open to talents, as they said, the citizens participated in the administration, the State regulated, but it was the people who were sovereign; so that France naturally waged a total war, with all its forces put into play. And it’s only when its enemies understood this and began to do the same thing, when Rostopchin burned Moscow and Alexander raised up the Cossacks and the peasants to harass the Great Army during its retreat, that the luck turned. In the war between Peter the Great and Charles the Twelfth, the stakes were smalclass="underline" if you lose, you stop playing. But when it’s the entire nation that’s waging war, it has to wager everything and up the ante over and over again, until total bankruptcy. And that’s the problem. If we don’t take Moscow, we won’t be able to stop and negotiate a reasonable peace. So we’ll have to continue. But do you want to know what I really think? For us, this war is a gamble. A gigantic gamble, which involves the entire nation, the whole Volk, but a gamble all the same. And a gamble is something you either win or lose. The Russians don’t have that luxury. For them it’s not a gamble, it’s a catastrophe that’s come crashing down on their country, a plague. And you can lose a gamble, but you can’t lose when you’re faced with a plague, you have to surmount it, you don’t have any choice.” I had delivered this whole speech rapidly, rapidly, almost without catching my breath. Thomas was silent; he drank his wine. “And another thing,” I added heatedly. “I’m saying this to you, just to you. The murder of the Jews doesn’t serve any real purpose. Rasch is absolutely right. It has no economic or political usefulness, it has no finality of a practical order. On the contrary, it’s a break with the world of economics and politics. It’s a waste, pure loss. That’s all it is. So it can have only one meaning: an irrevocable sacrifice, which binds us once and for all, prevents us from ever turning back. You understand? With that, we leave the world of the gamble, there’s no way back. It’s the Endsieg or death. You and me, all of us, we’re bound together now, bound to the outcome of this war by acts committed in common. And if we’re mistaken in our calculations, if we’ve underestimated the number of factories the Reds have built or moved behind the Urals, then we’re fucked.” Thomas was finishing his wine. “Max,” he said finally, “you think too much. It’s bad for you. Cognac?” I began to cough and signed yes with my head. The cough continued, in fits, it was as if something heavy were stuck in my diaphragm, something that didn’t want to come out, and I belched rather violently. I quickly got up, excusing myself, and ran to the back of the restaurant. I found a door and opened it; it led to an inner courtyard. I was seized with a terrible retching: finally I vomited a little. That helped somewhat but left me exhausted, I felt empty, I had to lean for a few minutes against a cart lying there, shafts in the air. Then I went back in. I went to find the waitress and asked her for some water: she brought me a bucket, I drank a little and rinsed my face. Then I returned to the table and sat down. “I’m sorry.”—“Are you all right? Are you sick?”—“No, it’s nothing, I just didn’t feel well.” It wasn’t the first time. But I don’t know exactly when it began. In Zhitomir, maybe. I had only vomited once or twice, but often, after meals, I was seized with these unpleasant and exhausting retchings, always preceded by a dry cough. “You should see a doctor,” Thomas said. They had served the Cognacs and I drank a little. I felt better. Thomas offered me a cigar again; I took it, but didn’t light it right away. Thomas looked worried. “Max…these kinds of ideas: keep them to yourself. They could get you into trouble.”—“Yes, I know. I’m just talking about them to you, because you’re my friend.” I abruptly changed the subject: “So, have you picked one out yet?” He laughed: “No time. But it shouldn’t be too difficult. The waitress isn’t bad, did you notice?” I hadn’t even looked at the waitress. But I said yes. “And you?” he asked.—“Me? Did you see the work we have? I’m lucky if I can sleep, I don’t have any rest time to waste.”—“What about in Germany? Before you came here? We haven’t seen each other much, since Poland. And you’re a discreet guy. You don’t have a nice little Fräulein hidden away somewhere, who writes you long tearful letters, ‘Max, Max, my darling, come back soon, oh how horrible war is’?” I laughed with him and lit my cigar. Thomas was already smoking his. I had certainly drunk a lot and I suddenly wanted to speak: “No. No Fräulein. But a long time before I met you, I had a fiancée. My childhood sweetheart.” I saw he was curious: “Oh yes? Tell me.”—“There isn’t much to tell. We loved each other since we were little. But her parents were against it. Her father, or rather her stepfather, was a fat French bourgeois, a man of principles. They separated us by force, put us in boarding schools, far away from each other. She wrote me desperate letters in secret, I did too. And then they sent me to study in Paris.”—“And you never saw her again?”—“A few times, during vacations, when we were around seventeen. And then I saw her again one last time, years later, just before coming to Germany. I told her our union would be indestructible.”—“Why didn’t you marry her?”—“It was impossible.”—“What about now? You have a good position.”—“Now it’s too late: she’s married. You see, you can’t trust women. It always ends up like that. It’s disgusting.” I was sad, bitter, I shouldn’t have been speaking about these things. “You’re right,” Thomas said. “That why I never fall in love. Anyway, I prefer married women, it’s safer that way. What was her name, your sweetheart?” I made a cutting gesture with my hand: “It’s not important.” We smoked in silence, drinking our Cognacs. Thomas waited for me to finish my cigar before he got up. “Come on, don’t be nostalgic. It’s your birthday after all.” We were the last ones there, the waitress was drowsing in the back of the room. Outside, our driver was snoring in the Opel. The night sky glimmered; the waning moon, clear and calm, cast its white glow over the silent, ruined city.