LEDUC: But you are making a gift of yourself. You are the only able-bodied man here, aside from me, and yet you feel no impulse to do something? I don’t understand your air of confidence.
Pause.
MONCEAU: I refuse to play a part I do not fit. Everyone is playing the victim these days; hopeless, hysterical, they always assume the worst. I have papers; I will present them with the single idea that they must be honored. I think that is exactly what saved that businessman. You accuse us of acting the part the Germans created for us; I think you’re the one who’s doing that by acting so desperate.
LEDUC: And if, despite your act, they throw you into a freight car?
MONCEAU: I don’t think they will.
LEDUC: But if they do. You certainly have enough imagination to visualize that.
MONCEAU: In that case, I will have done my best. I know what failure is; it took me a long time to make good; I haven’t the personality for leading roles; everyone said I was crazy to stay in the profession. But I did, and I imposed my idea on others.
LEDUC: In other words, you will create yourself.
MONCEAU: Every actor creates himself.
LEDUC: But when they tell you to open your fly.
Monceau is silent, furious.
Please don’t stop now; I’m very interested. How do you regard that moment?
Monceau is silent.
Believe me, I am only trying to understand this. I am incapable of penetrating such passivity; I ask you what is in your mind when you face the command to open your fly. I am being as impersonal, as scientific as I know how to be—I believe I am going to be murdered. What do you believe will happen when they point to that spot between your legs?
Pause.
MONCEAU: I have nothing to say to you.
LEBEAU: I’ll tell you what I’ll feel. Indicates Von Berg. I’ll wish I was him.
LEDUC: To be someone else.
LEBEAU, exhausted: Yes. To have been arrested by mistake. God—to see them relaxing when they realize I am innocent.
LEDUC: You feel guilty, then.
LEBEAU—he has gradually become closer to exhaustion: A little, I guess. Not for anything I’ve done but . . . I don’t know why.
LEDUC: For being a Jew, perhaps?
LEBEAU: I’m not ashamed of being a Jew.
LEDUC: Then why feel guilty?
LEBEAU: I don’t know. Maybe it’s that they keep saying such terrible things about us, and you can’t answer. And after years and years of it, you . . . I wouldn’t say you believe it, but . . . you do, a little. It’s a funny thing—I used to say to my mother and father just what you’re saying. We could have gone to America a month before the invasion. But they wouldn’t leave Paris. She had this brass bed, and carpets, and draperies and all kinds of junk. Like him with his Cyrano. And I told them, “You’re doing just what they want you to do!” But, see, people won’t believe they can be killed. Not them with their brass bed and their carpets and their faces. . . .
LEDUC: But do you believe it? It seems to me you don’t believe it yourself.
LEBEAU: I believe it. They only caught me this morning because I . . . I always used to walk in the morning before I sat down to work. And I wanted to do it again. I knew I shouldn’t go outside. But you get tired of believing in the truth. You get tired of seeing things clearly. Pause. I always collected my illusions in the morning. I could never paint what I saw, only what I imagined. And this morning, danger or no danger, I just had to get out, to walk around, to see something real, something else but the inside of my head . . . and I hardly turned the corner and that motherless son-of-a-bitch of a scientist got out of the car with his fingers going for my nose. . . . Pause. I believe I can die. But you can get so tired . . .
LEDUC: That it’s not too bad.
LEBEAU: Almost, yes.
LEDUC, glancing at them all: So that one way or the other, with illusions or without them, exhausted or fresh—we have been trained to die. The Jew and the gentile both.
MONCEAU: You’re still trying to bait me, Doctor, but if you want to commit suicide do it alone, don’t involve others. The fact is there are laws and every government enforces its laws; and I want it understood that I have nothing to do with any of this talk.
LEDUC, angering now: Every government does not have laws condemning people because of their race.
