He left, suggesting we meet up that evening with Cousteau, near Pigalle. As I headed out, I went over to greet Brasillach, who was sitting with a woman I didn’t know; he acted as if he hadn’t recognized me and welcomed me with a smile, but did not introduce me to his companion. I asked him for news of his sister and his brother-in-law; he politely enquired about the conditions of life in Germany; we vaguely agreed to see each other again, without fixing a date. I went back to my hotel room, changed into my uniform, wrote a note to Knochen, and left to drop it off at Avenue Foch. Then I returned to put my civilian clothes back on and went out walking until the time we’d agreed on. I found Rebatet and Cousteau at the Liberty, a drag bar at the Place Blanche. Cousteau, not that he was into that sort of thing, knew the owner, Tonton, and obviously at least half the queens, whom he called by their first names; several of them, proud and absurd with their wigs, makeup, and glass jewelry, exchanged taunts with him and Rebatet while we drank martinis. “That one, you see,” Cousteau pointed, “I nicknamed her ‘Pompe-Funèbre.’ Because she sucks you to death.”—“You stole that from Maxime Du Camp, you creep,” Rebatet retorted with a face, before diving into his vast literary knowledge to try to surpass him. “And you, darling, what do you do?” one of the queens asked me, pointing an impressively long cigarette holder at me. “He’s with the Gestapo,” Cousteau said ironically. The fairy placed her lace-gloved fingers on her lips and let out a long “Ooooh.” But Cousteau had already launched into a long anecdote about Doriot’s boys giving blow jobs to German soldiers in the Palais Royal urinals; the Parisian cops who regularly raided them or those toward the bottom of the Champs-Élysées sometimes ran into bad surprises; but while the Préfecture bitched, the Majestic seemed not to care. These ambiguous stories put me ill at ease: What were they playing at, these two? Other comrades, I knew, showed off less and practiced more. But neither of them had the slightest scruple about publishing anonymous denunciations in the columns of Je Suis Partout; and if someone didn’t have the misfortune of being a Jew, he could just as easily be made into a homosexual; more than one career, or even life, had been ruined that way. Cousteau and Rebatet, I thought, were trying to show that their revolutionary radicalism surmounted all prejudices (except those that were scientific and racialist, as French thinking had to be); basically, they too were just trying to shock the bourgeois, like the surrealists and André Gide, whom they so execrated. “Did you know, Max,” Rebatet asked me, “that the sacred phallus the Romans paraded during the Liberalia, in the spring and at harvest time, was called a fascinus? Mussolini may have remembered that.” I shrugged my shoulders: all this seemed false to me, bad theater, a stage production, while everywhere people were dying for real. I, for one, really did want a boy—not just for show, but for the warmth of his skin, the sharpness of his sweat, the sweetness of his sex nestled between his legs like a little animal. As for Rebatet, he was afraid of his shadow, of men and of women, of the presence of his own flesh, of everything except abstract ideas that could offer him no resistance. More than ever I wanted to be left alone, but it seemed this was impossible: I was scraping my skin on the world as on broken glass; I kept deliberately swallowing fishhooks, then being surprised when I tore my guts out of my mouth.
