The officer opened the door and said, "Look at him...maybe..." He had a cigarette in his mouth.I approached the man lying motionless on a plank bed.A man who was sitting on a stool behind the plank bed got up quickly and said, "Good evening." I recognized the priest and nodded to him. He stood by the head of the lying man.Excitedly, I turned to the policeman, glanced at the lighted cigarette and said, "Please brighten up the light... I can't see anything." He jumped onto a chair and tied a string to the chandelier , so that the light fell right on the frozen man... Now, seeing the body in the bright light, I backed away in shock.I have seen many dead people, but again and again I am moved by the thrilling awareness of each one.I realized it was looking at a person, a person...a person who had lived, suffered, loved...

Immediately I saw that he was dead...ah, no sign of treatment...I felt it and understood such things.But I was called in to do the official identification and it was confirmed that he was dead... and that's how I got to work excitedly.I do have a legal obligation to some extent to perform those very skillful manipulations by which the human sciences probe their mysteries.The one lying down looks scary... Blood and grime soaked his reddish hair, sticking together.I could see several knife wounds and stab wounds...horrible scars running across the face...the mouth was crooked...the long, pale nose was dented, and the hands were convulsed They were placed on the side of the body...they were still holding each other after death...even the clothes were dirty and stained with blood.People all thought to see this mad rage clearly.He was beaten, kicked and stabbed in the anger of the people.He was killed in a bestial way for pleasure.I boldly grabbed his jacket and undid the buttons that hadn't been torn off. What was strange was that his skin was as white and tender as a child's skin... There was no blood or dirt...

The policeman suddenly bent over me, he was so close to me that I could feel his smugness.He glanced at the dead man and said casually, "It's off work, how is it?" I just stared at him for a few seconds, and I felt myself trembling with anger, or rather, with hatred. Apparently, I had my eyes fixed on him for quite a while... with a sudden look of embarrassment, he took his scented cigarette from his mouth... and slipped out quietly.He walked in the door and said, "Call me in a moment, sir..." I felt relieved in some way... and now I'm just starting my examination... This is nonsense, I put the receiver on Put it on this man's chest!To take his pulse...to complete this whole useless deception on this poor, battered body.But he couldn't have died from head trauma.Am I supposed to put on my proof what is easily done in medical science today: circulatory disorders... exhaustion... malnutrition?I don't know if I'm laughing.I found nothing but these presumably excruciatingly painful but not fatal wounds on the head.It is very difficult for these wounds to penetrate into the head through the skin and flesh of the head... They are likely to be tossed out by people in a rage...

Plus, in this devastated state, his extremely thin, pale face looked like a knife.I think this is probably a mischievous, ruthless young man.Slowly, I re-buttoned his jacket, and I couldn't help brushing his dirty, blood-stained locks of hair away from his forehead.It seems that he is smiling... This kind of smile is ironic and mocking.Then I looked at the priest who stood beside me, pale and silent.He was a quiet guy and I knew him very well. "Murder?" I asked softly.He just nodded.Immediately afterwards, he said softer than me: "Murder a murderer." I was taken aback... Then I stared at this pale face as thin as a sharp knife again.It seemed that this face was still smiling under tortured conditions... cold and arrogant... I was too scared to speak.It's horrible that this body is in this gloomy room, blinded by cruel lights, while the rest is drowned in darkness... This bare wooden bed... A few worn-out stools ...the walls with peeling plaster...and this corpse in an almost tattered gray uniform...

I was looking at the priest with an almost begging look... I was dizzy with exhaustion, fear and nausea... The police cigarettes had killed me.I ran around on an empty stomach all afternoon, in a haunted den, powerless, helpless, and ridiculously enduring this "situation"... Although I see a lot every day, a murderer Being murdered, this kind of thing is also rare in the local area... "A murderer?" I asked absently.The priest moved his stool to me and said, "Please... sit down!" I followed his advice without thinking, and sat down, and then, propping up the wooden bed, he continued, "Don't tell me you don't know him... ...Really don't know?" He looked at me as if he was doubting my understanding. "I don't know," I said feebly, "I don't know him." The priest shook his head and said, "You've been roaming around a lot, and in your wanderings I think you've probably heard of the useless dog." things." I jumped up in fright... Oh my God! "A useless dog... this man here... ah, this face!" I stood beside the priest, and we both stared at the disfigured, bloodless corpse...

