Chapter 30 succeed christ

Yes, back home!At 20:04, the train for front-line leave personnel arrived at Danzig station.Felix and Kitty took me to the Max Halberplatz and bid me farewell, Kitty shed tears, then they went to the dispatch office in Hochstris, Oskar carried his luggage on his back before blackjack Hurry across Rabes Road. return home.Today, this has become a bad habit.It turned those young men who went to foreign regions with forged checks, stayed a few years and then returned home to talk about the classics of mountains and seas into modern Odysseus.Some people, absent-minded, took the wrong train, went to Oberhausen instead of Frankfurt, and learned a little about the journey-why not? —As soon as he returned to his hometown, he boasted a lot of names, such as Kirke, Penelope, and Telemachos.Oskar returns home to find that everything is the same, and because of that alone, he is not Odysseus.If he were Odysseus, he could of course call his beloved Maria Penelope, but instead of swarming her with lustful suitors, she always had Matzerath by her side, before Oskar left home. For a long time, she had made up her mind to follow him.Let the educated among you, readers, not think so: since my poor Roswitha was formerly a somnambulist, she is regarded as Kirke who deceives men.As for my son Kurt, he didn't do anything for his father, and even if he doesn't recognize Oscar, he's definitely not a Telemachos.

-------- ① Characters in Homer's epic poem "Odysseus".Kiel is a banshee who seduces men.Penelope was the faithful wife of Odysseus, and Telemachus was the son of both. If an analogy is necessary—and I know that a returner must compare himself to someone else to be satisfied—then, for the sake of gentlemen, I will compare myself to the returner in the Bible. Prodigal son, because Matzerath opened the door and greeted me like a real father and not an imaginary one.Yes, he knew how to rejoice at Oscar's return home, and shed sincere, wordless tears, so that from that day on, I not only called myself Oscar Bronski, but also called myself Oscar Matzer lat.

Maria's response to my return was calm, but not unkind.She was sitting at the table, putting up food stamps for the Bureau of Economic Affairs, and she had piled up several unpacked birthday presents for little Kurt on the cigarette table.Always practical, her first thought was to make me comfortable, so she undressed me, bathed me as usual, ignored my shyness, put my pajamas on me, and carried me to the table. On the table, there are poached eggs and fried potatoes that Matzerath made for me when I was in the shower, and the drink is milk.While I was eating and drinking, she started asking me, "Where have you been? We've been looking for you everywhere, and the police are looking for you like crazy. We had to go to court and swear we didn't Kill you. Well, now you're back. But there's been a lot of trouble, and there'll be trouble, because we have to report that you're back. Let's hope they don't send you to a special institution You should go to that kind of place. Who told you to run away without a word!"

-------- ① Refers to the madhouse or reformatory. Maria does have a vision.Here comes the trouble.An official from the Ministry of Health came to my house to talk to Matzerath alone, but Matzerath yelled so loudly that everyone could hear: "Don't even think about it. I promised my wife when she died. I am the father." , not the health police!" I was not sent to a specialized institution.However, from that day on, an official letter was sent every two weeks, asking Matzerath to sign, but Matzerath refused to sign, but his face became wrinkled. Oskar had to be one step ahead, he had to smooth out the wrinkles on Matzerath's face, because the night I got home, he was beaming, he didn't think as much as Maria did, and asked less, as long as I got home safely As far as all is well, his attitude is like a real father.When they took me to bed with the startled Mrs. Truczynski he said, "Little Kurt will be happy, he's got another little brother. Tomorrow we're celebrating little Kurt's third birthday."

My son Kurt saw a wine red sweater knit by Gretchen Scheffler on his birthday table in addition to the cake with three candles, but he didn't care at all.There was also a nasty yellow ball which he sat on and rode on and finally broke through with a knife from the kitchen.Then he sucked the disgustingly sweet water that settles in all inflated balls from the rubber slit.When the ball no longer puffed up for him to toss about, Kurt Jr. turned to dismantle the skiff, reducing it to a wreck.The top and the whip were in his hand, but he didn't touch them. Oscar had thought of his son's birthday a long time ago.He had escaped from the wildest events of the age, and hurried East not to miss his heir's third birthday.At this time, he stood aside, watching Kurt's sabotage, admiring this brave boy, comparing his height with his son's height, so I confessed thoughtfully: You left home During this time, little Kurt has grown taller than you.On your own third birthday seventeen years ago, you deliberately kept your height at ninety-four centimeters. Now, your son is already two or three centimeters taller than you.The time has come when he must be made a drummer, when the rapid increase in height must be shouted: "Enough!"

