It was a terrible blow to Christophe and Olivier. They were so used to living in mutual love that they could not understand why their countries did not do the same. Neither of them could grasp the reasons for the persistent hostility, which was now so suddenly brought to the surface, especially Christophe, who, being a German, had no sort of ground for ill-feeling against the people whom his own people had conquered. Although he himself was shocked by the intolerable vanity of some of his fellow-countrymen, and, up to a certain point, was entirely with the French against such a high-handed Brunswicker demand, he could not understand why France should, after all, be unwilling to enter into an alliance with Germany. The two countries seemed to him to have so many deep-seated reasons for being united, so many ideas in common, and such great tasks to accomplish together, that it annoyed him to see them persisting in their wasteful, sterile ill-feeling. Like all Germans, he regarded France as the most to blame for the misunderstanding: for, though he was quite ready to admit that it was painful for her to sit still under the memory of her defeat, yet that was, after all, only a matter of vanity, which should be set aside in the higher interests of civilization and of France herself. He had never taken the trouble to think out the problem of Alsace and Lorraine. At school he had been taught to regard the annexation of those countries as an act of justice, by which, after centuries of foreign subjection, a German province had been restored to the German flag. And so, he was brought down with a run, and he discovered that his friend regarded the annexation as a crime. He had never even spoken to him about these things, so convinced was he that they were of the same opinion: and now he found Olivier, of whose good faith and broad-mindedness he was certain, telling him, dispassionately, without anger and with profound sadness, that it was possible for a great people to renounce the thought of vengeance for such a crime, but quite impossible for them to subscribe to it without dishonour.
They had great difficulty in understanding each other. Olivier’s historical argument, alleging the right of France to claim Alsace as a Latin country, made no impression on Christophe: there were just as good arguments to the contrary: history can provide politics with every sort of argument in every sort of cause. Christophe was much more accessible to the human, and not only French, aspect of the problem. Whether the Alsatians were or were not Germans was not the question. They did not wish to be Germans: and that was all that mattered. What nation has the right to say: “These people are mine: for they are my brothers”? If the brothers in question renounce that nation, though they be a thousand times in the wrong, the consequences of the breach must always be borne by the party who has failed to win the love of the other, and therefore has lost the right to presume to bind the other’s fortunes up with his own. After forty years of strained relations, vexations, patent or disguised, and even of real advantage gained from the exact and intelligent administration of Germany, the Alsatians persist in their refusal to become Germans: and, though they might give in from sheer exhaustion, nothing could ever wipe out the memory of the sufferings of the generations, forced to live in exile from their native land, or, what is even more pitiful, unable to leave it, and compelled to bend under a yoke which was hateful to them, and to submit to the seizure of their country and the slavery of their people.
Christophe naïvely confessed that he had never seen the matter in that light; and he was considerably perturbed by it. And honest Germans always bring to a discussion an integrity which does not always go with the passionate self-esteem of a Latin, however sincere he may be. It never occurred to Christophe to support his argument by the citation of similar crimes perpetrated by all nations all through the history of the world. He was too proud to fall back upon any such humiliating excuse: he knew that, as humanity advances, its crimes become more odious, for they stand in a clearer light. But he knew also that if France were victorious in her turn she would be no more moderate in the hour of victory than Germany had been, and that yet another link would be added to the chain of the crimes of the nations. So the tragic conflict would drag on for ever, in which the best elements of European civilization were in danger of being lost.
Translated from French by Gilbert Cannan
KHUSHWANT SINGH
from Train to Pakistan
Mr Hukum Chand, magistrate and deputy commissioner of the district, heaved his corpulent frame out of the car. He had been travelling all morning and was somewhat tired and stiff. A cigarette perched on his lower lip sent a thin stream of smoke into his eyes. In his right hand he held a cigarette tin and a box of matches. He ambled up to the subinspector and gave him a friendly slap on the back while the other still stood at attention.
“Come along, Inspector Sahib, come in,” said Hukum Chand. He took the inspector’s right hand and led him into the room. The bearer and the deputy commissioner’s personal servant followed. The constables helped the chauffeur to take the luggage out of the car. Hukum Chand went straight into the bathroom and washed the dust off his face. He came back still wiping his face with a towel. The subinspector stood up again.
“Sit down, sit down,” he commanded.
He flung the towel on his bed and sank into an armchair. The punkah began to flap forward and backward to the grating sound of the rope moving in the hole in the wall. One of the orderlies undid the magistrate’s shoes and took off his socks and began to rub his feet. Hukum Chand opened the cigarette tin and held it out to the subinspector. The subinspector lit the magistrate’s cigarette and then his own. Hukum Chand’s style of smoking betrayed his lower-middle-class origin. He sucked noisily, his mouth glued to his clenched fist. He dropped cigarette ash by snapping his fingers with a flourish. The subinspector, who was a younger man, had a more sophisticated manner.