MONCEAU: I beg your pardon. The Russians condemn the middle class, the English have condemned the Indians, Africans, and anybody else they could lay their hands on, the French, the Italians . . . every nation has condemned somebody because of his race, including the Americans and what they do to Negroes. The vast majority of mankind is condemned because of its race. What do you advise all these people—suicide?
LEDUC: What do you advise?
MONCEAU, seeking and finding conviction: I go on the assumption that if I obey the law with dignity I will live in peace. I may not like the law, but evidently the majority does, or they would overthrow it. And I’m speaking now of the French majority, who outnumber the Germans in this town fifty to one. These are French police, don’t forget, not German. And if by some miracle you did knock out that guard you would find yourself in a city where not one person in a thousand would help you. And it’s got nothing to do with being Jewish or not Jewish. It is what the world is, so why don’t you stop insulting others with romantic challenges!
LEDUC: In short, because the world is indifferent you will wait calmly and with great dignity—to open your fly.
MONCEAU—frightened and furious, he stands: I’ll tell you what I think; I think it’s people like you who brought this on us. People who give Jews a reputation for subversion, and this Talmudic analysis, and this everlasting, niggling discontent.
LEDUC: Then I will tell you that I was wrong before; you didn’t advertise your name on those forbidden books in order to find a reason to leave Paris and save yourself. It was in order to get yourself caught and be put out of your misery. Your heart is conquered territory, mister.
MONCEAU: If we meet again you will pay for that remark.
LEDUC: Conquered territory! He leans forward, his head in his hands.
BOY, reaching over to hand the ring to Von Berg: Will you do it? Number nine Rue Charlot?
VON BERG, deeply affected: I will try.
He takes the ring. The Boy immediately stands.
LEDUC: Where are you going?
The Boy, terrified but desperate, moves on the balls of his feet to the corridor and peeks around the corner. Leduc stands, tries to draw him back.
You can’t; it’ll take three men to . . .
The Boy shakes loose and walks rapidly up the hallway. Leduc hesitates, then goes after him.
Wait! Wait a minute! I’m coming.
The Major enters the corridor at its far end. The Boy halts, Leduc now beside him. For a moment they stand facing him. Then they turn and come down the corridor and sit, the Major following them. He touches Leduc’s sleeve, and Leduc stands and follows him downstage.
MAJOR—he is “high”—with drink and a flow of emotion: That’s impossible. Don’t try it. There are sentries on both corners. Glancing toward the office door: Captain, I would only like to say that . . . this is all as inconceivable to me as it is to you. Can you believe that?
LEDUC: I’d believe it if you shot yourself. And better yet, if you took a few of them with you.
MAJOR, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand: We would all be replaced by tomorrow morning, wouldn’t we?
LEDUC: We might get out alive, though; you could see to that.
MAJOR: They’d find you soon.
LEDUC: Not me.
MAJOR, with a manic amusement, yet deeply questioning: Why do you deserve to live more than I do?
LEDUC: Because I am incapable of doing what you are doing. I am better for the world than yo
u.
MAJOR: It means nothing to you that I have feelings about this?
LEDUC: Nothing whatever, unless you get us out of here.
MAJOR: And then what? Then what?
LEDUC: I will remember a decent German, an honorable German.
MAJOR: Will that make a difference?
LEDUC: I will love you as long as I live. Will anyone do that now?
MAJOR: That means so much to you—that someone love you?
LEDUC: That I be worthy of someone’s love, yes. And respect.
MAJOR: It’s amazing; you don’t understand anything. Nothing of that kind is left, don’t you understand that yet?
LEDUC: It is left in me.
MAJOR, more loudly, a fury rising in him: There are no persons any more, don’t you see that? There will never be persons again. What do I care if you love me? Are you out of your mind? What am I, a dog that I must be loved? You—turning to all of them—goddamned Jews!
The door opens; the Professor and the Police Captain appear.
