FIRST DAY

"This isn't such a bad place", the young man said.

"It isn't bad, as these places go," said the old man.

"Have you been here long?"

"Same as you, about a week."

"How did they get you?" asked the old man.

"In a raid on Headquarters....You, too?"

"No," said the old man, "I stay away from Headquarters,kid.
THE BRIDGE
They got me at the bridge. "

"You mean, you are one of the..."

"Get going," I said.

SECOND DAY

"Have they interrogated you yet, kid ? " asked the old man.

"Several times," said the kid.

"Did they give you the 'treatment'?"

"Not too bad."

"Tell them anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Never answered a question."

"That isn't good," said the old man. "You always should say
something."

"But they told me at Headquarters..."

"Never mind Headquarters,Kid," said the old man. "They aren't
here. You should always tell a little bit."

"If I didn't know you had been at the Bridge, I'd say..."

"Listen, kid, if you don't talk, they'll break you, just to
show they can do it. Better tell them a little."

"You mean, you...."

"Never mind what I do," said the old man, "I have been around."

"Talking is prohibited," I said, "How many times must I tell you."

THIRD DAY

"I didn't think it would be like this," said the kid.

"What would..?" asked the old man.

"The time after the victory," said the kid.

"How long have you been at it, kid?"

"Since '40, when the Others got my father."

"Who was your father, kid?"

"Marco."

"Marco was a good man."

"He was a great man," said the kid.

"What group were you with in the war ?"

"Group Green."

"Tough going?"

"Tough......but great."

"Because of the Idea?"

"That's it......the 'Ideal.'"

"And afterwards....?"

"It wasn't right....not as we expected."

"Couldn't settle down?"

"It wasn't what we expected," said the kid. "It was so dull...not the right thing....you know, no spirit......no enthusiasm...It wasn't the real victory.."

"Nothing ever is," said the old man.

"What do you mean?" asked the kid.

"Forget it."

"Keep moving," I said, *the Third Man*.

FOURTH DAY

"Were you questioned again, kid ?" asked the old man.

"No, not again," answered the kid. "Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know."

"What do you think?"

"I don't think."

"You know," said the kid after a while, " there is a football field
right outside the wall. I can see it from the window."

"Like to play?"

"I don't know," said the kid, " I hardly remember how. It has
been a long time."
been a long time."

"You should never forget to play, kid."

"Well," said the kid, " I have the Idea. That's worth more than
anything."

The old man did not answer.

"Do you think they will shoot me?" asked the kid.

"Would you mind dying for the Idea?" answered the old man.

"I don't know......not really, I suppose.. One never knows.."

"That's right, One never does."

"I somehow can't imagine dying," said the kid, I can't think
of all these big things happening without me....or life...
..without me."

"Don't think, think!" replied the old man.

"This is a last warning," I said.

FIFTH DAY

"The kid won't be down anymore," I said, *the Third Man*.

"When....?"

FIRST DAY

"This isn't such a bad place," the young man said.

"Have you been here long?"

"Same as you, about a week."

"No," said the old man, "I stay away from Headquarters, kid.

They got me at the bridge."

"Get going," said the third man.

SECOND DAY

"Have they interrogated you yet, kid?" asked the old man.

"Not too bad."

"Tell them anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Never answered a question."

"Never mind Headquarters, kid," said the old man. "They aren't here."

3

"Couldn't settle down?"

"It wasn't what we expected," said the kid. "It was so dull....not the right thing....you know, no spirit....no enthusiasm....It wasn't the real victory...."

"Forget it."

"Keep moving," the third man said.

FOURTH DAY

"Were you questioned again, kid?" asked the old man.

"I don't know."

"What do you think?"

"I don't think."

"You know," said the kid after a while, "there is a football field right outside the wall. I can see it from the window."

"Like to play?"

"I don't know," said the kid, "I hardly remember how. It has been a long time."

"Well," said the kid, "I have the Ideal. That's worth more than anything."

The old man did not answer.

"Would you mind dying for the Ideal?" answered the old man.

"I don't know....not really, I suppose....One never knows...."

4

"That's right. One never does."

"I somehow can't imagine dying," said the kid. I can't think of all
these big things happening without me....or life....without me."

"Don't think of it," replied the old man.

"This is a last warning," the third man said.

## FIFTH DAY

"The kid won't be down anymore," said the third man.

"When....?"

"I can't answer any questions."

The old man said, "Sometimes I wish they had got me at his age, when
there was still purpose to all this."

The third man did not reply.

The old man continued, almost to himself: "I wonder whether they
know at Headquarters what would happen if victory were ever won?

What would men like me...or the kid...do then?"

"If that's the way you feel about it," said the third man, "why
don't you confess?"

The old man answered: "I have to go through with it now. Only that
way can I give meaning to my life...."

The old man started pacing, slowly, deliberately....alone....

FIRST DAY

"Have you been here long?"

"Same as you, about a week."

"In a raid on Headquarters... You, too?"

"No," said the old man, "I stay away from Headquarters, kid."

They got me at the bridge."

"Get going," I said.

SECOND DAY

"Not too bad."

"Tell them anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Never answered a question."

"Never mind Headquarters, kid," said the old man. "They aren't here. You should always tell a little bit."

"You mean, you...."

C)

THIRD DAY

"Who was your father, kid?"

"Marco."

"Marco was a good man."

"Group Green."

Tough going?"

"Tough... but great."

"Because of the Idea?"

"That's it... the 'Idea'."

"And afterwards...?"

"It wasn't right... not as we expected."

"Couldn't settle down?"

"It wasn't what we expected," said the kid. "It was so dull...not the right thing...you know, no spirit...no enthusiasm...It wasn't the real victory."

"Forget it."

"Keep moving," I said.

FOURTH DAY

"No, not again, " answered the kid. "Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know."

"What do you think?"

"I don't think."

"Like to play?"

The old man did not answer.

"I don't know... not really, I suppose. One never knows..."

"I somehow can't imagine dying," said the kid. "I can't think
of all these big things happening without me... for life...

without me."

"Don't think I know think of it," replied the old man.

FIFTH DAY

"The kid won't be down anymore," I said.

"When...?"

The old man said: "Sometimes I wish they had got me at his age,
when there was still purpose to all this."

I did not reply.

The old man continued, almost to himself: "I wonder wonder whether
they know at Headquarters what would happen if victory were ever won?

What would men like me. . .or the kid. . .do then?"

"If that's the way you feel about it," I said, "why don't you confess?"

The old man answered: "I have to go through with it now. Only that way
can I give meaning to my life."

To discuss portrayals of characters before defining one's concept of the elements of tragedy is putting the cart before the horse. Since unity, the subordination of each part to the cohesion of the whole, is a prerequisite to the sincere interpretation of any play, the conception of its tragic ingredients automatically determines the characterizations.

Tragedy can be conceived in many ways. It can be pictured as the struggle of good against evil, the clash of justice with injustice. The Manichean concept of the conflict of the forces of light against the dark has always exerted a strong fascination over men. But true tragedy goes deeper. Good and evil are, after all, relative terms, dependant to a large extent on existing standards of morality. True tragedy, as the Greeks already perceived, is a story of inevitability. Its poignancy is derived from the impact of men, acting out of a certain inner necessity, on an environment that has no alternative.

The task of the actor goes beyond the creation of characters who, through certain surface gestures, achieve an illusion of virtue or reprehensibleness. He has to make live inner conflicts which by their very compulsion create an impression of finality.

The conflict between Othello and Iago is determined by different reactions to the same problem: jealousy. It would be superficial to conceive Iago as the suave, clever Machiavellian southerner, confronting the direct, honst Othello. Iago is clever, yes. But it is not the cleverness that can spin large plans and carry them to their conclusion out of a detached dislike. Iago is just as much a slave of his passions as Othello. But Iago is more subtle. Iago is a person who has believed all his life that he was the absolute master of his

will. But now, confronted with his wife's possible infidelity, passed over in the appointment to the lieutenancy, he discovers in himself depths of emotion, that defy control. Only by channeling these passions and making them seem tools of larger ends, can Iago maintain his self-respect. In this manner is that inflexible hatred of Othello achieved. To call Iago evil is a platitude. Evil implies an option of good. Iago has no such choice. His passions, once aroused, can be directed by this clever, seemingly restrained, but yet undisciplined character, in only this fashion.

Iago's character must be established in the first act. His explanation for his motives for hitting Othello in Scene 1, while convincingly delivered, should nevertheless leave the impression that a mere dissatisfaction over promotion can not be the sole key to such an implacable animosity.

Scene 3, the dialogue with Roderiguez ought to clarify Iago's estimate of himself. The dialogue at the end of the scene, however, destroys that illusion of self-discipline. Iago is transformed into a vain individual, torn by jealousy, who must regain his self-respect in the only fashion allowed by his character. This monologue is to be delivered not as a statement of fact, but as an outburst of emotion determining all of the subsequent action.

Thereafter Iago seems cool, detached, clever. But whenever his relation to his wife is reached, such as in Scene 2, Act 2, whenever he discusses the effects of jealousy, as in Act 3, his self-control begins to weaken and his talk becomes a form of self-torture or an incitement to action. The dialogue with Desdemona in Act 2 Scene 1, trandescends mere banter and is pervaded with an atmosphere of tension. Iago's flippant remarks about women show his basic resentment.