"Is he still—" I asked very quietly, is he still receiving the sacraments? "I was waiting for an answer. The priest didn't seem to have heard my question, and I didn't want to repeat my question...the silence overwhelmed us. It seemed like several minutes before the priest finally Replied, "No...but he might still be able to...I was around him for about an hour...he was very agitated, very conscious, before he..." He stared at me and said, "before he died..." The priest held out his hands helplessly to the corpse, as if he wanted to caress him... His thin, poor baby face--that's all I can say--was as excited as a clay sculpture... How hopeless he was Pushing back his flaxen hair.Immediately afterwards, he said excitedly: "You, you may think I am crazy... Yes, but I still want to stay with him for a while, until they come to fetch him... Indeed... I don't want him Alone, there was only one person in his life who really loved him, and that was the one who betrayed him. You would make fun of me for this, but I... Aren't we all guilty ? If I guard him a little longer...maybe..." He stared at me with an almost distracted obstinacy...they were blue eyes with dark hunger marks stuck to them almost like scars. Under the eyes...ah, I don't mean to think he's crazy...much less to laugh at him, my God! "I'll stay with you," I said.

We were silent for a moment.This is just the right amount of time to say the Lord's Prayer.A burst of laughter came from the guardhouse, and in the silence we heard a woman's voice... a scream.I backed away slowly, allowing the light to return to its old position.Now the whole house was filled with the same dim light.The hideous corpse seemed less threatening, less rigid, and almost alive.There is nothing more merciless than this light in the world.This naked electric light, it fits their cigarettes...it fits their cadaverous faces, it fits their lust...oh, I hate this electric light...

The laughter from the guard room fluctuates up and down, one after another... The priest started suddenly, as if he felt a hidden terror... A terrible memory came to his mind... "Doctor, sit down..." he said softly, "I want to tell you about him. " I obediently sat down, and at this time the priestess also squatted on the plank bed with her back arched... Our backs were all facing the dead... "It was a strange meeting," the priest began. "He was born in the same year as I... 1918... He told me everything... You know, I don't quite know, he was telling me. , or to himself or to someone who was not there. He stared at the ceiling and talked like a fever, talked, maybe he really had a fever... You know, he has no parents ...and never went to school...He was being taken around. His first impression was that the police had taken away the man he always knew as his father. The man was a rough, timid fellow who Half bum, half thief and workman... He was taken from a rough tenement on the outskirts of the city, in the period between war and inflation...  

"Imagine a filthy house where a poor, abused woman lives with a lazy, cowardly, unreasonable guy who's always drunk Together...that's what life is all about. Doc, you understand the situation. After his so-called father went to prison and was sentenced to many years in prison, his life was a little quieter. His aunt—he I heard later that this nervous, hostile woman was his aunt—went to the factory. The police tried to get him to go to school. And now... at school his extraordinary intelligence is conspicuous. You Can you imagine it, doctor?" The priest looked at me and said, "This thin face like a sharp knife seems to cut everything in half in a dull class, oh...he became a classmate. He's the best of the best, he's more than the best, he's way ahead of everyone else. He's ambitious. The teachers all speak for him and say he should go to a liberal arts school... The priest is interested in that... But that woman, too It was his aunt who raged and protested desperately, as if he were going to be killed. She tried to restrain him and keep him in the terrible, vulgar environment in which she lived. She made every possible difficulty, insisted on her Rights as an educator...she tortured him as soon as he got home...he didn't deserve to 'get ahead'. But she still couldn't handle the combined forces of teachers and priests. He got a place and went to a boarding school for free , was admitted there as a resident student. He soon exceeded all expectations that were placed on him. There were no difficulties for him... His Latin and Greek literature were as good as mathematics and German... He had a heart Goodness. Besides. He was never the sort of person who gnawed at a book...he had originality...intelligence...he did a decent job in religion, enough for professional theology. All in all, he really was A remarkable man. He never thought of the environment he had left without anything but horror and revulsion; certainly not with compassion...he shuddered whenever he thought of it. He Even at the boarding school during the holidays, he worked as an assistant in the library and helped in the administration. There was no question that he was going to get into his supporters. But he was domineering, haughty, and had a kind of toughness to it. Unyielding self-confidence. 'I think it comes down to my own somehow contemptuous of them all,' he told me. He gritted his teeth as he accepted the punishment for his arrogance. He was an outstanding Character... He shames everyone, people accommodate him in some ways. He is only punished when he treats someone too badly or throws his usual deference too often ...