My actor's bag and my textbooks are stashed behind roof tiles in the laundry room.I took out a shiny new tin drum from the factory.My poor mother kept her word and offered me a chance.I'm going to give my son the same opportunity now, and the grown-ups won't do that.I have good grounds for thinking that Matzerath, who had wanted me to inherit the shop, had, after my resignation, identified little Kurt as the future colonial merchant.Matzerath's wish must be prevented from becoming a reality!Hearing what I said, readers, please don't regard Oscar as an enemy who specifically opposes retail sales!If someone promises me or my son an industrial concern, or an inheritance of a kingdom plus colonies, I will likewise prevent this from becoming a reality.Oscar doesn't want to take anything from anyone else, so he wants his son to take similar actions, making him a tin drummer who will always maintain the figure of a three-year-old-this is exactly my logical error. To a promising young man, taking over a tin drum was not as much of an incremental thing as taking over a colonial merchandise store.

Here's what Oscar thinks today.However, he had only one wish at the time: a drumming son must be placed next to the drumming father, there must be two small drummers watching from the bottom up what the adults are doing, and a reproductive society must be established. The dynasty of drummers, because my career must be passed on from generation to generation with red and white tin drums. What a life we ​​shall have before our eyes!If we could play drums side by side, even in different rooms, if we could play drums side by side, even if he was on Rue Labes and I was on Rue Luisen, he was in the cellar and I was in the attic, little Kurt In the kitchen, Oscar in the bathroom, if father and son or one or the other can play the tin drum together occasionally, if the two of us get a good chance, can drill down to my grandmother, his great-grandmother Anna Koljache How nice it would be to go under some of Ke's skirts, live there, beat the drums, and smell a little bit of butter!Crouching by her gate, I said to little Coulter, "Look in, my son. That's where we came from. If you're brave enough, we can go back there for an hour or more." Long time, visit those who wait there."

Little Kurt would lean over under a few skirts, take a peek, and ask me politely, his father, please clarify. "That beautiful lady," Oskar would whisper, "the one sitting right there in the middle, playing with her beautiful hands, has an oval face so tender it makes me tear up, that's my poor mother, you kind grandmother. She died from eel soup, or from her too-sweet heart." "Go on, Dad, go on!" Coulter Jr. would urge me. "Who's this man with the moustache?" I would lower my voice mysteriously: "This is your great-grandfather, Joseph Koljacek. Notice the twinkle in his arsonist eyes, notice the extraordinary Polish man just above the base of his nose." The whimsy and practical Kashube scheming. Also watch out for the webbing between his toes. On the day the Columbus was launched in 1913, he got under a row of rafts and swam a long, long time, Finally made it to America, where he became a millionaire. Sometimes he goes into the water again, swims back, and hides here. He found protection here when he was an arsonist, and gave his share to me. mother."

"Then who is that handsome gentleman who has been hiding behind that lady, my grandmother, and now sits beside her, stroking her hand with his? His blue eyes are the same as yours. Exactly the same, Dad!" My wicked son of a traitor, I had to take courage now, and answer my own brave son: "These are Bronski's wonderful blue eyes, and they are looking at you, little Kurt. Your eyes are grey. You got them from your mother. Yet, like Jan who was kissing my poor mother's hand, like Jan's father, Vinzent, you are a thoroughly wonderful The real Bronski with Kashube blood. Someday, we will go back there too, back to the basics, where it smells a little bit of butter. Be happy for that day!"

