Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

From the point of view of the Germans, the invasion of Poland proceeded merrily.The arrows and pins on the military map are approaching Warsaw and Byron Henry day by day from all directions. All over Poland, groups of German soldiers wearing steel helmets and covered in dust continued for miles and miles, either on foot, in cars, or on horseback.Tanks and automatic guns chugged along with them, or rumbled past on trains.It all proceeded slowly, drearily, and generally uneventfully.The outdoor adventure of this large group, although not clearly A picnic excursion, to be sure—ten thousand German soldiers were killed along the way—but it was far from entirely uninspiring.After a day's march each day, the great company eats in the fields or by the roadside, camps under the stars, or pitches a tent in the rain; Sports, fresh air, good food and drink, gambling and fooling around, friendship and sweet sleep.

Of course, the Poles kept shooting at them.This is to be expected.The Germans fought back, launching a planned bombardment according to the coordinates on the map.Then the Horwitz gun roared with satisfaction, the muzzle flashed, and the barrel sat back.Everyone was moving quickly and sweating profusely; the officers shouted orders and pumped up morale.A few people were killed or wounded, but most were not.Trees were burning and village houses were blown up.After a while, the shooting stopped and the invading army lumbered forward again. The front was a shifting political line; the Germans were imposing their national will on the Poles.Like fronts in weather, severe squall lines are on the verge of weather changes.A destructive gust of wind swept across the green flats, leaving a mess behind.Even so, even in this area of ​​battle, there is plenty of time for peace on the front line.An hour of fighting was followed by many hours of bivouacs, machine repairs, and marches through green fields and burned villages.However, when this wavy front turned into a circle and tightened towards the city of Warsaw, this was not the case.The smaller the target, the more intense, more frequent, and more concentrated the firepower.

These invaders were a new generation of German soldiers who had never faced enemy bullets, although some of their senior officers had fought in the last World War.Where each invasion began was simply a few hundred jittery young Germans, rushing across the border, waiting to be shot.But behind them, hordes and more armed youths marched in precise order on the German roads toward Poland, and it was encouraging to know that.It was exhilarating to knock down the Polish frontier fence in the gray light of dawn, to defeat the few defenders, to tread the foreign roads they had watched through the military binoculars.But once the Polish border guards opened fire, they hesitated, panicked, turned and fled, unable to advance or retreat in confusion.The Germans had better luck, because the Poles were even more panicked, more embarrassed, and, moreover, caught off guard and unable to act.It was in this messy and muddled situation that World War II began.But on the part of the Germans, personally, no matter how frightened they were, at least they acted according to plan.They had more guns in key locations, more ammunition, and had the head to know when and where to fire.In fact, they carried out a sneak attack.

If two men are standing and chatting friendly, and one of them suddenly punches the other in the stomach and kicks him in the stomach, the result is that even if the other comes to his senses and defends himself, he will be defeated badly, because the first man There was a sneak attack.There is no book on the art of war that does not extol its virtues.It might look a little risqué, but that has nothing to do with the art of war.Judging by the Germans' open threats and war preparations, perhaps the Poles should not have been attacked, but they were.Their political leaders probably hoped that the German threats would be nothing more than scares.Their generals probably thought their own armies were ready.A whole host of wrong guesses would coincide with the start of a war.

The German plan for the conquest of Poland, known as the "White Plan," provided the later All the episodes that happened.They have a lot of these options, such as "Green Plan", which is an invasion of Czechoslovakia (which they have never worked); "Yellow Plan", which is an attack on France.The whole scheme of crushing other nations code-named colors, drawn up long before any quarrel with them, was a new German invention of modern warfare.All advanced countries have imitated this principle.For example, the United States had a "Plan Orange" in 1939, which was to fight against Japan, and even a "Plan Red", which was to fight against Britain; ".

Historians debate - and continue to debate - the origins of the German General Staff, which initiated a new course of conduct in human affairs.Some say that the geniuses of Germany created this general staff as a reaction to the disgrace imposed on them by Napoleon; others assert that a flat country bordered by many enemy states on all sides, in this industrial age, can only develop It's a ploy to survive.In any case, there is no doubt that the Germans first mastered industrial warfare and taught other nations: total war - the pre-centralization of railways, factories, modern communication links, and the entire population of the country under a centrally controlled system, so that Destroy neighboring countries, if such necessity or impulse arises.

This German system was well tested in World War I; geographically, they charged far ahead and then retreated.After four years of fighting with mighty armies on many fronts, they demanded an armistice, when they were everywhere deep into the enemy's territory.It's just that their massive 1918 offensive failed and their resources dwindled.Since then, despite their capitulation and all these political changes, they have continued to work on these "plans".Twenty-one years later, the White Plan was delivered, quickly frightening a country of 40 million people with an army of 1.5 million or more into obedience to the Germans.This, according to Napoleon, is what war is all about—to intimidate the enemy into obeying your will.

The Germans made mistakes when they invaded Poland, they sometimes ran away under fire, they disobeyed orders, they refused to advance against stubborn positions, they lied about their results, they took the firepower of a big encounter as an excuse retreat.They are just ordinary young people.But there are good leaders and tough guys among them, and the Germans are an obedient, determined people.The Poles did all these wrong things too, and the superiority of firepower, sneak attack, superiority in numbers, and white schemes were all on the side of the Germans, so the invasion went well. Soon the new tank squadrons, later to become so famous as the German Panzer Corps, began to venture far in front of the battle lines to penetrate the enemy's depths.This is a classic military error.The enemy closed in behind a squadron that had ventured too far from the line, cornered it, and wiped it out.This is precisely how the Russians dealt with the famous Panzer Corps a few years later, and its reputation has since faded.But now they are astonishing.On their first appearance, in good weather and on a level field, they do a great job against a frightened, ill-organized, smaller and weaker foe.They moved slowly, five or ten miles an hour; not like the swift red arrows drawn on maps in popular books and magazines, but like long moving trains of gigantic iron beetles.But they looked terrible to Polish soldiers and civilians, and they were indeed lethal.These green machines crawled up the roads and out of the forest, crushing the ripening grain and firing huge cannonballs.In the clear sky of September, a clumsy little plane called a "Stuga", flying very slowly, kept swooping down on soldiers, or children, or cattle, or women, or whatever came in the way. What, strafing, added to the bloodshed and horrific uproar.Tanks and Stugas killed many Poles, scaring their massive crowds into abandoning what seemed to be a useless fight.