My interview with Helmut Knochen, the next day, only reinforced this feeling. He received me with a curious mixture of ostentatious camaraderie and condescending haughtiness. When he was working at the SD, I never saw him outside the office; of course, he must have known that I spent a lot of time with Best then (but maybe now that was no longer a recommendation). Whatever the case, I told him that I had seen Best in Berlin and he asked me how he was doing. I also mentioned that I had served under the command of Dr. Thomas, as he had; he then asked me about my experiences in Russia, while still making me subtly feel the distance between us: he, the Standartenführer in charge of an entire country; I, a convalescent with an uncertain future. He had received me in his office, around a low table decorated with a vase of dried flowers; he had settled into the sofa, crossing his long legs sheathed in riding breeches, leaving me to cram into the depths of a small and too low armchair: from where I sat, his knee almost hid his face and the vagueness of his eyes. I didn’t know how to broach the subject that concerned me. Finally, I told him somewhat at random that I was preparing a book about the future of Germany’s international relations, embroidering on the ideas I had picked up from Best’s Festgabe (and as I spoke, I picked up steam and began convincing myself that I really did intend to write such a book, which would make an impression and ensure my future). Knochen listened politely, nodding his head. Finally I slipped in that I was thinking of taking up a position in France to gather concrete experiences there, which would complete those of Russia. “Have you been offered something?” he asked with a gleam of curiosity. “I hadn’t heard.”—“Not yet, Standartenführer, it’s under discussion. It doesn’t pose any problems in principle, but the appropriate position would have to open up or be created.”—“With me, you know, there’s nothing for now. It’s a pity, the position of Specialist for Jewish Affairs was vacant in December, but it has already been filled.” I forced myself to smile: “That’s not what I’m looking for.”—“But you’ve acquired some good experience in that field, it seems to me. And the Jewish question, in France, touches very closely on our diplomatic relations with Vichy. But in any case your rank is too high: it’s at most a position for a Hauptsturmführer. What about with Abetz? Have you been to see him? If I remember correctly, you had personal contacts with the Parisian protofascists. That should interest the ambassador.”
I found myself on the wide, almost deserted sidewalk of Avenue Foch in a state of profound discouragement: I felt as if I were confronted with a wall—a soft, elusive, blurry one, but still just as insurmountable as a high stone wall. At the top of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe still hid the morning sun and cast long shadows on the pavement. Go to Abetz? True, I could probably mention our brief meeting in 1933 as a reference, or have myself introduced by someone from Je Suis Partout. But I didn’t feel up to it. I thought of my sister, in Switzerland: perhaps a posting in Switzerland would suit me? I could see her from time to time, when she accompanied her husband to the sanatorium. But there were almost no SD positions in Switzerland, and everyone fought for them. Dr. Mandelbrod could probably have swept aside all obstacles, for France as well as for Switzerland; but Dr. Mandelbrod, I knew, had his own ideas in mind for me.
I went back to change into civilian clothes and then went to the Louvre: there, at least, surrounded by these immobile, serene figures, I felt calmer. I sat for a long time in front of Philippe de Champaigne’s dead Christ; but it was especially a little painting by Watteau that held my attention, L’indifférent: a character dressed for a party stepping forward in a dance, almost with an entrechat, his arms poised as if waiting for the first note of an overture, feminine, but with an obvious erection under his pistachio-green silk breeches, and with an indefinably sad, almost lost face, having already forgotten everything and perhaps not even trying to remember why or for whom he was posing this way. It struck me as a rather pertinent commentary on my situation, and even the title brought its counterpoint: indifferent? no, I wasn’t indifferent, I had only to pass in front of a painting of a woman with heavy black hair to feel an axe blow of the imagination; and even when the faces didn’t look at all like hers, under the rich Renaissance or Regency trappings, under those dazzling fabrics, loaded with colors and gemstones, as thick as the dripping oil of the painters, it was her body I could make out, her breasts, her belly, her hips, pure, flowing smoothly over the bones or slightly curved, enclosing the only source of life I knew where to find. Angry, I left the museum, but that wasn’t enough, for every woman I met or saw laughing behind a window had the same effect on me. I downed drink after drink whenever I passed a café, but the more I drank, the more lucid I seemed to become, my eyes opened and the world rushed into them, roaring, bleeding, voracious, spattering the inside