According to my theory at the time, I thought that a real family life could only be lived inside my grandmother Koljacek, or in what I jokingly called my grandmother's butter jar.Even today, when in the blink of an eye I reach and surpass even the Trinity of Father, Son, and, above all, the Holy Spirit, when, as in any other profession, I assume the duty of succeeding Christ as unwillingly Today, although I can no longer reach the door to my grandmother, I still vividly describe the best scenes of domestic life in the circle of my ancestors. Especially on rainy days, I always imagined: my grandmother handing out invitations, and we meet in her body.Here comes Jan Bronski, and in the bullet holes in the chest of the defender of the Polish post office are flowers, probably lilacs.Maria, who also received invitations from my introduction, approached my mother shyly, to gain favor, to show her the store ledgers which had been started by my mother and continued by Maria with perfect impeccability.Mom let out a Kashube laugh, pulled my lover closer to her, kissed her on the cheek, winked and said, "Little Maria, we don't feel bad. We both married the same surname. The man from Matzerath has another man named Bronski!"

I had to strictly forbid myself to continue to think about it, such as imagining a son conceived by Jan, conceived by my mother in my grandmother Koljacek, and finally born in that butter jar. .Because this kind of thing will definitely be set up one after another like a chain.And maybe my half-brother Stefan Bronski, who after all belonged to the same circle, would give Maria a first look and then go on and on.So, I prefer to limit my imagination to a peaceful gathering.Therefore, I no longer imagine the third and fourth drummers, as long as Oscar and Kurt Jr. are enough.On the tin sheet, I told the people present about the Eiffel Tower, which I used to replace my grandmother when I was abroad.The guests and the host, Anna Koljacek, were delighted to hear our drums beating and slapped each other's knees in time.At this time, I am also very happy. As tempting as it is to show my own grandmother's inner world and its relationships, to see its many layers on a limited plane, at the moment Oskar—like Matzerath—is just a hypothetical father ——The events of June 12, 1944, the third birthday of Kurt Jr. must be used as the basis for the narrative. I repeat: the kid Kurt got a sweater, a ball, a sailboat, a whip, and a top, and he was going to get a red and white painted tin drum from me.As soon as he dismantled the sailboat, Oscar walked over, hid the gift of iron sheet behind his back, and let his worn-out iron sheet dangle under his stomach.We stood facing each other with only a small step between us; Oscar, the dwarf; Kurt, two centimeters taller than the dwarf.Furious and sullen, he was still wrecking the sailboat.As he tore down the last mast of the Pamir, as the sailing ship was called, Oskar took the drum from behind to the front and held it aloft. Kurt dropped the wreckage of the sailboat, took the drum, hugged it, and turned it, the expression on his face softening a little, but still taut.Now is the time to pass him the drum stick.Unfortunately, he misunderstood my second movement and thought it was a threat to him, so he knocked out the drum stick in my hand with the drum rim.When I bent over to pick up the sticks, he reached behind his back, and when I handed him the sticks a second time, he grabbed my birthday present and whipped me; he whipped me, not the top, Oscar, no Spinning top carved for whipping.He was going to teach his father to whine like a spinning top.He whipped me, thinking to himself: Wait, little brother, Cain whipped Abel like this, and Abel was whipped and turned, staggering at first, then turning faster and faster, turning more steadily, first in a low voice , and later changed from an unpleasant whining sound to a loud singing, and sang the ditty of spinning top.Cain whipped me into higher and higher singing, my voice pale like a tenor singing his morning prayers.Angels battered in silver, Viennese songboys, trained eunuchs, might have sung like that—and Abe might have sung like that until he fell dead on his back, and I was in Kurt the boy. Flogged and fell to the ground. -------- ①Cain and Abel were the sons of Adam and Eve. The Lord took a fancy to Abel's offering. Cain was furious and killed his younger brother.See "Bible · Old Testament · Genesis". ②In the 17th and 18th centuries, some castrates acquired the quality of a child's voice and a wide range of voices, and were called "eunuch