by Alan Burns
Chapter 2
The transport arrived. The driver was ready to take the risk. The car had a hood, and planks on each side; we were wrapped in blankets. The hooded interior was a small room. We faced each other and carried on a conversation. We were going to the town where her father – so she had been told – had been recently buried.
All bridges were broken. The front wheels were over a trench in the road. We got help; with concrete blocks we built a way across the trench. It was dark. We clambered out of the hooded wagon. We quarrelled. I was not clear what it was all about. We fought. She did not want to be forced. There was silence. I needed help. “We are lucky to be in a town. I shall get help from somewhere.” A clock struck nine; the street was empty – no light shone from the houses. “I shall find a place.” She remained in the wagon. She called out: “I want some hot tea. Can I have some tea?” “No.” “Please speak. I like to hear it.” “Tea?” “Do you understand?” “I’ll get you some tea.” “Don’t leave me.” “I must look for a place: we must get somewhere to sleep – otherwise we will have to answer more questions.”
The streets were quiet. I found a man, I argued with him, he directed me. The place was closed. I smashed down a door. A man with a gun waited. I told him what we wanted. He did nothing. The wind was blowing sleet. I passed a church tower. Cavalry clattered by, followed by men on foot carrying long, straight scythes; the wind bent the peacock feathers in their caps and the sleet beat on our faces as we tramped through the slush.
We stayed in her father’s house. In the living room were two beds, a round table with a lace centrepiece, a carpet on a polished floor. We were welcomed as guests. The caretaker heated the stove; his wife prepared some tea, eggs and bread and butter. The room was not warm enough. The old man took the best bed out of the living room and carried it into the next room. It was two o’clock in the morning. On the wall was a large oil painting. Whether it was an original or a copy was open to doubt. The point interested me. I had noticed two indifferent paintings hung in the living room: old portraits of generals, or priests – leaders of some kind.
She asked about the doctor who had attended her father. “That fellow is not – the doctor is no good. He ought to be kept in prison, but, like the last time, he will be let out after a few months.”
The doctor was dead. She called on his deputy. It was a huge organization. The deputy’s assistant saw her; she learnt that her father had suffered from tuberculosis in an acute form and from a condition of the heart. There had been one curious feature – deep-rooted, fascinating.
We had coffee. A baker’s assistant carried on his head two large wooden trays loaded with cakes, pastries, loaves. Hot milk poured steaming into glasses. She ate four excellent cakes; reaching for another cake, she almost upset her coffee over me. She was under twenty, illiterate, completely untrained. She had been taught a certain occupation. “When did you learn,” I asked her, “that you were going to be sent here?” “Last November. I was told that it had been agreed that you were to take me.” “How long will you stay?” “I am supposed to stay for ten days, and in that time find the grave. But I’m ill, not fit for work, so I must look after myself. I know there is no grave. I should like to see him back, but it is not safe for him. People disappear – no one knows where they go. Probably it will change; I don’t know what to do. I should like to stay here, but I don’t know how long they will allow me to. Certain people are not seen in the streets any more, and so it is forgotten that they are in control.” “If it is a question of your father—” “I am not interested. I must get a good job. I have found jobs in flower shops; many times it has happened, but the work… I cannot get used to it. The reason is clear: poverty is a sin; the good man is rewarded – he is successful. I shall found a new kind of institution for orphans. It will be a garden. Any country would be proud to possess such an orphanage. The building will be designed to give the children the maximum sunlight when indoors. The children will be poorly clad and ill-shod, they will be kept in a massive building with automatically regulated furnaces; the ovens will be on the same high level of modern design.” I preferred not to ask where she had learnt all this.
I took her back to her wooden room. She lifted her coat; she had no clothing underneath. “I have access to stocks of clothing. Would you like me to treat you differently?” She said she had no need of money. I asked her if the others had money. She said yes. “If you worked hard, would you get the chance to earn more?” She was not sure about this – first she said yes, then no. I asked her how many there were in her family. “One.” “I did not ask you how many now – I know that; I wish to know how many you were.” “Five.” “And how many are left?” Silence. “How many?” “One.” “And the others?” “Gone.” “Children?” “Yes.” “Did the others die?” This produced some confusion. Experience had taught me to be cautious about accepting statements at their face value. Information had to be extracted. She sat there thinking, preoccupied with survival. She divided her attention between watching me and having some game with crumbs of cake. She was indifferent – no emotion – yet I was asking questions often of the most intimate nature. It had a sinister meaning. “I gave you a fresh set of clothing, but you will not help me – you sit and do nothing.” “Give me better clothes and I will help – don’t give me these rags, don’t lock the door.” I made sure the door was locked behind me. Everything had turned to iron – six million pieces of iron, with appendages.