"However, the older he gets, the stronger the temptation of wealth, honor and power will be to him. He thinks of all this, and his heart is pounding. He is already 16 years old, and although he doesn't want to stay in school...but he doesn't He didn't show it either, because he still wanted to take his final exams at boarding school. There was a crisis in this new attitude, and all that was true and reliable about his humanity was gone... The world is so attractive, you know, It was a time of political hypocrisy, the public proliferation of worthless things... that horrible life like the walking dead attracted him. Of course, he didn't want to interrupt his studies. Because he would not forget that suffering, the terrible family suffering in the past, but Instead he became calculating...for years, this selfishness poisoned him almost unconsciously...he just turned bad. Either way, he lost the faith that had held such a place in him ...

"Afterwards he passed the Baccalaureate and told the priests his decision indifferently, and of course there was an embarrassing situation. But he had the audacity to ignore it... He 'd better have a "Crossing the river and tearing down bridges" because he had a diploma. He severed all ties with this school, took a diploma with excellent grades, and went to the world with a crazy ambition... He had no 'decent' clothes, and no A penny, nothing... "But at this time, one of his classmates named Becker was a good friend. Becker was a son of a rich family and was studying theology... He used money to support him. Part of the money was obtained from his parents with sweet words. It was cheated there, part of it he saved himself. Now Herold is leaving... By the way, do you know his name?" The priest looked at me questioningly... How did I know his name? What about the name?I silently shook my head. "His name is Theodor Herold..." The noise from the guardhouse was so loud that it threatened to overwhelm us... the noise... the shouting... that strange, exhausting, boring cry of people willing to be locked up into a mandatory prison.The priest was silent for a moment, then he said again: "What is the use of telling you all this... We had better pray... pray. That's really the only thing we can do... Don't you..." He looked at me in pain, as if he was falling apart under an invisible weight...then he put his hands together, and I took his arm lightly...I didn't know it was Not curiosity.This curiosity prompted me to say: "Please tell me more... Excuse me... I want to know everything..." The priest looked at me anxiously... Now, I almost really got the impression that he was mentally ill... He looked at me as if he didn't know me at all and had to go deep in his memory He searched deeply and deeply to see who I am... Finally he grabbed his own head. "Oh, that's it," he said in a desperate tone, "forgive me... I... I..." He made a resigned gesture... and went on: "Becker seemed to have a sincere desire, as they say, to get Herold to 'don't give up halfway. , but he still visits Herold often... Talking to Herold probably wants to awaken his buried piety. But Becker never associates his support with such things... They sometimes Disputes arose, too, that's quite clear. They discussed the same issues that were then discussed among all the young people who were not yet insensitive--religion and people. But with them, everything remained the same, friendly and harmonious. Although Herro De never talked about it, but he saw Becker as the only person he didn't despise, who he respected... He liked Becker. On the other hand, it wasn't just because Becker funded He, but because Becker gave him money with no strings attached. Now, you can probably imagine the relationship. Becker must have been a fiery lad who believed in the grace of God... during the first two semesters , all theologians still believe in the grace of God, but then, often, the pastor-general unconsciously takes the place of God's grace. "Of course, Herold was still a geek in college just like in middle school... However, he didn't just look down on those classmates who behaved rashly and were less capable, he also looked down on those students who, as he said, Not really a 'spiritual leader' professor. Besides, he's creating the possibility of rising politically... As you can imagine, a political party seems to have absorbed such a bright lad... "But then a terrible thing happened: he became a soldier, and he couldn't do anything about it. He hated nothing so much as he hated the army. Be an officer. But at this time, a strange thing happened: Although this officer class tolerated