With love, love, love, my dear good adored Anna,
Your woeful (because I didn’t entirely please you),
EMILY’
Emily was very pleased with this but hastened to the post with it before Stephen could see it. And now that that had gone and her mother-in-law perhaps struck by it (for she believed firmly that you can never flatter enough) she turned to work. She had two days’ work on an article for American Summer.
16 SUBJECTS FOR EMILY
ANNA, ‘THAT INCUBUS’ WAS to leave the next day. As soon as they were free they had decided to have another private party to take the taste out of their mouths, and to look for new subjects for Emily to write about.
The Trefougars came to their house that week for cocktails with Mernie Wauters (Fleur was ill again), Suzanne and, in spite of Stephen’s objections, some more Resistants who had been in concentration camp. Emily, stimulated by Suzanne, had it now in mind to write for Americans a terrifying book of the concentration camps, the occupation and, in simple terms, to describe the tendencies that led to and away from the capitulation to fascism, and that might lead in those directions again in other countries.
She said at night, drumming her fork on the table, with Christy there, Suzanne gone now, indignantly, ‘How can I serve America better? If my countrymen don’t realize it or even seem to hanker after the Germans as the papers say, it’s because of the way the things are written up, either as horrrr (horror) stories, gruesome incidents which beat the cheap shock thrillers, blood-thirsty descriptions which arouse a thirst for them—we all have evil passions. Or it is so weightily and accusingly written as to make people resent your righteousness. But it ought to be put humanly and with a certain amount of humour. So that people don’t feel the writer is getting at you, that he wants you to suffer and drop maudlin tears. That’s all wrong.’
Suzanne therefore had introduced some ‘Resistance types’. Violet Trefougar, consulted, said she’d love to meet them. She was lonely, bored; a friend in Paris was like a loaf of bread on a desert island and she didn’t care what Johnny (Mr Trefougar) thought. It was good for Johnny, he moved in a rotten, gilded set, all Jew-hating, pro-Nazi, pansy-cultivating, ‘a marijuana set of rotten, twopenny hotspurs.’ Emily was electrified to hear this. ‘How little I know, I thought them devoted,’ she cried to Stephen.
Stephen said, ‘Oh, they’re devoted, but she’s bored. Well, bring them along. A gilded, rotten, pansy-loving hotspur will be a relief from your historic heroes. Next year you’ll have the salon full of cripples and lepers. It reminds me of Hollywood when it was full of exiles from Nazism. Punks. So kind and so helpless, mental basket-cases, morally in oilbaths. Well, wheel them in.’
‘Stephen, you’re really mean.’
‘You know the chronic sick are not sorry for the others. But what do I care? Why grouse? I’m merely the accountant and see we’re headed for bankruptcy courts. As long as you can canoodle with every police spy in Paris.’
‘Police spy! Oh, Jeehosaphat! I don’t know one.’
‘We will, Oscar, we will.’
They had the party as soon as Anna had landed in Egypt. Mrs Trefougar had a smooth, French dress. She was a handsome, blonde woman, with large lean bones; hollow-eyed, young and nervous. She was nervous, thinner than ever, drinking and smoking excitedly. She followed Mernie Wauters into a corner and listened to him hungrily. Vittorio was invited, but put them off at the last moment. Axel Oates had been visiting Marshal Tito and was there, full of enthusiasm for the socialist possibilities in Yugoslavia. The two Resistants were friends of Wauters, a Jewish merchant from Brussels, who had just returned from a visit to the United States—and a young, strikingly attractive man called Clapas, dark, small-headed, with nervous tics, his hands and head moving, who had spent several months in Dachau, escaped, been a commando, been sent to Buchenwald for resistance work.
‘And you lived through that and came back,’ said Emily, avid for news.
‘To get the better of them. They were my enemies. I’d do the same for any enemy.’
‘Over the Nazis, you mean?’
‘Over men.’
‘I thought you were a communist,’ said Emily.
‘Certainly. I loathe and despise—capitalists. The rich. The poor things they have made out of the others. The men they made and the woman they made. The officials I have to talk to, the society women—all I’ve come back to as well as all I’ve left.’