Once the character is established detailed directions for later scenes are superfluous. Care should be taken that Iago's killing of Emilia in Act V becomes something more than the villain's revenge, Iago's pent-up frustration and hatred are expressed in this act and the final irony that even the clever, subtle Iago could ultimately find no better solution to his problem than Othello.

Discussion of Iago's outward appearance is hardly of primary importance. The easy way out would be the smooth, dark, oily southerner. But that overlooks the fact that Iago is considered by everyone to be honest. Besides evil men rarely look the part. In the final analysis, the strength of a portrayal is not conditioned by appearance, as long as one guards against incongruities, but by the actor's penetration of the character and by his inner conviction.

Othello is a less difficult character to achieve. Handicapped by his race, he has attained high office through strength of character, self-discipline and direct action. Exposed to taunts regarding his color, he has a tentative feeling of insecurity, accentuated by his basic primitiveness. The apparent unfaithfulness of the one person he loves breaks down Othello's self-discipline and, just as with Iago, the elementary patterns of his personality assert themselves. The killing of Desdemona becomes as inevitable as Iago's plotting, once the original dilemma is posed.

Othello, too, must be fixed in the first act. The dignity of his personality and his self-control are apparent in the encounter with Brabantino in Scene 2. It should be made clear, however, that this restraint is a matter of self-discipline and not an inherent trait. Scene 3 ought to show that taunts about his color are nothing new to Othello.

During Brabantino's speech he shows the weariness of a person who has heard adversaries fall back on this last resort time and again. His answer is dignified but filled with passion. The destruction of Othello's self-respect, through Acts 5 and 6, undermines his restraint and culminates in the violent slaying of Desdemona. The act completed, Othello is spent. His vengeful talk to Emilia merely serves to still his conscience. The revelation of Iago's deception restores meaning to a relationship now irretrievably lost.

It is not apparent from the play that Othello need be a man of powerful physique. His strength is in his intensity, not in his appearance. On the contrary, an extremely powerful person might detract from the unity of the play by a shift of emphasis.

This is my conception of the chief antagonists in Othello. Never having seen the play, I have no standards of comparison. Undoubtedly different approaches are possible. The cardinal striving, whether the approach, should be to maintain the unity of the play by showing why a certain character could not help but provoke an inevitable response from Othello. The portrayals of Othello and Iago are thus dependent on each other and must be kept in tune.

Othello is a study of jealousy. Its tragedy lies in the definition of the dilemma, that pairs in our soul love, the most unselfish of all emotions with jealousy, the most possessive. It is the story of children of clay who destroy their gods to live in darkness, rather than letting others share the light.

The task of the actor goes beyond the creation of characters who through certain surface gestures achieve an illusion of virtue or reprehensibleness. He has to make live inner conflicts which by their very compulsion create an impression of finality.

The conflict between Othello and Iago is determined by different reactions to the same problem: jealousy. It would be superficial to conceive Iago as the suave, clever Machiavellian (southerner), confronting the direct, honest Othello. Iago is clever, yes. But it is not the cleverness that can spin large plans and carry them to their conclusion out of a detached dislike. Iago is just as much a slave of his passions as Othello. But Iago is more subtle. Iago is a person who has believed all his life that he was the absolute master of his

[Y]

-1-

Iago's character must be established in the first act. His explanation of his motives for hitting hating Othello in Scene 1, while convincingly delivered, should nevertheless leave the impression that a mere dissatisfaction over promotion can not be the sole key to such an implacable animosity.

Thereafter Iago seems cool, detached, clever. But whenever the relation to his wife is reached, such as in Scene 2, Act 2, whenever he discusses the effects of jealousy, as in Act 3, his self-control begins to weaken and his talk becomes a form of self-torture or an incitement to action. The dialogue with Desdemona in Act 2 Scene 1, trandescends mere banter and is pervaded with an atmosphere of tension. Iago's flippant remarks about women show his basic resentment.

Once the character is established, detailed directions
for later scenes are superfluous. Care should be taken that
Iago's killing of Emilia in Act V becomes something more
than the villain's revenge. Iago's pent-up frustration and
hatred are expressed in this act and the final irony that
even the clever, subtle Iago could ultimately find no better
solution to his problem than Othello.

Discussion of Iago's outward appearance is
hardly of primary importance. The easy way out would be the smooth
dark, oily southerner. But that overlooks the fact that Iago
is considered by everyone to be honest. Besides evil men rarely
look the part. In the final analysis, the strength of a
portrayal is not conditioned by appearance, as long as one
guards against incongruities, but by the actor's penetration
of the character and by his inner conviction.

Othello is a less difficult character to
achieve. Handicapped by his race, he has attained high office
through strength of character, self-discipline and direct action.
Exposed to taunts regarding his color, he has a tentative
feeling of insecurity, accentuated by his basic primitiveness.
The apparent unfaithfulness of the one person he loves breaks
down Othello's self-discipline and, just as with Iago the ele-
mentary patterns of his personality assert themselves. The
killing of Desdemona becomes as inevitable as Iago's plotting
once the original dilemma is posed.

During Brabantino's speech he shows the weariness of a person who has heard adversaries fall back on this last resort time and again. His answer is dignified but filled with passion. The destruction of Othello's self-respect, through Acts 3 and 4 undermines his restraint and culminates in the violent slaying of Desdemona. The act completed, Othello is spent. His vengeful talk to Emilia merely serves to still his conscience. The revelation of Iago's deception restores meaning to a relationship now irretrievably lost.

This is my conception of the chief antagonist in Othello. Never having seen the play, I have no standards of comparison. Undoubtedly different approaches are possible. The cardinal striving, whatever the approach, should be to maintain the unity of the play by showing why a certain character could not help but provoke an inevitable response from Othello. The portrayals of Othello and Iago are thus dependent on each other and must be kept in tune.

It is easy to call Mme. Bovary a great novel. While, like many platitudes it is probably true, it says nothing of one's concept of 'greatness' and it is thus not a satisfying description.

What is greatness in Art? Is it a faithful reproduction of a segment of life? Is the artist merely the reporter of his environment? Art is the expression by an individual, whose outstanding attributes should be sensitivity and understanding, of ideas felt by the multitude, however inarticulate. Art represents something universal then, subjective as seen by one person, yes, but universal in its understanding and conception of values. And great Art transcends the mere reporting of what is, goes beyond the petty problems of today, reaches some fundamental? feeling? emotion? of humanity, a problem, a concept, a dream that is not dependent on nationality or region, a yearning as human as man himself, a dilemma as eternal as mortality. And such is our intuitive understanding of eternity (for universality implies "unendingness"), that when faced by a Mona Lisa, a Sistine Chapel, a great book or even a perfect sunset, we recognize it, sometimes, without understanding, but always with the feeling of having had a glimpse of the difficult road traversed or the steep climb ahead, as a landscape is outlined briefly by a stroke of lightning in the dark.

Mme. Bovary by Flaubert is one of these books. Its value does not lie in its plot alone. The story of the woman who descends the slippery path of adultery has been told before.

(2)

Cy

Others have described sections of France, drawn vivid landscapes. But Flaubert has managed to achieve a blend of frustration with the environment, as immutable and underlying as Emma's problem itself, of the Normandy Landscape, Normandy dreams and limitations. Mme. Bovary is a product of this life; her tragedy is conditioned by it. While the dilemma of the woman, doomed to eternal unhappiness since she lacks the substance of achieving happiness: moderation, the satisfaction of whose every desire is almost, but never completely reached, and thus because of its very near-completeness drives her ever further on the road that ends with the destruction of her soul and incidentally (to the basic dilemma that is) of her life, is universal; it is the setting that gives it poignancy. One realizes the futility of Mme. Bovary's aspirations, as one feels the conservatism of her environment set in its fashion since always, continuing until eternity.

And that environment is superlatively well-drawn: the rows of poplars going to the river, Tonville L'Abbeye that "spreads on the riverbank like a cowherd taking a siesta by the waterside," the road to Rouen every tree of which Mme. Bovary came to know so well, all appear in their agelessness. We see the farm where Emma was brought up, its big kitchen where she dreamt and worked and met Charles, the hedgerows and the sun setting behind a hill with its last rays making a field of wheat. Suddenly we are transported into that atmosphere of thrifty work, that this landscape has forced on its inhabitants where one marries for the dowry of a rich widow in Dieppe, where Rouen with its 120,000 inhabitants is a huge, far-away and, because removed from the

(3)

soil, somehow wicked city, where jam is made on the streets, and
the councillor of the prefecture is a God. There appear these
characters of whom it is difficult to determine whether they
fashioned the landscape or Normandy created them.

And what portraits they are! Charles Bovary, whom nature
intended to be a peasant, but who was made a physician of that
worst type of mediocrity that does not know its status; there is
Homais, the chemist, that typification of the superficial, the
self-important, who needed the environment of people more ignorant
than he, in order to appreciate his own value the better. Binnet
presents himself, the perennial civil servant whose happiness is
easiest attained since his desires are limited to working on a
lathe; who achieves his moment of glory at the visit of the
councillor of the prefecture. The abbe, a kind, yet not very
perceptive man who knows the formalities of his religion and has
never attempted to penetrate its essence. Hinet, the butt of
'scientific progress' who pays for it with the loss of his leg;
Mme Lefrancais, M. L'Heureux, they all belong to Normandy: they
wouldn't exist just like that anywhere else, and yet their types
are found in every country; their hopes, jealousies, quarrels
are not Norman or French but human.