extremely ignorant criminals from the dark social mud pit and human mud pit, it made various social demands on its successors. In this ignorant Lost in the ignorant hierarchy of course. Now his hatred—this first declaration of war on human society has taken root in him...he sees through the absolute political vileness of these docile people. He furiously Fever... But of course he did not overcome this troubled group... He felt that the eerie insensitivity of barracks life was more terrible than the sufferings of his childhood. The war was a relief for him, Now he voluntarily enlists in any of those units, you know, which are educated in the spirit of denying all real value, and who equate the killing at the front called war with the killing at the rear called the extermination of inferior human beings. Get up." The priest broke off in a panic, covered his face with his hands... he gasped. "You imagine this knife-thin face in the midst of these ranks...it is full of hatred. He walked under the terrible pressure of war in a society that became more brazen and more blind The longer the age...the more firmly it is tied to the triumphant car of the desperate man who denies all value, to that eerie car whose broken wheels will soon fall apart, and the car will eventually Will be caught in the gasoline-smelling torrents of the earth... "Of course it's strange that, despite Herold's willingness to choose the environment that disgusted him, he got deeper and deeper into it. Even in this environment, Herold was infected with the same even there he kept in touch with Becker. Becker wrote to him, admonished him, reminded him... He even To visit Becker... He congratulated Becker on his priesthood. Even there he kept in touch with Becker whom he really liked—a word he never used because of his rare shyness. Indeed, he gave Becker Send a package, the contents are cigarettes, soap, grease, which is in short supply in the country, I know...he writes letters, sends packages...but he never reveals a thing about his mental state...no more about religion Discussions with the world view... He finally felt that he was inseparable from the gang he was associated with. He was often in a mood of deep regret, full of fear of bleeding, he mixed with the mud and dung Together, terrified of brute brutality...all mixed with those unalterable notions of race, honor and absolute obedience...fatherland...gentlemanliness. He was an officer in these units...more Wounded for the first time...received an award, received a medal...but none of this could take away a horrific sense of guilt...he was distraught. Worst of all, though: Becker stopped his correspondence...he didn't hear from him for a whole year. Brilliant Organization' Absolute disorganization; though he ascribes it to these external things . Afraid that Becker would not want to associate with him again... The nearer that end, that inexorably catastrophic end, the more horribly he felt himself involved, committed an unbelievable atrocity. Only the thought might help It was his Becker that kept him on his back. He escaped a Russian prisoner-of-war by means of elaborate intrigue, posing as Russian soldiers, sneaking through the entire Russian marching route with false papers, Arrived in the area occupied by the western powers... and then, with enough money and stock, in his razed homeland... somewhere among the thousand shelters that no one would ever find It was here that he escaped the fate of becoming a prisoner. Immediately afterwards, he began to look for Becker carefully. For him, Becker meant salvation. As for how he hoped to get Becker’s Help, he doesn't have fixed ideas...he's completely broken. He's in the shadows of fear, boredom, guilt, it's very difficult. Maybe he just wants to be with someone who won't threaten him, won't reject him even if It was a conversation last time, because Becker seemed to him to be a kind ofThe representative of a religion that caused no trouble, cursed no one or anything... a religion that he himself had loved with all his heart as a child, whose afterglow probably still shone on him, though he himself was not aware of it ... "Masquerading as a victim of war, he limped out of his refuge, trying to find, amid the utter chaos, Becker, whom he knew was a priest in a small town. Finally, he hitched a ride in a U.S. occupation The car arrived at this small town... The small town he saw was not destroyed, and the residents were still confused and panicked... Later he found Becker... His heart was pounding, and he was so happy , he stepped through the door of the rectory... "But Becker was cold and indifferent. He