This is called blitzkrieg.It stopped at the foot of Warsaw.This fact was not very emphasized at the time.The Germans had to hit the city with old-fashioned, horse-drawn, Napoleonic bombardment, as the machines of these armored mechanized units limped into repair shops, ran out of gasoline, and many tanks were broken.They have done their job.The Polish army has been chopped up and scared to pieces.Allied and American newspapers wrote dire descriptions of the blitz as "the new way of war". But the German armored forces arrived in Warsaw on September 9th.On the tenth, the German Supreme Commander wrote in his battle diary: The war is over.By the seventeenth, Warsaw was still standing.All the Luftwaffe aircraft that could be mobilized flew over the city without resistance, dropped their bombs, and hurried back to Germany to reload them.Countless horses pulled more and more howitzers from Prussia and Pomerania, surrounded the city, and drove the shells into it.But Radio Warsaw was still broadcasting Polonaise music.

Now in charge of the few remaining staff at the US Embassy in Warsaw is Leslie Sloter.He was an able, exceptionally clever man, but at this moment he could not use his strengths, because he was a coward.But it doesn't look like him or act like him.At Yale, he played athletics—a deliberate choice because he knew what the Rhodes Scholarship required—a symbol of manliness, plus his job on the college newspaper, his fraternity membership Qualifications, and his friendship with some very useful professors, won him the fellowship easily.When he arrived at Oxford University, he became one of the few Americans who stood out there; later when he entered the Foreign Office, he was said to be an outstanding official of his generation.He is self-aware of his problems, and would never have volunteered if he had known the circumstances required courageous action.He has thought a lot about this weakness of his character, and has a theory centered on his mother's excessive concern for him and a few unexpected events in his childhood.This theory could not change anything, but it could be used to tolerate this weakness in his mind as the misfortune of a rickety lame rather than as a blight that damaged his pride.Sloter has a high opinion of himself, of his own abilities, and of his future.But now, bad luck has brought him to a place where his political knowledge, his analytical skills, his humor, his foreign language are all useless, save for simple courage .He just didn't have this.

In his internal struggles he kept this flaw hidden, and all that showed on the surface was restlessness, constant headaches, irritability, and a tendency to laugh for no reason.When the ambassador told him to stay, he laughed out loud.Ever since the news of the German call, especially since the first bombs had fallen on Warsaw, he had panicked and waited anxiously for orders that he and the other Americans could leave.He bit his nails so hard that he had to wrap several of his fingers.And yet the ambassador wanted him to stay amidst such horrors!The sharp laughter came from his heart.Da looked at him with sarcasm and ignored him.Most people in Warsaw responded well to the air raids, becoming lighthearted, stoic and determined as long as the first bombs fell without killing them.But for Slote, this hell is bottomless.As long as the air raid siren sounded, it deprived him of his ability to think.He and all the others rushed down the embassy's thick-walled basement, always on the head, and stayed there until the air-raid sirens were all cleared.Since he was in charge, it helped him.He had justifiably moved out of the apartment and into the embassy, ​​where he lived and became a role model for steadfast compliance with the air-raid sirens.No one could guess his distress. At dawn on September 17, sitting at a large writing desk with a pipe in his mouth, he was carefully redrafting his latest report to the State Department, speaking of It was about the embassy and the hundred or so Americans besieged in Warsaw.He tried to preserve the urgency and seriousness of the news while he was stripping away traces of his own nervous excitement.It was a close call, especially since so many reports went unanswered.He