.

  SECOND DETECTIVE: Yes, sir.

  The Captain walks downstage with the Detective.

  CAPTAIN: Try to avoid taking anybody out of a crowd. Just cruise around the way we did before, and take them one at a time. There are all kinds of rumors. We don’t want to alarm people.

  SECOND DETECTIVE: Right, sir.

  The Captain gestures, and both Detectives leave up the corridor.

  CAPTAIN: I am just about to order coffee. Will you gentlemen have some?

  PROFESSOR: Please.

  WAITER, timidly: And a croissant for the Major.

  The Major glances quickly at the Waiter and barely smiles. The Captain, who has thrown a mystified look at the Waiter, goes into the office.

  MARCHAND, to the Professor: I believe I am first, sir.

  PROFESSOR: Yes, this way.

  He goes into the office, followed by the eager Marchand.

  MARCHAND, going in: Thank y
ou. I’m in a dreadful hurry. . . . I was on my way to the Ministry of Supply, in fact. . . .

  His voice is lost within. As the Major reaches the door, Leduc, who has been in a fever of calculation, calls to him.

  LEDUC: Amiens.

  MAJOR—he halts at the door, turns to Leduc, who is at the far end of the line: What about Amiens?

  LEDUC, suppressing his nervousness: June ninth, ’forty. I was in the Sixteenth Artillery, facing you. I recognize your insignia, which of course I could hardly forget.

  MAJOR: That was a bad day for you fellows.

  LEDUC: Yes. And evidently for you.

  MAJOR—glances down at his leg: Can’t complain.

  The Major goes into the office, shuts the door. A pause.

  LEDUC, to all: What’s this all about?

  WAITER, to all: I told you he wasn’t a bad guy. You’ll see.

  MONCEAU, to Leduc: It seems they’re checking on identification papers.

  Leduc receives the news, and obviously grows cautious and quietly alarmed. He examines their faces.

  LEDUC: What’s the procedure?

  MONCEAU: They’ve just started—that businessman was the first.

  LEBEAU, to Leduc and Von Berg: They measure your noses?

  LEDUC, sharply alarmed: Measure noses?

  LEBEAU, putting thumb and forefinger against the bridge and tip of his nose: Ya, they measured my nose, right on the street. I tell you what I think . . . To Bayard: With your permission.

  BAYARD: I don’t mind you talking as long as you’re serious.

  LEBEAU: I think it’s to carry stones. It just occurred to me—last Monday a girl I know came up from Marseille—the road is full of detours. They probably need labor. She said there was a crowd of people just carrying stones. Lot of them Jews, she thought; hundreds.

  LEDUC: I never heard of forced labor in the Vichy Zone. Is that going on here?

  BAYARD: Where do you come from?

  LEDUC—slight pause—he decides whether to reveal: I live in the country. I don’t get into town very often. There’s been no forced-labor decree, has there?

  BAYARD, to all: Now, listen. Everyone turns to his straight-forward, certain tone. I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want anybody quoting me. Is that understood?

  They nod. He glances at the door. He turns to Lebeau.

  You hear what I said?

  LEBEAU: Don’t make me out some kind of an idiot. Christ’s sake, I know it’s serious!

  BAYARD, to the others: I work in the railroad yards. A thirty-car freight train pulled in yesterday. The engineer is Polish, so I couldn’t talk to him, but one of the switchmen says he heard people inside.

  LEDUC: Inside the cars?

  BAYARD: Yes. It came from Toulouse. I heard there’s been a quiet roundup of Jews in Toulouse the last couple of weeks. And what’s a Polish engineer doing on a train in southern France? You understand?

  LEDUC: Concentration camp?

  MONCEAU: Why? A lot of people have been volunteering for work in Germany. That’s no secret. They’re doubling the ration for anybody who goes.

  BAYARD, quietly: The cars are locked on the outside. Slight pause. And they stink. You can smell the stench a hundred yards away. Babies are crying inside. You can hear them. And women. They don’t lock volunteers in that way. I never heard of it.

  A long pause.

  LEDUC: But I’ve never heard of them applying the Racial Laws down here. It’s still French territory, regardless of the Occupation—they’ve made a big point of that.

  Pause.

  BAYARD: The Gypsy bothers me.

  LEBEAU: Why?

  BAYARD: They’re in the same category of the Racial Laws. Inferior.

  Leduc and Lebeau slowly turn to look at the Gypsy.

  LEBEAU, turning back quickly to Bayard: Unless he really stole that pot.

  BAYARD: Well, yes, if he stole the pot then of course he—

  LEBEAU, quickly, to the Gypsy: Hey, listen. He gives a soft, sharp whistle. The Gypsy turns to him. You steal that pot?

  The Gypsy’s face is inscrutable. Lebeau is embarrassed to press this, and more desperate.

  You did, didn’t you?

  GYPSY: No steal, no.

  LEBEAU: Look, I’ve got nothing against stealing. Indicating the others: I’m not one of these types. I’ve slept in parked cars, under bridges—I mean, to me all property is theft anyway so I’ve got no prejudice against you.

  GYPSY: No steal.

