North (13 page)

Sleep . . . sleep . . . sure! . . . we're half asleep already . . . Okay . . . but then a little worry . . . another . . . a thought . . .

"Le Vig . . . Le Vig . . ."

I whisper . . .

"Did he tell you anything?"

"No, but he will . . ."

"Why? What makes you . . . ?"

"My little finger!"

Meanwhile we were pretty well off in this
Reichsgesund
basement . . . caverns on caverns, shower rooms, air-conditioned, neon lighting . . . matter of grub, all we needed, sandwiches, sandwiches, beet salad and porridge . . . drink department, only water and fruit juice . . . no beer . . . anyway, we were doing all right . . . considering who we were, what hung over us, I'd have settled for twenty years . . . life underground is like life in a submarine, you've got to pass under the pole, mat's all . . . and come up right! . . . I could see us coming up very badly . . . no confidence . . . I didn't ask Harras any questions . . . I could see he'd put us in "reserve" offices, deeper down than the others . . . no beds, but enormous sofas, must be from Lisbon too . . . he didn't ask anything of us, only to speak French and correct his mistakes . . . he really didn't speak badly, but he aimed at perfection, like Frederick . . .

I'm really too old, my friends, and this war has been going on too long . . . I'm so fond of Versailles! that's where I'd have liked to end my days . . ."

At about noon we went up to take the air, we surfaced, but not for long, with Lieutenant Otto . . . Bébert too . . . à little walk . . . zigzagging between the rolls of barbed wire . . . a look at the Finnish baths, the bare-naked colleagues, who waved and smiled at us . . . they weren't sore with me about the pineapple . . . did they suspect? . . . we took the path back in Lieutenant Otto's footsteps: mines all over! . . . delectable park! . . . this time it wouldn't be the
flach!
this time the boomboom and the flames would be us! . . . and good-bye! Back in the basement after our zigzag promenade we'd have a pleasant little chat with the young ladies, the secretaries . . . but never a word about the fronts, or the planes or politics! . . . we'd talk about Bébert, his little ways, had he caught any more rats? . . . the girls also spoke of the people who'd lived here up top before the war . . . all gone . . . the first families of Grünwald . . . the air raids, the ruins . . . To seem to be doing something I looked at the telegrams . . . it was all right with Harras . . . another cellar . . . the teletype never stopped . . . two cases of typhus near Tzara-Plovo . . . one case of "biliary" at Salamis . . . practically nothing . . . compared to the epidemics in '17 . . . same thing, Harras told me, on the enemy side . . . though they had India and the whole Near East! . . . they were tearing their hair out too . . . even with the valleys of the Euphrates . . . where even before Moses every time somebody set up an army the lousiest plagues descended! and here now the teletype: "Zero"! Before '18, the worst ferocious mystical cohorts, three four volleys you'd have peace! partly from thirst . . . three cans of water! . . . you'd find them all rotting away . . . now, no soap! . . . jackals fighting each other! . . . armies, millions of men in the desert, fresh as a daisy! even in stinking oases, putrid swamps, not a single case! give you an idea of the gloomy thoughts of the Russo-Yankee-Anglo-Boche "High Authorities" in Lisbon . . . "we've done too much inoculating, this war will never end!" . . . all alas agree! to show you that Harras had plenty of time on each trip to buy everything in sight, sofas, cushions, blankets, chickens
en gelée
, enough to hold out a hundred years in the cellars of the
Gesundt
. . . he was perfectly willing to talk shop . . . our epidemistic point of view . . . nothing virulated any more! . . . God's truth! war by massacre makes a lot of noise but solves nothing! . . . when the microbes lose interest . . . endless conflicts, balloon juice . . . even an atomic war, I guarantee, will never end without microbes . . . from the depths of silence the virus attacks your monster army, two three weeks and there's not a man on his feet, all puking . . . out flat! . . . their souls and guts . . . howling for Peace! there you've got something decisive, the real stuff I that's what they were waiting for in Lisbon . . . how would all this end? . . . napalm, gas, sulfur . . . chickenfeed! the genuine eighteen-carat plague was played out! how could this rotten war . . . 1944 . . . ever end? . . . the viruses of the ages had let us down! marshals can do a lot, unleash lightnings and cataclysms . . . but they can't stir up a microbe . . . the emperors can get together . . . make each other presents of so many tons of meat and soldiers, so many cities, provinces, cradles, hospitals, displaced persons, and charnel-houses that it's really something new . . . new faces, new massacres . . . but that doesn't stop the war! microbes on strike, the war goes on! millions and caillions under arms, ready for anything! . . . billions of useless fleas . . . two cases of typhoid in Zagreb! . . . one case of chickenpox in Chicago! . . . 'twould daunt the bravest heart! even in the Vardar valley, where in twelve centuries no conqueror has ever kept an army on its feet, now hygiene, antisepsis . . . not one dead rat . . . not one
komitadji
° with fever . . . fine fix, humanity . . . it's not the marshals or diplomats that dictate peace, it's fleas and rats . . . and now they're washed up! . . . Well, Lili, mè, Bébert, and Le Vig, we had a little something extra, those warrants on our ass! not just from Paris, from Berlin too! . . . Harras to the contrary . . . I could see he wanted to talk to me, something was holding him back . . . All the same in those basements, after three days, we were feeling better . . . fuck the teletype! . . . plenty of sandwiches and mineral water, every comfort, deep soft sofas, three Turkish bathrobes apiece, and I've got to admit, perfect peace . . . but it couldn't last. . . Taking advantage of the loudspeaker . . . military music and "news" . . . Harras whispers to me . . . 