And lastly there is Mme. Bovary. It is a moot question
what would have happened had she married a man of finer differ-
entiation of feeling or greater imagination than Charles. Probably
her aspirations were in their very nature unrealizable since if
one attempts to maintain a peak of happiness, of feeling, or any-
thing else, the maximum becomes the normal and, one is forever

(4)

driving toward higher peaks and larger vistas until at last one reaches a precipice and hurtles to one's doom. It is necessary to know depths in order to scale heights and that realization escaped Emma. Therein, not in her individual transgressions, lies her real tragedy.

Moralists may argue that Emma's fate illustrates her just punishment for amorality. But justice is not the issue here; inevitability is.

Others, perhaps more understanding, will point out that at the very least Emma illustrates the danger of not outgrowing one's childhood dreams and thus becoming unfit for this world.

And a few may wonder - as one does when one sees a house that in one's youth may have been enchanting, mysterious and is now merely commonplace; or a valley at sunset which in the idealism of yesterday was endowed with the glow of worlds to be conquered, today is merely a tilled hillside - whether we really gain by outgrowing our dreams or whether on the other hand our whole life is not a chase after the images, the mysteries, the completeness, the contentness, which eludes us today, but which was ours when we were young...... And which makes life been a continual weaning away of ideals, until, when we are mature, we are eminently reasonable being - without many ideals, and few spontaneous emotions.

It is easy to call *Mine. Bovary* a great novel. While, like many platitudes it is probably true it says nothing of one's concept of 'greatness' and it is thus not a satisfying description.

What is greatness in Art? Is it a faithful reproduction of a segment of life? Is the artist merely the reporter of his environment? Art is the expression by an individual, whose outstanding attributes should be sensitivity and understanding, of ideas felt by the multitude, however inarticulate. Art represents something universal then, subjective as seen by one person, yes, but universal in its understanding and conception of values. And great Art transcends the mere reporting of what is, goes beyond the petty problems of today, reaches some fundamental of humanity, a problem, a concept, a dream that is not dependent on nationality of region, a yearning as human as man himself, a dilemma as eternal as mortality. And such is our *instructive* understanding of eternity (for universality implies "unendingness"), that when faced by a *Mona Lisa*, a *Sistine Chapel*, a great book or *even* a perfect sunset, we recognize it, sometimes, without understanding, but always with the feeling of having had a glimpse of the difficult *road* traversed on the steep climb ahead, as a landscape is outlined briefly by a stroke of lightning in the dark.

*Mine. Bovary* by Flaubert is one of these books. Its value does not lie in its plot alone. The story of the woman who descends the slippery path of adultery has been told before. Others have described sections of France, drawn vivid landscapes.

(2)

[Y]

But Flaubert has manged to achieve a blend of frustration with the environment, as immutable and underlying as Emma's problem itself, of the Normandy Landscape, Normandy dreams and limitations. Mme. Bovary is a product of this life, Her tragedy is conditioned by it. While the dilemma of the woman, doomed to eternal unhappiness since she lacks the substance of achieving happiness: and moderation, the satisfaction of whose every desire is almost, but never completely reached, and this because of its very near-completeness drives her ever further on the road that ends with the destruction of her soul and incidentally (to the basic dilemma that is) of her life, is universal; it is the setting that gives it poignancy. One realizes the futility of Mme. Bovary's aspirations, as one feels the conservatism of her environment set in its fashion since always, continuing until eternity.

And that environment is superlatively well-drawn: the rows of poplars going to the river, Tonville L'Abbeye that "spreads on the river-bank like a cowherd taking a siesta by the waterside", the road to Rouen every tree of which Mme. Bovary came to know so well, all appear in their agelessness.

We see the farm where Emma was brought up, its big kitchen where she dreamt and woked and met Charles, the hedgerows and the sun setting behind a hill with its last rays making glow a field of wheat. Suddenly we are transported into that atmosphere of thrifty work, that this landscape has forced on its inhabitants where one, marries for the dowry of a rich widow in Dieppe, where Rouen with its 120.000 inhabitants is

(4)

(3)

[Y]

a huge, far-away and, because removed from the soil, somehow wicked city, where jam is made on the streets, and the councillor of the prefecture is a God. There appear these characters of whom it is difficult to determine whether they fashioned the landscape of Normandy created them.

And what portraits they are: Charles Bovary, whom nature intended to be a peasant, but who was made a physician of that worst type of mediocrity that does not know its status; there is Homais, the chemist, that typification of the superficial, the self-important, who needed the environment of people more ignorant than he, in order to appreciate his own value the better. Binnet presents himself, the perennial civil servant whose happiness is easiest attained since his desires are limited to working on a lathe, who achieves his moment of glory at the visit of the councillor of the prefecture. The abbé, a kind, yet not very perceptive man who knows the formalities of his religion and has never attempted to penetrate its essence. Hinet, the butt of 'scientific progress' who pays for it with the loss of his leg, Mme Lefrancais, M. L'Heureux, they all belong to Normandy, they wouldn't exist just like that anywhere else, and yet their types are found in every country, their hopes, jealousies, quarrels are not Norman or French but human.

And lastly there is Mme. Bovary. It is a moot question what would have happened had she married a man of finer differentiation of feeling or greater imagination than Charles. Probably HER aspirations were in their very nature unrealizable since if one attempts to maintain a peak of happiness, of feeling, or anything else, the maximum becomes the norm and one is forever driving toward higher peaks and larger vistas until at last

(4)

[Y]

Moralists may argue that Emma's fate illustrates her just punishment for amorality. But justice is not the issue here, inevitability is.

And a few may wonder - as one does when one sees a house that in one's youth may have been enchanting, mysterious and is now merely commonplace; in a valley at sunset which in the idealism of yesterday was endowed with the glow of worlds to be conquered, today is merely a tilled hillside - whether we really gain by outgrowing our dreams or whether on the other hand our whole life is not base after the images, the mysteries, the completeness, the contentness, which eludes us today, but which was ours when we were young......

Joachin Boeck lives in a little town in Southern Germany.

In this second year of military occupation his serenity is a
constant in a turbulent environment. The regularity and
clarity of Joachin Boeck's life serves as a reminder of the time
when ruins could be seen only in newspapers and hunger was an
object of charity.

Joachin Boeck occupies a modest room in a middle-class inn.
He leaves at nine o'clock in the morning, never without bidding
the landlady good-bye. He spends his days as administrative
manager of a clothing factory. He is well-liked by all his
associates because of his modesty and simplicity. On several
occasions he has refused lucrative promotions that would take
him to the big city nearby. The little town satisfies him, he
says. After all, true happiness is not found among teeming
thousands but with persons of good cheer and moderate judgments.

"He is such a fine man," the landlady avers, "and so quiet.
God knows he has had his share of trouble but he never complains."
And it is true that life hasn't been easy for him. He is one of
the men who lost all his identity papers in a bombing attack in
a big city in the industrial north. <As a stranger> he had to
undergo no end of red tape to replace them. But his cheerfulness
and confidence never waned, and today his papers are in order,
thanks to the exact data he supplied.

Joachin Boeck is known as a tolerant man. In the evening
he sits in the beer-cellar with a group of friends and discusses

2

politics. Of course the food situation is desperate and the beer is veritable water. But, says Joachin Boeck, war is an evil thing. And he silences grousens by saying that probably the food situation was not too good in the countries occupied by Germany either.

The Military Governor knows and respects Joachin Boeck. Frequently they discuss such problems as de-Nazification, food supply and the state of public opinion. In all these matters Joachin Boeck's democratic views, his deep understanding of personalities has proved invaluable. His sincerity is above question. He has refused all honors and positions, saying that acts and not titles are necessary now. On the other hand, he has been active in many causes such as the re-education of German youth. On the occasion of the opening of the joint U.S.-American youth hostel, somebody pointed him out to a newspaper photographer from the big city. The photographer took his picture with a view towards publication in a large newspaper, but Joachin Boeck asked him to destroy the negative. He was trying to prove the feasibility of idealism, he insisted, and if his picture were printed it might appear as if publicity were his only aim. The negative was destroyed.

These acts and his close connection to the Military Governor have won Joachin Boeck many friends. Peasants coming into the town bring him food and he receives preferential treatment in all stores.

Of course, there are people who are envious. Some question his sincerity and there is a dark rumor that Joachin Boeck spent

3

the war in Poland. Joachin Boeck merely smiles. His actions should demonstrate his sincerity and as for Poland, well he had been there all right. But only because life in Germany was intolerable for a democrat, and so he took a small administrative job in a drab little place on the Vistula, where the flat country encouraged one's mind to roam, where Nazi uniforms were not prevalent, and where one could hope to achieve some personal dignity...

