Quartet for the End of Time (53 page)

Yes, there is the matter of religious freedom, the composer said— though he rarely involved himself in political concerns.

Religion again! the clarinetist replied. Just—even for a moment— think on it! “Blessed are the poor,” “The meek shall inherit the earth.” Is this not, the clarinetist asked, addressing the small crowd that by then had gathered, evidently the most blatant propaganda, employed only in order to keep us from thinking and acting for ourselves? He took a deep breath and turned to the composer: The entire structure of your religion, he said, more slowly now, is designed specifically to render you
complicit
in your own subjugation by those who could not dream of asking any more of you than what you yourself have willingly submitted to. That you should wait until you are dead for your reward! It's a preposterous proposal. I, for one, am not willing to wait that long!

The murmur of the crowd, which had been growing while the clarinetist spoke, reached its peak just before he broke off, so that in another moment (because it was, in fact, only a single word that passed among them) it could be clearly heard.

Jew
, said the crowd, as the clarinetist concluded his appeal.

After that, there was only a long note of silence.

Well, isn't that right? a young man said, finally. Aren't you a Jew? It was not an accusation—his face was blank and unconcerned.

I'm a Communist, Akoka said—
and
I'm a Jew. I have no country— and yet, at the same time,
this
—he lit a cigarette and spread his arm wide, gesturing with the burning end past the barbed wire and low barracks that stretched off into the distance—is my country, and my people are all people. They are
you
, he said—looking up pointedly at the men still assembled before him—and
you
, and
you.

But the attention of the crowd had shifted, and soon they began to disperse.

You shouldn't smoke, the composer said, finally.

Akoka shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

Anyway, what am I saying? he asked, winking at Pasquier, who had been listening to all of this with amusement nearby. I have forgotten with whom I am speaking.
Here
is a real radical, he said. The musician— Olivier Messiaen!

The composer didn't smile—but you could tell he was pleased. You know I have never advocated revolution, Henri, he said.

That's ridiculous! the clarinetist replied. Have you listened to your own music? Every note of it calls for revolution!

They both laughed. But then the composer cleared his throat and looked seriously at the younger man. Truly, he said. You shouldn't smoke. Save your cigarette rations and trade them for food; you'll last longer.

T
HAT EVENING
, H
ENRI BROUGHT
out his clarinet and began to play. As usual, everyone who heard him—including the composer—was instantly transfixed. They sat listening—unmoving—as around them the light dimmed and darkness began, in ever-lengthening shadows, to throw itself at their feet.

By the time the clarinetist put down his instrument, it had become quite dark.

You know, the composer said, as they made their way together across the short yard to the barracks that night, I am writing a piece especially for you—for the solo clarinet. You have inspired me.

B
UT THE NEXT DAY
the war was upon them in earnest. It began with a warning—the same warning they had been given for each of the countless drills they'd performed during the long months of their training. Then the bombs rained down—their sirens curiously discordant with the sound of their explosions. From time to time, they could hear Pasquier shouting at his scattered forces from what seemed like very far away.

Fire! Men, fire! he roared. Get those guns in the air! Get those bastards out of the sky! But there was nothing to shoot at. There was nothing to do but dive for cover, and the composer did.

Where's our air force? someone yelled.

Alone, kneeling on the ground, his face dug into the mud, the composer imagined he was dying. He wondered at how different it was than he'd thought. He'd always imagined it would be peaceful—that the discordance he had for some time now sought to convey in his music had to do with the discordance of life interrupted by death, by time, not by its absence. But here, in the absence of everything, there was still only discordance and noise.

Finally, the smoke from the bombs cleared. In the space of less than an hour, the world around them had been utterly transformed. The sounds and smells of death were everywhere. Men staggered alone or in groups of two or three, leaning against one another on the roads and in the fields, some carrying their own limbs with them as they went. The
composer's first thought—after he realized that he himself had survived—was to go in search of the young Henri. He found him: looking out across the devastated landscape, and clutching in one hand, not his gun (which had been lost somewhere, irrecoverably, in the debris), but his clarinet.

