WAITER: Ferrand!
FERRAND, brushing the Waiter’s hand off his apron: What can I do? I told you fifty times to get out of this city! Didn’t I? Starting to weep: Didn’t I?
He hurries up the corridor, wiping his tears with his apron. They all watch the Waiter, who sits there staring.
BAYARD: What? Tell me. Come on, I’m next, what’d he say?
WAITER—whispers, staring ahead in shock: It’s not to work.
LEDUC, leaning over toward him to hear: What?
WAITER: They have furnaces.
BAYARD: What furnaces? . . . Talk! What is it?
WAITER: He heard the detectives; they came in for coffee just before. People get burned up in furnaces. It’s not to work. They burn you up in Poland.
Silence. A long moment passes.
MONCEAU: That is the most fantastic idiocy I ever heard in my life!
LEBEAU, to the Waiter: As long as you have regular French papers, though . . . There’s nothing about Jew on my papers.
WAITER, in a loud whisper: They’re going to look at your penis.
The Boy stands up as though with an electric shock. The door of the office opens; the Police Captain appears and beckons to Bayard. The Boy quickly sits.
CAPTAIN: You can come now.
Bayard stands, assuming an artificial and almost absurd posture of confidence. But approaching the Captain he achieves an authority.
BAYARD: I’m a master electrician with the railroad, Captain. You may have seen me there. I’m classified First Priority War Worker.
CAPTAIN: Inside.
BAYARD: You can check with Transport Minister Duquesne.
CAPTAIN: You telling me my business?
BAYARD: No, but we can all use advice from time to time.
CAPTAIN: Inside.
BAYARD: Right.
Without hesitation Bayard walks into the office, the Captain following and closing the door.
A long silence. Monceau, after a moment, smooths out a rough place on the felt of his hat. Lebeau looks at his papers, slowly rubbing his beard with the back of his hand, staring in terror. The Old Jew draws his bundle deeper under his feet. Leduc takes out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, starts to take one for himself, then silently stands, crosses the line of men, and offers it to them. Lebeau takes one.
They light up. Faintly, from the next-door building, an accordion is heard playing a popular tune.
LEBEAU: Leave it to a cop to play now.
WAITER: No, that’s the boss’s son, Maurice. They’re starting to serve lunch.
Leduc, who has returned to his position as the last man on the bench, cranes around the corner of the corridor, observes, and sits back.
LEDUC, quietly: There’s only one guard at the door. Three men could take him.
Pause. No one responds. Then . . .
VON BERG, apologetically: I’m afraid I’d only get in your way. I have no strength in my hands.
MONCEAU, to Leduc: You actually believe that, Doctor? About the furnaces?
LEDUC—he thinks; then: I believe it is possible, yes. Come, we can do something.
MONCEAU: But what good are dead Jews to them? They want free labor. It’s senseless. You can say whatever you like, but the Germans are not illogical; there’s no conceivable advantage for them in such a thing.
LEDUC: You can be sitting here and still speak of advantages? Is there a rational explanation for your sitting here? But you are sitting here, aren’t you?
MONCEAU: But an atrocity like that is . . . beyond any belief.
VON BERG: That is exactly the point.
MONCEAU: You don’t believe it. Prince, you can’t tell me you believe such a thing.
VON BERG: I find it the most believable atrocity I have heard.
LEBEAU: But why?
Slight pause.
VON BERG: Because it is so inconceivably vile. That is their power. To do the inconceivable; it paralyzes the rest of us. But if that is its purpose it is not the cause. Many times I used to ask my friends—if you love your country why is it necessary to hate other countries? To be a good German why must you despise everything that is not German? Until I realized the answer. They do these things not because they are German but because they are nothing. It is the hallmark of the age—the less you exist the more important it is to make a clear impression. I can see them discussing it as a kind of . . . truthfulness. After all, what is self-restraint but hypocrisy? If you despise Jews the most honest thing is to burn them up. And the fact that it costs money, and uses up trains and personnel—this only guarantees the integrity, the purity, the existence of their feelings. They would even tell you that only a Jew would think of the cost. They are poets, they are striving for a new nobility, the nobility of the totally vulgar. I believe in this fire; it would prove for all time that they exist, yes, and that they were sincere. You must not calculate these people with some nineteenth-century arithmetic of loss and gain. Their motives are musical, and people are merely sounds they play. And in my opinion, win or lose this war, they have pointed the way to the future. What one used to conceive a human being to be will have no room on this earth. I would try anything to get out.