In a bend of the Vistula, where the arid country stretches to the horizon and only an occasional withered tree interrupts the monotony of the landscape, lay the concentration camp of Oswiecno. This is a hard name to pronounce for non-Slavs and so the Germans called it Auschwitz. Its tar paper huts stood in neat rows and blended well with the uniforms of the Elite-Troop guards. When the chimneys of the big red brick building in the center belched smoke, the peasants in the fields nearby crossed themselves, and when the wind was right it brought them the bitter, acrid smell of burning flesh and sometimes faintly, tentatively, but unforgettable, the pleading, agonized, desperate and frustrating cry of a human voice.

In a corner of the camp, near a field with many furrows, was the building for the trial of Poles caught breaking occupation army regulations. The building was divided into two parts; the cells where the prisoners were chained to the walls, and the courtroom with two desks and two easy chairs. Every week the military judge came from Cracow. With his natty black uniform, the insignia of the

4

Elite Guard on one lapel, and the skull and crossbones of military justice on the other, he made an imposing figure. He was a serene, efficient person (much given to) philosophizing to the two enlisted men in his entourage. "Hardness," he would say, "is a quality of the soul. It means that one will do even unpleasant things, for no merit is attached to performing an act one enjoys."

Today was "trial day." The judge sat behind the desk and the two enlisted men stood rigidly near the door. The judge opened the dossier in front of him and ordered the prisoner brought in. There was the grating of a heavy iron door; there were firm, booted steps and a tentative shuffling gait; there was the opening of the courtroom door, the clicking of heels and then...silence. The judge shifted some papers.

"Your name?" he asked without looking up.

"Folek," the prisoner answered. "Folek Sarme."

The judge's glance travelled along the tattered clothing, stopped for a minute on some welts on the prisoner's face, came to rest again on his papers.

"Your age?" asked the judge.

"16" said the prisoner.

Beads of perspiration were on the prisoner's forhead. Despite efforts to control himself, he shook like a leaf.

"Do you know your crime?" said the judge.

The prisoner did not answer. One of the enlisted men struck him hard across the face, so that he nearly fell. "Answer the

5

judge," said the enlisted man.

"I stole bread. I was hungry."

"And do you know the penalty?" asked the judge.

The prisoner could hardly stand. His lips were twitching.

"Answer, you weakling" shouted the judge.

The prisoner's lips were forming words, without understanding their meaning. "Death" said the prisoner.

The judge leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, boy," he said "do you have a mother?"

The prisoner was trying to fight his tears. "Do you want to live, boy?" said the judge softly.

"Answer me," continued the judge to the sobbing prisoner.

The prisoner looked across the furrowed field to the barbed wire and the sky and the clouds beyond. "Yes," he said, barely audibly.

The judge played with a pencil. He said: "But you won't. You must learn that a man is nothing if he is not ready to stand by his actions. You must learn that self-discipline implies a willingness to face consequences."

The enlisted men took the prisoner by his arms and led him away. He walked as in a dream.

The judge put a stamp on the dossier. "Case closed."
He walked over to the window. Across the field a small shape
flanked by two dark outlines, was digging a hole.

When the shot rang out, the judge put on his overcoat. In a minute the enlisted men came back laughing:

6

"It is too bad," they said, "we can't get them to cover themselves up after they are shot."

The judge said: "Let us go." And then: "His crime was not stealing but weakness and lack of dignity."

"Jawohl Herr Böeck" said the enlisted man, but they did not understand....

"He is such a fine man," the landlady avers, "and so quiet. God knows he has had his share of trouble but he never complains." And it is true that life hasn't been easy for him. He is one of the men who lost all his identity papers in a bombing attack in a big city in the industrial north. As a stranger he had to undergo no end of red tape to replace them. But his cheerfulness and confidence never waned, and today his papers are in order, thanks to the exact data he supplied.

2

politics. Of course the food situation is desperate and the
beer is veritable water. But, says Joachin Boeck, war is an
evil thing. And he silences grousely by saying that probably
the food situation was not too good in the countries occupied
by Germany either.

The Military Governor knows and respects Joachin Boeck.
Frequently they discuss such problems as de-Nazification, food
supply and the state of public opinion. In all these matters
Joachin Boeck's democratic views, his deep understanding of
personalities, has proved invaluable. His sincerity is above
question. He has refused all honors and positions, saying that
acts and not titles are necessary now. On the other hand, he has
been active in many causes such as the re-education of German
youth. On the occasion of the opening of the joint U.S.-American
youth hostel, somebody pointed him out to a newspaper photographer
from the big city. The photographer took his picture with a view
towards publication in a large newspaper, but Joachin Boeck
asked him to destroy the negative. He was trying to prove the
feasibility of idealism, he insisted, and if his picture wavered
printed it might appear as if publicity were his only aim. The
negative was destroyed.

3

the war in Poland. Joachin Boeck merely smiles. His actions should demonstrate his sincerity, and as for Poland, well, he had been there all right. But only because life in Germany was intolerable for a democrat, and so he took a small administrative job in a drab little place on the Vistula, where the flat country encouraged one's mind to roam, where Nazi uniforms were not prevalent, and where one could hope to achieve some personal dignity...

In a bend of the Vistula, where the arid country stretches to the horizon and only an occasional withered tree interrupts the monotony of the landscape, lay the concentration camp of Auschwitz.

This is a hard name to pronounce for non-Slavs and so the Germans called it Auschwitz. Its tar-paper huts stood in neat rows and blended well with the uniforms of the Elite-Troop guards. When the chimneys of the big red brick building in the center belched smoke, the peasants in the fields nearby crossed themselves, and when the wind was right it brought them the bitter, acrid smell of burning flesh and sometimes, faintly, tentatively, but unforgettable, the pleading, agonized, desperate and frustrating cry of a human voice.

4

Elite Guard on one lapel, and the skull and crossbones of military justice on the other, he made an imposing figure. He was a serene, efficient person in the habit of philosophizing to the two enlisted men in his entourage. "Hardness," he would say, "is a quality of the soul. It means that one will do even unpleasant things, for no merit is attached to performing an act one enjoys."

Today was "trial day." The judge sat behind the desk and the two enlisted men stood rigidly near the door. The judge opened the dossier in front of him and ordered the prisoner brought in. There was the grating of a heavy iron door, there were firm, booted steps and a tentative shuffling gait, there was the opening of the courtroom door, the clicking of heels, and then...silence.

"Your age?" asked the judge.

"16," said the prisoner.

Beads of perspiration were on the prisoner's forehead. Despite efforts to control himself, he shook like a leaf.

5

The prisoner's lips were forming words, without understanding their meaning. "Death," said the prisoner.

The judge leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, boy," he said, "do you have a mother?"

The enlisted man took the prisoner by his arms and led him away. He walked as in a dream.

The judge put a stamp on the dossier. "Case closed."
He walked over to the window. Across the field a small shape, flanked by two dark outlines, was digging a hole.

When the shot rang out, the judge put on his overcoat. In a minute the enlisted men came back laughing.

6

The judge said, "Let us go." And then: "His crime was not stealing, but weakness and lack of dignity."

"Jawohl, Herr Breck," said the enlisted man, but they did not understand...

THE FORGOTTEN FOREST

The Ardennes in the summer of 1947 are a beautiful sight. Their deep ravines are covered with dark-green fir. An occasional stream trickles down the mountainsides. One can move for miles without seeing anybody. Standing in the immensity of the forest, one is struck by the insignificance of the individual and looking upwards through the cathedral-like dome of the branches one is dominated by the vastness of nature, by the silence of the Ardennes and their peace . . . . . . . . . .

The Operations Officer drew a red line on the map.

"To-day's objective is Beho", he said.

Outside some 105's whistled over. Fire crackled in the stove
and melted a little ice on the window.

"Population 750. Second and third Batallion will lead. First will be in reserve."

There was a flurry of commotion as the batallion runners moved
out.

One could hear a mortar go off in the distance. Somebody put
a kettle with water on the stove......

We stood on top of a hill and watched the infantry move
into a valley. They walked silently and business-like, five yards
between men, officers in front. Many marched with the uniformity of
motion, the slow, deliberate, fatalistic resignation that characterizes
a veteran. More walked spryly, with clear eyes and little jokes.

a defenun. More walked abrak, with clear eyes and little jokes.
motion, the slow, deliberate, fatalistic realization that characteristics
between men, officers in troupe. Many marred with the uniformity of
into a wiley. They walked alacrity and business-like, like birds

...... We stood on top of a hill and watched the intensity move
a kettle with water on the stove......

One could hear a morrow go off in the distance. Somebody but
out.

There was a lull in connection as the patrolmen moved
will be in reserve."

"Population 750. Second and third Patrol will lead. First
and second a little ice on the window.

Out of the some 100's whirled over. The crackled in the stove
"To-day a objective is done," he said.

........ The Observations Officer drew a red line on the map.

beneath ........

The awareness of nature, by the allowance of the Argennes and their
through the cathedral-like domes of the parentheses one is dominated by
a shock by the insignificance of the individual and floating影
out seeing anybody. Standing in the immensity of the forest, one is
swept-trickles down the mountainsides. One can move for miles with-
their deep ravines are covered with dark-Green lily. An occasional
The Argennes in the summer of 1947 are a beautiful sight.

THE H. E. KONGOTTER FORREST

- 2 -

[Y]

Somebody started singing: "Dirty Gertie from Bizerte". As if it
were expected of him.

I looked at Major Bridges.

"Replacements" he said.