singers". When he saw me lying on the ground like this, whimpering pitifully, he pumped the air in the room several times, as if his arm hadn't had enough.He still eyed me suspiciously as he examined the drums in detail.First the red and white paint was knocked off the corner of the chair, and then the gift was thrown on the floor.Little Kurt searched and found the solid hull of the original sailboat.He beat the drum with this piece of wood.Instead of beating, he was smashing the drum.The rhythm of his hands is too simple.With a tense face, he pounded monotonously and evenly against a piece of iron that had never expected to meet such a drummer, which could withstand the rapid blows of very light sticks, but not the impact of heavy wreckage.The drum cracked, the iron sheet came out of the frame trying to escape, it stripped its red and white paint to perform its invisibility, and finally begged for mercy in its inherent blue-gray.However, the son showed no mercy to the birthday gift from Lao Tzu.The father still wanted to mediate again. Regardless of the multiple pains on his body at the same time, he struggled to crawl over the carpet and crawled towards his son standing on the floor. Before he could reach his son, the whip rang again. It doesn't want to spin any more, ma'am, it doesn't want to whine any more, and the drum finally gives up hope of a sensitive, fast-thumping drummer who wields his sticks vigorously but not brutally. -------- ①It refers to whip here because it is a feminine noun in German. When Maria entered the house, the drum was already scrap metal.She picked me up, kissed my swollen eyes, my cracked ears, licked my blood and my welted hands. Ah, if Mariah didn't just kiss this abused, underdeveloped, sadly abnormal child!如果她认出挨揍的我是孩子的父亲，在我的每道伤痕里认出了她的情人那该多好！In that case, what a consolation I would have been to her, what a husband at once a secret and a real one, during the dark months that followed! First there was my half-brother, Stefan Bronski, who had just been promoted to second lieutenant, and then took his stepfather's surname Ehlers, when he was shot and killed on the Arctic sea front, thus making his career as an officer come to an abrupt end. problem.Stefan's father Jan, a defender of the Polish post office, hid a skat card behind his shirt when he was shot in the Saspe cemetery.Today, the second lieutenant's tunic is adorned with the Iron Cross of the Second Class, the Infantry Charge Badge, and the so-called Frozen Meat Badge.But this matter has absolutely nothing to do with Maria. -------- ① Refers to the medal awarded to German soldiers who participated in the winter campaign against the Soviet Union from 1941 to 1942. At the end of June, Madame Truczynski suffered a mild stroke because of bad news brought to her by the post office.Petty Officer Fritz Truczynski died for three things at once: for the Führer, for the people, and for the Fatherland.It happened in the middle district, and Fritz's letter bag was sent directly to Labes Road in the Langfur district by a captain named Kanauer in the middle district.The envelopes contained pictures of pretty girls, mostly laughing, in Heidelberg, Brest, Paris, the Krautznach baths, and Thessaloniki.First Class and Second Class Iron Crosses, all kinds of hanging badges, I have lost count of them, a copper melee medal and two pieces of anti-tank cloth epaulets removed from the military uniform, and a few letters. Matzerath helped as best he could, and Madame Truczynski soon recovered, but never fully recovered.She sat rigidly on the chair by the window, and asked me and Matzerath, who came upstairs two or three times a day to deliver things, to tell her where the "middle ground" was, was it far from here, and could it be Sunday? Go there by train. Matzerath had a thought, but couldn't answer.And I learned geography from special news and Wehrmacht reports, so the matter was entrusted to me.During those long afternoons, I played a few middle section variations that moved more and more frequently on the drums for Mrs. Truczinski, who sat motionless except for her head shaking. Maria, who adored the pretty Fritz so much, became devout.At first, throughout the month of July, Maria still attended the religious services she had learned, going to the priest Hecht of the Christ Church on Sundays.Matzerath sometimes accompanied her, although she preferred to go alone. The Protestant service did not satisfy Maria.The middle day of the week—is it Thursday or Friday? ——Before the business closed, Maria handed over the store to Matzerath. She held the hand of