"Tomorrow, Céline, well go and see a village not far from here . . ."

I wasn't going to ask him what for . . . we go back down to our pad . . . I tell Lili and Le Vig that we're going on a trip next day . . . we expect the worst . . . we talk it over . . . what's he got up his sleeve? . . . to get rid of us? . . .

Seven o'clock in the morning we're ready . . . he'd said seven . . . we could have slept some more . . . not exactly delighted with this expedition . . .

Dot of seven Harms turns up in full uniform, dagger, decorations, braid, and boots . . .

"I look silly, don't I, colleague? . . . necessary where we're going! Ho-ho!"

Too funny for words!

"You're going to have us shot?"

"Oh no, not yet!"

That's something . . . life goes on! . . . an enormous car . . . no wood burner . . . gas! . . . he takes the wheel . . . September . . . beautiful day . . . their countryside turns red in September . . . the leaves . . . getting cooler already . . . he doesn't drive fast . . . we cross the whole of Grünwald, avenues of blasted villas . . . another park . . . and then meadows . . . and then big gray fields . . . where nothing grows . . . looks like ashes . . . not a friendly landscape . . . two . . . three trees . . . a farm in the distance . . . in between a peasant, hoeing, I think . . . Harras slows down and stops, he's going to say something . . .

"My friends, you're going to see an old Huguenot village . . . Felixruhe . . . that's the road, on the left . . . you're not too tired? . . . three miles, no more!"

"No! . . . No! . . . No!"

We're full of beans . . . Felixruhe, here we cornel . . . narrow road! . . . room for his Mercedes, but barely! . . . half a minute, here we are . . . looks like a Norman hamlet, Marcouville or some such, but really beat up, more holes than walls and roofs . . . brambles and moss coming out the doors and windows . . . scraps of thatch . . .

"This is the Huguenot hamlet!"

We can't get to the other side, there's a tiny little river in between . . . the bridge won't take cars, too worm-eaten . . . a lot of people collect . . . from every hole, from the roofs and huts, from the fields . . . old people, especially women, and kids . . . the rest must be digging beets or mobilized . . . they're all barefoot . . . and yapping . . . they come close . . . they touch the car . . . the windows . . . Harras doesn't like that . . .
pfooey! pfooey!
they should beat it! . . . he lets go the wheel . . . we're out on the road . . . what have we come here for? . . . sight-seeing? . . .