"Oh"

We knew that after to-night there would be no more jokes.

After the infantry had passed Major Bridges turned to me:

"You know, I have never seen an area that looked as peaceful
as the Ardennes."

And so it was. Here, in this country of steep hills and deep
valleys, where the snow glistened on lonely church-towers, where
roads wound up mountains that dropped away at our side, where villages
huddled on hill-tops as though they were afraid to fall off, here
war seemed far removed and out of place.

A plane came over and started diving beyond the next hill.

"He is stwafing Beho" Major Bridges said.

We entered Beho that afternoon. The infantry was in the woods
beyond. Shattered glass lay on the side-walk. A dog barked. Ci-
villians were moving furniture into a cellar. Cows with swollen
udders were standing in the street. It was very quiet in Beho.

We had just established our Command Post in the school-building
when the counter-attack started. A messenger told us that G Company
was in trouble and Major Bridges ordered A Company to relieve. The
thumbing of mortars was incessant. The A Company Commander talked
to Major Bridges in monosyllables to receive instructions.
And then......suddenly as it started, the counter-attack ended.

- 3 -

"Place your company along this ridge and start digging in", Major Bridges said. "G Company will withdraw and furnish Baballion reserve".
"And the wounded?"

"It's getting late Lieutenant, you better dig in before nightfall!"

It was quiet again in Beho. Civilians continued moving furniture into the cellar. Somebody began to sweep the side-walk. A dog barked, then stopped. The cows stared stupidly into the distance. And G Company came out of the woods.

Slowly, silently, deliberately they walked. Their eyes were glassy, their movements mechanical. They flopped into doorways, their rifles pointing towards the forest, their breath crystallizing in the winter-air.

And then out of the cold of the trees, into the silence of the village, furtively at first, but building up to a crescendo of frustration came a human voice. "Help" it pleaded amidst the mortars and machine-guns. "Help!" it mocked amidst the dead and the snow. "Help! Help!"

The infantry sat silent. The man with the furniture did not seem to hear. "Help!" the voice echoed from the trees, beat against the houses. The infantry didn't move. They had been in the forest. That was that. "Help!"

An infantryman said slowly, tiredly: "Maybe, it's a German trick".

We hardly realized how it stopped. There was a burst of an automatic rifle. There was a soldier professionally appraising. "Them Mausers are real good guns". And then it was over.

The wind blew gusts of snow over the street. The infantry sat in the door-way with the rifles pointing towards the forest and their breath crystallizing in the winter air. It was quiet in Beho......

The Operations Officer drew a red line on the map.
"To-day's objective is Gouvy", he said.

"Population 500. First and third Batallion will lead. Second
will be in reserve."

The Ardennes in the summer of 1947 are a beautiful sight. Only
to me, the mountainsides always look white and the trees bent by icicles.

"It's peaceful here", Capt. Wagner said. "One wouldn't think that
there is a war on".

From the hill one could see for miles. Snow covered the countryside,
blurred outlines, equalized everything to a denominator of gleaming white.
Icicles hung from the trees.

"Forests of Christmas-trees" I said.

"Forests of Terror", Capt. Wagner answered.

The illusion vanished. In the distance a mortar boomed.

Capt. Wagner kicked a little snow with his feet. "I wonder whether
he is really to be pitied", he said.

"Pity isn't the right word in the face of finality."

"Let's see his dog-tags."

At our feet lay an American G.I. The olive-drab of his uniform
was incongruous against the white of the snow.

"Josef Abramovitch", Capt. Wagner read. "I wonder what your mother
is doing now!"

I am going now."

"Joel Vravmovitch," Capt. Wagner said. "I wonder what your mother was incongruous against the white of the snow."

At our feet lay an American G.I. The olive-grap of his moustache "let's see his dog-jaws."

"Big, I am not the right word in the face of it. Unfair."

He is really to be bitted," he said.

Capt. Wagner kicked a little snow with his feet. "I wonder whether The Illusion Amused." In the distance a mortar boomed.

"Boreas of Terror," Capt. Wagner answered.

"Boreas of Christmas-trees." I said.

I could bring from the trees.

Purled outlines, equalized everything to a denominator of Fleming white. From the hill one could see far miles. Snow covered the countrywide, where is a war on."

"It's a beautiful here," Capt. Wagner said. "One wouldn't think that

to me, the mountainsides always look white and the trees part by telecops. The Advances in the summer of 1944 are a beautiful sight. Only

retire with water on the above.....

One could hear a mortar go off in the distance. Somebody but a out.

There was a flurry of commotion as the petalition numbers moved will be in reserve."

"Population 200." First and third Petalition will send. Second and third meted a little ice on the window.

Outside some 100's whistled over. The crackled in the snow "To-day" a objective is Common," he said.

........The Operations Officer drew a red line on the map.

- 4 -

- 5 -

"It's hard to think of them as having mothers."

"Yes" said Capt. Wagner "this is no world for mothers."

"Come on, that sort of talk won't get us anywhere."

"Yes" Capt. Wagner said dreamily. "It won't get us anywhere. What will?"

"Let's get out of here."

I started the motor. Capt. Wagner came over to the jeep and leaned against the hood.

"I wonder whether he was very lonely when it happened" he said.

I knew what he meant.

"In our hour of crisis we are always alone" I answered.

"Yeah" he said and then slowly "So that is how our dreams end...... with the flick of a German trigger-finger."

I drove off.

We passed that hill several times during the next few days. Soon only a few dots of brown could be seen among the sameness of white. And one day there was nothing but snow. Looking over the countryside one just saw trees covered with icicles and gusts of snow blown by the wind. One could not see the blood underneath, nor feel the terror of those moments.

That day Capt. Wagner said:

"Do you know that it never occurred to us to bury him or get some-body to do it or at least to report him."

"I know."

"Compassion" said Capt. Wagner "... the one heritage of all youth is also a casualty of this war."

And then he added, almost to himself, more as an entreaty than

And then he added, almost to himself, more as an entreaty than
longer to also a cleanser of this war."

"Compassion," said Capt. Wagner, "... the one heritage of all
I know."

some-time to do it or at least to report him."

"Do you know that it never occurred to us to pull him or get
that day Capt. Wagner said:

nor feel the terror of those moments,
snow flown by the wind. One could not see the blood under his
armchair one just saw trees covered with leaves and grass of
white. And one day there was nothing but snow. Looking over the
roof only a few dots of blood could be seen among the snows of
Me based that will several times during the next few days.
I grove off.

eng... with the stick of a German trigger-inger."

"Yes," he said and then slowly, "So that is how our dreams
in our form of art we areakes a stone." I answered.
I know what he meant.

"I wonder whether he was very few days when it happened," he said.
I learned against the wood.

I started the motor. Capt. Wagner came over to the job and
"left a set out of here."

Why?"

"Yes," Capt. Wagner said, "cleanly." "It won't get us anywhere. Must
"Come on, that sort of talk won't get us anywhere."

"Yes," said Capt. Wagner, "this is no world for mothers."

- 3 -

- 6 -

as a statement:

"Sometimes I am seized with a terrible fear. I am afraid not to die but to be the last man alive in this void, in this nothingness."

There was nothing to answer. I looked at Karl Wagner, tall, bronzed, his blonde hair closely cut, Karl Wagner of the class of 1942 of Stanford University, who had majored in Philosophy and who in the winter of 1944 was Executive Officer of an organization engaged in killing its fellowmen.........

A few weeks later I was sitting in our makeshift office when a soldier entered.

"What can I do for you", I asked.

"I am from Graves-Registration, sir."

"Yes?"

"One of your men was hit to-day."

I did not have to ask. I could feel the next sentence:

"A Capt. ... Capt. Karl Wagner."

Yes Karl, I thought, that is how dreams end.

"Did he......"

The soldier was bored:

"He did not feel anything. A mortar got him."

"Alright," I said, "anything else?"

"I thought you might want to send this stuff to his family."

"What is it?"

"Oh, the usual stuff" said the soldier, "a box of matches, a can opener, some pictures, a wallet... an adress-book."

The indifference of the soldier began to get on my nerves.

-7-

Cy

"Let's see his address-book, soldier", I said abruptly.

When I opened the book a soiled, battered piece of paper fell
out. When I read the handwriting, stiff, child-like, almost like
an afterthought, I was sick at heart. Here is what it said:

"Josef Abramovič, you could not have been more than 20. The
issues may have been confused to you and the goal hazy. But what does
that matter now? What might you be doing to-day if it were not for
the war? What hopes and aspirations lie here with the rifle next to
you indicating finality, making frustration? Josef, you, in a way,
personify the youth of the world, the faith, the hope, the courage
that add up in the end to rows of crosses all over the globe.

The sun is shining and the snow is glistening on the hills.
Some day, Josef, boys like you will go through hills as these with-
out worrying about "fields of fire" and cover from strafing. Peace
will have come. Peace... after the hatred and destruction of six
years of war. Peace... what a strange word for the youth of to-day,
for the 21 year-olds who were 15 when the war broke out, for the ten
year-olds who have never known a street light.