me, a Catholic, and walked towards the new market, then turned into Elsen Street, entered Maria Street, and walked through Butcher Wolgemut's gate, Klein Hammer Park - Oskar thought to himself, this is going to Langfurt station, we will make a short trip, maybe to Bissau in Kashube - we turn left again , out of superstition, wait for a freight train to pass before the underpass of the railway embankment, then cross the disgustingly dripping underpass, but instead of going all the way to the cinema, walk along the railway embankment.I thought to myself: either she drags me to Dr. Hollatz's clinic on Brunshoeffer, or she wants to convert and go to the Sacred Heart. The gate of the Sacred Heart Church faces the railway embankment.The two of us stopped between the railway embankment and the open gate.Late in the August afternoon there was a certain cacophony in the air.On the paving gravel between the railroad tracks behind us, Oriental women workers in white turbans were wielding picks and shovels.We stood and looked into the dark, cool belly of the church: at the end, subtly and seductively, a flaming eye--the ever-burning lamp.On the railway embankment behind us, Ukrainian women stop swinging picks and shovels.A horn beeps, a train approaches, it comes, it’s here, it’s still in sight, it’s not over yet, then it’s gone, the horn beeps, the Ukrainian woman picks and shovels again.Maria hesitated as to which foot to put first, and let me, who from birth and baptism have been closely related to the only church that can save the world, take responsibility; Maria for the first time in many years This time, for the first time since those two weeks of soda powder and love, let Oscar lead her. We left the railway embankment and its noise, August and the hum of August out in the open.I was a little sad, I rubbed the drum covered by my coat with my fingertips, my face was expressionless and indifferent, but in my heart I recalled the mass celebrated beside my poor mother, the mass presided over by the bishop, the late stay, and the Saturday morning.Shortly before my poor mother died, she became devout from being too close to Jan Bronski, confessed easily Saturday after Saturday, took communion on Sunday to restore her energy, and the next Thursday more lightly and upliftingly Meet Yang in Carpenter Alley.What was the surname of that saint back then?His surname is Wienke, and he is still the priest of the Sacred Heart Church. His voice is soft and incomprehensible when he preaches, and his voice is so thin and weeping when he sings the creed. The words of the virgin, the virgin Jesus, and the baptizing boy on the stage, at that time, something like faith really sneaked into my heart. However, it was the altar again that urged me to lead Maria through the sun into the gate and across the pavement to the nave. Oscar was unhurried, and sat silently on the oak chair beside Maria, becoming more and more indifferent.How many years have passed, but it makes me feel that they are still those people back then, flipping through the confession with confidence, waiting for His Majesty Wienke's ears.We sat slightly to the side but closer to the nave.I want Maria to make her own choice, to be easy.On the one hand, she is not too close to the confessional to distract her, and she can convert silently and informally, and on the other hand, she can see what others do before confessing. What, while observing and making up his mind, he also entered the confession room and went to His Majesty's ear, discussing with him the details of the only church that can save the world.Beneath the smell, the dust, the plaster, the crooked angels and the refracted light, among the convulsed saints, she knelt so small, with clumsy hands, before, under, and between the sweetly pained Catholic Pope In the meantime, I drew the cross for the first time and reversed the direction. Seeing this makes me feel sorry.Oskar touched Maria with his finger and gave her the correct gesture of crossing, pointing out to this curious woman where behind her forehead, where in the depths of her breasts, where Somewhere inside the shoulder joint resides the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.I also instructed her how to cross her fingers in order to get what she sincerely desires.Maria obeyed, settled her hands sincerely, and began to pray sincerely.At first, Oskar also tried to pray and remember the dead, but when he begged God for his Roswitha, bargaining with God for her eternal peace and the joy of entering the kingdom of heaven, I was fascinated. Thinking so much of earthly