P
ASQUIER CALLED FOR HIS
men to regroup. Their company, they soon saw, had been reduced by roughly half. There was nothing to do, Pasquier informed them—his voice, usually brisk and confident, now suddenly tight with fear—except to try to recover what they had.

The composer groped over the bodies of the men in the field and carried those not already past saving into the makeshift hospital. He distributed iodine, bandages, and morphine to some, and to others, in the grip of a pain so absolute he knew without thinking that it would be impossible to deliver them from it, he made only the sign of the cross.

At night they crouched together. Men covered the ends of their cigarettes with their hands to avoid detection from the air. The worst, they felt, as they waited for the combat to erupt again, was still to come. Belgium had already fallen. At Dunkirk, the British abandoned their weapons and withdrew. The Germans easily broke through the Maginot Line; they had taken Ardennes, and were at that very moment moving north toward Verdun. Everywhere the skies were German.

We are beaten, said the clarinetist, still gripping his clarinet.

Pasquier only nodded.

There is nothing left to bomb; the British have gone home. It's over.

O
N SUNDAY
,
THE CHURCH
bells—as ignorant to the plight of man as the sound of the birds—rang; as usual, the composer went to mass alone. When he approached the church, he saw that a bomb had ripped off a portion of its roof. Though at first he was horrified to see the damage, standing there among the congregation in the open air he found he felt even closer to God. The destruction with which they had been visited had, he saw, also made room for light to pour, suddenly, in.

Inspired, he asked if he might play the organ after mass, and the request was granted. Encumbered by his rifle, gas mask, helmet, and bandolier, he approached the organ, leaning his rifle and his mask against it—not bothering to remove his helmet or bandolier. He began to play and, very slowly as he did so, the notes he played sounded more and more surely like the notes that needed to be played. He wondered if this was because it was so, or if in playing them that way he had made it so—and what the difference was. Then the air raid sirens rang out, interrupting the composition of both his thoughts and the song. The composer flew down the stairs of the choir loft, grabbing his gas mask on the way, but forgetting his rifle. He returned for the rifle but as he reached for it he instantly regretted it, thinking: What use do I have for a rifle? Then he ran back, bombs exploding around him, to rejoin the rest of his unit, who had been crouched all that time, miserably, underground.

What the hell were you thinking? asked Pasquier, when he arrived. We thought you were dead.

The composer only shook his head. His ears rang with the deafening screech and roar of the bombs.

Later, they picked their way among the debris. Men's bodies, in whole or in part, were scattered among the wreckage. Abandoned rifles, canteens, packs, and photographs blew about like fallen leaves. All the real leaves had been burned from the trees so that only their charred stalks remained—pointing, like crooked fingers, uselessly toward the sky.

Now the composer knew why his father had never spoken to him of the Great War.

T
HEY MARCHED
. T
OWARD WHAT?
Everywhere it was the same. Overturned tanks and trucks, bombed-out artillery vehicles and gun carriers, the abandoned bodies of men. There was no time to stop to bury the dead. The Nazis were advancing, leveling everything as they went. In their wake were only the skeletons of buildings: flattened, burned, still smoldering. A parade of refugees staggered from the ashes. Mothers carried children, children carried one another. Everywhere overturned carts
and spilled suitcases indicated the interrupted journeys of men and women now nowhere to be seen. They combed through the ruins shamelessly for food or ammunition, but found nothing. They woke to the scream of Stukas, and headed south along what had once been the Maginot Line. Broken, it was only what it was—an essay at form that it did not, could not, hold. They kept their eyes trained when they could toward no-man's-land, where the drone of military planes and bombs reminded them it was only a matter of time before the Germans arrived and they would surrender.

Finally, the shout went up. It was Pasquier. No more grenades! We are out of ammunition, men! Then, the final admission of defeat: Abandon any souvenirs! If the Germans catch you with anything of theirs— medals, rifles, or anything else—you will be shot on sight!

We will be shot on sight anyway, someone shouted back.

No grenades, no rifle, even, the composer said, looking with sad affection at his young friend Henri. And yet—you still have your clarinet.

Yes, returned the clarinetist, his eyes trained on the distance.