of my head with fluids and excrement. My pineal eye, gaping vagina in the middle of my forehead, projected a crude, gloomy, implacable light on this world, and allowed me to read each drop of sweat, each pimple, each poorly shaven hair on the garish faces that assailed me as an emotion, the infinite cry of anguish of the child forever prisoner in the atrocious body of a clumsy adult incapable, even by killing, of avenging himself for the fact of living. Finally, it was already late in the night, a boy accosted me in a bistro to ask me for a cigarette: there, maybe, I could drown myself for a few instants. He agreed to come up to my room. Another one, I said to myself as I climbed the stairs, another one, but it will never be enough. We each got undressed on opposite sides of the bed; ridiculously, he kept on his shoes and watch. I asked him to have me standing up, leaning on the chest of drawers, facing the narrow mirror that dominated the room. When the pleasure seized me, I kept my eyes open, I scrutinized my crimson, hideously swollen face, trying to see in it, my true face filling my features from behind, the features of my sister’s face. But then this surprising thing happened: between these two faces and their perfect fusion there slid, smooth, transparent as a glass leaf, another face, the bitter, placid face of our mother, infinitely fine but more opaque, denser than the thickest of walls. Seized with an enormous rage, I roared and smashed the mirror with my fist; the boy, frightened, jumped and fell back onto the bed as he came in long spurts. I came too, but reflexively, without feeling it, already going limp. Blood dripped from my fingers onto the floor. I went into the bathroom, washed my hand, pulled a piece of glass out of it, wrapped it in a towel. When I came out, the boy was getting dressed, obviously worried. I searched through my pants pocket and threw a few bills on the bed: “Get out.” He seized the money and fled without a word. I wanted to go to bed but first I carefully collected the pieces of broken glass, throwing them into the waste-paper basket and examining the floor to be sure I hadn’t overlooked any, then I wiped up the drops of blood and went to wash. Finally I could lie down; but the bed was a crucifix to me, a torture rack. What was she doing here, the odious bitch? Hadn’t I suffered enough because of her? Did she have to persecute me again this way? I sat cross-legged on the sheets and smoked cigarette after cigarette as I thought. The wan gleam of a streetlight filtered through the closed shutters. My thinking—carried away, panic-stricken—had turned into a sly old assassin; a new Macbeth, it murdered my sleep. I kept feeling as if I were on the point of understanding something, but this comprehension remained at the tip of my lacerated fingers, mocking me, imperceptibly withdrawing as I approached it. Finally a thought allowed itself to be grasped: I contemplated it with disgust, but since none other wanted to come take its place, I had to grant it its due. I placed it on the night table like a heavy old coin: if I tapped it with my fingernail, it sounded true, no matter how often I flipped it, it always presented me with the same impassive face.
In the morning, very early, I paid my bill and took the first train south. The French had to reserve their seats days or even weeks in advance, but the compartments for Germans were always half empty. I went down to Marseille, at the limit of the German zone. The train made frequent stops; in the stations, just as in Russia, farmers crowded round to sell the passengers food—hard-boiled eggs, chicken drumsticks, salted boiled potatoes—and when I was hungry, I took something at random, through the window. I didn’t read, I just idly watched the landscape flow by and toyed with my torn fingers; my thoughts wandered, detached from both the past and the present. In Marseille, I went to the Gestapostelle to inquire about access to the Italian zone. A young Obersturmführer received me: “Relations are a little delicate, right now. The Italians show no understanding for our efforts to resolve the Jewish question. Their zone has become a veritable paradise for Jews. When we asked them at least to intern them, they put them up in the best ski resorts in the Alps.” But I didn’t care about this Obersturmführer’s problems. I explained what I wanted: he looked worried, but I assured him that I relieved him of all responsibility. Finally he agreed to write a letter for me asking the Italian authorities to facilitate my movements for personal reasons. It was getting late and I took a room for the night, on the Vieux Port. The next morning, I got on a bus headed for Toulon; at the boundary line, the bersaglieri, with their ridiculous feathered hats, let us pass without any inspections. In Toulon, I changed buses, then again in Cannes; finally in the afternoon I reached