Those of us who will be left won't gloat, when that day comes.
We won't feel free, for pieces of us are buried in the snow of Belgium
and the mud of Germany. We'll celebrate through dedication. We will
try to prevent those sceptics who never have anything positive to say
from defiling our victory, the nobility of our comradship, the sacri-
fice of our casualties by cheap words and worked-over platitudes. The
soldiers want peace, the youth all over the world, some deceived by
its elders, others sure of their cause, all idealistic, all self-sac-
rificing, want quiet and a chance to get a hold of themselves. They

- 8 -

don't want to be noble and brave and fatalistic any longer. They want to be human, they want... real, true peace.

Then, we can feel free and then you, Josef, will be vindicated..."

"Will you send the stuff, sir," the soldier resumed "or shall I?"

"No", I said briefly, "I'll send... the stuff."

I assembled Capt. Wagners belongings but put the paper in my pocket, for I felt nobody would really understand it as well as I.

Then I sat down to write a letter to his wife.

After a few words I stopped. I took the paper from my pocket, put it with the knife, the can opener, the match-box, the address-book and told one of the men to make a package.

There was nothing left for me to say.

A little later I ordered the sergeant-major to fill out the standard casualty form and prepare for my signature, a letter requesting an officer-replacement.

The Ardennes in the summer of 1947 are a beautiful sight. Only I always see the M P in his shiny helmet standing on a street corner in Marche, yelling at all vehicles to put on their headlights, because Marche was so far behind the lines. And the M P still standing there when the first German shells came in. And the way he looked when they carried him away on a stretcher.

The streets were empty. Occasionally a furtive voice would ask: "Les Boches passeront-ils?" And because it seemed fantastic and because we were young and because everything seemed worthwhile

- 9 -

we used to answer: "Non Jamais".

To-day Marche is full of life again. People throng the streets, sit in the cafes. I stood in the town square and thought of the time when the streets were empty but we were young and full of hope. I am sure, I thought, that here everybody will know our suffering and our dead.

I stopped a man in the street. "Monsieur, J'ai été soldat américain." He looked at me blankly. "Monsieur?" He answered uncomprehendingly.

Don't you see, man, I was here when it happened, I was here when people were not yet cynical, when abstract values still were not a snicker. Here I and many like me fought and hoped. Can't the world ever recapture the spirit of those days, of sacrifice and of dedications? Will we be doomed to stand and look at each other uncomprehendingly and say: "Monsieur?"

The man moved on. A plaque stands in the town square:

"To the heroic 84th American Division which in the snow of Christmas 1944 stopped the Bundstedt offensive at the very gate of this city, the citizen of Marche extend their eternal thanks."

Is that all that will remain of our misery, our battle, our hope, not an understanding among men but merely some words carved in stone?

" It was a very nice party," the woman said.

" I hate anniversaries," the man answered.

"I don't know," said the woman, "I sort of have a warm
feeling when I see others so happy."

"You would."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Why do you say it then?"

"I am tired," said the man, "I didn't mean anything."

The bedroom was conventional; two beds ×× chaperoned by
a separating night-table, in one corner a clothes-closet,
in the other, at an angle, a dresser.

"They are happy, aren't they?" the woman started again.

"How do you know they are happy?"

"They seem happy?"

"Tell me, Marjorie," said the man, "how exactly does
one go about seeming happy?"

"I am not in the mood for quibbling," Marjorie answered
tiredly.

"I guess we seem happy too," persisted the man.

"Aren't we?"

"Sure, sure we are," said the man and unbuttoned his shirt.

"I don't know about you, George," said Marjorie, "but
I loved every minute of it."

"This, my dear," answered George," is straight from the
pages of the Ladies' Home Journal."

"You talk rot," Marjorie said.

"Alright, I talk rot."

George took off his shirt and hung it over a chair.

"Why do you always argue?" Marjorie said.

"Why the hell don't you stop loving minutes and just
love, period," George answered.

"You aren't making sense."

["\"You aren't making sense.\"", "\"You're right,\" George answered.", "\"Why the hell don't you stop loving minutes and that?\"", "\"Why do you always make me?\" Marjorie said.", "George took off his shirt and hung it over a chair.", "\"Virtue,\" I asked.", "\"You ask rot,\" Marjorie said.", "Babe of the Ladies, Home Journal.", "\"This, my dear,\" answered George, \"is straight from the store.\"", "\"I don't know about you,\" George, said Marjorie, \"put", "\"Amre, amre we amre,\" said the man and unbuttoned his shirt.", "\"Vren, vren me?\"", "\"I guess we seem hahy too,\" berated the man tiredly.", "\"I am not in the mood for drugging,\" Marjorie answered one go spontaneously hahy?", "\"Tell me,\" Marjorie, said the man, \"how exactly does that seem hahy?\"", "\"How do you know they are hahy?\"", "\"They are hahy, aren't they?\" the woman started again in the other at an angle a greater.", "A sebasting night-table, in one corner a clothes-closet, The bedroom was conventional: two pages werecherowed. \"I am tired,\" said the man, \"I didn't mean anything.\" \"Why go you ask it then?\"", "\"Nothing.\"", "\"What do you mean?\"", "\"You would.\"", "Seeing when I see others so hahy.\"", "\"I don't know,\" said the woman, \"I sort of have a warm \"}, "\"It was a very nice party,\" the woman said."]

" Good for you."

" Let's not argue any longer. Let's not spoil (the night).
It was such a nice party."

" That's right. It was such a nice party...Forget what I said."

" I understand, darling."

" Do you, " George mocked, " do you really?" and walked into
the (adjoining) bathroom.

Marjorie sat down in front of the dresser and began
combing her hair.

" I like Taylor," she called out conciliatorily.

" He is a nice fellow."

" I like him best of all your army friends."

" He is a swell guy."

" You must have gone through a lot together."

"(Don't forget, Darling," George answered, drying his hands,
"we only met after the war."

" All the same, I am glad you had somebody to talk to."

" I was stationed in Paris, (remember? you know.)"

" One can be lonely anywhere."

Why does she make me say these things, George thought.
Why doesn't she leave well enough alone. Alright, I'll say it.

" Beautiful," George said and put down his toothbrush,

" simply beautiful....only it isn't so."

" I know, darling, you were very good about it all."

" I wasn't good, " said George, " and I wasn't lonely."

Marjorie said flatly: "I hate Paris."

" That's interesting."

" It's sordid."

" That's trite."

" And it has spoiled you for me."

- George walked to the bathroom-door. " It isn't Paris
that spoiled me," he said.

" It's the contact with all these loose women, that's made
you like this."

George sat down on the bed." Let me tell you about
the loose women, " he said casually. " There are three kinds."
" I don't want to hear it."

"Some," said George, " do it for money...others for love."

"Stop it."

"And a third group does it from boredom."

"You are impossible and insulting."

"And all of it," continued George viciously, " is better than
doing it for a marriage certificate."

Marjorie said uncertainly: "It's a good thing I know you are
tired and not serious."
---(dole to indicate indeliberate pause.)

"Yes, I am tired, and you are kidding yourself."

"What's become of us?" Marjorie asked heavily.

"Nothing has become of us. We are what we have always
been...only older."

"Love," said Marjorie with finality, "never grows older."

George laughed: "What is love god-damit? Is it:
'Be careful, darling, you are mussing (up) my lipstick.'?"

"Don't be common."

"That's right," imitated George, "that's common. Love is something
pure and noble."

"That's right," Marjorie said tentatively.

"It's something fine and decent. It's too bad it involves
going to bed," persisted George.

"I have always done what you wanted."

"It's a concession one makes to the male animal...to keep
him happy...going to bed, that is?"

"That's enough for one evening."

"Love is something nice and beautiful," M mocked George,
"it's too bad we spoil it by acting like beasts, Dsnt that
right?"

They were silent for several minutes. Finally
Marjorie said in a quiet voice, "This isn't good, darling.
We

We
Marlorie's ear in a paid voice. "I am so bad, darling.
They were silent for several seconds. Finally
rights?"

"It's a too bad we abort it by acting like peasants," I want that
"love is something nice and beautiful," I mocked George.
"That's enough for one evening."

"Jim happy...Going to bed that is?"

"It's a concession one makes to the male animal...to keep
"I have always done what you wanted."

Going to bed," berated George.

"It's a something fine and decent. It's a too bad it involves
"That's a right," Marlorie said tentatively.
"Fine and noble."

"That's a right," imitated George, "that's a common. Love is something
"Don't be common."

"Be careful, darling, you are musing (mb) my fibigator."

George laughed: "What if love god-dammit? Is it:

"Love," said Marlorie with finality, "never grows older."

"Nothing has become of us. We are what we have always
"What a become of me?" Marlorie asked heavily.
"Yes, I am tired and you are kipping yourself."

Tired and not serious... (Good to meet you again, Marlorie.)
Marlorie said uncertainty: "It's a good thing I know you are
doing it for a marriage certificate."

"And all of it," continued GeorgeDICANALY, "is better than
"You are impossibly and insidious."

"And a third group does it from poredom."

"Stop it."

"Some," said George, "do it for money...others for love."
"I don't want to hear it."

the loose women," he said casually. "There are three kinds."
George sat down on the bed." Let me tell you about

They were silent for several minutes. Finally Marjorie
said in a quiet voice:" This isn't good, darling. We shouldn't
talk this way."

"It isn't being done, is it," answered George.

"I love you," said Marjorie, "I don't tear down everything."

