Youth Without God

by Odon Von Horvath

  I read this last phrase again and I had to smile. Just like boys.

  I was reflecting on what I’d read, but my reflections didn’t have time to amount to very much. I heard the bugle from the fringe of the wood. The regiment was nearly home: I must hurry. I slipped the diary back into the box and tried to lock it. I turned the wire this way and that. No good. It wouldn’t click. I’d broken the lock.

  They’d be back in a moment now. I put the box, still unlocked, back into the sleeping-bag and left the tent. There was nothing else for it. The regiment had returned.

  Z was marching in the fourth row.

  You’ve got a girl now, Z, called Eve. And you know your beloved is a thief, and yet you swear you’ll defend her to the last.

  I smiled again. These boys!

  The regiment halted and dismissed …

  And now your innermost thoughts are familiar things to me, I thought. But I couldn’t smile any longer. For I saw the case coming into court—the public prosecutor going over his notes: an indictment for theft and connivance at theft. Adam would have to answer questions, besides Eve. Z would be arrested.

  I ought to tell the sergeant and notify the police—or should I have a talk with Z alone first?

  He had gone over to the kitchen quarters to see what there was for supper. He’d have to leave the high school and the girl would be sent back to an institution.

  Or prison—for both. Good-bye to your fair future, Z.

  Better men than you have found a stumbling-block in love, that is a necessity of nature, and hence willed by God.

  I heard the priest’s words again: “God is the most terrible thing in the world”—and another sound fell on my ears—a terrific up-roar of shouting and screaming. Every one was rushing to one of the tents—the tent that housed that box. Z and N were fighting so savagely that the others could hardly tear them apart. N’s face was smeared with blood from his broken lips. Z’s was blanched with fury.

  “N’s broken his box open!” the sergeant shouted over to me.

  “I didn’t!” yelled N. “I didn’t, it wasn’t me.”

  “Who else was it, then?” shouted Z. “Who could it have been, sir, if it wasn’t N?”

  “Liar!”

  “He did it. Nobody else would. He always threatened he’d smash it open.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Quiet!” roared the sergeant.

  Quiet came suddenly.

  Z’s eyes had never left N. Whoever broke open his box should die. As I remembered that last entry of his, involuntarily I looked upwards.

  There was no storm in that soft sky.

  Yes, Z could kill N, I was sure. As if N was thinking the same thing, he turned, a little frightened, to me.

  “Sir, I’d like to sleep in another tent.”

  “Very well.”

  “Really, sir, I haven’t read it—I haven’t read his diary. Help me to prove it, sir!”

  “I’ll do all I can for you.”

  Z glanced at me. How can you help him, his glance seemed to say. For I knew. I had doomed N.

  But still I wanted to know if Z himself took part in the thieving. I didn’t want to throw suspicion on him without cause—and it was I who had broken that lock.

  Why didn’t I tell him that it was I who had read his diary?

  No, not yet. Not there and then, in front of everybody. I couldn’t. I’d be too ashamed. Later, yes, but not yet.

  I’d tell him when we were alone. And I’d have a talk with the girl too, to-night, when he met her. I’d tell her never to show her face again, and I’d give Z a pretty straight talking to. And that would be the end of the whole thing.

  Guilt, like a vulture, hovers over us, ready to swoop.

  But I’d absolve N. He should be right out of this. He’d done nothing. And I’d pardon Z and the girl too. I wouldn’t let myself be doomed for nothing.

  God might be terrible, but I, with my free will, would frustrate His plans, I’d save all of us. In the midst of my thoughts, I felt that someone’s eyes were staring at me.

  T’s—two glazed, round eyes, still and lustreless.

  The Fish—the Age of the Fish. I’d seen them at the funeral of little W.

  And T seemed to smile—quietly, scornfully. A fixed, mocking smile. Did he know that my hand had broken that lock?

  19. THE MAN IN THE MOON

  THE DAY WORE ON SLOWLY.

  Sundown came at last.