‘You’re a cynic and nihilist then?’
‘In the civilization that produced and tolerated, and is trying to put cosmetics on and forget, the concentration camps, and meanwhile is preparing more—let me destroy it with my own hands, as they tried to tear me apart with their teeth, their nails—their hands! They were men … And women.’ He laughed.
Emily backed away, ‘No, no. Not men, not women. Fascists, brutes, unhuman. In socialism such people, if they exist, will be put away. Be injected with something to make them better. With a brotherhood serum, eh?’
He laughed insultingly, ‘I don’t care whether you or I or the rest here or the rest of the world lives or dies. What does it matter: tell me? Let your freedom-loving nation atom bomb. We all thought such things hadn’t occurred since the ages of the pig, the Inquisition; since the medieval burning of Jews and Protestants and Negroes—and the jails in India and the jails in South Africa—and the chain-gangs and the Chinese tortures—’ he laughed excitedly, ‘and now—I didn’t know, I never saw it, say the good Germans—too goddamn good for them, say the Americans—and they’re taking hints. And what is modern war? War dogs tearing men to pieces? Flame-throwers burning men to cinders or burning them so deep that if they live it’s in agony, threats of dysgenic warfare, killing, maiming, starving and scorching, stamping out ordinary men and even burning the tender, rich, maternal breasts of the earth, scorching, burning, plunging in deeper to make sure it can’t produce any more plants or children—bah! It was because I despise all men—that I agreed to exterminate one small part—the Nazis. And when they caught me, because I despised them, I told nothing; but I laughed along their lines and jeered along their lines. They weren’t sure. And you see here what we are. Your Madame Suzanne! What an idiot! Do you know what she is! And Monsieur Wauters! A weak, sliding fool! Monsieur Jeepers, a businessman only caught because he was a Jew, not because he had done anything good. Such are Resistants. And now everyone is struggling to get into their ranks. Yes, those who would have given them up without a flutter. The excuse—you mustn’t make the innocent suffer! Such people! And now we are all Resistants! So don’t make me a Resistant … But you know! Everyone like you knows about the United States, their gaols and chain-gangs. Do you care? You live well. You live on that, don’t you? On that. So did we, only more so, because there was more of it and time was shorter and it was more concentrated. Listen, see! Why are we alive?’
‘Luck,’ said Emily.
‘No luck. Arrangement. Madame Suzanne had done good service and her life was bought by heavy bribes. She told you they were lined up each day and the heads counted and the names called and she never was called. It’s true. She was bought. She knows it. Bribes, money taken by the Resistance from the poor and hunted, taken from communists and Jews and given to corrupt Nazis. They were bribed, the payments came in each week—for some, only for some; and in the end the Americans came in time. Meantime, hundreds, thousands of women and children from that camp went to the gas chambers because no one bought them; and all the money taken from their friends, relatives, sympathizers, was given to save Madame Suzanne. See, there’s a pillar of blood-money. See there! She let burn hundreds of babies, hundreds of women were mangled and tortured and buried alive and—for her one life. All blood, all blood, she’s only a human blood bank!’
Emily stared fearfully at him. ‘Don’t! How can you say such things!’ I am the same. I was chosen to survive because of my services! Darwinism! The fittest! Not most horrible, cruel, beastly. Here I stand a pillar of blood and there she
moves and talks, a fountain of blood, without thinking of all who died in her place, every day.’
‘But if she’d died too? It would only have been one more. And through her hundreds of children were saved, the lives of over a thousand children,’ said Emily emotionally.
‘What sickening claptrap such talk is!’ said Clapas.
‘You don’t care if the children were saved?’ cried Emily.
‘I care. But only because I’m sentimental; there’s a trace of it left in me. Yes, I am glad they were saved. Perhaps they’ll be better than we are. But look at them. They’re already half grown up. And their world is worse than ours. They will perhaps be worse and create more camps. Perhaps everyone here will become an informer, a torturer, a guard in a concentration camp later on.’
‘Oh, this is too dreadful to think or say,’ said Emily, staring at the man.