details that eternal peace and celestial joys were at last transported to a hotel in Paris.I had to free myself by saying the prayers of Mass, which are more or less free from obligation.I read eternity after eternity, with my heart upward, praying for what is deserved and what is right—and it is what is deserved and right, and I am satisfied with that and watch Maria from the sidelines. -------- ① Latin scriptures, the first sentence is read by the priest, and the latter sentence is read by the believers. Catholic prayer was just right for her.She is so beautiful when she is praying, so worth drawing.Prayer grows the eyelashes, thickens the eyebrows, flushes the cheeks, makes the forehead heavy, the neck bends, and the nostrils flutter.Maria's face, flowering with pain, almost tempted me to get close to her.But no one should bother the praying man, nor should he seduce him, nor should he allow himself to be seduced by the praying man, even if the praying man wishes to be of observable value to some observer, even if it is of great value to the prayer. Barnyard Yi, that doesn't work either. So I slid down from the polished church chair, my hands still neatly resting on the drum that bulged my coat.Oskar fled from Maria to the pavement, with a drum, crept past the cross from station to station, did not stop at St. Anthony - pray for us - for we lost neither purse , and did not lose the key, that St. Adalbert of Prague who was killed by the ancient Plutzes, we also let him lie safely on the left side.We didn't stop, jumping from one tile to another—it could really be used as a chess board—until a carpet announced that here were the steps of the altar on the left. Inside the neo-Gothic brick Sacre Coeur, and above and below the left altar, everything remains the same, readers will believe.The naked, pink Virgin Jesus is still sitting on the left thigh of the Virgin, whom I do not call the Virgin Mary, lest she be confused with my converting Mary.Pushing toward the virgin's right knee was still the boy John, barely covered by his chocolate-colored shaggy fur.The Virgin herself, as always, points to Jesus with the index finger of her right hand, keeping her eyes on John.Oskar, however, was less interested in the motherly pride of the virgin than in the figure of the two boys after so many years away from home.Jesus was about the same size as my son Kurt was on his third birthday, which is two centimeters taller than Oscar.According to the supporting documents, John was older than the Nazarene, and about the same height as me.However, the facial expressions of these two children are the same as the usual facial expressions of me, the eternal third-age child: young and old.Nothing has changed.They're still watching with that smug smugness, exactly the same as I've seen years ago when I entered the Sacre Coeur with my poor mother. -------- ①These two names are the same in German. ② Refers to Jesus Christ. I stepped on the carpet and up the steps, but I didn't say "up" ①.I scrutinized every crease, and with my drum stick—which felt more than all my fingers put together—slowly examined the painted plaster casts of these two naked children, piece by piece: Thighs, stomachs, arms, count the lines and dimples—this is Oscar's physique, my muscular flesh, my strong, slightly fat knees, my The arms of a drummer are short and muscular.He has them too, the little rascal.He sits on the lap of a virgin, raises his arms and fists, as if he wants to knock on the iron sheet, as if Jesus is the drummer and Oscar is not the drummer, as if he is waiting for my iron sheet, as if he really wants to hit the iron sheet this time Crack out some charming beats for the Virgin, John and me. -------- ①The initial word of the Latin scripture "ascending to the altar of the Lord". I do what I did years ago, take off the drum in front of my belly, and give Jesus a try.Considering the painted plaster, I carefully placed Oscar's red and white drums on Jesus' pink thighs.I did this only in fulfillment of my long-cherished wish, not in the foolish hope of a miracle, but in order to witness concretely and vividly the impotence of Jesus, in spite of his sitting like that, with his fists raised, despite my stature and My muscular physique, although he was made of plaster, easily passed for a third-year-old boy, and it took so much effort and hardship to maintain this image.He doesn't know how to play drums, he just puts on a posture that seems to be able to play drums, and he may still think: as long as I have a drum, I will play.So I said, you wouldn't knock even