"It's not Huguenots any more, you know! . . . all Poles! . . . you've heard them . . . the Slavic invasion! like your Berbers in Marseilles . . . naturally! . . . all Berlin to the Poles! . . . naturally! . . . travels of the nations! . . . this way! that way!"

He points east, he points west . . .

"You, it's that way! . . . south! . . . north! . . ."

He'd never have said such things in Grünwald . . . even joking . . . here he was in extra good humor . . . as though relieved of some anxiety . . . about what? . . .

"Now, my dear sir, and you, Madame, if you don't mind, you'll wait here for us . . . I have two words to say to your husband . . . all these Poles are thieves, but they're also afraid of their shadow, fortunately! . . . stay here in the car, they won't come near you . . . two words to say to your husband, five minutes . . ."

Nothing to do but follow him . . . it's a mania with all those politicos . . . two words in private . . . a little stroll . . . maybe you'll come back, maybe you won't . . . I always ask them . . .

"What now?"

I see his enormous Mauser . . . but then the rod is part of his uniform . . .

"No, no! not yet, Célinel Ho-ho! . . . just talk to youl impossible in Grünwald! all stool pigeons in Grünwald! maybe you've noticed?"

"The young ladies?"

"Of course! and the microphones! haven't you found any?"

"I didn't look . . ."

"Microphones all over! . . . under the tables! . . . every table! . . . every chair!"

We hadn't said anything improper . . . Lili, Le Vig, or me . . . nothing they weren't welcome to listen to . . . what did we have to say? . . . nothing, except wondering what they were going to do to us . . . perfectly natural . . . in this sleigh ride we'd got into . . . Meanwhile where was he taking me? . . . the narrow road was widening out . . . almost an avenue . . . not like our hamlets at all. . . grandiose! . . . the same mud huts on both sides, ramshackle, crumbling . . . the windows and chimneys full of nettles . . . certainly nobody lived there . . . I ask Harras . . .

"Is it far?"

He was stout all right, but nimble . . . younger than me . . .

"What year were you born in, Harras?''

"1906 . . ."

"I see . . . I see . . .good pair of legs!"

"Here it is! . . . over there!"

He points . . . the church . . . it's as worm-eaten, cracked, and creviced from end to end as the houses all around, I doubt if it's used very often . . .

"Look, Céline!"

I look . . . above the porch . . . a date . . . engraved in a square of black marble . . . 1695 . . .

"The Huguenots, you see . . . pretty soon it'll be the Russians . . . now the Poles for a starter! . . . and in conclusion the Chinese! . . . travels of the nations! . . . ho-ho!"

"No microphones?"

"No . . . no microphones! not yet!"

The waggish tourist, Harras . . . if he'd lived sooner he'd have been a Perrichon . . .

"Look at this church, Céline . . . the interior . . . only fifty years ago the sermons were in French . . ."

He's got the key . . . no need of a key . . . I push the door . . . we look inside . . . openwork . . . more cracks than bricks . . .

"The last time I came here the bell was still in place . . . up there . . . now . . ."

I could see the bell, it had fallen in the middle of the pews . . . no bombs . . . the wind and the rain . . . nothing to see . . . only a few inscriptions . . . the words of hymns . . .

                                   Plus près de notre Seigneur . . . 

                                   Par sa Passion nous vivons . . .

ivy and woodbine all over, around the bell . . . around the pulpit. . .

"All right! We've seen it . . . now what?" . . . I ask him . . .

"The graveyard over there . . . even more alone . . . 

The graveyard, I see, isn't any better kept than the church . . . no flowers at all, only enormous clumps of brambles . . . you can read the names, a lot of tombstones . . . but they're fading . . ..the moss sort of rubs them out. . . Harras is looking around . . . ah, there's one! . . . "Anselme Freneste" . . . "Nicolas Pardon" . . . at the other end of the nettles . . . "Elvire Roche Derrien" and over there, yes, there it is! . . . "Félix Robespiau"!

"That's the man who founded the village . . . and the church . . . Félix Robespiau . . . too many of them in Berlin . . . housing shortage even then! . . . ho-ho-ho! . . . some other Huguenot villages around here! . . . farther up . . .. just as bad shape . . ."