  In the twilight, I waited for night; and as night fell, I slipped out of the camp. The sergeant was snoring already. Not a soul had seen me go. The dull moon hung over the tents. From the western sky drifted dark, ragged clouds—and then for longer and longer intervals the silver light was obscured.

  Z’s post lay on the north, where the wood and the camp almost touched. I took up my position there, under a tree.

  I could make out the sentry from here—it was G. Z’s turn had not come.

  G paced up and down.

  The clouds swept over the sky; but here, on the earth, nothing stirred. Only a bough creaked now and then. Then G would prick up his ears and stare into the wood. Frightened? A wood was never quite still, least of all at night.

  Minutes passed—and I saw Z. He muttered a word to G, who left his post. Z was alone. He looked up at the moon. His eyes were full of caution.

  Perhaps there was a man in the moon, sitting up there in his circle of yellow light, smoking his pipe, without a care in the world—and spitting down on us.

  The girl showed up at last, at half-past two or thereabouts. She came so soundlessly that I wasn’t aware of her till she stood at Z’s side. She seemed to appear from nowhere. They embraced and kissed. The girl had her back towards me. Z I could not see. She must be taller than he.

  Very quietly I got up, to go over and speak to them. If the girl heard me, she’d run off. And I had to have a word with her.

  They were still in each other’s arms.

  They’re weeds, I thought, they ought to be rooted up—I heard the old peasant’s words again: and I saw that old blind stumbling woman—and the girl, stretching and peeping over the hedge. She must have a beautiful back. I’d like to see her eyes too …

  A cloud suddenly darkened the moon—a little cloud, hemmed with silver light as it passed.

  I started to go over to the couple. Then I saw that the girl had taken off her clothes. Z was kneeling before her.

  How white she was!

  I waited. She seemed lovelier to me.

  Go on! Tell them it was you who broke that lock. You, and not N …

  But I had come to a standstill. Z was sitting on a tree-trunk, the girl on his knees. Her legs were strong and beautiful.

  While I still lingered, another cloud, deeper and heavier, came up, and no silver hem rimmed it as it passed. The earth was darkened. The sky was darkened. I could see nothing.

  I listened. Steps through the wood?

  I held my breath.

  Steps? Or only the storm, up there in the sky? Everything was black as pitch before me. Where are you, Adam and Eve? By the sweat of your brow must you earn your bread—but you haven’t thought of that, have you? Eve steals cameras, Adam winks his eyes while he should be on guard. I’ll tell him to-morrow, early to-morrow, who broke open his box. To-morrow. I’ll let nothing stand in my way—even if God should send me a thousand naked forms …

  The darkness grew even deeper. I was held close by the still, sooty night.

  I must go back now.

  I pushed out a groping hand. And touched a tree.

  I drew back—groped again, and shuddered: I’d felt something. My heart stopped.

  I wanted to cry out, but took hold of myself.

  My outstretched hand had felt not a tree, but a face.

  What lay before me? I stood, not daring to move.

  A delusion?

  No, I’d touched a nose, and lips.

  I sat down on the ground. Wait for that cloud to pass! Don’t move!

 
; And up there beyond the clouds, the man in the moon smoked his pipe. A few raindrops fell.

  Spit down on me from your yellow world!

  20. THE LAST DAY BUT ONE

  MORNING AT LAST, GREY AND PALE.

  There was no one before me. The face had gone. I slipped back to the camp. The sergeant lay snoring on his back with his mouth open. Rain pattered on the canvas. For the first time in hours, I felt tired. I fell hungrily asleep.

  The regiment had gone before I woke. As soon as Z came back I’d tell him it was I, not N.

  It was the last day here but one. To-morrow we’d be striking camp and driving back to the city.

  It rained in torrents now—sharp torrents that abated now and then. Clouds of mist hung in the valleys. We shouldn’t see the mountains again.

  At midday the boys returned.

  But with one missing—N.

  He must have lost his way, the sergeant thought—he’d soon turn up. I thought of the caves that Z had described in his diary. I frowned.