“Well, Inspector Sahib, how are things?”
The subinspector joined his hands. “God is merciful. We only pray for your kindness.”
“No communal trouble in this area?”
“We have escaped it so far, sir. Convoys of Sikh and Hindu refugees from Pakistan have come through and some Muslims have gone out, but we have had no incidents.”
“You haven’t had convoys of dead Sikhs this side of the frontier. They have been coming through at Amritsar. Not one person living! There has been killing over there.” Hukum Chand held up both his hands and let them drop heavily on his thighs in a gesture of resignation. Sparks flew off his cigarette and fell on his trousers. The subinspector slapped them to extinction with obsequious haste.
“Do you know,” continued the magistrate, “the Sikhs retaliated by attacking a Muslim refugee train and sending it across the border with over a thousand corpses? They wrote on the engine ‘Gift to Pakistan!’”
The subinspector looked down thoughtfully and answered: “They say that is the only way to stop killings on the other side. Man for man, woman for woman, child for child. But we Hindus are not like that. We cannot really play this stabbing game. When it comes to an open fight, we can be a match for any people. I believe our RSS boys beat up Muslim gangs in all the cities. The Sikhs are not doing their share. They have lost their manliness. They just talk big. Here we are on the border with Muslims living in Sikh villages as if nothing had happened. Every morning and evening the muezzin calls for prayer in the heart of a village like Mano Majra. You ask the Sikhs why they allow it and they answer that the Muslims are their brothers. I am sure they are getting money from them.”
Hukum Chand ran his fingers across his receding forehead into his hair.
“Any of the Muslims in this area well-to-do?”
“Not many, sir. Most of them are weavers or potters.”
“But Chundunnugger is said to be a good police station. There are so many murders, so much illicit distilling, and the Sikh peasants are prosperous. Your predecessors have built themselves houses in the city.”
“Your honour is making fun of me.”
“I don’t mind your taking whatever you do take, within reason of course — everyone does that — only, be caref
ul. This new government is talking very loudly of stamping out all this. After a few months in office their enthusiasm will cool and things will go on as before. It is no use trying to change things overnight.”
“They are not the ones to talk. Ask anyone coming from Delhi and he will tell you that all these Gandhi disciples are minting money. They are as good saints as the crane. They shut their eyes piously and stand on one leg like a yogi doing penance; as soon as a fish comes near — hurrup.”
Hukum Chand ordered the servant rubbing his feet to get some beer. As soon as they were alone, he put a friendly hand on the subinspector’s knee.
“You talk rashly like a child. It will get you into trouble one day. Your principle should be to see everything and say nothing. The world changes so rapidly that if you want to get on you cannot afford to align yourself with any person or point of view. Even if you feel strongly about something, learn to keep silent.”
The subinspector’s heart warmed with gratitude. He wanted to provoke more paternal advice by irresponsible criticism. He knew that Hukum Chand agreed with him.
“Sometimes, sir, one cannot restrain oneself. What do the Gandhi-caps in Delhi know about the Punjab? What is happening on the other side in Pakistan does not matter to them. They have not lost their homes and belongings; they haven’t had their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters raped and murdered in the streets. Did your honour hear what the Muslim mobs did to Hindu and Sikh refugees in the marketplaces at Sheikhupura and Gujranwala? Pakistan police and the army took part in the killings. Not a soul was left alive. Women killed their own children and jumped into wells that filled to the brim with corpses.”
“Harey Ram, Harey Ram,” rejoined Hukum Chand with a deep sigh. “I know it all. Our Hindu women are like that: so pure that they would rather commit suicide than let a stranger touch them. We Hindus never raise our hands to strike women, but these Muslims have no respect for the weaker sex. But what are we to do about it? How long will it be before it starts here?”
“I hope we do not get trains with corpses coming through Mano Majra. It will be impossible to prevent retaliation. We have hundreds of small Muslim villages all around, and there are some Muslim families in every Sikh village like Mano Majra,” said the subinspector, throwing a feeler.
Hukum Chand sucked his cigarette noisily and snapped his fingers.
“We must maintain law and order,” he answered after a pause. “If possible, get the Muslims to go out peacefully. Nobody really benefits by bloodshed. Bad characters will get all the loot and the government will blame us for the killing. No, Inspector Sahib, whatever our views — and God alone knows what I would have done to these Pakistanis if I were not a government servant — we must not let there be any killing or destruction of property. Let them get out, but be careful they do not take too much with them. Hindus from Pakistan were stripped of all their belongings before they were allowed to leave. Pakistani magistrates have become millionaires overnight. Some on our side have not done too badly either. Only where there was killing or burning the government suspended or transferred them. There must be no killing. Just peaceful evacuation.”
