Chapter 8 Chapter 5 Statues and Puppets (1)

I make a request to those who have lived through this era and survived.Please don't forget, neither the good nor the bad.Please patiently collect the materials of those who sacrificed for themselves and for you.Today will be the past, and people will talk about great times and unsung heroes who made history.I want everyone to know that there are no heroes without names.Each of them had a name, a face, aspirations, and hopes, and the least of them suffered no less than the greats who lived through the ages.I hope all these people make you feel like your acquaintances, like your own relatives, like your own kind.

A whole generation of heroes was slaughtered.Love them, even one of them, love him as you love your own children, because he is proud of a great man who lived for the future.Every man who is faithful to the future and dies for a better future is a stone statue.And every decayed and obsolete person who wants to stop the revolutionary torrent, even if he wears golden epaulets now, he can only be a puppet carved from rotten wood.But it is also necessary to see how vile and pitiful these living puppets are, how cruel and ridiculous they are, because these are useful material for the future. What I am about to say below is only raw material, the testimony of eyewitnesses.

This is only some incomplete material, because what I can see is only a small part, and it is impossible to have a broad perspective.Yet these fragments have the essential features of the real situation: the great and the small, the statue and the puppet. Yelynyeks Joseph and Maria.The husband is a tram worker and the wife is a maid.It is necessary to take a look at their dwellings.Simple, sleek, modern furniture, little bookshelves, statuettes, a few photographs on the walls, and the room was immaculately clean, unbelievably clean.You might say that the mistress put her whole heart in this room and knew nothing of the outside world.That's not it.She has been a member of the Communist Party for a long time, and she does her best to realize the ideal of justice that she dreams of.Both husband and wife worked faithfully and in obscurity.During the occupation, faced with difficult tasks, they never retreated.

Three years later, the Gestapo broke into their house.The two of them stood side by side with their hands raised. May 19, 1943 They are sending my Gustina to Poland to "work" tonight.Sent to hard labor, to the typhoid death zone.Maybe she has a few more weeks to live, or two or three months.My case is said to have been transferred to court.That is to say, I still have one month of detention in Pankrates prison, which will be over in a short time.My report seems to be endless.If I have the chance these days, I would like to keep writing.But today is not enough.My whole mind and heart was taken up by Gustina today.Noble in character, sincere and warm, she was a precious and faithful companion to me in a difficult and uncertain life.

Every night I sang her favorite songs: about the green grass on the steppe, about the glorious guerrilla warfare, about the Cossack girl who fought side by side with men for freedom, about her resolute heroism, about how she "Falled down and never got up again" during a fight. This is my comrade in arms.How much power there is in this little woman with her face, her face, and her big, loving child's eyes! The struggles and the constant partings made us a pair for eternity, not once but for hundreds of years. Feel the passion of that first meeting and first touch in your life again and again.Whether in joy or sorrow, excitement or sorrow, our hearts always beat together, and our breaths always blend together.

We have worked together for many years and have helped each other completely as friends.She was my first reader and first critic for many years.Without the urging of her caressing eyes, it would be difficult for me to write.Over the years we have fought side by side in countless struggles, and over the years we have toured hand in hand the suburbs that fascinate us.We have often been poor, but we have also experienced great happiness because we have the wealth of the poor: that is all that is inside. Do you want to ask Gustina?Gustina is such a person: it was the time of martial law in the middle of June last year.She saw me for the first time six weeks after our arrest, during those six agonizing weeks of being alone in a cell and brooding over the news people had passed her of my death.She was called to "soften" me.

"You can persuade him," the chief of the anti-communist section said to her when she confronted me. "Tell him to be smart. If he doesn't think about himself, he should at least think about you. Give you an hour to think about it. If he's still so stubborn, he'll shoot you both tonight." ." She glanced at me caressingly, and then replied briefly: "Mr. Section Chief, this is not a threat to me, but it is my last request. If you want to execute him, shoot me too. " This is Gustina.This is love and constancy. They can take our lives, can't they, Gustina?But they cannot take away our honor and our love.