stopped the correspondence on purpose... Everything that was a friendship in the past has disappeared... Becker made a very strange look. He welcomed him, As one welcomes a person whom one had met once, years ago, and now sees again, as one welcomes any ordinary person... The coldness with which Herold was greeted by his only friend He was startled by his objective, objective attitude. But what had gathered in him, this dark mass of pain, blood, and sin, was too much for him to control. . . . Confidence... He told Becker all that he could never write in a letter... When he had finished, he never said a word, never asked any questions, but just looked helplessly at Becker He told me that for the first time in his life he felt completely alone and helpless at this moment. But Becker said nothing to him. Becker seemed to be an official person, and his identity was The priest, an official paid by the state. He was touched, but his humanity was numb by what he saw and saw and experienced, by the horrific atrocities of the retreat... by hunger, confusion, fear and bombs .. all Becker left him was a few words, a few words in that way... You know, such ready-made aphorisms that you can buy for a nickel from the culture stalls, like in some confessionals , distributed to the penitents after the forgiveness of sins, and everyone said a sentence...this person is gone...the next one will come. Of course Becker is urging him to repent, pray, and be a good person...you see!" The priest held tight Grabbing my shoulders, my weary face turned violently...his eyes were ablaze with excitement...his poor, pale face had turned crimson...his mouth was twitching.We stand almost opposite each other like quarrelsome people... like quarrelsome people, standing here, beside the plank bed with the corpse of this useless dog!But I am so weary, so weary... And yet in the depths of my heart, deep down, there is an irresistible interest in this human destiny.I must hear how this fate ends. "Look," he lamented. "I can say that this kind of thing is clear, because I have done it countless times myself...I can imagine the scene at that time. Becker has no personal relationship with him...Facing this terrible He has nothing but a professional, businesslike indifference... He may be as insensitive as one can be as a confessor... My God, adultery and Despicable, that's all, every year, every year! You as a doctor may understand this... For you, a dead body is not like for thousands, despite the outbreak of war, you have not seen so many dead bodies It is not at all a thing to be feared in the same way as a human being. For us priests, an unburied corpse often does not excite us as much as it does for anyone who has never seen the innermost heart of a so-called decent man. Touched our hearts. My God... You see, Becker is like that, and you also have to take into account the fact that the last few months of frightful madness have just passed, and there has been a certain calm, a kind of The calm after the devastation... Becker treated him with indifference. Perhaps indifference, perhaps even absent-mindedness... Herold said: 'He literally pushed me back to my worthless situation...' At this time, he fell into the rage of destroying everything... "Add to that the fact that he was likely to be tipped off by those who had observed him and suspected him...the police were looking for him...he had to change hiding places a lot...he was literally being chased through the rubble. He finally managed to find an undamaged basement under a flattened house in the middle of a lot of ruins in the city. It was easy to get in, but hard to find. Before he became a 'bad dog' , where he brooded for several days, full of rage and hatred. Later, he easily found some accomplices, and although he was always arrogant and arrogant towards his accomplices, the most terrible ones seemed to him Things turned out to be isolated. They first robbed themselves of a comfortable set of furniture. Then, he had a very sober plan—they used the stolen goods to build up their own raw capital in an elaborate black-market The stockpile was piled up in the store, and then the terrible game began, the plans were all his own, he was the recognized leader... he was the 'judge'... when his helpers broke and burglarized, 'caught' He would suddenly appear with some sort of mystical aura when the victim or victims were being killed. He would announce the manner of execution 'according to the mood of the moment'...shooting...stabbing or hanging...they often performed pure It was a threatening attack, so that those who were frightened would be