The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

Charlotte shyly grins, confessing this, and moves away down the aisle. She pauses as she starts to pass Michou. The latter opens her eyes. Both girls stare in silence at one another—really looking inward, astonished at themselves. Now Michou tenuously reaches out her hand, which Charlotte touches with her own.

  Cut to Fania, observing them. A deep, desperate concern for herself is on her face. She closes her eyes and turns over to sleep.

  At the distant drone of bombers, Fania slowly opens her eyes. Turns on her back, listening.

  Cut to a series of close-ups: Michou, Paulette, Liesle, Etalina, and others; they are opening their eyes, listening, trying to figure out the nationality of the planes.

  Now the Polish Blockawas, some in bed with each other, do the same.

  Cut to Fania. She has gone to a window and is looking out onto the “street.” The sound of the bombers continues.

  Cut to the barracks “street,” SS guards in uniform carrying rifles—five or six of them converging and looking upward worriedly.

  Cut to Fania, turning from the window and momentarily facing the apprehensive, questioning stares of the Blockawas. She starts to pass them; Tchaikowska reaches out and grasps her wrist.

  TCHAIKOWSKA, pointing upward: American? English? Fania shrugs, doesn’t know. Tchaikowska releases her. Too late for you anyway.

  Fania’s face is totally expressionless—yet in this impacted look is torment that another human could do this.

  FANIA: Maybe it is too late for the whole human race, Tchaikowska.

  She walks past, heading for the dayroom, not her bunk.

  Cut to Fania, under a single bulb, alone in the dayroom. She has pencil in hand, orchestrating—but she looks off now, unable to concentrate. Elzvieta appears beside her, sits.

  ELZVIETA: So it’s going to end after all. Fania gives her an uncomprehending glance. Everyone tries to tell you their troubles, don’t they.

  FANIA: I don’t know why, I can’t help anyone.

  ELZVIETA: You are someone to trust, Fania—maybe it’s that you have no ideology, you’re satisfied just to be a person.

  FANIA: I don’t know what I am anymore, Elzvieta. I could drive a nail through my hand, it would hardly matter. I am dying by inches, I know it very well—I’ve seen too much. Tiredly wipes her eyes. Too much and too much and too much . . .

  ELZVIETA: I’m one of the most successful actresses in Poland. Fania looks at her, waiting for the question; Elzvieta, in contrast to Fania, has long hair. My father was a count; I was brought up in a castle; I have a husband and Marok, my son who is nine years old. Slight pause. I don’t know what will happen to us, Fania—you and I, before the end. . . .

  FANIA, with a touch of irony: Are you saying good-bye to me?

  ELZVIETA, with difficulty: I only want one Jewish woman to understand. . . . I lie here wondering if it will be worse to survive than not to. For me, I mean. When I first came here I was sure that the Pope, the Christian leaders did not know; but when they found out they would send planes to bomb out the fires here, the rail tracks that bring them every day. But the trains keep coming and the fires continue burning. Do you understand it?

  FANIA: Maybe other things are more important to bomb. What are we anyway but a lot of women who can’t even menstruate anymore—and some scarecrow men?

  ELZVIETA, suddenly kissing Fania’s hand: Oh Fania—try to forgive me!

  FANIA: You! Why? What did you ever do to me? You were in the Resistance, you tried to fight against this, why should you feel such guilt? It’s the other ones who are destroying us—and they only feel innocent! It’s all a joke, don’t you see? It’s all meaningless, and I’m afraid you’ll never change that, Elzvieta! Elzvieta gets up, rejected, full of tears. I almost pity a person like you more than us. You will survive, and everyone around you will be innocent, from one end of Europe to the other.

  Offscreen, we hear the sounds of a train halting, shouts, debarkation noises. Elzvieta turns her eyes toward a window.

  Cut to a convoy debarking in the first dawnlight. SS and kapos and dogs.

  Cut to Elzvieta, riven by the sight now, sinking to her knees at a chair, and crossing herself, praying. Fania studies her for a moment . . . then she goes back to work on her orchestration, forcing herself to refuse this consolation, this false hope and sentiment. She inscribes notes. Something fails in her; she puts down pencil.