Ah, people, can you imagine how we would live, if we were to meet again through this ordeal?What if we met again, in a life of sparkling freedom and creativity?What if we were together again after the good life that we so longed for and worked so hard for, and now have to go through fire and water for, once realized?Ah, even if we die, we shall still share a small portion of your great happiness, for that happiness we gave our lives.This is where our joy lies, although the difference in the world is sad. They didn't allow the two of us to say goodbye, or give us hugs and handshakes.Only the prison collective that linked Charles Square with Poncratz Prison gave us both the message of each other's fate.

Gustina, you know, and I understand, that we will probably never see each other again.But I still hear your cry from afar: Goodbye, my dear. Farewell, my Gustina. my will I have nothing but a bookcase.But the Gestapo busted it. I have written many literary criticism and political essays, reportage works, literary essays, drama reviews and speeches.A lot of it is about a period, lost with time.These can be left alone.But there are also some living things, and I hope Gustina sorts them out.But now this hope is difficult to realize.Therefore, I ask my faithful friend Ladislav Stoll to collect and organize them into five collections: 1. Collections of Political Commentary and Controversy; 2. Collections of Domestic Reportage; 3. Collections of Soviet Reportage; 4. Collections of reviews and monographs on literature and drama.

Most of these works can be found in magazines and Red Right, some published in Trunk, Fountainhead, Proletarian Culture, Time, Socialist, Vanguard and others superior. In the publisher Gilgal (I love his undoubted courage to publish my book "Baozina Nemcova" during the Occupation) I wrote about Julius Zeyer Er's thesis.Another part of the monograph on Sabina and the notes on Jan Neruda is hidden in the house where the Yelinek couple, Vesukil and Suhanek couple lived.Most of these people are no longer alive. I also set out to write a novel about our generation.Two chapters are with my parents, the rest are presumably lost.I saw drafts of several of my short stories in Gestapo files.

I enjoin future literary historians to love Jan Neruda.He is our greatest poet, and he has looked far beyond our time into the future.But until now there has not been a book that understands him and affirms his achievements.The reader needs to be pointed out that Neruda is a proletarian.People always associate him with the vulgar idyll of the small town, but they don't see that Neruda is a "rebellious son" for this old small town with "idyllic atmosphere"; they don't see that Nie Ruda was born on the border of Mala Strand and Smikhof, and grew up in a workers' housing estate; they did not see that he had to go through Linhof in order to write "Flowers from the Graveyard" in order to go to the cemetery of Mala Strand Seoul factory.Without seeing these, you can't understand Neruda from writing "Flowers in the Graveyard" to "May Day 1890".Some critics, even as discerning as Sarda, went so far as to think that Neruda's journalism got in the way of his poetry. This is really nonsense.On the contrary, it was precisely because he was a journalist that he was able to write such magnificent poems as "Ballads and Story Poems," "Friday Songs," and most of "Ordinary Themes."The work of a journalist may be tiring and draining, but it brought Neruda closer to his readers and helped him write poetry, especially for a journalist of his integrity.Neruda might be able to write many collections of poetry if he were separated from newspapers that only survived for a day, but he could not write a work that can stand the test of time beyond this century like the one he is now producing. Maybe someone can finish my account of Sabina.It's worth doing. I want to use all my labor income to ensure that my parents spend a good old age in order to repay their love and their ordinary and noble qualities.Of course all my labor is not for this purpose alone.I hope they don't feel blue when I'm not around them. "The