kept in constant fear of being threatened... In this way they—" the priest paused, "killed twenty-three people... Twenty-three indivual……" We both trembled with great terror--creepy--as we watched the motionless corpse, its reddish hair scattered among black spots of blood and grime, glimmering in the dimness of the room. … This grim, thin-lipped mouth seemed to be gloating, cruelly laughing, as if mocking what we were saying, mocking this whole conversation.Trembling all over, I turned around, expecting with trepidation that the priest would turn in my direction too.I felt threatened by the devil, and his human, pitiful face might have comforted me... But the priest remained silent for a long time, turning his face to the dead... for a long time... I don't know. Knowing, when he touched my shoulder lightly, whether he was rousing me from contemplation, or from silent prayer, or merely from vague terror... His tone sounded gentle now.Almost consoling me: "It is really incomprehensible that he, who had never had anything to do with women... who lived an almost celibate life of virginity... died in a I once thought that if he had fallen in love with a mistress...or had only fallen at the feet of that sin to which all weaklings are overwhelmed...namely alcohol and tobacco, he might still be alive now , would perhaps have been a more human being. He was abstinent in a hideous way...no piece of rubble from heaven could fascinate him. His ruin was wrought by a woman. Despite his desperate protests, this woman Still drawn into the gang...Despite his stern refusal, despite his rage, she relented. Although he was their ringleader in numerous murders, he could not control this woman, and the most horrific Yes: This woman loved him. She was cornered by months of relentless taunting, and became his murderer. She stirred up the others. I presume that when they attacked him, they were full of emotion. Wrath was greater than when it attacked other victims. It was a cruel, a very, very deeply buried, terrible secret: After all, this den never hated anyone as much as it hated its own... They almost One point tore him to pieces. And yet, when they found him here, at the door, he was still alive. They found a note in the breast pocket of his coat, and on it was written a beautiful handwriting: Bury the useless dog of the police. It's a woman's handwriting..." I no longer have the strength to turn around...I stare at the filthy floor in dismay...my god am I hungry and tired...I feel pain and I don't think I can comprehend the sheer horror . . . I am in a very miserable state . . . and unable to pray.I felt, as if behind this priest's conversation, I had been buried in the hopeless rubble of our whole world, a vague, unfathomable fear of myself grasping with stiff, iron claws. Hold me... Then I managed, as if the words had been shattered in my mouth, to utter a sentence: "Don't you believe him..." But the priest turned around again, as if praying, and--rarely--I seemed compelled to turn around and look at the corpse again, the unchanged, blood-stained and A corpse of filth... Maybe I was praying, I don't know... My whole being is nothing but a body of fear and pain and vague premonitions. Ah, who can describe the state of affairs.At this time, people are insensitive as if they are in necessary defense, but they are mentally clear-headed and going through everything.People are so lucid as if they can experience something only in their minds... Then the door snapped open and it sounded like someone was starting to demolish the house above us.Startled, we turned our heads vigilantly, when a rude voice shouted, "Come and get this guy away..." At this moment, three men in uniform saw us and relaxed footsteps, walked in...the room seemed to become very bright as soon as they entered...one of them, an unfathomable, slender figure with an expressionless face, said softly, "Good evening." Then turned away身去对着其余两位说，“那我们就把他……”可是这整段时间都在惊恐万分地看着他们的神甫却好像心不在焉，现在他才醒悟过来。他举起双手表示拒绝，大声说道：“不……不……就让我来吧……”他赶忙转过身，无所畏惧地抱起这个被毁掉的死人，对惊恐万分的呼叫声——“神甫先生……”置若罔闻。 他那副神情好像是在抱着一个死去的情人，充满着绝望的温存…… 我犹如在梦中一般，跟着他穿过暖和、雪亮的警卫室，走到潮湿、昏暗、积满既湿且脏的雪泥的街上。有一辆马达在隆隆作响，喇叭在鸣叫的汽车正等在外面。神甫慢慢地……深情地把尸体放在汽车尾部货仓里的一个草袋上面……这里散发着一股汽油和机油味……一股战争和恐惧的气息……昏暗，冬天的这种无情的昏暗犹如无法承载的重荷，笼罩着这些空荡荡的房屋…… “可是……不……这不行……”神甫上车时，有一个警察叫道……他们当中的第三个人却明明白白地以手加额，对他表示敬意——而这里，那个无法捉摸的人却悄悄地，而且就像我所感到的那样，带着一丝苦涩的笑容站在那儿…… 神甫向我招手，要我走过去。尽管马达的隆隆声现在响得更厉害，但我却听到了他对我低声耳语的那些话。这好像是一个秘密：“他还哭了……您知道……在您来之前，我把眼泪擦干了……因为眼泪……”可是这时车子却猛然一跳，一下子就飞快地开跑了。我只看见这个黑糊糊的人影无可奈何的姿势。这个人影同汽车一道，拐进这座遭到毁灭的城市冷冰冰、黑魆魆的峡谷中去了…… 刁承俊译 选自《天使沉默不中用的狗》，译林出版社1998年出版 ------------ ①这里指的是第—次世界大战和德国1919～1923年间的通货膨胀，即1918～1919年这段时间。——译注