  FANIA: My memory is falling apart; I’m quite aware of it, a little every day . . . I can’t even remember if we got our ration last night . . . did we?

  Tchaikowska appears from the dormitory door—she is drinking from a bowl. Now she walks to the exit door of the dayroom, opens it, and throws out the remainder of milk in the bowl, wiping the bowl with a rag.

  Elzvieta, still on her knees, watches Tchaikowska returning to the dormitory; she tries to speak calmly. . . .

  ELZVIETA: You throw away milk, Tchaikowska?

  TCHAIKOWSKA: It was mine.

  ELZVIETA: Even so . . .

  TCHAIKOWSKA: Our farm is two kilometers from here—they bring it to me, my sisters.

  ELZVIETA: But even so . . . to throw it away, when . . .

  She breaks off. Tchaikowska looks slightly perplexed.

  TCHAIKOWSKA: You saying it’s not my milk?

  ELZVIETA: Never mind.

  TCHAIKOWSKA, tapping her head: You read too many books, makes you crazy.

  She exits into the dormitory. Elzvieta swallows in her hunger, and, as Fania watches her, she bends her head and more fervently, silently prays.

  Cut to the barracks “street,” silent and empty for a moment; suddenly the blasts of sirens, whistles, and the howling of pursuit dogs. From all corners SS guards and dog handlers explode onto the street. They are in a chaotic hunt for someone.

  Prisoners are being turned out of barracks onto the “street,” lined up to be counted, hit, kicked. . . .

  Cut to the hunters, crashing into the dayroom with dogs howling. Blockawas are coming out of the dormitory, throwing on clothes. SS women accompany the guards. Alma comes out of her room questioningly.

  Cut to the orchestra, fleeing from bunks in the dormitory as hunters rip off blankets, overturn mattresses—screaming in fear of dogs, shouting.

  Cut to the players, being driven outside into the “street.”

  Cut to the “street.” Scurrying to form ranks and trying to dress at the same time the players are calling out their names and coming to attention. Before them stand an SS officer and a dog handler beside Tchaikowska, who is checking off a roster she holds.

  Alma stands at attention before the officer.

  TCHAIKOWSKA: All accounted for, Mein Herr.

  SS OFFICER, to Madame Alma: Do you know Mala?

  ALMA: Mala? No, but I have seen her accompanying the Commandant, of course—as an interpreter.

  SS OFFICER: She has had no contact at all with your players?

  ALMA: No, no, she has never been inside our barracks, Herr Kapitän.

  The SS officer now walks off, followed by the handler and dog. Michou is the first to realize.

  MICHOU: Mala’s escaped! I bet she’s gotten out!

  The orchestra is electrified. . . .

  CHARLOTTE, to another: Mala’s out!

  Blockawas are pushing them back into barracks.

  PAULETTE: Fania!—did you hear!

  Cut to the “Canada” girls. Deals are going on at their tables, and a girl prisoner comes hurrying up. A quick whisper to one of the dealers.

  GIRL: Mala got out . . . and Edek too!

  DEALER: With Edek? How!?

  GIRL: They got SS uniforms somehow, and took off!

  Business stops as three or four dealers cross themselves and bow their heads in prayer.

  Cut to Alma, at the podium going through a score, with Fania alongside her pointing out something o
n it.

  The following lines of dialogue are all in close intimate shots—since they dare not too openly discuss the escape. (All are in their chairs, instruments ready for rehearsal.)

  CHARLOTTE: What a romance! Imagine, the two of them together—God!

  MICHOU: I saw him once, he’s gorgeous—blond, and beautiful teeth. . . .

  LIESLE: She’s a Belgian, like me. . . .

  ESTHER: What Belgian? She’s Jewish, like all of us. . . .

  LIESLE: Well, I mean . . .

  ELZVIETA: Edek is a Pole, though—and they’re going to tell the world what’s happening here.

  ETALINA: Imagine—if they could put a bomb down that chimney!

  ELZVIETA: Now the world will know! Lets play for them. The Wedding March!

  She raises her violin.

  CHARLOTTE, readying her bow on the violin—devoutly: For Mala and Edek!

  MICHOU: Mala and Edek!

  Etalina, on time for once, readies her instrument.

  Cut to Shmuel, bowing to Alma, his toolbox on his shoulder.