if you had it, and stuck two sticks between his sausage-shaped fingers, ten fingers, and I couldn't stand up laughing: Knock, sweet Jesus, multicolored plaster Knock on the tin!Oscar stepped back, down three steps, from the carpet to the tiled floor.Knock, boy Jesus!Oscar stepped back again.He backed away to a certain distance, laughing and laughing, Jesus was still sitting, but he couldn't knock, maybe he wanted to knock.I was just beginning to feel bored, like gnawing on an ancient book on pigskin, when he knocked, he knocked! Although everything is still, he seems to be beating, first with his left hand, then with his right hand, and then with two drum sticks, crossed into a cross, beating the drum rapidly is still decent, very serious, likes variations, simple rhythms at the same time Complicated rhythms are struck just as well, without gimmicks, just on iron.I didn't find it religious, and it didn't sound like a vulgar soldier's accent, but it was purely musical.He didn't disdain popular songs, and he selected "Everything is Gone" among the songs that were sung by everyone at the time, and naturally there was also "Lily Mullen".Slowly, perhaps jerkly, he turned his curly head toward me with Bronski's blue eyes, smiled rather imperiously, and composed Oscar's favorite tune: , Glass, Little Glass" begins, then "Schedule", this kid played Rasputin against Goethe like me, climbed the tower with me, climbed under the podium with me, caught on the jetty of the port Eel, who followed me behind my poor mother's small coffin, and what puzzled me most was that he stayed with me again and again under the four skirts of my grandmother Anna Koljacek. At this time, Oscar came closer again.He was drawn to it.He would rather stand on the carpet than on the pavement.He stepped up the steps of the altar one after another.I'm going up like this, but I'd rather be going down. "Jesus," I said, gathering all the rest of my voice, "that's not okay. Give me back the drum right now. You have your cross, and that's enough for you!" He didn't break off abruptly, Instead, after finishing the composition, he crossed the drumsticks on the iron sheet, and the careful look was really exaggerated.Without further ado, he handed me what Oscar had rashly lent him.I didn't thank you either, and was about to hurry down the steps like ten devils, jumping out of the Catholic faith, when a sweet, albeit imperative, voice touched my shoulder: "Do you love me, Oskar? ’ I replied without looking back: ‘That’s not what I know. "It's a pity, not at all!" At this moment, he pestered me for the third time: "Oscar, do you love me?" I turned around and Jesus saw my face. "I hate you, boy, I hate you and all your useless stuff!" Strangely enough, my scolding made him speak even more eloquently.Like a female teacher of a national elementary school, he stretched out her index finger and gave me a task: "You are Oscar, you are a rock, and on this rock, I will build my church. Inherit me!" You can imagine how furious I was.Anger covered me with the skin of a soup hen.I broke one of his toes in a cast and he doesn't move anymore. "Say it again," Oscar whispered, "I'll scratch off your color!" -------- ① means: goose bumps. He didn't say a word anymore.Then, as ever, came the old man, the old man who shuffled forever past all the churches in the world.He bowed to the altar on the left, didn't notice me at all, and continued walking with dragging feet, and he was already in front of Adalbert in Prague. I also hurried down the steps, stepped from the carpet to the brick floor, and walked without looking back Cross the board to Maria, who is following my instructions to draw the Catholic cross in the correct way. I took her by the hand, led her to the holy fountain, and made her sign the sign of the sign of the cross to the altar again in the middle of the church, just before the gate.我自己没有跟她一起这样做。她正要下跪时，我将她一把拽到太阳底下。 已是傍晚了。铁路路堤上的东方女工们已经走了。朗富尔郊区车站前不远处一列货车在调轨。蚊子像葡萄挂在空气里。从上面传来钟声。调轨的嘈杂声淹没掉了钟声。蚊子仍像一串串的葡萄。玛丽亚哭肿了脸。奥斯卡真想叫喊。我该用什么办法来对付耶稣呢？我的声音要能装上弹药就好了。我同他的十字架有什么关系？不过我心里明白，我的声音对付不了他的教堂的窗户。他会继续靠名叫彼特鲁斯或彼特里或东普鲁士的彼特里凯特这号人修建他的殿堂的。“听着，奥斯卡，别破坏教堂的窗户！”撒旦在我心中小声说，“他会毁掉你的声音的。”就这样，我仅仅抬头望了一眼，量度了一下这样一扇新哥特式玻璃窗的尺寸，就拔腿走了，没有跟随耶稣，而是跟在玛丽亚身边漫不经心地朝车站街下跨道走去，穿过滴水的隧道，上去就是小锤公园，再向右拐入马利亚街，经过屠夫沃尔格穆特的门口，向左拐入埃尔森街，过了施特里斯溪来到新市场，那里为了防空正在修一个水池。拉贝斯路真长，我们终于到家了。奥斯卡离开玛丽亚，爬上九十级楼梯到了晾衣间。这里挂着床单，床单后面堆着防空沙，在沙堆和桶以及几捆报纸和几摞屋面瓦后面是我的书和前线剧团时期的备用鼓。在一只鞋盒里，有几只用坏的但仍旧是梨形的电灯泡。奥斯卡从中拿起第一只，唱碎了它，拿起第二只，让它变成玻璃尘，整齐地切下第三只肥大的那一半，在第四只上面唱出花体字母JESUS（耶稣），接着又把这玻璃和铭文都变成粉末。我想再来一次，电灯泡却用完了。我精疲力竭，躺倒在防空沙堆上：奥斯卡的声音还在。耶稣也许会有一个继承人。撒灰者①将成为我的头一批门徒。 -------- ①下文将讲到的一个青年团伙。