“Herr Professor,” whispered a daring old lady in a black lace cap, “do ask them whether the soup kitchens will be allowed to continue? Or do the American gentlemen intend to feed the city?” She spoke the last three words more loudly, to make sure that the authority would hear them. The reporter’s eyes popped with outrage behind his shades. No shame, no guilt, not a shred! These folks seem to think we come over, leaving a hundred thousand of our boys underground along the way, just to sort out their next meal! He turned on the old lady.
“Madam, have you ever heard of a place called Dachau?”
Intimidated by his tone, but happy to help out, she quavered enthusiastically: “Oh yes, it’s a pretty little town in Bavaria, where they held interesting popular festivals in the old days…”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, sir…” (The old lady blanched at the covert fury of the question.)
“What about the concentration camp?”
“Ooh, that may be, I can’t tell you about that, I’m afraid… I so seldom read the newspapers.”
Franz was grinning maniacally. Alain’s face too was that of a madman, a dangerous one. The old lady felt inexplicable tears wetting the corners of her eyes. She murmured, very humbly, “I beg the gentleman to excuse me if I offended him,” for these were clearly military persons of influence. Schiff was aware that his height, his age, and tonight’s thirty barbiturate pills gave him the edge over the other man, whose exasperation was patent. “I bid you good day, mister journalist!” he stated with pointed courtesy, and turned his back.
“They don’t look like bad men,” a woman was saying. Schiff paused, looking sternly down his nose at this housewife. “The Americans are not bad men,” he informed her sententiously. “No more than are the Chinese, dear Madame. But we have been defeated, Madame, and you must never forget it.” “Certainly not, Herr Professor.”
The burly officer with the round beard, like a sailor in an old-fashioned illustration, hailed the reporter. “We’re leaving, old man! Happy with your little interview?” “They are staggeringly unconscious of everything,” the journalist said, climbing back into the jeep. “Well, if you’re looking for consciousness from bombed-out towns…”
Ilse carried her full bucket inside. Franz inhaled the fragrance of a cigarette from across the seas, incontestably superior to the Party cadres’ special-issue reserve rolled with the last of the Bulgarian tobacco. “They take good care of themselves, these victors. Victors always do,” he said to himself, feeling queerly elated and at the same time inert. An exquisite satisfaction weighted his whole body down with languor, as though he had just made love well, his arms and legs intact, with a vigorous, clean-smelling woman. It was only an hour ago that Herr Blasch, vicious dog of the Special Surveillance Unit, was getting ready to mount his bicycle, knapsack on back, swaddled in musette bags, pockets bursting with banknotes and forged documents, when suddenly he saw the barrel of a revolver appear between his eyes at the same time as he heard the cripple say, “Have a nice trip, Herr Blasch!” amplified by the trumpet blast of the Last Judgment… The ants were presently taking care of this turd of officialdom. “I sure fixed him!” thought Franz sarcastically. “My war’s over. The sun’s out.”
Stupendous lawn! The thick grass was pampered as men nowhere are! Mowed to the perfect length, watered every day, and doubtless nourished with vitamin-rich chemical fertilizers… The lawn sloped down to the river, on the far side of which more gardens rose toward their villas. I’ll be damned! Some people were living the good life right up until yesterday. People for whom “the Great Reich in danger” was more than a hollow phrase!
In every war there is a rear that holds better than the front, a rear fat with noble sentiments, creature comforts, and lucrative deals; this rear, which balances the front, makes the insanity total… The beaches of California still exhibit, in season, a full complement of pretty women with smiling thighs: such is the natural order of things. After all, there’s philosophical solace to be found in the fact that some still live while others die, an obvious improvement on everyone dying… But it is no longer possible to embark upon a coherent line of reasoning without falling into absurdity. Thinking this way, Alain felt indulgence, tinged with temptation, toward those pretty Californians. What had they to do with these people, this upper crust of profiteering slavers? He floundered in contradictions. The villa next door belonged to a Standartenführer (to be killed, no discussion!) whose two daughters were said to be charming… Innocent, you think? Innocent? He dimly hoped they would fall into the hands of the most brutal convicts… Have I become a brute myself?
Alain, after waking between fresh sheets, had just shaved. He was “swimming” inside his new clothes, but the fabric was luxurious and the trouser pleats ironed… This manicured landscape, twenty miles outside the corpselike city, carpets over the parquet flooring, all the faultless appointments of a civilized gentleman’s home… A bastard, in any case, the civilized gentleman: the worthy pastor, a Lutheran and a Nazi for good measure, a fat Christian, blesser of executioners, is probably trudging along the highways of defeat right now, among the uniforms at last marked out for a just destruction… Alain stood before a crucifix, his face blurred by sadness. “He made a proper fool out of you, Nazarene, didn’t he, this pastor of your flock of bastards?”
The night before, Alain and his companions, having entered the picture-perfect little town like a gang of scary tramps, were shocked at the sight of prosperous homes with well-tended parterres of flowers and windows nestling in ivy. It was such a strange spectacle that they had to force themselves to enter a garden and knock on a door. As soon as their fists touched this door, they wanted to smash it in. A white-haired woman opened it. “Was wünschen Sie, meine Herren? What do the gentlemen wish? The reverend is out…” Now they were “gentlemen,” now they could have “wishes”! The old housekeeper recognized a Dutch laborer among the group, who began shouting hysterically at her: “Out, you bet he’s out, and he won’t be coming back neither, the old swine!” A torrent of abuse followed. Fortunately, having heard nothing but seemly language during her forty years in service, Frau Hermenegilda failed to comprehend the epithets directed at her. She was deafened by bursts of shrill, stallion laughter. Hairy paws were almost on her, like in one of those horror films. Images of rape and murder flashed through her crafty child’s brain. Must push the door, slam it shut! Mein Gott! Several beggars shoved past her. The Frenchman said in a voice you didn’t argue with: “Get out, Madame. Take your clothes, your guts, and go. I give you ten minutes to vanish, you old tittle-tattle. This house is requisitioned, understand?” Requisitioned is a word everyone understands immediately, and here the hairy young man’s rough German was as plain as day. But “old tittle-tattle”? What did that mean? Was it very rude? Frau Hermenegilda, backed against the wall, clutching the silver crucifix on her bosom, drew courage from the fact that requisitions are legal procedures — the reverend himself drove a requisitioned automobile… “Might I see a warrant, sir?” This reasonable query opened the floodgates. A gorilla in rags lurched into the drawing room and, grabbing a valuable bronze, hurled it against the family portrait. The noise of splintering glass was followed by that of imprecations and a scuffle, as the others fought to overpower the vandal. A demonic mouth was snarling into the old retainer’s ear, “Raus! Get out! Clear off, you sawdust fart, you old boiled tarantula! If you weren’t so puckered up I’d… Beat it or I’ll kick your ass inside out! Raus!” What godless bandits were these? Frau Hermenegilda shrieked for help, but she lost her voice and all that came out was a plaintive meow. A flat blow, as one beats a carpet, silenced her; when she came to her senses her cheek was swelling, the doors of neighboring villas were being kicked in and the Frenchman was leading her to the kitchen, saying, “Put a wet towel on your face, there’s nothing to fear, Madame, just get your things and scram, that’s all we ask.” He cuffed the Dutchman in passing. “Leave the prune alone, Petersen, we’re not that desperate…”