  SHMUEL: I’m supposed to diagram the wiring, Madame. I won’t disturb you.

  Alma nods, lifts her baton, and starts the number.

  Shmuel, as the number proceeds, has a piece of paper on which he is tracing the wiring. He follows along one wall to the table in a corner of the room, where Fania is seated with a score she is following, pencil in hand.

  Fania senses Shmuel is lingering at a point near her; and as he approaches her, his eyes on the wiring, he exposes the paper in his hand for her to read. She glances at Alma at the end of the room, then leans a little . . .

  Cut to the note, reading: ALLIES LANDED IN FRANCE.

  Shmuel’s hand crumples the paper.

  Cut to Shmuel, swallowing the note. Then taking his toolbox and slinging it onto his shoulder, he hurriedly limps away and goes out the exit without turning back.

  Fania turns and looks out the window, and sees . . .

  The by-now familiar arrival of new prisoners as seen from the dayroom window. Shmuel walks out of the shot, his place taken by . . .

  Mandel—who is leading Ladislaus, a four-year-old boy, away from his mother, who is at the edge of a crowd of new arrivals, watching, not knowing what to make of it. The mother now calls to him; we can’t hear her through the window. Ladislaus is beautiful, and Mandel seems delighted as she gives him a finger to hold on to.

  Note: The character of this particular crowd of prisoners is somewhat different—they are Polish peasant families, not Jews. They are innocently “camping” between barracks buildings, far less tensely than the Jews on arrival, and the kids are running about playing, even throwing a ball. Infants are suckling; improvised little cooking fires, etc. . . . So that Ladislaus’s mother is only apprehensive as she calls to him, not hysterical at his going off with Mandel.

  Cut to the orchestra, continuing to play. Etalina is turning with a look of open fear from the window; she leans to Elzvieta beside her and unable to contain herself, whispers into her ear.

  Alma sees this breach of discipline and . . .

  ALMA, furiously: Etalina!

  The music breaks off.

  ETALINA, pointing outside: Those are Poles, not Jews. . . . They’re Aryans, Madame!

  MICHOU: Why not? Hitler always said they would kill off the Poles to make room for Germans out there.

  ETALINA: But look at them, there must be thousands. . . . They’d never gas that many Aryans! To Alma: I think they’re going to give them these barracks, Madame!

  Mandel and Ladislaus enter.

  Silence. Mandel now picks up Ladislaus to show him off to the orchestra.

  MANDEL: Isn’t he beautiful?

  Only Tchaikowska and other Blockawas purr and smile. The orchestra sits in silence, not knowing what to make of this or Etalina’s theory.

  MANDEL, to Alma: What’s the matter with them?

  ALMA: It’s nothing, Frau Mandel—there seems to be a rumor that these Aryan Poles will be given our barracks. . . .

  MANDEL: Oh, not at all, Madame—in fact, I can tell you that there will be no further selections from within our camp. Of course we have no room for new arrivals—so for them . . . there will be other arrangements.

  Cut to Fania, turning out toward the window; she sees a line of trucks loading the peasants for gassing.

  Cut to the child’s mother being pushed aboard—but now she is fighting to stay off the truck and looking desperately about for her child.

  Cut to Mandel, now fairly surrounded with players who, in their relief, can now express feeling for the beautiful child. Featured here is Marianne, who is chanting a nursery rhyme and tickling his cheek. . . .

  MARIANNE: Hoppa, hoppa, Ladislaus

  Softly as a little mouse . . .

  Mandel, with an almost girlishly innocent laugh, presses the child’s face against her own. Then putting him down, and bending to him, holding his hand.

  MANDEL: And now we are going to get you a nice new little suit, and shoes, and a sweet little shirt. She gives a perfectly happy, proud glance at the orchestra. Work hard now—we are all expecting an especially fine concert for the hospital on Sunday! To child: Come along.

  She exits with Ladislaus hanging on to her finger.

  Cut to the “street,” teeming with life a few moments before, now totally cleansed of people. Mandel leads the boy so as to avoid the dying embers of cooking fires, other debris left by the crowd, bundles, cookpots. . . .