could not say whether the U.S. government was aware of the plight of its nationals in the Polish capital. "Come in." He heard a knock on the door. "It's broad daylight outside," said Byron Henry gruffly as he entered. "Do you want to open the curtains?" "Is there anything going on outside?" Sloter said with eyes still. "Nothing special." "Okay, let's get some light on," Sloter smiled.They pulled aside the heavy black curtains together, and the faint sunlight shone in through the wooden strips nailed diagonally on the window into broken pieces. "How's the water, Byron?" "I got it." As soon as the curtains were drawn, the distant, muffled rumble of German artillery could be heard.Sloter would rather keep the thick curtains closed a little longer, shutting out the daytime bustle of this gray, broken, burning Warsaw.In a quiet room with the dark curtains drawn and a lamp lit, he may have hallucinations, arouse reveries of the comfortable school days, and comfort him.He looked out through the pane. "So much smoke! Are there so many places on fire?" "My God, yes. The sky was horrible until dawn. Didn't you see it? It was red and smoky everywhere you looked. It was Dante's hell. And those big orange glowing big ones Cannonballs, booming everywhere, they fly high and then slowly drift down. How beautiful! They are still trying to put out two big fires with shovels and sand on the Valewski street. The water problem made them helpless." ① Dante (1265-1321), an Italian poet, described hell in the long poem "Divine Comedy". "They should have taken the Germans' advice yesterday," Sloter said. "Then they'll save at least half the city. There's no way out. How did you get water? Did you manage to get some gasoline?" Byron shook his head, yawned, and sat down on the brown leather couch.His sweatshirt and trousers were stained with brick dust and soot, his long, matted hair was matted, and his eyes were glazed with dark circles around them. "Not a single chance. We'll have to forget about that truck from now on. I see a fire truck parked in the middle of the road. There's no gas left in this city. I was scouting around and I spotted a horse-drawn truck. Cart. It took me the better part of the night." He smiled at Slote, his lower lip drawn in with exertion. "The U.S. government owes me one hundred and seventy-five dollars. The hardest part was getting the boiler off the truck and onto the wagon. But the farmer who sold me the wagon helped me out. That's part of the deal." Inside. A short, bearded fellow, but strong. My God!" "Of course. I'll pay you back. Just tell Ben." "Can I lie here for a while?" "Would you like breakfast?" "It's hard to say if I have the strength to bite. I only need half an hour. It's very quiet here. The basement is like a madhouse." Byron put his feet up and lay down on the leather cushion, laying down his thin and dirty body. "There's no water around the corner of the opera house," he said with his eyes closed. "I had no choice but to run all the way to the pumping station. The horse walks slowly, and he sure doesn't like pulling an iron boiler full of sloshing water." "Thank you, Byron. You have been a great help." "Me and Gung Ding. 'You can talk about gin and beer,'" Byron murmured, covering his face with one arm, "'as long as you are safely camped here.'① ① These two poems are quoted from the epic poem "Gong Ding" by the British poet Kipling (1865-1936). The protagonist of this poem, Gong Ding, is an Indian who served the British colonial army and suppressed the Indian uprising The people were killed in battle. —Where is Natalie?Are you in the hospital? " "Probably." Byron fell asleep.The phone rang harshly, but he didn't even move.It was a call from the mayor's office; Mayor Staczynski was on his way to the embassy to discuss a very urgent emergency with the chargé d'affaires of the United States.Sloter became agitated and immediately called the Marines standing guard at the door to let the mayor in.This must be good news: a safe evacuation of the foreigners in Warsaw, or possibly an immediate surrender!Surrender is the only solution now.He wanted to wake Byron and tell him to leave the office, but decided to wait.The mayor may not be here for a