"Nice, true, beautiful love?"

"I love you," Marjorie repeated, "I want you."

"It's no good," said George dully, "there just isn't a
formula for this."

"We can start over again."

"It's too late," said George.

Marjorie walked over to him and took his hand."It's never
too late," she pleaded,"Please say it's not too late."

It's always too late, George thought. One minute after
the spark is gone, it's too late. One minute or a hundred
years, it's always too late. But he said: "Alright go to bed.
I'll be along in a minute."

She kissed him:"Hurry up, darling," she said.

George finished washing while Marjorie turned off the lights.
When he heard her pull back the sheets of the bed, he put away
the soap and the toothbrush. He tried the shower. Then he very
carefully wiped away a smudge on the washbasin.

Finally, when he could find nothing else to delay him,
George put out the light and went into the bedroom.

George but out the light and went into the bedroom.

Finally, when he could find nothing else to delay him,
carefully wiped away a smudge on the washbasin.

the soap and the toothbrush. He tried the shower. Then he very
when he heard her pull back the sheets of the bed, he but away
George finished washing while Marjorie turned off the lights.

She asked him: "Hurry up, darling," she said.

I'll be aloud in a minute."  
Jesus, it's a long time late. But he said: "Aright, go to bed.
the alarm is gone, it's a too late. One minute or a hundred

It's a always too late, George thought. One minute after
too late," she blessed," Please ask it's not too late."

Marjorie walked over to him and took his hand. "It's never

"It's a too late," said George.

"We can start over again."

formula for this."

It's ax no good," said George duffly, " there that isn't a
"I love you," Marjorie rebersted, " I want you."

"Nice, true, beautiful love?"

"It isn't being done, if it," answered George.

talk this way."

said in a quiet voice: "This isn't good, darling. We shouldn't

when they told me the war was over the jeeps screeching
through the streets buttercups dotting the fields the
sun blurring the outlines of the ruins of Dannenberg on the
Elbe the recon car in front of the CP its gun pointing
towards who the hell knows a loudspeaker in the town
square civilians taking out handkerchiefs blowing their
nose it's TS brothers you should cry when it starts not
when it ends Major Bridges standing near his desk
haveadrink the war is over

when I was young I used to have such dreams
such high hopes I used to
you are in the Army now you are no longer mama's babies the No!
red clay hills the obstacle course hit that ditch where
doyouthinkyouare kindergarten peel that potato sleeping
during 10 minute breaks C company on your feet between
reveille and retreat sleeping under the barracks when
I say clean that barracks (soldiers) falling out at the side
of the road the rifletherifletherifle I mean CLEAN
I hate to think having them shattered at the
flick of a trigger finger

youse guys are worth 2000 dollars that's what it cost the government
to train you
2000 dollars
include

a trip along the Eastern Seaboard hey babe whatyadoingtonight
a staging area you men are privileged to serve your country

a staking area
You men are privileged to serve your country
a trip along the Eastern seaboard
hey paper
what's doing? I don't know
include
5000 dollars
to train you

Jones Grys are worth 5000 dollars that's what it cost the Government
lick of a trigger finger

I hate to think having them shattered at the
of the road
the rifletter/fletchette
I mean CLEAN
I ask if you
that parracks
(soldiers) falling out at the aid
reveille and retreat
sleeving under the parracks
when
during 10 minute presks
C company on your feet between
dehonk!kynonsre kindergarten
beel that botto
sleeving
red clay pills
the opetacle conne
bit that ditch
where
you are in the Army now
you are no longer mmms's papies
the
and high hones
I need to

when I was young I need to have such dreams

passesdrunk the war is over
when it ends
Major Bridge standing near his desk
it's a 12 brothers
you should cry when it starts not
adore
artissna taking out handkerchiefs blowing their
towards
who the hell knows
a longabaker in the town
Eppe
the recon car in front of the CB its a gun pointing
and pinning the outline of the盟军 of Dannenberg on the
through the streets
putterouba dotting the fields
the
when they told me the war was over
the teeps screening

- 2 -

[y]

overs fuck your buddy
(a transport) sweats art
six hours in line for chow they sighted
a wolf pack three hours for washing
mess-kit saw it myself back in line fine
Army this forced to stay in bunk twelve
hours a day with men vomiting all around
you that's TS fellas doubleloaded get
in line vomit on an empty space if you can

a dim shadow in the horizon

so this is England well fuck it

you men are now in a combat zone kill that Kraut slice open
that belly tear out those guts I can't stand this talk

we are after all all men

yes Paul we are after all all

men

Mike Tullay this boy is going home forgot to tell that
to a landmine

Capt. Ketterer did you know that guts were grey but
they say in text books the hell with text books
the MP in the Bulge yelling at all vehicles to put on their
headlights Marche is so far behind the lines the shells
the natty uniforms of the MP when they carried him away on a
stretcher concussion they say doesn't leave a scratch
the replacements hey mac this looks like a nice burg how
far to the front

- 3 -

three miles

a lifetime

your God-damn fool this is the front it sneaks upon you in
this war can't see it it's all around you you feel it
hope you stick around long enough to find out no I don't

what the hell

and Paul Schmidt his spine shattered

by the flick of a German trigger

finger

finger

civilians moving tea pots out of houses without roofs

“large bomber formations today” TD's racing along the
street firing 50 caliber shells hitting cows hitting
houses hitting c'est la guerre “attacked the important
industrial center” civilians huddling in cellars now will
the bombing stop we were never Naz who the hell asked
now will

“of Krefeld”

drive right over them with the jeep how the hell could we know
we were going to take this damn place two days later got to
be tough shoulda given them a chance to clean up this mess

now will the bombing stop got to be tough drive right
over them the crunch of the charcoalblack bodies as your
jeep do you know that the suction of the fire how the hell
could we know the line was going to break so quickly was so
great that it drew people right in to be tough military
objectives now will the bombing drive right through where

objectives now will the pumping drive right through where great that it drew people right in to be tough militarily could we know the line was going to break so quickly was so tee'd do you know that the action of the line how the hell over them the crunch of the cusscopplack bodies so your now will the pumping atob got to be tough drive right pe tough anopids given them a chance to clean up this measure we were going to take this damn place two days later got to drive right over them with the tee'd how the hell could we know of Kreel'd now will

the pumping atob we were never was who the hell asked industrial center "cliffhanger huddling in cells" now will homes fitting c'eat is guerre" attacked the important air袭stiring 20 caliper sheffels fitting cows fitting large pomper formations today" D's racing along the cliffhanger moving tea bote out of homes without roots linger

by thelick of a German trigger and Earl Schmidt dia abine shattered what the hell

hobe you stick around long enough to find out no I don't this war can't see it it's all around you you feel it your God-damn lool this is the front if sheaske upon you in a lifetime three miles

- 3 -

- 4 -

is that God-damn city hall ask the bombers great joke
we were never keep off the streets soldiers pressing
against walls new use for churches in this century sanctuary
for snipers now will the we were never foreign
workers Nazis
bombing stop

in the beginning there was war
Liège wide streets fine green uniforms " look sharper
remember you are representing " (fuck your buddy ) " the U.S.
Army " varnished jeeps with important looking MPs women
womenwomen cherie voulez -vous " zig-zig " don't forget to salute
must make an impression women softvoices smells music

remember lieutenant we men here the music tango rhumba
two cognacs al vous êtes officier Américain we men here
are doing a job every bit red heads are my meat as
important who the hell asked for comparisons God damit !
lady I want to rent it not buy it an vous Américains
natty uniforms curfew women

in

the

beginning

refugees pushing their carts along icy roads Les Boches
children kitchen sinks grandfather clocks don't
they ever take anything useful a goat a dog we are italics?
coldhungrycold the wind blowing snow across the road an
OD shape lying near an inverted rifle we are hungrycold

OD ausbe flying near an inverted rifle we are pungrycold
coldpumgricold the wind blowing snow across the road su
they ever take anything near a cost a dog we are
children kitchen sinks Grandfather clocks don't
refugees braving their cars along ice roads Les Boches
beginning

the

in

nasty uniforms curlew women

fag I want to rent it not put it
as vonns Americains
important who the hell asked for comparinaone
god damit
are doing a top every pit
red heads are my mest
sa
two cognac
st vonns stea officer Americain
we men here
remember fientement we men here
the music tango rhymes
what wake an impression
women softvoices amella music
momen women atchente vonles zef-sig
don't forget to asrute
- vonns
Army " armahied teeda with important looking MP women
remember you are representing
(uck onn抽d抽d) the U.S.
rigge wide streets line green uniforms
look auuber
in the beginning there was msr
pomping atob

workers Mussa

for auhers now will the we were never foreign

against welfa new nae for churches in this century sanctum
we were never keep off the streets auofiers pressing
is that God-qmmu city half sak the pompers Great Joke