I woke her up; I stood by the door. “My friend,” I spoke quietly. “Who are you?” She got out of bed. “Why are you here?” “You said you were too ill to work; you must be looked after – you are going on a holiday – now behave yourself.” “What can I take with me?” “Personal belongings; no furniture.” “I have no furniture.” “It is not important.” Her fingers were clumsy; she fumbled with the buttons. I noticed her long and curved lashes. I kicked her clothes into the corner of the room. A steel comb dragged through her hair. “My eyes hurt.” “You are ill,” I said. “You need hospital treatment.” “I must get a new coat – I’ll sell my coat and buy a new one; there are new long coats on the market.” I was wearing my overcoat, as the place was unheated. “Get in.” She climbed into the bath – the level of the water was below the knee – she splashed the water over herself, trying to cover her body. “Could I have some more water?” “Not allowed; scrub yourself clean.” She stepped out of the bath: she looked cold. I gave her back her clothes and she put them on. I felt the twitch of my lips as I turned away and started to lock the shutters. “Why do you block out the air?” The windows were barred; a metal shade protected the light. I handed her a slice of buttered bread. She put the bread on the floor. I stood over her, my face irritable with impatience. “Take it. Quick.” She couldn’t hold it properly – she was cold. I watched in silence. “Get back to bed.” The room contained nothing but a bed, a chair, a tin bath. No pictures, no book, no jug of water, no calendar, no mirror. Her lips were counting numbers. I heard someone pass in the corridor outside. I asked her how old she was and whether she liked the food. She picked up the chair and came towards me; I twisted it out of her hands – it was too heavy for her.
She lay back, face upwards, looking at the ceiling, her face a piece of paper. She could not make the effort to stand up. She tried to avoid contact with me by turning towards the wall. “Do what you’re told – go and get ready.” “No.” “It’s for your own good.” “I don’t want to – you can’t make me.” But she began to pick up her few clothes from the floor. “I can’t go; I have a horror of hospitals: I once went to the doctor – he wouldn’t examine me; I had no friends – no one – I had had my teeth out, all my teeth drawn. My father paid the bill – it had to be paid; the doctor came to see me: he asked how I was; I said I was well, and he went away.” She was waiting to see what I would do – for something to happen which would prevent her having to go. “I worked in the kitchens; I had swollen legs – you can see they
are still bad. My father said I grew too quickly; I should not have done so. While I was working. I drank a lot of water, and I ate boiled fish, but the kitchens – all the steam and heat – it put you off your food, and my nerves were bad; I tried ointments, I put black paste on the painful parts, I had advice from everyone, I was told to eat stews and soup, to avoid the terrible heat and the dampness. I still use drops twice a day.” She stooped close to the floor, unable to go on, waiting for me to move. When I left her, she lay on the low table, her head pointing towards the door.
Hurrying downstairs, I was delayed by men carrying out bodies: they forced past me; one shoved a fist into my face. They grinned as the bodies came out. I looked straight ahead. They did not appear to know that I had been living in the house. Crowds on the stairs filled every foot of room; trunks had been left in the hall half-packed. Fugitives who faced exposure filled the hall with shouting to be allowed out, but the uniformed traitors dragged them from the door. At the door stood the caretaker of the building – the man who had welcomed us and made us tea. “Without exception all are to be turned back.” I tried to touch his hand, to get closer to him and explain. “All persons are to remain here. No exceptions whatsoever.” No one could deprive them of their sport: the scenes of fear. They forced the girl down on her hands and knees and made her scrub the stairs with acid preparations which bit into the skin; she was surrounded by jostling men – they put a scrubbing brush into her hand, splashed it well with acid. “Now you need more water.” They slung a bucket of filthy water over her, then jerked her up by the wrists and made her show her hands.
They were intent on their enjoyment. The stairs were black with happy onlookers. I did not know one of them. She stared up at them; her mouth could not keep still. I got to the door and spoke to the man guarding it. “I must speak to you at once.” “Who are you? I don’t know you.” I told him what I knew about the girl and her father. “If they discover who she is, it means her life. Certain information may help; so may money. I told her to ask me for money. I don’t know her real name – I have no idea what will happen to her.” “She is one of many. Things will get worse. She won’t be heard of again.” He gave me a paper with instructions. “Someone will come within a week. If no one comes, destroy it – it is all over.”