laborer dies, but the fruits of his labor live forever." In the warmth and light that surrounds them, I will always be there for them. I ask my younger sisters, Liba and Vilka, to use my singing to help my parents forget the loss in our family.They both shed a lot of tears when they came to visit us from the Peček Palace, but joy lived in their hearts, and for that I love them, and for that we love each other.They are disseminators of joy—may they always be disseminators of joy. And comrades who have fought after us, I hold your hands firmly.I shake your hands for myself and for Gustina.We have done our duty. I repeat: we live for joy, we fight for joy, and we die for joy.Therefore, never let sorrow be associated with our name. Yoo V May 19, 1943 May 22, 1943 The case is closed and signed off, and my time with the court investigator was over yesterday.Everything went faster than I expected.They seem to be rushing through.Lida Praha and Milek were also indicted with me.Milek's betrayal did not bring him any "cheap". He was so stern and cold to the scouts, and that look alone was chilling.There was a little bit of life in the Gestapo, horrific, but still life.There was even passion there, that of a warrior on the one hand, and that of a hunter, marauder, or simply robber on the other. There are even people on the other side of this passion who have something like faith.But here, with the investigators, it was just a routine office.The swastika on the lapel of his coat showed that he had no faith in him.It is but a kind of shield behind which hides a poor little bureaucrat, who is always trying to get through this age in peace.He was neither nice nor bad to the defendant, neither smiling nor sad.He's just routine.He has no blood, just a thin fluid. They wrote the report, signed it, and got the items in order.Sorting out my six major crimes: plotting to overthrow the German Empire, preparing armed insurrection... don't know what else.In fact, any one of them is enough. For thirteen months, here I was fighting for my comrades and my own life. I fought boldly and cunningly.They included "Northern cunning" among their penalties.I think I can admit it at this point.I failed because, in addition to their cunning, they had axes in their hands. This contest is over.Now just have to wait.There were about two or three weeks more for the indictment to be fabricated, and then set off for the Empire to await trial and judgment, and finally a hundred days to await execution.That's the outlook.In this way, I have four or five months to live.During this period, many changes are possible.Everything can change.possible.It's hard for me to judge this in prison. And the rapid development of some things outside the prison may also hasten our death.So the situation remains the same. This is the race between hope and war.Dead and dead in the race.Whose death came sooner: the fascist's or mine?Is this just my question?No, the question was raised by hundreds of thousands of prisoners, by millions of soldiers, by hundreds of millions of people throughout Europe and the world.Some people want it bigger, some people want it smaller.But this is only a superficial phenomenon.Collapsing capitalism reigns terror over the world, and deadly catastrophe threatens everyone.Those who survived were able to say, "I lived through fascism." Before they could say that, hundreds of thousands—and what kind of people—were falling. The decisive moment is only a few months away, and soon a few days.It was these days that seemed especially brutal.I've often thought how frustrating it must be to be the last soldier, to have the last bullet in his chest in the last second of a war, but someone has to be the last.If I could know that the last one is me, I would rather die immediately. My time in Pancratz Prison is numbered and has not allowed me to write this report as I wish.I must write more briefly.This report is not so much a testimony to an entire era, but rather a testimony to some individuals.I think this is more important. I started writing my characters with the couple Yelynyek—these are two ordinary people, and no one