Like dogs, Jew-dogs. Look at him—indicating the Old Jew—with his paws folded. Look what happens when I yell at him. Dog! He doesn’t move. Does he move? Do you see him moving? He strides to the Professor and takes him by the arm. But we move, don’t we? We measure your noses, don’t we, Herr Professor, and we look at your cocks, we keep moving continually!
PROFESSOR, with a gesture to draw him inside: Major . . .
MAJOR: Hands off, you civilian bastard.
PROFESSOR: I think . . .
MAJOR, drawing his revolver: Not a word!
PROFESSOR: You’re drunk.
The Major fires into the ceiling. The prisoners tense in shock.
MAJOR: Everything stops now.
He goes in thought, revolver cocked in his hand, and sits beside Lebeau.
Now it is all stopped.
His hands are shaking. He sniffs in his running nose. He crosses his legs to control them, and looks at Leduc, who is still standing.
Now you tell me. You tell me. Now nothing is moving. You tell me. Go ahead now.
LEDUC: What shall I tell you?
MAJOR: Tell me how . . . how there can be persons any more. I have you at the end of this revolver—indicates the Professor—he has me—and somebody has him—and somebody has somebody else. Now tell me.
LEDUC: I told you.
MAJOR: I won’t repeat it. I am a man of honor. What do you make of that? I will not tell them what you advised me to do. What do you say—damned decent of me, isn’t it . . . not to repeat your advice?
Leduc is silent. The Major gets up, comes to Leduc. Pause.
You are a combat veteran.
LEDUC: Yes.
MAJOR: No record of subversive activities against the German authority.
LEDUC: No.
MAJOR: If you were released, and the others were kept . . . would you refuse?
Leduc starts to turn away. The Major nudges him with the pistol, forcing him face to face.
Would you refuse?
LEDUC: No.
MAJOR: And walk out of that door with a light heart?
LEDUC—he is looking at the floor now: I don’t know. He starts to put his trembling hands into his pockets.
MAJOR: Don’t hide your hands. I am trying to understand why you are better for the world than me. Why do you hide your hands? Would you go out that door with a light heart, run to your woman, drink a toast to your skin? . . . Why are you better than anybody else?
LEDUC: I have no duty to make a gift of myself to your sadism.
MAJOR: But I do? To others’ sadism? Of myself? I have that duty and you do not? To make a gift of myself?
LEDUC—looks at the Professor and the Police Captain, glances back at the Major: I have nothing to say.
MAJOR: That’s better.
He suddenly gives Leduc an almost comradely push and nearly laughs. He puts his gun away, turns swaying to the Professor and with a victorious shout:
Next!
The Major brushes past the Professor into the office. Lebeau has not moved.
PROFESSOR: This way.
Lebeau stands up, starts sleepily toward the corridor, turns about, and moves into the office, the Professor following him.
CAPTAIN, to Leduc: Get back there.
Leduc returns to his seat. The Captain goes into the office; the door shuts. Pause.
MONCEAU: You happy now? You got him furious. You happy?
The door opens; the Captain appears, beckoning to Monceau.
CAPTAIN: Next.
Monceau gets up at once; taking papers out of his jacket, he fixes a smile on his face and walks with erect elegance to the Captain and with a slight bow, his voice cheerful:
MONCEAU: Good morning, Captain.
He goes right into the office; the Captain follows, and shuts the door. Pause.
BOY: Number nine Rue Charlot. Please.
VON BERG: I’ll give it to her.
BOY: I’m a minor. I’m not even fifteen. Does it apply to minors?
Captain opens the door, beckons to the Boy.
BOY, standing: I’m a minor. I’m not fifteen until February . . .
CAPTAIN: Inside.
BOY, halting before the Captain: I could get my birth certificate for you.
CAPTAIN, prodding him along: Inside, inside.
They go in. The door shuts. The accordion is heard again from next door. The Old Jew begins to rock back and forth slightly, praying softly. Von Berg, his hand trembling as it passes down his cheek, stares at the Old Jew, then turns to Leduc on his other side. The three are alone now.