The doors were kept locked; we were shut in for twelve hours; we were examined – those who were ill were dragged into one room. They had lists. She was one of those taken away by lorry. I should have stayed and searched for her, but I was not sure how long they would allow me to remain. The main thing was that I should not lose contact with her. Everything was stolen, mirrors shot to pieces, the paintings ripped with knives, plates and glasses smashed – all with the utmost indifference. They telephoned for more lorries.
Food. The movements of waiters. I learnt. Those mysterious persons. While at lunch one came to see me. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Certainly, though his face… He conferred. It was a question of transport. “Is there a lorry?” “Yes. One of my men will go with you.”
An empty lorry. My luggage was placed on the seat beside the driver; I chose the most comfortable place in the back. Soon the back of the lorry was crammed – every space was filled with bodies and cases. The luggage remained on the seat. It was an order.
Later, when I had made it clear that I was going to cooperate, they placed a car at my disposal. It was built for military purposes, but I was not going to miss the opportunity of having a car. The seats were cut and torn. A person lay across the seats, and had to be thrown out.
The armoured cars I was compelled to follow were scarred by war; each carried a pennant – three different pennants – three divisions. Their commander greeted me in the friendliest way, so that I felt I need not worry too much over whether or not I was travelling in the right direction.
The road was a straight strip between high hedges; the rays of the winter sun were unexpectedly warm. When we stopped at an empty house, people came to look at us – old people arrived in procession, women whose houses had been burnt down, who had gone for months without food, saving so that they could rebuild, faces dull purple, women blood-red tipped, men faded. They brought us tea, which was excellent. They talked about their houses, but these people could not be reached; until they had their own homes, they could not hope. The range of food carried by the convoy, and which they allowed me to share, was limited, though it included some remarkable delicacies.
The missing-persons office had a new wooden roof – light yellow – the only roof that had been repaired. The office was closed. I was not concerned. I had a good road, a fast car, a reckless driver. The troops carried in the armoured cars went round systematically burning and blowing up buildings. They had sixty-four houses, then they had three. The troops repaired two. They helped them get going again. I asked the commander: “What about the people who used to live in these houses – are they still here?” “No. Deported to work in factories. Others drift back, others have been murdered, burnt.” “I don’t understand why.” “You don’t know them.” His face showed signs of strain. “We brought them thirty tons of DDT. We organized squads. We broke the back of epidemics. Without DDT, typhus would spread without any hope of stopping it. That powder is one of the best things we have done. The girl? It is one case only. With migrations, changing populations and fresh troops in the district, new batches of cases are continually being notified, and we have no idea of the number of unreported cases. We need help badly. We are cut off here. Can’t you do something? Are you content to sit and take notes?” “Today I am going to visit a person who, I believe, is living in the district, and who may be able to help in tracing her.” “Perhaps you can get us some medicine.” I heard him say that, and I decided to do what I could to help him.
The troops had gone. The house was in darkness. A woman with brown hair welcomed me; she couldn’t sit still – leaning her face against mine, she continued to tremble. She started to tell about the hanging – she tried to explain why she got the words twisted, but she could not. She held the light; the words got lost. I waited. Her thin face… she lived in the dark. She sat beside the light and started to talk. Soldiers had been in her home. She had tried to take care. There had been men outside the house – she had seen them in the street. A knock on the door: we have four prisoners… could you go to another house – of course not. The prisoners came – the most terrible people; it was painful to hear their treatment; when she complained she was told that soon they would be going home – with a rope. Through the window she saw them, their hands tied: four men; they were led aside. It was not that I was indifferent – I was not – but I was calm; I had no part of her trembling; there seemed no place for me. I felt that I did not care for the means by which this woman’s mind had been broken, but I was relieved when I was no longer with her. This was deplorable, but the fact remained. There had been a number of factors and their effect had been cumulative. At first the troops had welcomed me – the sincerity of their welcome had been difficult to assess: it had been largely artificial, but they had had to be certain of my loyalty. I had proved that I could be trusted, but they had kept me outside, and so I had become isolated. This had made for a double action. The mutual dislike had increased. Then there had been a horrible incident. They had held up a car and robbed the passengers; the driver had been taken out and shot. And I had discovered the fun in such business.