can usually see that they are heroes.At the time of their arrest they stood side by side, he pale, her cheeks the blush of a tuberculosis patient. Her eyes were a little frightened as she watched the Gestapo mess up the neatly furnished room in five minutes.Then she turned her head slowly and asked her husband, "Peba, what now?" Joseph, who was usually reticent, inarticulate, and agitated when he spoke, replied calmly and without tension: "We are going to die, Maria." She didn't yell or shake, just put her hand down with a beautiful gesture, and handed it to him with the gun pointed at them.For this, she and her husband were first punched in the face.She wiped her face, looked at these uninvited guests in surprise, and said in a somewhat humorous tone: "Such a beautiful young man," her voice gradually became tougher. "Such a handsome lad . . . such a savage." She was right.Hours later, she was beaten unconscious and taken out of the "interrogator" office.But they hadn't been able to get anything out of her mouth, not only this time, but never again. I don't know what became of them both during the days when I lay in the cell without trial.But I know that neither of them said anything during the whole time.They wait for me.Later, Peba was tied up many times by them, beaten and beaten, but he didn't say a word until I could tell him quietly, or at least give him a wink, suggesting what he could say, or should say, so as to disturb their interrogation. Before I was arrested, I knew that Maria had always been an emotional, crying woman.But the whole time I was in the Gestapo prison, I never saw tears in her eyes.She loves her home very much, but when the comrades outside the prison told her that they knew who stole the furniture from her house and were closely monitoring the thieves in order to comfort her, she replied: "The furniture comes with you." Let it go. Please don't bother them about it. There are more important things for them. Now they have to work for us. The main things should be done first. If I survive, I will take care of myself Home cooked." One day, they took the couple away separately.I have inquired about the whereabouts of both of them, but in vain.In the Gestapo, people died without a trace, but the seeds were sown in a thousand graveyards.Alas, what will be the harvest of this dreadful sowing. Maria's final enjoinment is: "Superior, please tell your comrades outside, don't feel sorry for me, and don't be scared by this incident. May I do everything the working class asks of me, and I will die as it demands." She was "nothing more than a maid".She had no education in classical literature, and she didn't know that someone once said: "Passers-by, please tell the people of Lacedaemon that we died here according to their instructions." He lives in the same building as Yeliniek and his wife, and the two families are next to each other.They were also named Joseph and Maria, and were a family of lower-class clerks, both of whom were a little older than their neighbors.Joseph was a tall seventeen-year-old boy in the Nusra district when he was drafted into the army in the First World War.He was brought back a few weeks later with a shattered knee that never healed.He and Maria met in a field hospital in Brno, when she was a nurse.She was eight years older than him, and Maria had had a very unhappy life with her previous husband, and had left him.After the war she married Joseph.She always treated him like a nurse and like a mother.Neither of them came from a proletarian family, nor did they form a proletarian family.Their road to the party was more difficult and complicated—but at last they found the party. Like many similar situations, the road was reached through the Soviet Union.Long before the German occupation, they knew which direction to work.They had sheltered some German comrades at home. During the most difficult years—during the invasion of the Soviet Union and the first period of martial law in 1941—all members of the Central Committee met at their home.Hunza Zika and Hunza Czerny often stayed at their house, and I was the most frequent. It was here that many