  Kapos are policing the area, throwing debris into hand-drawn wagons. A kapo picks up a ball, and as Mandel approaches he bows a little and offers it to her. She accepts it and hands it to Ladislaus and walks on, tenderly holding his hand.

  Cut to the players, clustered at the door and windows, watching Mandel going away. They are all confused, yet attracted by this show of humanity.

  GISELLE: So she’s a human being after all!

  ESTHER: She is? Where’s the mother?

  ETALINA: Still—in a way, Esther . . . I mean at least she adores the child.

  ESTHER, with a wide look of alarm to all: What’s happening here . . . ?

  PAULETTE: All she said was that . . .

  ESTHER, shutting her ears with her hands: One Polack kid she saves and suddenly she’s human? What is happening here!

  From the podium, Alma calmly, sternly summons them with the tapping of her baton.

  ALMA: From the beginning, please! We have a great deal to do before Sunday.

  Silently they seat themselves. And Beethoven’s Fifth begins.

  Cut to the searchlight from a tower, sweeping the street. Sirens sound and the searchlight is extinguished.

  Cut to Marianne, singing; breaks off as the sirens sound. And all lights go out.

  As the sirens die out, bombers take over.

  The players sit waiting in the dark, eyes turned upward toward the sound. As the sound rises to crescendo, Alma exits into her room; and as she is closing the door she catches Fania’s eye. Fania rises, approaches the door.

  Cut to Alma’s room. Still in darkness, Alma sits. The bombers are fading.

  ALMA: I will be leaving you after the Sunday concert, Fania. Fania is surprised. They are sending me on a tour to play for the troops. I wanted you to be first to hear the news. A different camera angle reveals the excitement and pride in her expression. I am going to be released, Fania! Can you imagine it? I’ll play what I like and as I like. They said . . . Elated now, filling herself: they said a musician of my caliber ought not be wasted here! . . . What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy for me.

  FANIA: Well, I am, of course. But you’ll be entertaining men who are fighting to keep us enslaved, won’t you.

  ALMA: But that is not the point! I . . . Only an instant’s difficulty. I will play for German soldiers.

/>   FANIA, changing the hopeless subject: And what about us? We’re going to continue, aren’t we?

  ALMA: I have suggested you to replace me.

  FANIA—nods, consenting: Well . . . A move to leave. I hope . . . it ends soon for all of us.

  She turns to grasp the doorknob.

  ALMA: Why are you trying to spoil my happiness?

  Fania turns to her, trying to plumb her.

  ALMA: I will be playing for honorable men, not these murderers here! Soldiers risk their lives . . . !

  FANIA: Why do you need my approval? If it makes you happy then enjoy your happiness.

  ALMA: Not all Germans are Nazis, Fania! You are nothing but a racialist if you think so!

  FANIA: Alma—you are German, you are free—what more do you want! I agree, it is an extraordinary honor—the only Jew to play a violin for the German Army! My head will explode . . . !

  She pulls the door open just as SS Frau Schmidt walks up to it. Shock. Schmidt is the powerhouse who runs the clothing depot and who knocked Fania down earlier on for speaking out of line.

  ALMA: Why . . . Frau Schmidt . . . come in . . . please!

  The lights suddenly go on. All glance up, noting this wordlessly.

  SCHMIDT: I wanted to extend my congratulations, Madame Rosé—I have just heard the great news.

  ALMA, ravished: Oh, thank you, thank you, Frau Schmidt. This is very moving to me, especially coming from you.

  SCHMIDT: Yes, but I always express my feelings. I would like you to join me for dinner tonight—a farewell in your honor?

  ALMA: I . . . I am overwhelmed, Frau Schmidt. Of course.

  SCHMIDT: At eight, then?—in my quarters.

  ALMA: Oh, I’ll be there. . . . Thank you, thank you.

  Schmidt exits. Now, eyes glistening with joy, Alma turns to Fania.

  ALMA: Now . . . now you see! That woman, I can tell you, has tried everything to be transferred . . . she is desperate to get out of here, and yet she has the goodness to come and wish me well on my departure.

  FANIA, stunned: Well I certainly never expected that of her. . . . But who knows what’s in the human heart?

  ALMA: You judge people, Fania, you are terribly harsh.

  Alma is now sprucing herself up for dinner, brushing her skirt, straightening her blouse. . . .