He laughed scornfully. ‘But not too dreadful to be true. You who did not see it are living in a dream-world. And some of those who were in the thick of it continue to live in dream. Like your Madame Suzanne. She saved lives of the innocents. She loved it. She walked in blood and a fiery storm and an iron hail and she loved it. She was calm, collected, true, loyal! How beautiful! How stupid! One can save but not with emotion. One can save and resist only with cynicism. Mankind believes in the good and glorious and see!’
He bellowed a laugh and turned his back, rolled theatrically away. Emily looked after him, not believing him. But now he was on his way back with a tall, good-looking, fair youth whom he introduced as ‘Stanislaus Breslow, only son and heir of Professor Breslow, the leading expert on international law, one of those consulted by the Avenging Angels in the Nuremberg Trials. Stanislaus, as the son of a Jew—’ he said, looking at the boy and smiling sharply, ‘was thrown into a temporary camp and landed at Maideneck where he lived quite comfortably for some years. He will tell you all about his experiences. He has views of mankind like mine, but acted differently. Madame Howard is an American journalist. She’d love to hear about it, Stan. Mr Breslow wants to go to the States where he feels sure he’ll make his way because he understands their psychology. The sap, the essence of American psychology is, What’s in It for Me; and that’s his too. And I’m told that’s the title of a British communist pamphlet, so we all think the same. Very nice. Your communists must have some very modern realists among them.’
Emily, left alone with this youth, felt tongue-tied. Breslow had a drink in his hand, was very affable. Emily said, ‘Where is Clapas from? Is he really cynical or is that his company manner?’
‘He’s from the south, Montpellier, and he’s really like that. We get on famously.’
The youth sneered. ‘He met me in Maideneck. You know we were on opposite sides, but we merely laughed at it all when we met again on the outside. Both survived by a fluke.’
‘And what was your fluke? Were you a communist, selected to survive?’
‘No. I was a student, a brilliant student of course, being the son of a Jew. My father was a brilliant professor. He was an atheist and I had not been circumcised. When the Nazis came I immediately denied that I was a Jew. I had from the first given another name. I denied, denied, denied. I don’t look like my father. I’m not officially a Jew. He didn’t want that; he wanted me to be a modern man, no out-of-date superstitions. They tried to make me confess. Nothing doing. Couldn’t get me. I was brilliant, remember. They were not. They took me over for medical examination. The doctor decided I was not a Jew—fell in love with me, perhaps. I don’t know. Someone fell in love with me. I was preserved. But someone came to the camp who, hard luck, knew me, started to speak to me and that person was a Jew. I had to denounce him. That’s a Jew, I said to them. I told them I was head of a secret anti-Semitic society at the university and that we had them all numbered and described. I’d pick out every secret Jew in camp for them.’
‘And of course you really saved your Jewish friend,’ said Emily.
‘Oh, what romance! Naturally, I denounced them all. I would pick out any Jew, even yellow-haired Nordic ones like myself. I became a thorough expert. I was their secret Jew-expert. I became very friendly with the guards and officers. I got on splendidly. They were fascinated by my imaginary anti-Semitic society. They gave me very light jobs and they put me in charge of a museum of horrors they had, samples of what people looked like who had been gassed to death, women’s hair, teeth, crystals which form. It was behind panes of glass for they were still very dangerous and could have poisoned us. I used to look and gloat and think, I got away with it. They never had the slightest doubt—or if they had they liked me too well to show it.’
‘And your father?’
‘Oh, I’m in touch with my father. He’s very busy, his name’s in the papers. He showed that it was not international or war law for soldiers, even private soldiers, to obey their officers, if bestial or brutal orders were given. So the soldiers too were guilty. When my father heard how I was saved, he became very sick, poor man, he got jaundice. I believe he will never recover from the shock one way or another. Jaundiced, yellow as the Jew he is.’
Emily looked round for Stephen to signal to him, ‘And you? What will you do now?’
‘I’ll go to America, I understand the country perfectly. It’s like Germany under the Nazis, but more force, more power. They’re a great wonderful people and I’ll get on there. I’ll find a rich girl, marry her and sit on top of the world.’