- 4 -

- 5 -

greyblue tanks outlined against the snow U.S. Army is
best equipped best camouflaged in the world — to fight in the
desert you are an American officer you can help the
hell you say bed sheet across the best camouflaged uniform
in the world can't put bed sheets across tanks though
alright alright I'll ask

what's that major why the hell don't they stay where they
are I don't know does anybody ever stay they are
coldhungrycold c'est la guerre they are allies fuck
them our tanks are better despite higher sillouettes for
we Americans docile numb bewildered refugees are not
afraid of a scrap tell these bastards if they are cold to
make a bonfire on the floor of the building what do they think
this is a picnic three superior U.S. tanks burned out
near the hull of a Tiger tank
great joke ha ha

when the snow put out the fire there were twenty less refugees
to feed

and
darkness in the little town the ground trembles when the
240'howitzers fire at the edge of the village (the) concussion
knocking all the shingles off the roofs murmur of voices
the shrill splutter of the Signal Corps transmitters is
the voice of man in the 20th century
you can see nothing only when the guns fire a ruin here
an outline there suddenly a question at the horizon
incessant rumble it's dark here but there all conveniences

incessant rumple it's a dark here but there all conveniences an outline there suddenly a question at the horizon you can see nothing only when the guna fire a ruin here the voice of man in the 50th century

the shrill shrutter of the Signal Corps transmitters is knocking all the shingles off the roots mmmm of voices 540 howitzers fire at the edge of the affair (the concentration darkness in the little town the ground tramples when the and

to feed when the snow but out the fire there were twenty less refugees great joke us in near the hull of a Tiger tank

this is a picnic three superior U.2. tanks panned out make a pontine on the floor of the building what do they think straid of a scrub tell these pastards if they are cold to me Americans docile nmpn pemfugered refugees are not them our tanks are better deapite higher aflionettes for codpumgruold c'eat le guerne they are alliesuck are I don't know does anybody ever atsy they are what's that major why the hell don't they atsy where they straight straight I'll ask in the world can't but bed sheets across tanks though hell you ask bed sheet across the beat camouflaged uniform desert you are an American officer you can help the beat equipped beat camouflaged in the world—to tight in the greypine tanks outlined against the snow U.2. Army is

- 2 -

3

- 6 -

artificial moonlight brilliant American ingenuity if
only the damn generators didn't make such an incessant high
pitched let me ask the 64 dollar question

supposing you are the last man alive

there is one division on a 3 mile front that makes
15000 men not counting special troops per 3 miles
or 5000 for one mile

how many per yard

it's a joke son

amidst all this noise the murmur of voices the unseen

officious shuffling of feet the persistent hum of airplanes
the darkness

among 5000, 15000, 2000000 men per

you are the loneliest man in the world
there

was

war

heyquitdreaming and haveadrink the war is over

yes major I'll haveadrink

the war is over

the dream is finished

(the nightmare has been true)

the nightmare has been true

the dream is finished

the war is over

Yes major I'll have a drink

Headhwriting and haves drink the war is over

war

was

there

You are the loneliest man in the world
among 2000, 1200, 5000000 men ber

the darkness

officious snuffing of feet the benafait of airplanes
amidst all this noise the murmur of voices the unseem
it's a joke now

How many per hand

or 2000 for one mile
1200 men not counting special troops ber 3 miles
there is one division on a 3 mile front that makes

abnoading you are the last man alive

bitched let me ask the 64 dollar question
only the damn generators didn't make such an inceassant high
artificial moonlight brilliant American ingenuity if

- 6 -

# Impressions of a Journey.

## I. Introduction.

We stood up on the hill and looked down into the valley.
"Leutershausen" the sign said. The roofs gleamed in the sunlight
and the trees obscured the view a bit. It's a sleepy little town,
I thought. A town like so many I have seen and yet a bit different.
The sun danced through the trees and painted little figures on the
road. "Leutershausen" the sign said. Just a little town. Just like
it has always been.

I stood on the hill and looked down into the valley. Into the valley
wherein lay buried part of my youth.

## II. Leutershausen.

The road wound into Leutershausen and the houses alongside needed a
little paint. The trees were still shady, the dairy was still there.
We stopped the jeep where the bus has always stopped. For a fleeting
moment I thought I saw a little woman with her apron and a weather-
beaten, mustached, old man. But then there was only the street and the
tower......

We drove very slowly, past the ghosts of Enslein, of Jochsberger, of
Ansbacher, of all the men that died in the hatred of the years. The
house stood out into the center of the square, massive and big. A coat
of chipped yellow paint covered it. The fountain still was in front of
it, and there was a barbershop inside.

I thought of a little boy who had played football in the yard and the
old man who used to stay in the window, to watch him. All the years
came back and for a momenttime stood still ......

- 1 -

I stood in the room and looked out of the window. The street curved
near Habelt's grocery store. The square was empty ......
There were two old people standing near the window. And they gazed on

an empty street. Finally the man turned with infinite weariness to-
wards the woman. "Fanny" he said, "our children are gone". The fountain
played in the square. The street was empty. And a bus was leaving at
the end of the village ......
The room looked a little smaller. The green stove covered the wall.
.......
There used to be a chair next to this oven with a cat, a coach
lined the wall ......

He were on the Hoellbuck and looked into the valley. Leutershausen lay
before us. Karl's voice came to me soft and strong and dignified:

The room looked a little smaller. The green stove covered the wall.
...... There used to be a chair next to this oven with a cat, a coach
lined the wall ......

We were on the Hoellbuck and looked into the valley. Leutershausen lay
before us. Karl's voice came to me soft and strong and dignified:

"Your father's favorite spot is here. He would perspire a little
after the walk, but up here he felt free and unconcerned."

The village lay before us in the sunligt. From a distance it looked
as though it had been there for ever and would remain for eternity.
You couldn't see the hatred and the misery, the heartbreak and sepa-
ration of the years. It was like it had been when our friends were still
alive and we were young.

The sun shone through the trees and we lay in the grass. Karls's
voice was dreamy. "The Bruscht", Henry", he said. I closed my eyes
and let time go by. "There it is before you, your grandfather's
territory". I saw the old carriage, the ancient horse. "Eckartsweiler,
Traisdorf .... "

The man stood there, tall, bronzed, with a keen face and dignified
bearing. He looked into the distance:

"How would it be, Henry", Kalr said, " if we could go back, 13 years,
over the hatred and intolerance".

I was silent. It had been a long hard road. It had been covered with
humiliation, with dissappointments. 13 years is a long time to go

- 2 -

back to. I thought of the fine old people that had been so kind, of
the long walks in the woods, of what was and what might have been.
For a minute the valley was alive with the people I used to know. They
were all there - the grandparents, the Jochsbergers, the Gutmanns ....
Then the illusion faded. The void was short. Those sacrifices were but
one with the comrades we left last winter in Geilenkirchen, in the Bulge
and on the Rhine. And although they couldn't see the fruits of their
suffering, they are with us nonetheless, quarrantees of the fruition of
their ideals.

So on the Hoellbuck we went back 13 years. So on the Hoellbuck I said
good-by to my grandparents.

## Fuerth.

The packing was almost finished. The customs inspector surveyed the house
and looked at the little boy. The boy was sure of himself.

"I will be back some day" he said.

The custom inspector was silent. He looked at the boy with the disdain of
age and better-knowledge and said nothing.

The boy came back 7 years later and stood on Schwabacherstrasse. The
street-cars were running. The people stood in line in front of the
food-stores. The police-man stood on the street corner.

Houses have a way of shrinking with the years. When one is young and
everything new, rooms look huge, closets mysterious, hallways full of
adventure.

I stood in the room and looked at the furniture. The white stove covered
the corner .......

Suddenly the furniture took on new shape. There was a big desk next
to the window, a library and an earnest man correcting papers .......

- 3 -

The woods streched on the hillside and the city was far away. "Alte
Veste", the arrow pointed. I walked through the woods. And out of 7
years of oblivion, they walked with me: Heinz and Herr Lion. We walked
through the woods together as always had with the bonds of the years
around us. It was quiet in the forest .........

The "Englische Anlagen" was in front of the window. The trees were alive
and children played in the sandpit. How much of my youth had been spent
in this room?

"What are you looking at?" the new tenant asked. - Nothing you will
ever understand, I thought. Nothing but my friend and his father, only
the cruelty of the years and the nihilism of a decade.

The grass was growing in the cemetery. - We walked along the pathway
and faced a granite stone. "Falk Stern - Leutershausen".

I stood a long time to talk with my grandfather. Because people liked him don't ever die. Their spirit and faith live on forever, as a testimonial to the immortality of the soul .....

The colonel Dr. Hahn, looked up. "An American officer to see you,"
the orderly said. - The Mädchenlyceum had been converted into a hospital.

"I want to see this school, Dr. Hahn," said. We alked through the corridors and whereever we went men stood in attention and whereever we went the past followed.

"Why do you inspect the school," Dr. Hahn asked.

"I am paying a debt, a debt to my father".

Epilogue ......... Nuremberg.

We drove through ste streets of Nuremberg. It is a town like so many
others only a little worse. Rubble, senseless and insensatein its

- 4 -

[y]

landmark. The opera-house, the Kulturverein, the railway-station,
the post-office ........ all are punched into ruin......

We stood on the hill and looked into the valley. The shell of
Nuremberg lay before us. I thought of Herr Lion's words: "You'll
come back to your town some-day and you won't find a <u>stone</u> unturned."

A shattered sign lay in the road. "Nuremberg 7 km, Fürth 6 km",
it said.

"Those who live by the sword shall perish by the sword."

There on the hill overlooking Nurember I said farewell to my
youth ............

- 5 -