Just at that moment, they heard it: the barking dogs of the approaching Nazi soldiers.

T
HEY SCATTERED
. P
ASQUIER
,
THE
clarinetist, and the composer took shelter together in an abandoned building, which had been partially demolished. Without eating, hardly sleeping, they remained there for nearly four days.

Outside, they could hear the Nazi soldiers as they passed through, and once the sound of Frenchmen whom the composer urged them to join.

Pasquier refused. They are pro-Nazi French, he told the composer.

How can you tell?

Pasquier frowned. Better to wait, he said, and the clarinetist agreed.

The composer shook his head in disbelief.

Well, what did you think? asked the clarinetist, suddenly annoyed.

Did you think there was a clear line that separated things—good from
bad, German from French, Catholic from Jew? Is that what your religion teaches you?

Of course not, the composer replied.

Listen, said Pasquier. Be quiet, both of you.

They listened and did not hear anything but the distant rattle of guns. But then they heard what Pasquier had heard. The crunch of gravel and charred wood underfoot. Someone was just outside their building—perhaps he had already overheard everything they had said! Their hearts began to beat so loudly they nearly drowned out the sound they listened for, but finally they heard the footsteps again— this time in retreat. It was the sound of a man who did not want to draw attention to himself, his movements deliberate and slow. After a stretch of a minute or more Pasquier rose to the small window and peered out.

What do you see? asked the composer, his eyes wide with fear. We've got to get out of here, Pasquier said.

They waited until night, and then they moved. Pasquier first, then the composer. The clarinetist took up the rear. They had made it nearly across the field to the cover of the woods—from which point they might have disappeared in any direction—when, behind them, there was the sudden roar of an engine. In no time, a German truck was upon them, its spotlight swinging, and again there was the sound of dogs in the distance.

Oh, dear God, said the composer. What now?

We surrender, Pasquier said. But he was still running, and did not turn as he spoke so the words were difficult to hear.

What? the composer shouted.

We surrender, Pasquier said again.

This time the musician heard—and so did the clarinetist.

What? the clarinetist said, overtaking the composer effortlessly and falling into step with Pasquier. The edge of the woods was only meters away—they could not afford to stop. Still, they could not help wondering: If they were going to be caught, was it better to meet their enemy head-on, or with their backs turned toward him in flight? It certainly
seemed better, in any case, to face an enemy head-on. Yet there was nothing any of them could do to stop running.

Well, said Pasquier, can you think of anything else?

No! shouted the clarinetist. But I will not surrender. Don't you know what Germans do to Jews?

The same thing they do with anyone who doesn't cooperate, said Pasquier. So where does that leave us?

Death comes for us all
, chanted the composer.

Pasquier put his hands to his ears. Enough! he shouted.

Not today, agreed the clarinetist.

Well, then? asked Pasquier.

All right, said the clarinetist, without letting up his pace. I'll surrender. But I promise that before any one of us knows it—you, me, or the Germans themselves—I will escape.

Yes, said Pasquier, slowing finally, and causing the others to draw up behind. Of course.

The composer drew out his handkerchief from the pocket of his pants. It looked unbearably white as he took it out, neatly unfolded it, and tied it to Pasquier's bayonet. They all nearly cried at the sight of it. How white it had kept! How perfectly folded it had remained in his pocket, among them, all of that time!

T
HE
G
ERMANS APPROACHED. THE
dogs yanked toward them on their chains, their teeth bared. From time to time, one of the dogs got near enough to snap its teeth on air within inches of the men. The soldiers held torches so their faces were lit by a strange glow. It seemed as though their heads were not even connected to their bodies. Because of this, the composer had the horrible thought that these were the dead men (whose heads, still lodged inside their helmets, had been cleanly disconnected at the throat) they had recently seen on the road. But then the light changed slightly, or it did not. Perhaps it was something else that changed. Perhaps in that moment the composer's fear, which could not support itself any longer, gave way, and it was because of this that he saw the men differently: they were just, suddenly, men. Boys, really. The clarinetist's
age, or younger. Their eyes twitching with tiredness as they gazed back at them.