Chapter 3
I knew where to find the person I was looking for. After scrambling up the path, I arrived at the building and was asked to wait by a young girl in grey uniform. She explained that she would leave me with him. As she left, he gazed after her. I found at first that I could not talk to him in any language that he knew. “So, you live here,” I said. He was not at ease. I smiled at him, said his daughter had told me about him. He led me into a small room. I was seated on a red plush couch and he sat on my right in a red plush armchair. Before us was a round table. Two small windows facing
me lit the room. Outside I could hear animals bumping and rubbing themselves against the walls of the house. “Am I to be allowed to visit her?” I asked. “No.” “Does she live openly? Does she still use the same name?” “Yes.” “Tell me, what is her position?” “She is safe. While she continues to work for us, she will be protected; no matter where she may be taken, don’t worry – we will not lose sight of her.” He got up. “I must offer you hospitality.” He left the room to return carrying a bottle of wine. “It is home-made wine.” Chains hung round his thick neck, rested on his heavy body. We sipped the wine. We conversed. The sun cut sharply into the room. He smiled. He tried to entice me. I refused. I was aware of the animals moving around. He told me he was head of the family. In a burst of energy he shouted that she was his child; his family must not die out. Out of his wallet came photographs of the girl. My interest was qualified by hesitation and reserve. I noted the great variety; her talent for adaptation; her wide range of mood, which was not at first apparent. He showed me another and another, without being aware of the differences – the backward slope, the white skin, the canopied eye, the arm: slender and colourless. They could have been different people. She expressed a jumbling of use and fancy. In one she came running through a doorway, the stones of her necklace swinging above her upper lip; in another, younger, she covered her fingers in long grass. There were none above a certain age. I asked him, in a calm, uninterested tone, when she had left home. “She said she would leave. She came towards me to kiss me. I seized a chair. I had a bad temper. I meant no harm. I had always admired her.” He held a photo of his wife, but he did not show it to me. He said it was a poor likeness – the others had been taken from him; he had stolen this one. “I’m sorry,” he apologized: he had knocked the table and spilt the wine. “I don’t seem to be able to manage this.” With his handkerchief he mopped up the wine from the table and from the floor at my feet, wiping off a few drops that had fallen on my shoes. “I am getting old, though my nerves are still good; I sleep soundly. As long as I can keep going and complete the work.” “You still work?” “I am a worker.” “But what exactly does that mean?” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I obtain meat, and the town buys it. More or less.” “I see. Is that all?” “More or less.” He had tried, clumsily, to avoid my question. It was too hot. I was getting drunk. I opened the window. I could see the outside of the wooden building – a large hall was set behind the main part of the house and screened from the road by trees. The commander’s armoured car drove slowly past. “I had to buy meat. Everything was wrecked.” “Where did you get the meat from?” “The countryside. It came by lorry.” I smiled at him and got up from my chair. He said quickly: “I shall tell you everything, the bad as well as the good. What do you want to know?” I knew this game – I had played it with both sides – the more open-handed the host appeared, the more he had to hide. He held out his hand to me and led me into a long, low room containing tables; we walked down the narrow corridor between the tables, past a notice for “Silence”, readers intent on newspapers – forty readers to a table. I tried to make out the foreign titles of the papers. He took my arm. “There’s nothing here – we’ll go into the schoolroom and you’ll know where you are.” My glance returned to the page. “Do you not want to go?” “I’m in no hurry; I’ll come soon.” Four young men got up from one of the tables and came smiling and mumbling towards me; I found myself nudged and bundled towards the door. “Where are we going?” More and more of them followed me into the next room, and before I could quite tell how I had got there, I heard the door shut behind me. A young soldier was teaching arithmetic to a class of about fifty older men: they were learning Roman numerals; each in turn went to the blackboard to write a date in Roman figures. The teacher asked: “What was the date of the great battle?” Came a prompt reply from the massed troops. Questions and answers about the battle occupied a few minutes; the writing of the date was a matter of seconds, and then on to the next historical date. No doubt it was a lesson in arithmetic, but to a casual observer it seemed to consist mostly of history. The class by their replies showed that they had a remarkable knowledge of recent history. The young teacher told me that only combatants were taught history – the difference between their education and that of others was that they were made to realize the importance of history. I said that this could mean anything. The teaching of history depended on the teacher. One would explain events as he saw them, another would teach otherwise. “Oh yes.” I asked him whether he himself received instruction on methods or approach. “I teach as I please. But mine is a unique position. It was my father’s intention that it should be so.”