while.This dirty lad needs to sleep. Water became a huge problem all over Warsaw.With seventy people living in the embassy, ​​and many more moving in, this was—or might have been—an emergency, a catastrophic problem.But since the day the water main was broken, Byron Henry has been supplying water, even though no one has asked him to.While Slote was still calling the mayor's office—twenty times on this ill-fated first day—to demand immediate water delivery to the Americans under his protection and a quick repair of the water pipes, Byron was already driving. He drove out in the embassy Ford pick-up truck and recovered a cracked, rusty boiler from the basement of a bombed-out house.From somewhere he got a welding tool, repaired it, and now he uses it as a temporary bucket to bring water to the embassy.What would happen if he didn't do this, no one said.The water mains are still broken, and now they are everywhere, and the city's tank trucks can't afford to supply the hospitals and firefighters. Day after day, as a matter of course, Byron carried water under fire and air raids, and joked about his fears, often more than he did now Returning dirtier, because he had to duck under the rubble to hide when he heard a howitzer shell swoosh through the air.Sloter had never heard the "shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" many people have described, and he never wanted to hear it.Despite these horrors, Byron Henry did seem to be enjoying himself in the siege.This state of mind, which Slote considered more stupid than himself, had nothing to admire.His own fears were at least justified.Natalie once told Byron what he thought was funny.The boy was crazy, Sloter thought, and his overly amiable good-nature was a mask.However, it is an undeniable good thing that he carries water every day. Sloter was grateful to Henry for hanging around Natalie Jastrow when she wasn't in the hospital, but in a more subtle way.Natalie was the one person in Warsaw who could see through his inner fears.Up to now, he is sure that she hasn't noticed it, it's just because she doesn't have much contact with him.The girl was an inescapable burden to him in Warsaw, and it made him so miserable that he hated her.This is because her existence, her not disappearing from the world, made him feel guilty and troubled.He had a wild carnal desire for this strong-willed, dark-haired Jewish girl, but he did not want to marry her.He was known to be smooth in dealing with romantic relationships between men and women, but he had never met such an iron girl.She had broken off their physical relationship in Paris, and had never resumed it; she had told him five or six times to leave her alone, to forget her—a thing he could not do.Why, then, is the heaviest responsibility of his life upon his shoulders, at this unlucky hour, in this place of devastation, in this city trembling under bombs and shells, and he feels himself swooning with terror, When he was castrated, she jumped on him?He was more afraid of revealing his fears to Natalie than anything except actually getting hurt.Now he thought, if they all get out alive, He must muster his willpower to end this muddy affair once and for all.She might have the ability to turn him on, but she was hopelessly stubborn and foreign, not good for his future or for himself.She didn't stand in his way all the time now, thanks to this dirty, sleeping young man. After a while, Mayor Staczynski arrived in an old limousine.He was a squat, bearded man in a green woolen vest and a dirty black suit that hadn't been ironed, and his shoes were covered with red mud.He had a warm, excited, almost jovial look about him.The man who led a dying city, whose radio speeches did more than anything to keep Warsaw fighting.He hardly slept two hours a night.The burden of the whole city fell on him.Everyone, from the diplomatic corps to the firefighters on the street and the doctors in the hospital, skipped the lazy bureaucracy of city government and came straight to him.Yet he looked so alive, so fighting; he was the hero of the moment, and the object of all bitter ridicule.The new blockbuster dropped by German planes in recent days is called "Staczynski Cabbage"; the anti-tank steel