The bearer brought a bottle of beer and put two glasses before Hukum Chand and the subinspector. The subinspector picked up his glass and put his hand over it, protesting, “No, sir, I could not be impertinent and drink in your presence.”
The magistrate dismissed the protest peremptorily. “You will have to join me. It is an order. Bearer, fill the Inspector sahib’s glass and lay out lunch for him.”
The subinspector held out his glass for the bearer to fill. “If you order me to, I cannot disobey.” He began to relax. He took off his turban and put it on the table. It was not like a Sikh turban which needed re-tying each time it was taken off; it was just three yards of starched khaki muslin wrapped round a blue skullcap which could be put on and off like a hat.
“What is the situation in Mano Majra?”
“All is well so far. The lambardar reports regularly. No refugees have come through the village yet. I am sure no one in Mano Majra even knows that the British have left and the country is divided into Pakistan and Hindustan. Some of them know about Gandhi but I doubt if anyone has ever heard of Jinnah.”
TIN MOE
Meeting with the Buddha
Not for anything in particular —
even me the very Buddha
along with other antiques
they’ve put up for sale
here in Europe,
they have such a sharp eye for business —
what business brings you here?
asks the Buddha
You may not know it
but if you were in Burma
you would surely receive
all kinds of veneration,
but
telling only untruths and preaching only falsehoods
Your Holiness would exclaim “Buddha!”
and long to flee
Telling untruths
you tire yourself out
on the rounds of births
A scandal to the whole world
the generals delivering all kinds of orders
engaging in all kinds of impropriety
what if they bind you hand and foot
and put you under lock and key?
These hare-brained guys
don’t know the truth
they don’t keep promises
all kinds of lies
come out of their foul mouths
they have no respect for the nation
with their childish mentality
they’re too dirty
An army exists to oppress the people
who flatter them they ask them
to sharpen the swords
it’s a haven for thugs
the king of the master gangsters
Bo Ne Win’s army
only knows how to shoot and cheat
The people are paupers now
the monks are beggars now
the scoundrels are monsters
weapons matter most
weapons are paramount
weapons reign supreme — that’s militarism
For you
to sit in peace
here in a European supermarket
is much safer
far from all the mishaps
fame growing a million-fold
and the name Buddha bandied about
don’t feel uncomfortable
With all the crimes of the Burmese military
the Buddha will never leave prison
will always be in trouble
then you’ll really be uncomfortable
Don’t think such an ignoramus as me
was lecturing you
I’ve come to think like this
because so many lay disciples in my country
have been victimized —
excuse me, Venerable Sir!
Translated from Burmese by Maung Tha Noe and Christopher Merrill
MICHÈLE LALONDE
Speak White
speak white
it’s so nice to hear you
talk about Paradise Lost
or the gracious, anonymous profile who trembles in Shakespeare’s sonnets
we are an uncultivated, stuttering people
but we’re not deaf to geniuses in other languages
speak with Milton’s, Byron’s, Shelley’s, Keats’s accent
speak white
and forgive us for making no reply
except the husky cries of our ancestors
and Émile Nelligan’s melancholy
speak white
speak of this and that
tell us about the Magna Carta
or the Lincoln Monument
or the Thames’s greyish charms
the Potomac’s pinkish waters
speak to us about your traditions
we’re a dull-minded people
but we can still appreciate
the importance of crumpets
or that of the Boston Tea Party
but when you really speak white
when you get down to brass tacks
to talk about gracious living
and talk of standards of life
and of the Great Society
speak white a little louder then
raise your petty supervisor voices
we’re a little hard of hearing
we live too close to the machines
and can barely hear our breaths above the din
speak white and loud
so we’ll hear you
from Saint-Henri to Saint-Domingue
yes what an admirable language
to hire workers in
to give orders in
to fix the time of death at work
and the break that refreshes
and reinvigorates the dollar
speak white
tell us that God is a great big shot
and that we’re paid to trust him
speak white
tell us about productivity profits and percentages
speak white
it’s a rich language
when it’s time to buy
but when it’s time to sell
but when it’s time to sell until your soul is lost
but when it’s time to sell
ah!
speak white
big deal
but how to describe
the infiniteness of a day spent on picket lines
how to describe
the lives of a janitor-people
as we go back home at night
when the sun plummets over the back-alleys
The Heart of a Stranger Page 13