articles in the "Red Right" were written, many resolutions were passed, and it was here that I first met "Karel" Czerny. Both of them were very cautious, and when unexpected situations came up--there are all kinds of unexpected situations that often occur in underground work-they always knew how to deal with them.They're pretty good at what they do.No one would have guessed that such a kind, tall railway clerk, Vesuhir, and his wife would take part in such a crime. Yet he was arrested shortly after me.When I first saw him in prison, I was terrified.If he confessed, how threatened everything would be.But he was silent.He was caught here because he gave some leaflets to a friend. —the Gestapo knew nothing about him except a few leaflets. A few months later, due to someone's betrayal, the Gestapo knew that Hunza Czerny had lived in Vesupilova's sister's house, so they tried every means to "interrogate" Pepic for two days, trying to get out of the house. There he heard traces of the "Last of the Mohicans" of our Central Committee.On the third day, Pepic came to "400" and sat down on a seat carefully, because the new wound made it very difficult for him to sit down.I looked at him uneasily with questioning but also encouraging eyes.He replied cheerfully, in the terse language of a Nusrai: "Neither the mouth nor the butt will speak unless the head will." I know this little family well, I know how much they love each other, how unhappy they are when they have to be apart even for a day or two. In a comfortable house, how heavy these days must be for the woman who has reached the age when loneliness is more terrifying than death! She is also dreaming about how to rescue her husband, how he will return to this little Come to the family, full of idyllic fun, and come back to the house where they absurdly call each other "Little Mama" and "Little Daddy".She finally found the only way again: continue to work, for herself and for him. On New Year's Eve, 1943, she sat alone at the table and placed a picture of her husband where he usually sat.When the clock struck midnight, she clinked glasses with her husband, wishing him health, wishing him a speedy return, and wishing him life to liberation. A month later, she too was arrested.This news came as a shock to many in the "400".Because she is one of the liaison officers outside the prison. But she didn't say a word. They didn't torture her because she was too sick to stand their blows and kicks.But they used a more terrible method: torturing her with imagination. They sent her husband to Poland to do hard labor a few days before her arrest. During interrogation they said to her: "You see how hard life is over there. Even a perfectly healthy man is hard enough, and your husband is a cripple. He won't be able to bear it, it will be very difficult. He will die somewhere over there, and you You'll never see him again. Who else can you find at your age? If you'll be wise and tell us all you know, we'll have him back for you right away." Where is he sent over there, my Pepic.Poor man, who knows how he will die?They killed my sister, they were going to kill my husband, and they left me alone, utterly alone.Yes, at my age, who else can I look for? ... I'm going to live alone and alone ... I can keep him, and they can give him back to me ... But at such a price?If I did that, I wouldn't be me anymore, and he wouldn't be my "little daddy"... She didn't say a word. She disappeared somewhere, in one of the innumerable exile groups set up by the Gestapo.Then came the news of Pepic's death in Poland. Leda The first time I went to Baksa's house was one evening.There were only Yoshka and a bright-eyed girl whom everyone called Lida.She was, so to speak, a child, and had been eyeing my beard curiously, obviously pleased that the room had been filled with an interesting stranger with whom she could chat a little. We quickly became friends.She turned out to be nineteen years old, Yoshka's half-sister. Her surname was Praha, but she had nothing of that name. She often acted in amateur theater companies and liked stage life very much. I became someone she could