picket is called "Staczynski Toothpick". "Who is this?" asked the Mayor, pointing a fat thumb at the couch. "A lad. Asleep. He doesn't understand Polish. I can send him out." "Never mind, never mind," Staczynski shook his hands, sat down on the chair Slote had pointed out to him, put his fat hands on his knees, and let out a long breath.He looked around the spacious, well-furnished room, running his fingers across the polished desk. "Ah, everything seems to be all right here with you. Is there anything we can do? How are your people?" "We're fine. We have a lot of admiration for the people of Warsaw." "Really? The Germans have nothing to say, huh? Last night we drove them back in the north. Berlin Radio said that the war is over. Let's see." The mayor flushed with pride . "This morning our troops were only twelve miles away from meeting up with the Magdalen garrison! Then the whole world will see something! We'll have a battle line again, not an encirclement." ① Modlin, a Polish fortress, is twenty miles northeast of Warsaw. "That's wonderful news, sir." Sloter ran his fingers over the warm bowl of his pipe, trying to smile with a delight he didn't feel. "Yes, but the other news is not so good." The mayor paused, looked at Sloter's face, and said dramatically: "The Russians have marched. At dawn today, the Soviet Union invaded our country. There are millions of them The pretext was that they were protecting their compatriots in Poland from the Germans. Of course, this was a blatant and disguised lie, but the Russians never changed. They had captured Tenopol And Baranovich, Rivne will fall in an hour, if it has not already. We have no troops on the east side. We have sacrificed everything to hold off the Germans on the west side, waiting for the allies to advance. Now Russia People are coming. There's nothing between Warsaw and the border to stop them." Slote laughed.The mayor stared at him with wide eyes. "What's the matter, sir? You don't believe me? I tell you, the Russians came from behind while Poland was suffering. This is a historic betrayal. I have a letter to your President!" Pulled out a piece of paper from his front pocket, opened it, and spread it on the table in front of Slote. "If you have suggestions on wording, we welcome them, but now the matter of life and death is speed, as fast as possible." Sloter could barely mentally translate the Polish words on the gray official document.All he could think about now was that Soviet tanks and soldiers were approaching Warsaw.He could almost see the crawling mechs and Slavic faces.Maybe they came for no other reason than to claim their share of this nefarious deal.Maybe they'll fight the Germans and turn Warsaw into Armageddon .Maybe they'll bring the famous Russian artillery and help the Germans turn the Polish capital into dust twice as fast.The news seemed to him to be truly the end of the world, and he didn't notice that he was laughing.He glanced at the paper floating before his eyes. "I understand that this is an unusual situation," he finally began, surprised even by his methodical fluency, "but it is a matter for the head of a government to write a letter to the head of a government." Faux pas. Perhaps it would be more effective to have President Mossisky or Field Marshal Smegley-Ritz or someone from your government." ①Smiggley-Ritz (1886-1943), commander-in-chief of Poland at that time. ② Mossieski (1867-1948), then President of Poland. ③See "New Testament" "Revelation" Chapter 16: The place where the kings of the world gather to fight at the end of the world is called Armageddon in Hebrew; it refers to a great battle at the end of the world. "But sir, our national government has crossed the border into Romania. They may be under house arrest by now, and before this week the Germans will hang them all. Now only Warsaw is left, but we are not afraid, we We are continuing to fight. We need to know what we can expect." Slut decided to read the letter again.These are the familiar, pathetic words of pleading, the same ones that Radio Warsaw has been broadcasting to France and Britain these weeks.In fact, the mayor spoke in the same style as he did on the radio. "Sir, I'm not sure how quickly I can get this