A pause.
MONCEAU: But they arrested you. That German professor is an expert. There is nothing Jewish about you. . . .
VON BERG: I have an accent. I noticed he reacted when I started to speak. It is an Austrian inflection. He may think I am another refugee.
The door opens. The Professor comes out, and indicates the Waiter.
PROFESSOR: Next. You.
The Waiter makes himself small, pressing up against Lebeau.
Don’t be alarmed, it’s only to check your papers.
The Waiter suddenly bends over and runs away—around the corner and up the corridor. The Guard appears at the end, collars him, and walks him back down the corridor.
WAITER, to the Guard: Felix, you know me. Felix, my wife will go crazy. Felix . . .
PROFESSOR: Take him in the office.
The Police Captain appears in the office doorway.
GUARD: There’s nobody at the door.
CAPTAIN—grabs the Waiter from the Guard: Get in here, you Jew son-of-a-bitch. . . .
He throws the Waiter into the office; the Waiter collides with the Major, who is just coming out to see what the disturbance is. The Major grips his thigh in pain, pushing the Waiter clear. The Waiter slides to the Major’s feet, weeping pleadingly. The Captain strides over and violently jerks him to his feet and pushes him into the office, going in after him.
From within, unseen:
You want trouble? You want trouble?
The Waiter is heard crying out; there is the sound of blows struck. Quiet. The Professor starts toward the door. The Major takes his arm and leads him down to the extreme forward edge of the stage, out of hearing of the prisoners.
MAJOR: Wouldn’t it be much simpler if they were just asked whether they . . .
Impatiently, without replying, the Professor goes over to the line of prisoners.
PROFESSOR: Will any of you admit right now that you are carrying forged identification papers?
Silence.
So. In short, you are all bona fide Frenchmen.
Silence. He goes over to the Old Jew, bends into his face.
Are there any Jews among you?
Silence. Then he returns to the Major.
There’s the problem, Major; either we go house by house investigating everyone’s biography, or we make this inspection.
MAJOR: That electrician fellow just now, though—I thought he made a point there. In fact, only this morning in the hospital, while I was waiting my turn for X-ray, another officer, a German officer, a captain, in fact—his bathrobe happened to fall open . . .
PROFESSOR: It is entirely possible.
MAJOR: It was unmistakable, Professor.
PROFESSOR: Let us be clear, Major; the Race Institute does not claim that circumcision is conclusive proof of Jewish blood. The Race Institute recognizes that a small proportion of gentiles . . .
MAJOR: I don’t see any reason not to say it, Professor—I happen to be, myself.
PROFESSOR: Very well, but I certainly would never mistake you for a Jew. Any more than you could mistake a pig for a horse. Science is not capricious, Major; my degree is in racial anthropology. In any case, we can certainly separate the gentiles by this kind of examination.
He has taken the Major’s arm to lead him back to the office.
MAJOR: Excuse me. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Moving to leave: You can carry on without me.
PROFESSOR: Major; you have your orders; you are in command of this operation. I must insist you take your place beside me.
MAJOR: I think some mistake has been made. I am a line officer, I have no experience with things of this kind. My training is engineering and artillery.
Slight pause.
PROFESSOR—he speaks more quietly, his eyes ablaze: We’d better be candid, Major. Are you refusing this assignment?
MAJOR, registering the threat he feels: I’m in pain today, Professor. They are still removing fragments. In fact, I understood I was only to . . . hold this desk down until an S.S. officer took over. I’m more or less on loan, you see, from the regular Army.