VON BERG: Does he realize what is happening?
LEDUC, with an edgy note of impatience: As much as anyone can, I suppose.
VON BERG: He seems to be watching it all from the stars. Slight pause. I wish we could have met under other circumstances. There are a great many things I’d like to have asked you.
LEDUC, rapidly, sensing the imminent summons: I’d appreciate it if you’d do me a favor.
VON BERG: Certainly.
LEDUC: Will you go and tell my wife?
VON BERG: Where is she?
LEDUC: Take the main highway north two kilometers. You’ll see a small forest on the left and a dirt road leading into it. Go about a kilometer until you see the river. Follow the river to a small mill. They are in the tool shed behind the wheel.
VON BERG, distressed: And . . . what shall I say?
LEDUC: That I’ve been arrested. And that there may be a possibility I can . . . Breaks off. No, tell her the truth.
VON BERG, alarmed: What do you mean?
LEDUC: The furnaces. Tell her that.
VON BERG: But actually . . . that’s only a rumor, isn’t it?
LEDUC—turns to him—sharply: I don’t regard it as a rumor. It should be known. I never heard of it before. It must be known. Just take her aside—there’s no need for the children to hear it, but tell her.
VON BERG: It’s only that it would be difficult for me. To tell such a thing to a woman.
LEDUC: If it’s happening you can find a way to say it, can’t you?
VON BERG—hesitates; he senses Leduc’s resentment: Very well. I’ll tell her. It’s only that I have no great . . . facility with women. But I’ll do as you say. Pause. He glances to the door. They’re taking longer with that boy. Maybe he is too young, you suppose?
Leduc does not answer. Von Berg seems suddenly hopeful.
They would stick to the rules, you know. . . . In fact, with the shortage of physicians you suppose they—
He breaks off.
I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you.
LEDUC, struggling with his anger: That’s all right.
Slight pause. His voice is trembling with anger.
It’s just that you keep finding these little shreds of hope and it’s a little difficult.
VON BERG: Yes, I see. I beg your pardon. I understand.
Pause. Leduc glances at the door; he is shifting about in high tension.
Would you like to talk of something else, perhaps? Are you interested in . . . in music?
LEDUC, desperately trying to control himself: It’s really quite simple. It’s that you’ll survive, you see.
VON BERG: But I can’t help that, can I?
LEDUC: That only makes it worse! I’m sorry, one isn’t always in control of one’s emotions.
VON BERG: Doctor, I can promise you—it will not be easy for me to walk out of here. You don’t know me.
LEDUC—he tries not to reply; then: I’m afraid it will only be difficult because it is so easy.
VON BERG: I think that’s unfair.
LEDUC: Well, it doesn’t matter.
VON BERG: It does to me. I . . . I can tell you that I was very close to suicide in Austria. Actually, that is why I left. When they murdered my musicians—not that alone, but when I told the story to many of my friends there was hardly any reaction. That was almost worse. Do you understand such indifference?
LEDUC—he seems on the verge of an outbreak: You have a curious idea of human nature. It’s astounding you can go on with it in these times.
VON BERG, with hand on heart: But what is left if one gives up one’s ideals? What is there?
LEDUC: Who are you talking about? You? Or me?
VON BERG: I’m terribly sorry. . . . I understand.
LEDUC: Why don’t you just stop talking. I can’t listen to anything. Slight pause. Forgive me. I do appreciate your feeling. Slight pause. I see it too clearly, perhaps—I know the violence inside these people’s heads. It’s difficult to listen to amelioration, even if it’s well-meant.
VON BERG: I had no intention of ameliorating—
LEDUC: I think you do. And you must; you will survive, you will have to ameliorate it; just a little, just enough. It’s no reflection on you. Slight pause. But, you see, this is why one gets so furious. Because all this suffering is so pointless—it can never be a lesson, it can never have a meaning. And that is why it will be repeated again and again forever.
VON BERG: Because it cannot be shared?
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 70