‘Supposing she won’t marry you?’
‘Oh, I’ll get round that; I’ll find out something, get something on her, get hold of her some way or another.’
‘You don’t know American girls,’ said Emily.
‘It won’t take me long to find out.’
‘Look, here’s Stephen. He’ll get you a drink; I’ve got to get to the kitchen, excuse me.’
On the way to the door, she ran into Clapas who teased her, ‘A perfume, a flower. Isn’t he? Now you see what I mean? A Resistant! And is there anyone alive today who’s been through that who isn’t distorted in some hellish way? Even the kids in your country are going to the devil; they don’t care who lives or dies; they only want to burn up the world in liquid fire. They’re all like he is. And you want them to be happy; you and Madame Suzanne.’
Emily said, ‘I don’t care. Let us die then. Who cares about us? We’ve had our time. All right, I don’t care about the adults who died; it’s too late. Even about those you call blood banks. But the children must survive and be given ideals. If our generation can do that to children, the whole generation should be wiped off the face of the earth. Let us die. What do we have to live for? Oh, hideous, horrible world!’ She burst into tears.
Clapas laughed, ‘Just so! To remedy it, you weep and Madame Suzanne loves. She loves!’
Emily dried her eyes, blew her nose, said indignantly, ‘She did more. She walked the streets when the lion was in the streets and the skies thundered, she’s as brave as a Roman virgin—’
He said contemptuously, ‘Bad poetry, that is. For a writer everything is fixed once he’s fixed a little phrase. Phrasemongers! You’re responsible too. You’ll never tell what you know. You’ll fix it up. You corrupt language. It will take generations to purify the language you have soiled. To make it saleable—what do I care besides? For this is hell and we’re all damned souls. How do you know this isn’t hell, just a cosier suburb of it? Answer!’
Emily said, ‘I know it isn’t. Because—perhaps I ought to be apologetic about it but I live and hope to live in a better world somewhere. I don’t know where. I hope and I pray that my children will never see those things. There is a chance of it, and so it isn’t hell. I love my children, my husband, we’re happy: there’ll be some other happy people left I hope. And some brave.’
‘Just some more blood banks, then,’ said Clapas.
Emily went to Suzanne, ‘My God, Suzanne, why ever did you bring these terrible men, these furies, here? They’re demons.’
Suzanne said sensibly, ‘T
hey’re tortured souls. They’ll never recover. It’s a malignant disease of the heart.’
‘I don’t believe it. I believe they were initially bad.’
‘And yet Clapas was one of the finest men in the Resistance.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand human beings; I don’t want to,’ said Emily turning way, irritated.
‘The hero is a very dangerous animal,’ said Suzanne smiling.
‘And you were one,’ said Emily turning back and cocking her eye sharply at her.
Suzanne said in that dull way which irritated Stephen, I feel as if I’ve nothing more to learn, just like Clapas and Breslow. I told you how parents denounced children who irritated and disobeyed them, or who they thought were thieves or murderers or Resistants. They denounced their own children to a certain death. Little children, sweet little girls, with long hair and blue eyes and angel faces, but sharp little hearts and hungry bellies and vanity, denounced their parents, because the underground of children had told them that they’d get chocolate, money or other food or a pretty dress for denunciations. Wives denounced their husbands to get extra food or the property—it came to them direct, no questions asked. Husbands denounced wives to get property or another wife. It was so simple, so sure, so sudden. Some concierges denounced just to get the bonus; and others held on to protect their tenants banned and fled. Many dainty, respectable, fat little pouter-pigeon bourgeois wives “yes-m’-dear” and “no-m’-dear” denounced their servants if their servants were rude, or their neighbours if the neighbours had a better carpet, or they denounced the butcher who didn’t give them enough respect or the landlord they owed money to. You can imagine,’ said Suzanne cheerily, ‘it was so very, very simple. Others denounced simply to get sugar or butter or tobacco or absinthe or drugs; especially drugs.
I'm Dying Laughing: The Humourist Page 40