trust, and by that I realized that I was an elderly person in her eyes.She told me all the pains and dreams of her youth, and often came to me, using me as the arbiter of right and wrong in her quarrels with her sister and brother-in-law.She was hotheaded like many young girls, and spoiled like the youngest child. After I lived in seclusion for half a year, she accompanied me for the first time I took a walk in the street. An old lame old man walking with his daughter is less noticeable than walking alone, because most people look at her instead of him.So it was she who accompanied me for a walk the second time, and also accompanied me to the first secret meeting, to the secret point of contact.And so—as the indictment states—she became my liaison automatically. She loves doing this kind of work.But she is not concerned with the meaning and benefits of this kind of work.She just thought it was a novel, interesting job that not everyone could do, and a bit of an adventurous job.That's enough for her. I keep letting her do little bits and pieces and I don't want to tell her too much.If she were to be arrested, ignorance would be a better protection for her than awareness of "guilty". But Lida became more and more familiar with the work.She can take on more important things than just running to Yelinek's house and delivering a notice.It's time for her to know why we work.I started taking lessons from her.This is a course, a fully formal course.Lida studied diligently and happily.On the surface she is still a happy, thoughtless, and even a little naughty girl, but inside she is not the same.She is thinking, she is growing. She met Milek at work.He used to have a part of the job, but he was good at boasting.This made Lida have a good impression of him.She may not have seen the essence of Milek, and in this case, neither have I.Mainly because of Milek's job and his superficial beliefs, Lida is closer to him than to other young people. Loyalty to her career quickly grew and took root in Lida's heart. In early 1942, she began to stammer about her desire to join the party. I have never seen her so coy and restless.I have never seen her take a problem so seriously.I still can't make up my mind and want to educate her again.She needs to be tested again. In February 1942, she was directly absorbed into the party by the Central Committee.On a cold night, we went home together.Lida, who usually likes to talk, is silent today.Walking to the field not far from home, she stopped suddenly and said in a voice so soft that you could hear every snowflake falling on the ground at the same time: "I know, today is the most important day in my life. From now on Since then, I am no longer my own. I swear, no matter what happens, I will never be chaste." Afterwards, many things happened, but she did not betray her. She served as the most loyal liaison among the members of the Central Committee.She often takes on the most dangerous missions: reconnecting broken ties, rescuing comrades in danger.When our secret point of contact was in jeopardy, Lida would swim there like an eel to check it out.She did all this as before, naturally, joyfully, and carefree,—and yet concealed a firm sense of duty. She was arrested a month after our arrest.Milek's confession made the Gestapo pay attention to her, and they found out without much effort that Lida had helped her sister and brother-in-law transfer and went underground.She shook her head, lost her temper, and acted like a frivolous girl, as if she hadn't even thought about doing these escapades and the serious consequences it could cause. She knew a lot, but confessed nothing.The most important point is that she worked non-stop in prison.The environment has changed, the way of working has changed, and even the tasks have changed.But for her, fulfilling the obligations of a party member has not changed-no matter what the circumstances, she will never stand by.She still fulfilled all the entrustments so selflessly, quickly and accurately.If someone needs to cover for the comrades outside, Lida will bear some kind of "crime" with a naive appearance.She became an orderly