  Fear?

  I must tell him now.

  He was sitting in his tent, writing. Alone. At my approach he quickly hid his diary. He looked up at me suspiciously.

  “So we’re keeping our diary up?” I tried to smile.

  He glowered at me in silence. I noticed that his hands were scratched. He saw me observe them. He started, and put them in his pockets.

  “Cold?” I muttered, my eyes on his.

  He only nodded. His lips twisted into a wry smile.

  “Listen,” I began slowly. “You think it was N who broke open your box?”

  “I don’t think, I know. Who else could it have been?”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me.”

  N had told him? Himself? But that was impossible. He couldn’t have.

  Z’s eyes seemed to pierce me now. After a moment, he went on:

  “He admitted it this morning—that it was he who broke open the box. With a piece of wire. He couldn’t shut it again. He’d broken the lock.”

  “Well?”

  “He asked me to forgive him. I did.”

  “You forgave him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now he wore an air of indifference. That last entry in his diary recurred to me.

  Absurd, though.

  Z was calm enough.

  “Where’s N now—do you know?” I asked.

  “How should I know, sir? I expect he lost his way. I’ve done it once or twice.”

  He got up, as if he didn’t want to talk any more.

  I noticed now that his coat was torn …

  Should I tell him that he was lying? That N had never made such a confession—because it was I who had read the diary? But why was Z lying?

  No, I mustn’t think of that—

  Why couldn’t I have told him the truth straight away, when he was scrapping with N? Because I was ashamed of confessing before my own pupils that I’d picked that lock in secret, with a piece of wire—although it was with the best of intentions? Of course! Why had I overslept that morning? And I’d spent the night in the wood, without saying a word.

  And now there was no point in saying anything.

  It was too late. And I was the stone over which he had stumbled, the pit into which he had fallen, the cliff from which he was hurled down—oh, why could no one have wakened me earlier this morning? I didn’t want guilt to fall on me unawares. But I slept instead of vindicating myself. With my free will I’d wanted to frustrate those plans. But they had been made too long. I wanted to rescue all of us, but we were beyond aid—drowned, in the eternal sea of guilt. Whose fault was it that that lock had broken? That it wouldn’t shut to? Yet even if it had, I should still have spoken up.

  The paths of guilt cross each other and intertwine. A maze, a labyrinth—with distorting mirrors at every corner.

  A fairground.

  Step this way, everybody, step this way!

  With penance and with pain, redeem the guilt of your life.

  I need have no anxiety now. It was too late …

  In the afternoon, we all set out in search of N. We combed the whole neighbourhood, shouting his name ceaselessly. But no answer came. I wasn’t expecting an answer.

  Twilight fell. We turned back. Soaked to the skin, and frozen—and to no avail.

  “If it keeps coming down like this,” cursed the sergeant, “there’ll be such a lovely flood.”

  When the rains ceased and the waters of the flood receded, the Lord spoke. “I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake.”

  Had the Lord God kept that promise?

  The rain fell heavier. I heard the sergeant’s voice.

  “We’ll have to notify the police that N’s missing.”

  “To-morrow.”

  “I can’t understand you. It doesn’t seem to bother you at all.”

  “I should think he’s got lost—it’s easily done, after all. He may be staying the night at some cottage.”

  “Unfortunately there aren’t any cottages round here. Only caves.”

  The word struck me like a blow.

  “Anyway, let’s hope he’s found his way into one of them and hasn’t broken any bones.”

  “Yes, let’s hope—”

  On an impulse, I asked a question.

  “Why didn’t you wake me earlier this morning?”

  “Didn’t wake you?” He laughed. “Why didn’t I wake you! I had a shot, but you just slept on as if the devil had got hold of you.”

  God is the most terrible thing in the world.

  21. THE LAST DAY

  ON THE LAST DAY OF OUR CAMP CAME GOD.

  His coming did not take me by surprise.

  The sergeant and the boys were taking down the tents when He came.