PROFESSOR—takes his arm, draws him down to the edge of the stage again: But the Army is not exempt from carrying out the Racial Program. My orders come from the top. And my report will go to the top. You understand me.
MAJOR—his resistance seems to fall: I do, yes.
PROFESSOR: Look now, if you wish to be relieved, I can easily telephone General von—
MAJOR: No—no, that’s all right. I . . . I’ll be back in a few minutes.
PROFESSOR: This is bizarre, Major—how long am I supposed to wait for you?
MAJOR, holding back an outburst of resentment: I need a walk. I am not used to sitting in an office. I see nothing bizarre in it, I am a line officer, and this kind of business takes a little getting used to. Through his teeth: What do you find bizarre in it?
PROFESSOR: Very well.
Slight pause.
MAJOR: I’ll be back in ten minutes. You can carry on.
PROFESSOR: I will not continue without you, Major. The Army’s responsibility is quite as great as mine here.
MAJOR: I won’t be long.
The Professor turns abruptly and strides into the office, slamming the door shut. Very much wanting to get out, the Major goes up the corridor. Leduc stands as he passes.
LEDUC: Major . . .
The Major limps past him without turning, up the corridor and out. Silence.
BOY: Mister?
Leduc turns to him.
I’d try it with you.
LEDUC, to Monceau and Lebeau: What about you two?
LEBEAU: Whatever you say, but I’m so hungry I wouldn’t do you much good.
LEDUC: You can walk up to him and start an argument. Distract his attention. Then we—
MONCEAU: You’re both crazy, they’ll shoot you down.
LEDUC: Some of us might make it. There’s only one man at the door. This neighborhood is full of alleyways—you could disappear in twenty yards.
MONCEAU: How long would you be free—an hour? And when they catch you they’ll really tear you apart.
BOY: Please! I have to get out. I was on my way to the pawnshop. Takes out a ring. It’s my mother’s wedding ring, it’s all that’s left. She’s waiting for the money. They have nothing in the house to eat.
MONCEAU: You take my advice, boy; don’t do anything, they’ll let you go.
LEDUC: Like the electrician?
MONCEAU: He was obviously a Communist. And the waiter irritated the Captain.
LEBEAU: Look, I’ll try it with you but don’t expect too much; I’m weak as a chicken, I haven’t eaten since yesterday.
LEDUC, to Monceau: It would be better with another man. The boy is very light. If you and the boy rush him I’ll get his gun away.
VON BERG, to Leduc, looking at his hands: Forgive me.
Monceau springs up, goes to a box, and sits.
MONCEAU: I am not going to risk my life for nothing. That businessman had a Jewish face. To Lebeau: You said so yourself.
LEBEAU, to Leduc, appeasingly: I did. I thought so. Look, if your papers are good, maybe that’s it.
LEDUC, to Lebeau and Monceau: You know yourself the Germans have been moving into the Southern Zone; you see they are picking up Jews; a man has just told you that you are marked for destruction. . . .
MONCEAU—indicates Von Berg: They took him in. Nobody’s explained it.
VON BERG: My accent . . .
MONCEAU: My dear Prince, only an idiot could mistake you for anything but an Austrian of the upper class. I took you for nobility the minute you walked in.
LEDUC: But if it’s a general checkup why would they be looking at penises?
MONCEAU: There’s no evidence of that!
LEDUC: The waiter’s boss . . .
MONCEAU, suppressing a nervous shout: He overheard two French detectives who can’t possibly know anything about what happens in Poland. And if they do that kind of thing, it’s not the end either—I had Jew stamped on my passport in Paris and I was playing Cyrano at the same time.
VON BERG: Really! Cyrano!
LEBEAU: Then why’d you leave Paris?