at Pancratz Prison.Dozens of strangers have relied on her to avoid arrest.About a year later, they found a note on her body, and her "career" was ruined. Now she goes with us to the Empire for trial.She was the only one in our group who had any hope of living to liberation.She is still young.If we are not alive, please don't let her fall behind.She needs to learn a lot.She should be educated and not allowed to stand still.Show her the way forward without allowing her to be proud or complacent about what she has accomplished.She has withstood the test in the most difficult moments.She was forged by fire, proving that she was made of a fine metal. officer in charge of me This is not among the statues.He's a puppet, an interesting, more important puppet. If you were sitting in the "Flora" cafe on Grape Street ten years ago, tapping money on the table or shouting: "Head waiter, take the money." Suddenly there would be a thin man in a black dress next to you. The tall man, zigzag like a lizard, slithers swiftly and silently between the tables and chairs, and hands you the bill immediately.He has the quick and light movements of a beast, a pair of sharp animal eyes, and will not let go of anything. You don't even need to say what you want, he will tell the waiter: "The third table, I want a large bottle of white lilac", "The table on the right by the window, a plate of desserts and a copy of "National News".He is a good foreman to customers and a good colleague to other employees. But I didn't know him at that time.I got to know him much later, at the Yelynyeks' house.By this time he was holding a pistol instead of a pencil in his hand.He pointed at me and said, "...I'm most interested in this man." To tell the truth, we are both interested in each other. He is naturally quick-witted, and compared with other Gestapo, he has another specialty: he is good at identifying all kinds of people.Therefore, he can undoubtedly succeed in the criminal police. Thieves, murderers, and the dregs of society would probably confess without hesitation in front of him, because such people cared most about their own lives.But it is rare for such a person who only cares about his own life to fall into the hands of the political police.Here, the cunning of the police not only has to contend with the anti-cunning of the arrested person, but also with a force far greater than this: with his beliefs, with the wisdom of the collective to which he belongs.To deal with these, tricks or even beatings cannot be effective. You'd be hard-pressed to find a strong conviction in "the officer in charge of me" any more than you'd find it in any other Gestapo.If a belief can be found in any of them, it comes from stupidity, not from human wisdom, cultivation of mind, and knowledge.If, on the whole, they still managed to be quite successful, it was because the struggle lasted too long, was too confined by space, and was therefore more difficult than ever under the conditions of an underground struggle.The Russian Bolsheviks once said that a person who can withstand the test of two years of underground struggle is an excellent underground worker.In Russia, if the fire reaches Moscow, they can be transferred to Petersburg, or from Petersburg to Odessa, disappearing in the big city of millions of people who no one knows them.But here, you have only one Prague, except Prague or Prague, and about half the people in the city know you, and they can gather all the spies against you.Even so, we have persisted for so many years. After all, there are quite a few comrades who have been working underground for five years without being discovered by the Gestapo.This is because we have learned a lot and gained a lot of experience, and it is also because although the enemy is violent and cruel, they have no other skills other than massacre. The three men in II-A1 Corey, known for their extreme brutality in destroying the communist cause, all wore black, white, and red ribbons to signify their particular valor in war against internal enemies.These three were Friedrich, Zandel, and Joseph Boehm, "the officer in charge of me."They rarely