  He brought terror. The sergeant felt his strength ebbing away and had to rest. The boys stood clustered around him, half paralysed with fear. Then slowly he got to work again, troubled and excited.

  Only Z’s movements were still calm. He strolled to and fro—to and fro—to and fro.

  And then from every one a great shriek rang out—or so it seemed to me. Only Z kept silent.

  Two men had come into the camp, woodsmen with their bags, their saws, and their axes. They’d found one of our boys, his school-papers were still on him. It was N.

  They found him near the caves, in a ditch close to a clearing. There was a gaping wound in his head.

  He must have been struck by a stone or some blunt instrument. When they found him he was quite dead.

  I went down to the town with the woodsmen. We almost ran.

  Struck with a stone—

  At the camp, the shadow of God remained.

  The police got into communication with the Public Prosecutor in the nearest big city and I sent a telegram to my head master.

  A number of policemen were detailed to go to the scene of the crime.

  There lay N in the ditch, face forward.

  His photograph was taken. A thorough search was made for the stone or instrument that had struck him, and any clues that could be detected.

  It was discovered that N had not been struck in the spot where he lay, but at a distance of twenty yards or so. There were clear traces of his having been dragged over the ground to the ditch where the body had been hidden.

  The stone came to light, too. A jagged stone, flecked with blood. A pencil was also found—and a compass.

  The doctor was able to state that the stone had struck N’s head with enormous force, the blow coming from very close at hand—probably from behind him.

  Was N running away?

  A considerable struggle must have preceded the deed, for his coat was torn.

  And his hands scratched …

  We went to the camp next, and I saw Z. He was sitting down, rather aloof from his fellows. I thought of his coat. And his hands. I must be on my guard: I didn’t want to let that slip out. My coat wasn’t torn, and there were no scratches on my hands, b
ut my guilt remained.

  An examination followed. No one could furnish any information about the crime. I said nothing. Z said nothing.

  I was asked if I had any suspicions—and again I saw God. I saw Him beside Z’s tent. The diary was in His hand. Then, in my picture, He spoke to R, but his eyes were all the while on Z. Little R seemed not to see God, but to hear Him none the less. His eyes opened wide: he had looked into an unearthly realm.

  They were questioning me again.

  “Well? Is there anyone you suspect?”

  “No.”

  “Sir, sir!” little R cried suddenly, pressing his way forward to the Public Prosecutor. “Z and N were always fighting. N read Z’s diary and so Z hated him, like an enemy—he keeps a diary locked up in a steel box!”

  All eyes turned to Z.

  His head hung bowed. We couldn’t see his face. Had he flushed, or blanched?

  Slowly he came forward.

  The stillness was very tense.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I did it.”

  He cried.

  Another picture came into my mind. In it, God smiled. Why?

  His image faded as I asked.

  22. THE PRESSMEN

  TO-MORROW—THE TRIAL.

  I was sitting in a café-terrace, reading the papers. The evening was chilly. Autumn had come.

  For a week already the papers had been headlining the murder. In some of them it was “The Z Case,” in others “The N Case”; and their columns were full of comments and sketches. Cases with any similar aspect were unearthed and written up, various opinions were expressed of modern youth in general and in particular, different theories poured in, and every line of it directly or indirectly led back to the murdered N and his assailant, Z.

  That morning, a reporter had come to me for an interview. It must be in print by now, in the evening edition. I bought one—and discovered that I had been photographed. Yes, that was my picture—though I could scarcely recognize myself. Beneath it I read: “What does the Teacher think?”

  Well, what?

  … From our own Correspondent.

  This morning, at the high school, I obtained an interview with the teacher who last spring was in charge of the camping-unit in which the crime occurred. The teacher told me that he is still as baffled as ever by this terrible tragedy of youth. Z, he informed me, was always one of the brightest of his pupils: he had never noticed traces of abnormality in his character, and certainly nothing suggestive of mental defects or criminal instincts. I then put a grave question to him: was it possible that this crime had its origin in a certain brutalization of our youth? The teacher waved my theory aside.