out, I've often been delayed twelve hours or more through Stockholm lately." "I promise you to send it immediately. You can send it in plain text and let the whole world know," the mayor shouted, pumping his fist. "Despite the treachery of the Russians, the people of Warsaw are still fighting. We call on the President of the United States to say something meaningful." Hope. If he speaks, the Allies will listen. They will march before it is too late. Still able to knock the Germans from behind. All their forces are in Poland. In two weeks, the Allies will be on the Berlin roars. Just let the president talk and they'll march!" "We can cipher it very quickly, sir. I think it will be better that way. We will be ready to send it in half an hour." Staczynski said in a more serious tone: "Call my office. Office, we can arrange a direct call with Stockholm or Berne for you. He stood up and glanced around the room. "An oasis of peace."The Luftwaffe respects the American flag.They are very smart.The lad slept soundly. " "He's tired. Monsieur Mayor, what about the evacuation of the neutral nationals? Did you discuss this with the Germans yesterday?" "Now is not the time. They have come under the banner of a cease-fire to demand our surrender. General Der Zoma will not accept the letter, and the German officers will not discuss anything else. They say they will reduce us to a heap of rubble!" ’ the mayor’s voice rose to the same level as on the radio. "They spread leaflets all over the city this morning, and they're threatening the same way. But where are the 'hordes of planes' and 'storm of shells' they talk about? The Germans have thrown everything they have on us. They Nothing to add but words of intimidation. They've done all the bad things for two weeks and we still exist! President Roosevelt just say one thing If not, the civilization of the world can still see a historic victory on the Vistula River. His voice dropped, and the excitement disappeared from his face. "I mentioned the issue of the neutral nationals.Their emissary pointed out that there would be a way soon. The mayor gave Sloter a cold look, smiled until his beard curled up, and said, "We don't expect you to stay and share our fate." " "You see, we've got nineteen women here," Sloter felt compelled to defend under the weight of this smile. "Men and women, aren't they all the same? You are a neutral country." The mayor stretched out his hand. "Please send the letter. I must at last broadcast it. I would like to give your great President some time to consider his reply in private." Sloot squeezed his hand. "We Americans here admire Warsaw's resilience; I can assure you of that. We'll never forget it, and we'll tell everyone about it when we go back." The mayor seemed moved. "Really? You see, the Germans are not superhuman. Warsaw has taught this to the world. Some Germans are fine people as individuals, but as a nation they are pigs. It is a deep nation The problem of childishness and inferiority; a very complex problem. They have machines, they have railroads, they have factories, but we are not afraid of them. All we want is the chance to continue fighting them." "I will certainly convey these words to my administration." "We need help. Get out of here, and I'll dig trenches." The mayor spread his callused palms for him to see, and walked out.Sloter wrote at his desk for a few minutes, then called for a codec to come. "Byron, wake up!" He shook Byron's shoulder, his hands were covered with brick dust. "Wake up, get up quickly. Something is wrong." Byron turned over and opened his heavy eyes. "The Russians are calling. God knows when they'll be here, they've invaded Poland this morning. Go get Natalie." Byron sat up with elastic movements, waking up. "Russians? Jesus. Things are getting interesting." "Interesting? Look, Byron, Warsaw may become no man's land between the German and Russian armies. The city may be blown to dust! Go to Natalie and tell her, tell her to come here and stay Here. Working in a hospital in a belligerent country is a fucking problem anyway, and now—” Sloter walked to the door, pipe in one fist, pressed to his head distractedly. "What a mess, so much to do." Byron yawned and stood up. "What