talked about Hitler's National Socialism because they knew so little.They are not fighting for their political beliefs, but for themselves, so they have their own way. Zander is a short, tantrum-prone guy who may be better at police tricks than anyone else, but he's more greedy for money.Once he was transferred from Prague to Berlin, and within a few months he asked to be transferred back to his original unit.Because serving in the capital of the empire is a downgrade for him, and there is also a financial loss.Serving in dark Africa or a colony like Prague, he was a powerful official and had more opportunities to top up his bank account.Zander is diligent, and to show his diligence, he often likes to interrogate prisoners at lunch.He did this in order not to let people see that he had more passions in private.Anyone who falls into his hands will be unlucky, but if someone has passbooks, stocks and other things at home, it will be even more unlucky.This man must be dead in a short time, because bankbooks and stocks are Zander's favorite things.他被认为是这一行里精明内行的官员。 （他的捷克助手和翻译斯莫拉却跟他略有不同，是个文明强盗：谋财，不害命。）弗里德里希是一个黑脸膛的瘦高个子，有着一双狠毒的眼睛和凶恶的狞笑。早在一九三七年他就作为盖世太保的特务进入共和国，杀害流亡在这里的德国同志们。他特别喜欢死人。在他看来无罪的人是没有的。凡是跨进他办公室门槛的人，都是有罪的。他喜欢通知妇女们，说她们的丈夫已经死在集中营里或被处决了。他喜欢从他的抽屉里拿出七个小小的骨灰盒给受审者看："这七个人都是我亲手处死的。你将是第八个。" （现在已经有第八个了，因为他杀死了扬·日什卡。）他喜欢翻阅那些旧的案卷，看到被处死者的名字就满意地对自己说："肃清了。肃清了。"他喜欢折磨人，特别喜欢折磨女人。 他嗜好奢华——这只不过是他的警察活动的附带的目的。假如你有一所陈设漂亮的住宅，或者一家衣料商店，那就只会加速你的死亡，一切就是这样。 他的捷克助手聂格尔，大约比他矮半个头。他们之间除了个子高矮之外，没有什么差别。 博姆是主管我的警官，他对钱和死人都没有什么特别嗜好，然而他处死的人不见得比前两个人少。他是一个冒险家，总想出人头地。他在盖世太保那里干了很久。他原是"拿破仑餐厅"的招待员，贝兰的党徒们经常在这里举行秘密集会，贝兰本人没有向希特勒报告的事，博姆却去做了补充。可是这哪能比抓人、掌握人的生杀大权和决定人们全家命运这样的事更引人注目呢。 他倒不一定非要悲哀地了结一些人才感到过瘾，可是如果不这样就不能出人头地的话，那他是什么都干得出来的。对于一个追求赫罗斯特拉托斯荣誉的人说来，美和生命又算得了什么呢？ 他建立了一个也许是最大的奸细网。他是一个带着一大群狼犬的猎人。他捕猎往往只是为了爱好。他认为审问是最枯燥乏味的事。他最感兴趣的是抓人。然后看着人们站在他面前，听候发落。有一次，他逮捕了两百多个布拉格的公共汽车和无轨电车工人、司机和售票员，他赶着他们在铁轨上走，阻碍了交通，扰乱了运输，他却感到极大的快慰。后来，他又把其中一百五十人释放了，夸口说这一百五十个家庭会把他当作大恩人。 博姆经常处理一些涉及人多、但意义不大的案件。我是偶然落到他手里的，这是一个例外。 "你是我办过的最大的案子，"他常常坦率地对我说，他感到骄傲的是我被列入最量大的案件中了。这或许是我生命得以延长的原因。 我们相互尽力地、不断地说谎，但也不是毫无选择的。我总知道他在撒谎，而他却只有某些时候才知道我在撒谎。当谎言十分明显时，我们便不约而同地停止它而谈别的什么问题。我想，对他说来，重要的并不是确定真凭实据，而是不要给这个"重大案件"留下什么阴影。 他并不认为棍棒和铁链是审讯的唯一手段。他还比较喜欢针对"自己的"对象的情况采取劝诱或恫吓的办法。他倒从来没打过我，除了头一天晚上以外。但当他认为必要时，他会借别人的手来打我的。 的确，他比别的盖世太保有趣和狡黠得多。他的想象力比较丰富，并且善于运用它。我们常常乘车去布拉尼克进行荒唐的对话。也常坐在花园的一个小饭馆里，观看川流不息的人群。 "我们逮捕了你，"博姆富有哲理地说，"你瞧，周围有什么东西改变了吗？人们走着，笑着，想着自己的心事，世界还像从前一样照样继续存在下去，就像不曾有过你这个人似的。在这些行人里，一定还有你的读者，——你想想，他们难道会因为你而多添一条皱纹吗？" 还有一次，在审问了我一整天之后，他把我塞进汽车，领我去逛暮色苍茫的布拉格，经过聂鲁达街来到赫拉德恰尼："我知道，你爱布拉格。好好瞧瞧它吧。你难道再也不想回到它的怀抱里吗？它是多么美啊纵使你不在人间了，它也依旧这样美……"他很会扮演诱惑者的角色。夏天傍晚，布拉格已经散发着初秋的气息，它被淡蓝色的轻烟笼罩着，犹如成熟了的葡萄，又像葡萄酒那样醉人。我愿意看着它直至世界的末日……但是我打断了他的话："……等到你们不在这里了，它会变得更美呢。" 他冷冷一笑，这个笑与其说是狠毒的，倒不如说是有点凄惨，他说："你真是个玩世派。" 后来他还常常回到这天晚上的话题上来："等到我们不在这里了……这就是说，你仍然不相信我们会胜利吗？" 他所以提出这样的问题，是因为他本身就不相信他们会胜利。我向他讲起苏联的力量和它不可战胜的道理时，他注意倾听着。这是我最后几次"审讯"中的一次。 "你们每杀死一个捷克共产党员，也就是毁灭德国民族未来希望的一部分，"我不只一次对博姆说。"因为只有共产主义才能拯救德国民族的未来。" He waved his hand. "如果我们失败了，谁也救不了我们。"他从口袋里掏出手枪来，"你瞧，这最后三颗子弹，我将为自己保留着。" ……这不仅是对这个木偶的刻画，而且也是在刻画那个日薄西山的时代了。 吊裤带插曲 对面牢房的门旁挂着一副吊裤带。男人用的十分普通的吊裤带。我素来就不喜欢用这种东西。可是现在，每当有人打开我们牢房门的时候，我总是高兴地望着它：我在那上面看到了一线希望。 他们把你抓来关进牢房，也许很快就把你处死，但他们首先得把你的领带、皮带或吊裤带之类的东西拿去，免得你上吊（其实用床单也可以很方便地上吊）。这些寻死的危险工具一直搁在监狱的办公室里，直到盖世太保中的惩罚女神决定了把你押解到到处去做苦工、去集中营或赴刑场的时候。这时他们就把你叫去，郑重其事地将这些东西发还给你。但不许带进牢房里去，只能挂在门的旁边或者门前的栏杆上，一直挂到你离开为止。因此它就成了这个牢房的一个居住者即将被迫旅行的明显标记。 对面那副吊裤带正出现在我得知古斯蒂娜的命运被确定的那一天。对面牢房里的一个朋友，将跟她坐同一辆囚车去做苦工。车还没开，突然决定延期了，据说准备去做苦工的地方被炸了。（又是一个好的预兆。）车什么时候再开，谁也不知道。也许今天晚上或许明天，说不定过一个星期或过半个月。对门的吊裤带一直挂在那儿，我见到它，就知道古斯蒂娜还在布拉格。因此我常常带着欢乐和爱恋的心情，像瞧见古斯蒂娜的朋友似的瞅着这副吊裤带。她赢得了一天、两天、三天……谁知道，说不定会有好结果。也许她多留一天，就有得救的希望。 我们每个人在这儿都过着这样的生活。今天，一个月以前，甚至一年以前，我们就眼巴巴地想望着明天，把希望寄托在明天。一个人的命运已被决定，后天就要被枪决。——可是，谁知道明天会发生什么事情呢？只要活到明天，明天一切都可能改变，一切都是那么不稳定，谁知道明天将会发生什么变化呢？明天过去了，几千个人倒下了，对于这几千个人来说再也没有什么明天了，而活着的人却继续怀着原来的希望活下去：明天，谁知道明天会发生什么事情呢？ 这种情绪产生着最难令人置信的传闻，每个星期都出现关于战争结束的乐观的预测，每个人都乐意传播这种谣言，一传十、十传百地扩散着。每个星期庞克拉茨监狱都在窃窃私语传播着那些耸人听闻的消息，大伙儿都很乐意去听信这类东西。应当同这种倾向作斗争，摒弃这些没有根据的希望，因为这种希望不仅不能增强人们的斗志，相反地却削弱了斗争性。因为乐观主义不需要、也不应该寄托在谎言上，而应该靠真理，靠对胜利的坚定不移的预见。应该在内心抱着这么一个希望：希望有那么一天能成为决定性的日子，希望自己能获得这么一天：能闯过生死关头，从威胁着自己的死亡中走回到不愿离弃的生活中来。 人生是这么短促。而在这里却希望日子过得快些，更快些，越快越好。那迅速流逝、一去不复返的、不可遏制地迫使我们接近衰老的时光，在这里却成了我们的朋友。这是多么奇怪啊明天很快变成了昨天。后天又即将成为今天。日子就是这样流逝着。 对面牢房门旁的吊裤带仍旧挂在那儿。