Antibes. The bus dropped me off at the main square; my bag on my shoulder, I walked round the Port Vauban, passed the squat mass of the Fort Carré, and began to follow the road by the sea. A light, salty breeze was coming in from the bay; little waves licked the strip of sand, the cry of the seagulls resounded over the surf and the sounds of the occasional vehicle; aside from a few Italian soldiers, the beach was deserted. With my civilian clothes, no one paid any attention to me: an Italian policeman hailed me, but only to ask me for a light. The house was a few kilometers away from the center of town. I walked calmly, I didn’t feel in a hurry; the sight and smell of the Mediterranean left me indifferent, but I no longer felt any anguish, I remained calm. Finally I reached the dirt path that led to the property. A faint breeze rustled the branches of the umbrella pines along the path, and their fragrance mixed with that of the sea. The gate, its paint chipped, stood half open. A long lane cut across a handsome park planted with black pines; I didn’t follow it, but glided along the inside of the wall to the end of the park; there I got undressed and put on my uniform. It was a little wrinkled from having been folded in my traveling bag; I smoothed it out with my hand, it would do. The sandy ground, between the spaced-out trees, was covered with pine needles; beyond the long, slender trunks, you could see the ochre wall of the house, with its terrace; the sun, behind the wall surrounding the property, shone through the undulating tops of the trees, confusingly. I went back to the gate and up the path; at the front door, I rang the bell. I heard something like a stifled laugh on my right, among the trees: I looked, but didn’t see anything. Then a man’s voice called out from the other side of the house: “Hello! Over here.” Right away I recognized Moreau’s voice. He was waiting in front of the entrance to the living room, below the terrace, an extinguished pipe in his hand; he wore an old knitted sweater and a bow tie, and looked to me lamentably old. He frowned when he saw my uniform: “What do you want? Who are you looking for?” I came forward and took off my cap: “You don’t recognize me?” He stared, and his mouth opened; then he took a step forward and shook my hand vigorously, patting me on the shoulder. “Of course, of course!” He stepped back and contemplated me, embarrassed: “But what’s this uniform?”—“The one I serve under.” He turned around and called into the house: “Héloïse! Come see who’s here!” The living room was deep in shadow; I saw a form move forward, slim, gray; then an old woman appeared behind Moreau and contemplated me in silence. So this was my mother? “Your sister wrote us that you had been wounded,” she said finally. “You could have written to us too. You could at least have told us you were coming.” Her voice, compared to her yellowed face and her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, seemed still young; but for me, it was as if the most ancient times were speaking, in an immense voice that made me shrink, reduced me almost to nothing, despite the protection of my uniform, laughable talisman that it was. Moreau must have seen my confusion: “Of course,” he said quickly, “we’re happy to see you. You’re always at home, here.” My mother was still staring at me enigmatically. “Well, come in,” she said finally. “Come kiss your mother.” I put down my bag, went up to her, and, leaning over, kissed her on the cheek. Then I took her in my arms and hugged her to me. I felt her stiffen; she was like a branch in my arms, a bird I could easily have suffocated. Her hands came up and rested on my back. “You must be tired. Come, we’ll settle you in.” I let her go and straightened up. Again, behind me, I heard soft laughter. I turned around and saw two little identical twins, dressed in matching shorts and jackets, who, standing next to each other, were staring at me with
big, curious, amused eyes. They must have been seven or eight. “Who are you?” I asked them.—“The children of a friend,” my mother replied. “We’re keeping them for now.” One of them raised his hand and pointed at me: “And him, who is he?”—“He’s a German,” said the other one. “Can’t you see?”—“He’s my son,” my mother declared. “His name is Max. Come say hello.”—“Your son is a German soldier, Aunt?” the first one asked.—“Yes. Shake his hand.” They hesitated, then came forward together and held out their little hands to me. “What are your names?” I asked. They didn’t answer. “These are Tristan and Orlando,” my mother said. “But I always mix them up. They love passing for each other. You’re never really sure.”—“That’s because there is no difference between us, Aunt,” said one of the little ones. “One name would be enough for both of us.”—“I warn you,” I said, “I’m a policeman. For us, identities are very important.” Their eyes widened: “Oh, super,” said one.—“Have you come to arrest someone?” asked the other.—“Maybe,” I said.—“Stop being silly,” said my mother.
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