are you busy with? How far is the Russian border from here, two or three hundred kilometers? Their army may not reach Warsaw in a week." Sloter smiled.He hadn't imagined that it would take several days for the Russian army to advance the three hundred kilometers, but it was true and obvious.He took out his cigarette pack, put his pipe in slowly, calmed himself down, and said: "Of course, but the problem is that this new development changes everything. There is no telling what the Russians or the Germans will do next." What will happen. There may be a melee over Warsaw today. The Germans may decide to give half an hour's notice to let the neutral nationals evacuate." "Well, I'll try to find her, but you know Natalie's temper." "Please tell Natalie it wasn't my message," Sloter said in a tense, gruff voice, nodding his head while holding the doorknob with one hand. "It's an official notification from the US government. We can no longer afford to protect the safety of anyone outside the surrounding walls of this house. Responsible.If we suddenly pack up and go out here under the cease-fire flag--which could happen at any moment--and she's not here, I can't afford to delay five minutes.We left, and she was the only foreigner left in Warsaw.If she had been whimsical and the bombs hadn't killed her, the Nazis hadn't killed her, she could have written a book.Tell her that, okay? ’ He slammed the door shut. Now Byron is very familiar with the way to the hospital.He was going to go through the part of the city that was most bombarded by the Germans.一路上全是密密麻麻的成堆的乌焦的瓦砾；街上是炸成的大坑，破毁的下水管道，断了的电线，倒下的电话线杆，拔起的树，以及无数的碎玻璃、碎砖瓦、碎木片等等乱七八糟的东西。孩子们在瓦砾堆上、在被毁的房子里游戏。妇女们在露天洗衣服，或者在太阳底下点起一堆小木片的小火做饭。干活的人在坍倒的房子里挖掘，清除街上纠缠的电线，把坑坑洼洼的路面铲平填平。几乎每一个人都显得愉快而一本正经；这是很了不起的事，尽管拜伦已经看惯了。他没有逢到丧礼或者其他死亡的迹象。孩子们在被毁的房子里又跳，又爬，又笑，好象发现战争是一件有趣的新鲜事儿，学校显然是停课了。这里那里有几个包着黑头巾的妇女低垂着头坐在椅子上或者石头上。有的露出乳房在喂婴儿。许多脸色呆板没表情的人在瓦砾堆里荡来荡去，张望着或者摸索着找东西。没有地方着火。这是种任意破坏。一条街也许毫无损坏，而下一条街刚毁了一半，好象一架飞机一下子把它带的炸弹同时抛了下来。在斜耸着的半毁的墙上，象舞台布景那样的房间悬在半空中，多种多样的糊壁纸或者油漆色彩斑驳地、凄惨地袒露了出来。拜伦看见一架毁坏了的钢琴从这么一间房间里半伸在空中。 他从医院的门厅挤了进去。在这里，华沙的令人惊讶的欢乐气氛变成了一幅凄惨的可厌景象。受伤的人一堆堆、一群群地躺在大理石地板上，狼狈地等着包扎。男男女女，大多数衣服破烂，浑身肮脏，有的呻吟，有的哭喊，有的昏迷，有波兰人，也有犹太人，都是血迹斑斑，衣服破碎，没有包扎，有的脸撕破了，有的臂腿断了，偶尔也有肢体炸掉，留下血肉模糊一段，露出了可怕的白骨。儿童们另外躺在一间大接待室里，那里号哭和呼叫凄厉地响成一片，混杂着一些不调和的笑声。拜伦匆匆地走过敞着的门，走下盘旋的石梯，来到一处低矮的地下室，这里比上面暖和得多，但是烧得太多的煤油炉的刺鼻臭气比药剂的气味还要强烈。 “他疯了吗？”娜塔丽嚷道。“我怎么能离开？我刚刚上班。瞧！”她伸出手臂挥了一转，指着周围的人们。那些紧排在一起的病床上躺着的妇女，有的呻吟，有的用波兰语哭喊；另一些妇女愁眉苦脸地坐在病床上或矮凳上，露出肥白的乳房棕色的乳头在喂婴儿；三个脸色苍白满头大汗的医生，在病床之间来来往往：几个手忙脚乱的护士，有的和她一样穿着肮脏的血污的白衣，头发用白布包住，有的穿着深灰的修女衣服。“这儿下面我们一共五个人，可是今天上午我们就收了八十二个妇女！这是现在华沙留下的唯一产科医院了。德国人昨晚上把圣凯瑟琳医院炸了。他们说，可怕得无法形容，怀孕的妇女在火堆里乱跑，新生的婴儿被烧死——” “问题是，娜塔丽，俄国人打过来了——” “我听见了！他们还在几百英里之外，是不是？去吧，勃拉尼，我得干活了。” 一个弯着背、大鼻子、一把方型的红胡子、眼神蒙眬而可怜的医生，正好在旁边走过。他用德语问娜塔丽出了什么事情，她对他讲了。 “去吧，一定得去。”他用疲劳的声音说。“别傻了，你一定得跟别的美国人一起走。如果大使馆来叫你，你必须服从。” “哼，大使馆！还没有人说我们要离开。如果他们要走，这个年轻人花不了五分钟就能到这里来叫我。” “不行，不行，你不能冒这个险。你不是波兰人，你不能以为你能拿生命来冒险。而且你是犹太人，你是犹太人。”医生把手伸到她头上，拉掉了那块白布。她的浓密、卷曲、深色的头发，松开了，垂下来。“你一定得回家。” 娜塔丽的眼睛里泪珠夺眶而出，流到脸颊上。“那个生双 胞胎的妇女还在出血，你看过她没有？还有那坏脚的婴儿——”她急急忙忙地朝附近一只病床做了个手势。 “他们都在单子上。你现在马上回大使馆去。非常感谢你，你帮助了我们。祝你一路平安。”医生慢慢地走开了。她转向拜伦。“莱斯里•斯鲁神是一个自私自利的坏蛋。他就是不愿意心里惦记着我，好让他少一件心事。”突然她把裙子撩到臀部；这个动作不禁使拜伦心里一跳，尽管实际上那条长及膝盖的厚灰衬裤还不及外面的白裙子富于性感。他心想，她这条难看的衬裤一定是从修女那里弄来的。“拿去，”她说，从衬裤里拿出一只厚厚的钱包，放下裙子。“我就回到该死的大使馆去吧。不过我要你去找一下班瑞尔，把这个给他。我所有的美金都在这里了。你肯为我干这个吗？” "certainly." “告诉我，勃拉尼，”娜塔丽说，“你还觉得好玩吗？” 他环顾了一下这个吵闹、拥挤，气味难闻的病房，波兰妇女正在这里无可奈何地把新生命送到这个被德国人炸成死城的城市，在垂死城市所能给予的最好照料下，经受着不能改期的临产阵痛。“比桶里的一群猴子还要好玩呢。回大使馆去的时候小心些，好不好？法兰佐斯基街上一座教堂着了大火，他们把街道封锁了。从博物院那里绕过去。” “好的。你也许会在那幢灰房子里找到班瑞尔，你知道吗，就是犹太公会办公的地方。他是在伙食委员会之类的地方工作。” “我想我会找到他的。” 拜伦从后面一条小巷走了出来。那里有两个人正在把医院里死掉的人装上一辆双轮大车，和他买来装水的那辆十分相象。死尸躺在铺路石上，那个穿着有红色污迹的白油布围裙的人把他们一个一个地抱起来，抛给另一个人，由他堆在车里。这是些张着嘴、瞪着眼的僵硬的大怪物——象菜场上的死鱼一样，那个人抛起一个骨瘦如柴的老太婆尸体，它分量不重，从身上还挂着的粉红色衣服碎片里露出了灰色的阴毛。 他急急忙忙穿过毕苏斯基元帅大路，向犹太区走去。他听见重炮的轰声和临近的爆炸声，好象就在一所房屋的废墟上爆炸。拜伦哪里喃喃地用惯常的咒语骂着德国人。他离开佛罗伦萨大学后，曾经在德国住过一个星期。他们看来很怪，但是并不比意大利人更怪。他们是外国人，不过还通人情，喜欢吵吵闹闹开玩笑，但是待人接物很有礼貌。然而他们却在这里，包围着波兰的首都，用炸药和飞舞的钢铁轰击它，破坏水管，杀死儿童，把活生生的人变成一堆僵硬的、玻璃样眼睛的尸体，得用大车拉走，进行处理。这真正是最令人愤慨的暴行。把它叫作“战争”，并不能使它更加易于理解。 尽管如此，拜伦却发现这个他偶然陷入的奇特而可怕的环境，比他所记得的“和平”要丰富多采、生动有趣得多。给美国大使馆运水，是他一生中所做的最满意的事。他喜爱这个工作。他心甘情愿地在这样做的时候被杀死。可是偏偏他运气极好。这就是他在寻找的新鲜事情。华沙城里的大部分人还活着，没有受损伤，在干他们的事情。这座城市远没有被毁灭或者一半被毁灭。他一路向纳雷斯加亚区走去的时候，经过一整条一整条街的棕色三层楼房子，它们都完整无损地耸立着，安详地，宁静地，看来完全和德国人进攻以前一样。 但是在犹太区就没有这样未受损坏的街区。这是一个广大的冒烟的瓦砾堆。