  LEBEAU: Look . . . I mean you’re a Gypsy, so how else can you live, right?

  WAITER: He steals everything.

  LEBEAU, to Bayard: You hear? He’s probably in for stealing, that’s all.

  VON BERG: Excuse me . . .

  They turn to him.

  Have you all been arrested for being Jewish?

  They are silent, suspicious and surprised.

  I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea.

  BAYARD: I said nothing about being Jewish. As far as I know, nobody here is Jewish.

  VON BERG: I’m terribly sorry.

  Silence. The moment lengthens. In his embarrassment he laughs nervously.

  It’s only that I . . . I was buying a newspaper and this gentleman came out of a car and told me I must have my documents checked. I . . . I had no idea.

  Silence. Hope is rising in them.

  LEBEAU, to Bayard: So what’d they grab him for?

  BAYARD—looks at Von Berg for a moment, then addresses all: I don’t understand it, but take my advice. If anything like that happens and you find yourself on that train . . . there are four bolts halfway up the doors on the inside. Try to pick up a nail or a screwdriver, even a sharp stone—you can chisel the wood out around those bolts and the doors will open. I warn you, don’t believe anything they tell you—I heard they’re working Jews to death in the Polish camps.

  MONCEAU: I happen to have a cousin; they sent him to Auschwitz; that’s in Poland, you know. I have several letters from him saying he’s fine. They’ve even taught him bricklaying.

  BAYARD: Look, friend, I’m telling you what I heard from people who know. Hesitates. People who make it their business to know, you understand? Don’t listen to any stories about resettlement, or that they’re going to teach you a trade or something. If you’re on that train get out before it gets where it’s going.

  Pause.

  LEDUC: I’ve heard the same thing.

  They turn to him and he turns to Bayard.

  How would one find tools, you have any idea?

  MONCEAU: This is so typical! We’re in the French Zone, nobody has said one word to us, and we’re already on a train for a concentration camp where we’ll be dead in a year.

  LEDUC: But if the engineer is a Pole . . .

  MONCEAU: So he’s a Pole, what does that prove?

  BAYARD: All I’m saying is that if you have some kind of tool . . .

  LEDUC: I think what this man says should be taken seriously.

  MONCEAU: In my opinion you’re hysterical. After all, they were picking up Jews in Germany for years before the war, they’ve been doing it in Paris since they came in—are you telling me all those people are dead? Is that really conceivable to you? War is war, but you still have to keep a certain sense of proportion. I mean Germans are still people.

  LEDUC: I don’t speak this way because they’re Germans.

  BAYARD: It’s that they’re Fascists.

  LEDUC: Excuse me, no. It’s exactly because they are people that I speak this way.

  BAYARD: I don’t agree with that.

  MONCEAU—looks at Leduc for an instant: You must have had a peculiar life, is all I can say. I happen to have played in Germany; I know the German people.

  LEDUC: I studied in Germany for five years, and in Austria and I�
��

  VON BERG, happily: In Austria! Where?

  LEDUC—again he hesitates, then reveals: The Psychoanalytic Institute in Vienna.

  VON BERG: Imagine!

  MONCEAU: You’re a psychiatrist. To the others: No wonder he’s so pessimistic!

  VON BERG: Where did you live? I am Viennese.

  LEDUC: Excuse me, but perhaps it would be wiser not to speak in . . . detail.

  VON BERG, glancing about as though he had committed a gaffe: I’m terribly sorry . . . yes, of course. Slight pause. I was only curious if you knew Baron Kessler. He was very interested in the medical school.

  LEDUC, with an odd coolness: No, I was never in that circle.

  VON BERG: Oh, but he is extremely democratic. He . . . shyly: he is my cousin, you see. . . .

  LEBEAU: You’re a nobleman?

  VON BERG: Yes.

  LEDUC: What is your name?

  VON BERG: Wilhelm Johann Von Berg.

  MONCEAU, astonished, impressed: The prince?

  VON BERG: Yes . . . forgive me, have we met?

  MONCEAU, excited by the honor: Oh, no. But naturally I’ve heard your name. I believe it’s one of the oldest houses in Austria.

  VON BERG: Oh, that’s of no importance any more.

  LEBEAU, turning to Bayard—bursting with hope: Now, what the hell would they want with an Austrian prince?

  Bayard looks at Von Berg, mystified.

  I mean . . . Turning back to Von Berg: You’re Catholic, right?

  VON BERG: Yes.

  LEDUC: But is your title on your papers?

  VON BERG: Oh, yes, my passport.

  Pause. They sit silent, on the edge of hope, but bewildered.

  BAYARD: Were you . . . political or something?

  VON BERG: No, no, I never had any interest in that direction. Slight pause. Of course, there is this resentment toward the nobility. That might explain it.

  LEDUC: In the Nazis? Resentment?

  VON BERG, surprised: Yes, certainly.

  LEDUC, with no evident viewpoint but with a neutral but pressing interest in drawing the nobleman out: Really. I’ve never been aware of that.

  VON BERG: Oh, I assure you.

  LEDUC: But on what ground?

  VON BERG—laughs, embarrassed to have to even suggest he is offended: You’re not asking that seriously.