MONCEAU: It was an absolutely idiotic accident. I was rooming with another actor, a gentile. And he kept warning me to get out. But naturally one doesn’t just give up a role like that. But one night I let myself be influenced by him. He pointed out that I had a number of books which were on the forbidden list—of Communist literature—I mean things like Sinclair Lewis, and Thomas Mann, and even a few things by Friedrich Engels, which everybody was reading at one time. And I decided I might as well get rid of them. So we made bundles and I lived on the fifth floor of a walkup and we’d take turns going down to the street and just leaving them on benches or in doorways or anywhere at all. It was after midnight, and I was just dropping a bundle into the gutter near the Opéra, when I noticed a man standing in a doorway watching me. At that moment I realized that I had stamped my name and address in every one of those books.
VON BERG: Hah! What did you do?
MONCEAU: Started walking, and kept right on down here to the Unoccupied Zone. An outcry of remorse: But in my opinion, if I’d done nothing at all I might still be working!
LEDUC, with higher urgency, but deeply sympathetic; to Monceau: Listen to me for one moment. I beg you. There is only one man guarding that door; we may never get another chance like this again.
LEBEAU: That’s another thing; if it was all that serious, wouldn’t they be guarding us more heavily? I mean, that’s a point.
LEDUC: That is exactly the point. They are relying on us.
MONCEAU: Relying on us!
LEDUC: Yes. To project our own reasonable ideas into their heads. It is reasonable that a light guard means the thing is not important. They rely on our own logic to immobilize ourselves. But you have just told us how you went all over Paris advertising the fact that you owned forbidden books.
MONCEAU: But I didn’t do it purposely.
LEDUC: May I guess that you could no longer bear the tension of remaining in Paris? But that you wanted to keep your role in Cyrano and had to find some absolute compulsion to save your own life? It was your unconscious mind that saved you. Do you understand? You cannot wager your life on a purely rational analysis of this situation. Listen to your feelings; you must certainly feel the danger here. . . .
MONCEAU, in high anxiety: I played in Germany. That audience could not
burn up actors in a furnace. Turning to Von Berg: Prince, you cannot tell me you believe that!
VON BERG, after a pause: I supported a small orchestra. When the Germans came into Austria three of the players prepared to escape. I convinced them no harm would come to them; I brought them to my castle; we all lived together. The oboist was twenty, twenty-one—the heart stopped when he played certain tones. They came for him in the garden. They took him out of his chair. The instrument lay on the lawn like a dead bone. I made certain inquiries; he is dead now. And it was even more terrible—they came and sat down and listened until the rehearsal was over. And then they took him. It is as though they wished to take him at exactly the moment when he was most beautiful. I know how you feel—but I tell you nothing any longer is forbidden. Nothing. Tears are in his eyes; he turns to Leduc. I ask you to forgive me, Doctor.
Pause.
BOY: Will they let you go?
VON BERG, with a guilty glance at the BOY: I suppose. If this is all to catch Jews they will let me go.
BOY: Would you take this ring? And bring it back to my mother?
He stretches his hand out with the ring. Von Berg does not touch it.
Number Nine Rue Charlot. Top floor. Hirsch, Sarah Hirsch. She has long brown hair . . . be sure it’s her. She has a little beauty mark on this cheek. There are two other families in the apartment, so be sure it’s her.
Von Berg looks into the Boy’s face. Silence. Then he turns to Leduc.
VON BERG: Come. Tell me what to do. I’ll try to help you. To Leduc: Doctor?
LEDUC: I’m afraid it’s hopeless.
VON BERG: Why?
LEDUC—stares ahead, then looks at Lebeau: He’s weak with hunger, and the boy’s like a feather. I wanted to get away, not just slaughtered. Pause. With bitter irony: I live in the country, you see; I haven’t talked to anybody in so long, I’m afraid I came in here with the wrong assumptions.
MONCEAU: If you’re trying to bait me, Doctor, forget it.
LEDUC: Would you mind telling me, are you religious?
MONCEAU: Not at all.
LEDUC: Then why do you feel this desire to be sacrificed?
MONCEAU: I ask you to stop talking to me.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 69