显然德国人是把格外多的炮弹、炸弹抛向这个地区——这是毫无意义的事，因为华沙的犹太人不可能迫使城市投降。这么一阵火与炸药的暴雨，如果不是落在犹太人头上，而是集中到城市的生命线上——如电力、供水、运输、桥梁等——可能很快就把华沙攻破了。对纳雷斯加亚的轰炸，是一支强有力的军队对可怜的手无寸铁的平民进行的一场丧失理性的浪费弹药的袭击。 拜伦在德国的公园长凳上看见的juden verboten①字样，似乎过分奇特，有点不象真的。对纳雷斯加亚区的轰炸，第一次使他明白了这个古怪事实，就是德国人真的蓄意谋杀这个民族。无轨电车翻倒了，烧得乌黑。发胀的死马在街上成群的肥黑苍蝇下发着恶臭，这些苍蝇有时叮住拜伦的脸和手不放。也有死猫死狗，也有一些死耗子散在沟里。他只看见一个死人，一个弯身躲在门洞里的老头子。以前他已经注意到犹太人运走死人是多么快，他们对待死尸是多么尊重，把装死尸的车用布盖住，跟在它后面沉默而悲哀地在街上走过。 ①德语：犹太人禁坐。 但是尽管房屋被炸毁，不断地着火冒烟，到处瓦砾，这个地区仍然充满着忙碌的、拥挤的生活。在一个角落，一所炸毁的学校外面，头戴便帽的男孩子和他们的留胡子的教师一起坐在人行道上，捧着大本子的书在唱。有些男孩子还不比这些书大。报亭子上还挂满了十多种用粗黑的希伯来字母印的不同的报纸杂志。他听见一所房子里有人在练习小提琴。卖枯黄蔬菜和斑斑点点的不成熟水果的小贩，卖罐头食品和旧衣服的小贩，沿了人行道站着，或者在人群之中推着吱吱发响的手推车。一队队干活的人在把被炸房屋的瓦砾从街上和人行道上清除掉。干这个活的人手很多。拜伦对这个感到奇怪，因为上几个星期犹太男人和小伙子——也许因为他们那么容易认出来——似乎从全华沙冒了出来；他们挖战壕，灭火，修水管子。一个戴便帽、穿长袍、灰胡子的老头，弯着腰在一条战壕里挥铁锹，就使所有一起干活的人看起来都象犹太人了。不过他们的确看来好象到处都在挖掘。 班瑞尔•杰斯特罗没有在公会的房子里。拥挤的、幽暗的、昏黑的走廊里，只点着些闪烁的粗蜡烛照亮。拜伦在里面找来找去，遇到了一个曾经看见他和班瑞尔谈话的人，这是一个留胡子的整洁的小个子犹太人，装着一只假眼珠，看起人来闪闪发亮。他用一种德语和意第绪语混杂的语言，说明了班瑞尔正在视察公共厨房。拜伦立刻去找他，在一座灰石砌的巨大的罗马式犹太会堂里找到了他。这座会堂未被损坏，只有一个没有玻璃的圆窗洞上的石制六角星破裂了。杰斯特罗正在一间低矮闷热的接待室里站着，人们在那里排着队，等候几个包着头巾的满头是汗的妇女从木柴炉子上的大桶里舀香味浓烈的菜汤。 “俄国人！”班瑞尔摸着胡子说。“这是肯定的吗？” “是你们的市长把消息送到大使馆来的。” “让我们到外面去。” 他们走到街上谈话，远离领菜的队伍。队伍里排着的衣服褴褛的人望着他们，想听他们谈些什么，甚至把手掌遮到了耳朵后面。“我必须把这个向中央委员会报告，”玛瑞尔说。 “可能是好消息。谁知道呢？也许这两个强盗互相刺对方的喉咙呢？这种事发生过。俄国人可能是上帝的使者。” 拜伦把娜塔丽的钱包给他时，他吃了一惊。“她是怎么想的呢？”他说。“我有钱。我有美元。她也许自己用得着。她还没有走出华沙呢。” 拜伦不知怎么办好。他没有想到杰斯特罗会感到不高兴，可是现在这个反应看来是很自然的。他说，美国人也许很快就会在停火的旗子下撤离华沙。 “原来这样。那么我们不能再跟你或者娜塔丽见面了？” “也许见不着了。” “嗯，好吧。如果德国人让你们所有美国人都一起撤出去，她就安全了。她对我说过，美国的护照上没有信仰什么教之类的话。对她说我感谢她，我会把这笔钱放在伙食基金里。对她说：vorsicht！①” 一颗炮弹嘘嘘地飞来，在不远的地方爆炸，震得拜伦耳朵作痛。 班瑞尔急忙地说：“你看，他们又回到这一带来了。这些德国人，他们炮轰有个体系。昨天是yom kippur②，一整天炮弹落到我们头上，没有停过。现在，你会见到埃瑞尔了？” 他对拜伦莫名其妙的表情苦笑了一下。”就是埃伦•杰斯特罗博士，”他模仿着英语的发音说。 ①犹太人的赎罪日。 ②德语：要小心！ “我想会的。” “告诉他，”班瑞尔说，“lekh lekha。你能记住吗？这是两个简单的希伯来字：lekh lekha。” “lekh lekha。”拜伦说。 “太好了。你是个很好的希伯来语学生。” “意思是什么？” “快走。”班瑞尔把一张白色旧卡片给了拜伦。“现在，你愿不愿意帮我一个忙？这是一个在新泽西的人，一个进口商。他寄来一张银行汇票，买一大批蘑菇装船。它来得太迟了。我把汇票销毁了，所以没有问题了，不过——你笑什么啊？” “是啊，你有那么多事操心，可是你还想着这个。” 杰斯特罗耸耸肩膀。“这是我的事业。德国人，他们或者进来，或者不进来。说到底，他们不是狮子老虎，他们是人。他们会拿走我们的钱。这会是一个很坏的时期，但是战争总归会结束的。听着，如果俄国人来了，他们也会取走我们的钱的。所以——”他向拜伦伸出手去——“所以，上帝保佑你，还有——” 拜伦听见一颗炮弹很近地飞来的声音；这是毫无错误的依稀的嘘嘘声和呼啸声。它打碎了犹太会堂的屋顶，穿了进去。这令人发昏的爆炸，过了一两秒钟以后才响，使他来得及双手捂住耳朵扑倒在地上。奇怪的是，它并没有把正面的墙壁轰倒，这样就保全了排队的人。屋顶的碎片飞到空中，噼噼啪啪地落到街上和附近的房屋上。然后，恰好他和杰斯特罗两人站了起来，他们看着会堂的整个正面建筑象幕布落下一样，滑了下来，发出轰隆的响声和不断的折裂声，分崩离析，坍成瓦砾。现在，排队的人已经跑开，脱离了危险。白色的尘雾冲天而起，马上被微风吹散，但是从这阵尘雾中，拜伦可以看见大理石的柱子和远处墙上未损坏的约柜①的雕花木门，在烟雾蒙蒙的惨白阳光下显得赤裸裸的不得其所。 ①约柜，是希伯来人存放经卷的柜子，被认为是上帝的表征，神圣不可侵犯，除高级祭司外，一般人不能看见；见《旧约》、《民数记》、《申命记》等篇。 班瑞尔使劲在他肩头拍了一下。“走吧，快走！别呆在这里。现在快走吧。我得去帮忙了。” 犹太男子和小伙子们已经拥进这个新的瓦砾堆，许多小火正在那里闪烁。尽管他对犹太教知道很少，拜伦明白，他们是要去抢救经卷。 “很好，我回到娜塔丽那里去了。” “好吧。谢谢你，谢谢你。祝你们两位一路平安。” 拜伦小跑着回去。约柜暴露在阳光底下，就象一曲强有力的音乐，使他震动。他从华沙的犹太区穿过，一路回去，看着这些一排排破毁的灰色、棕色的房屋，这些石子铺地的街道和泥泞的小巷，这些晒着衣服的简陋院子和棚屋，这些成群的留胡子戴宽边帽的安详的犹太人，这些在炸弹底下嬉戏的快活的黑眼睛儿童，这些推着小车、提着篮子劳累而顽强的街头小贩，这些挂满各种报纸、杂志、小册子和平装书籍的报亭，这些弥漫着烟雾的阳光，这些翻倒的无轨电车，这些死马——他看看这一切看得特别清晰详尽，每一个景象印在他的脑海里，仿佛他是一个画家一样。 他发现德国飞机排成密集的三角队形从北边飞来，既不感到惊讶也没有什么恐惧。这种景象已经司空见惯。他继续小步跑着，稍为快了一些，穿过逐渐空旷的弹坑累累的街道向大使馆跑去。他周围的人瞧着天空，躲藏起来。第一批飞机都是斯杜加，它们俯冲下来，喷出黑烟。拜伦听见房顶上波兰人微弱的机关枪在忿怒地咯咯回击。有一架飞机向他正在奔跑的街道俯冲下来。他跳进一个门洞。子弹噼哩啪啦地打到铺路的石子上，向四面八方一阵阵地飞溅。他眼看着这架飞机升高飞去，然后继续奔跑，嘴里喃喃地用惯用的脏话咒骂德国人。 拜伦慢慢滋长一种感觉，似乎觉得德国人干得出来的最坏的坏事都伤害不了他。在他看来，他们无非是一帮下贱的粗笨的屠夫。他肯定美国立即会从忿怒中站起来，跨过大西洋，把他们彻底打垮，要是英国人和法国人的确是太衰弱、太害怕因而不能这样干的话。他想，在他周围发生的事在美国一定成为报纸上的大字标题。他要是知道这场结果已很明显的波兰战争已经在美国报纸上移到了后面几版，人们对于国会修订中立法案的所谓“大辩论”由于全国联盟锦标赛跑大会的临近而甚至一无所知时，他准会气得目瞪口呆。 他大步跑进大使馆的大门，几乎喘不过气来。门口站岗的海军陆战队向他敬礼，亲切地笑了一下。里面，因窗上贴着布条、挂着灯火管制用的窗帘而变得乌黑的大餐室里，大约五十来个被围在华沙城里的美国人，正坐在活动支架的长桌边吃午饭，桌上点着油灯，高声地谈着话。斯鲁特和娜塔丽，还有一个脸色黝黑的小个子叫马克•哈特雷，以及另外几个人，坐在大使的光亮的餐桌边。拜伦由于跑了长路还喘着气，就把他和班瑞尔见面的情形告诉了娜塔丽，不过他没有提起会堂被炸的事。 “谢谢你，勃拉尼！愿上帝保佑他们全体。坐下来吃点儿东西。我们有精采的裹面包屑的小牛肉排，简直是奇迹。” 斯鲁特说：“你是不是在这次空袭的时候从街上跑回到这里来的？” “他脑袋里装的是鸭子毛，那么轻率。”娜塔丽说，深情地看了拜伦一眼。 “拜伦没有问题。”哈特雷说。他们在地下室里消磨长夜的时候，他是和娜塔丽、拜伦、斯鲁特一起打桥牌的第四家。马克•哈特雷的名字以前曾经是马文•霍洛维茨，他喜欢对这么改名换姓开玩笑。他是做进口生意的纽约人。拜伦在娜塔丽旁边的一个空位子上坐下，取了一块肉排。它有点古怪发粘的味道，但是吃了一个星期的罐头小鱼和香肠之后，它还是挺好吃，何况他又饿了。他吃完一块，又用叉子叉了一块放到自己盘子里。斯鲁特对他笑着，又得意地环视了一下高高兴兴地吃着肉排的美国人。“顺便问一句，这里有没有人反对吃马肉？” “我当然最反对，”娜塔丽说。 “好吧，那就太糟糕了。你刚刚吃下去。” 娜塔丽说了声“啊哟！”拿餐巾捂着嘴恶心起来。“我的天。马肉！我真要把你杀了。为什么你不警告我？” “你需要营养。我们都需要。很难说我们会碰上什么事，我刚巧有机会买到这东西，我就买了。你们刚才吃的还是波兰的一匹纯种。市长昨天下令宰了一千多匹。我们弄到一份还算运气。”马克•哈特雷从大菜盘里又取了一块肉排。娜塔丽说：“马克！你怎么能吃？是马肉！” He shrugged. “我们得吃。我在犹太人饭馆里吃过更坏的肉。” “嘿，我不主张遵守宗教信仰，可是我没法吃马肉。我宁肯吃狗肉呢。” 拜伦把盘子推开。他肚子里感觉到马肉的分量，嘴里还留着马肉黏糊糊的滋味，又想起犹太人街道上苍蝇群集的死马的臭味，这些都在他的意识里混杂成为一件事情——战争。