Chapter 48 Chapter Forty-eight

The "Atlantic Charter" is an elephant, it is like a tree, like a snake, like a wall, like a rope, it depends on which part of its body the blind man touches. The Axis propaganda machine laughs at its good-for-nothing bragging about liberty, citing India and Malaya, still in slavery; pointing out the cowardice of depraved Americans, who eschew any promise of war; and then draws conclusions Said it was nothing more than a bluster, disguised in a pious Anglo-Saxon hypocrisy to conceal its helpless hatred of the "new world order" which had been established as a thousand-year-old Even the Atlantic Charter cannot make it go back.

In America, there was an outcry that Roosevelt had secretly thrown his country into war to help Britain, and there was also a cheer—but not so loud—that it was the lightest man since Magna Carta. And the most brilliant literature of the struggle. ① "Magna Carta", in 1215, the British nobles forced King John to sign a document that gave the nobles certain rights. The English press hinted that much more had been accomplished at Argansha Bay than this splendid charter; but for the present all else was to be kept secret. The Russians hailed Roosevelt's and Churchill's sea talks on a battleship as a victory for all peace-loving peoples; and implied that a second European front was now urgently needed, which the Atlantic Charter did not mention plans, somewhat disappointing.

No reaction was as violent or blind as the one that aroused among the interned Jews of Minsk. The Germans confiscated their radios.Whoever still has a radio is punished by death.A boy of sixteen heard partial Russian broadcasts from a little radio he hid in his attic.He happily spread the story that Roosevelt had met Churchill and that America had declared war on Germany!The effect of this false story in the ghetto is so wonderful, so reviving, that one cannot help but suspect that falsehood may sometimes be a necessary painkiller for suffering people. The Jewish spirit in Minsk has been broken recently.When the Germans came, they resigned themselves to being herded into several neighborhoods, forced to register for work, arrested, tortured, attacked by mobs, and possibly shot.This is an age of "Porglons".It can be expected that the German Pogeron can be very bad.

① "Pogron": Russian, referring to the destruction and ravages of the Jews that often occurred in the imperial Russian era. But the Jew went through the Borglon and survived. So one night many gray trucks drove into the Jewish ghetto, and German soldiers wearing rare black uniforms drove out the residents on both sides of the two main streets door by door, and loaded them into the trucks—they announced that they would rearrange their living quarters. Room.Some German soldiers were rough, others polite; they pushed and hurried people onto the trucks.The other Jews in the street, hiding behind barred doors, trembled and wondered what had happened.What happened next—according to the reports of the partisans who haunted the forest—was so terrible, so unbelievable that the Minsk Jews never understood it.The gray trucks drove five miles into a forest outside the village.In the moonlit canyon, the German soldiers ordered people to get out of the truck, told them to line up in groups, and then shot and killed them all—including babies and old people—and threw them into a large pit dug in advance to bury them. On sandy soil.

The peasants who dug the huge hole in the sand saw it firsthand, reports from the partisans said.The German soldiers assembled them to do this work, and then ordered them to go home, and they were not allowed to stay or talk about digging, or they would be shot.Still a few slipped back through the trees, saw what the Germans were doing, and told the partisans about the massacre of the "Zid" in the gray truck. ① "Zid": Russian, a contemptuous term for Jews. The story was an indescribable blow to the Jews trapped in Minsk, three hundred miles behind the German troops advancing on Moscow.German soldiers were already shooting people after simple and sloppy interrogations for minor offenses.The bloated, fetid bodies of these victims, as well as those of the captured partisans, hung in the square.This kind of thing is unavoidable during the war.But this apparently random massacre of all the people living in two whole streets--children, women, old people, everyone--beyond their worst fears: the Germans could do no more than that. Terrible.The story was either a neurotic exaggeration, or perhaps it was true—and as the reports got around, people began to believe—that the Germans were indeed worse than the worst rumours.

Yet the next day Minsk looked the same, with the sunflowers blooming and the sun shining in the blue sky.Some buildings were destroyed by bombs or fires, but most remained as before.German soldiers patrolling the streets were already a common sight, in gray trucks and tanks with A-marks painted on them.These soldiers looked exactly like ordinary people, lazily holding their guns, looking around in the sunlight.A few even joked with passers-by.The Russians still go around, they are the old neighbors of the Jews.Still those bells ring at those times.These streets are places where Jews live, as familiar as the faces of relatives at home.Now only the houses on both sides of the two streets are silent and empty.

At this moment of astonishment, news came that Roosevelt and Churchill were at sea and the United States had entered the war.News is passed from house to house.People were crying, laughing, dancing with their babies on their shoulders, kissing each other, looking for wine or vodka to toast President Roosevelt.One fact is still engraved on the minds of all Europeans: the last war was won only because of the participation of the Americans.A lively debate ensues.Is it three months?six months?No matter how long it takes, there will never be another crazy thing that kills everyone on both streets.Now the Germans still dare!The Germans are bad when they are proud, but how submissive they are the other way around!They are all cowards.Now they may treat the Jews well so as not to be punished by the Americans in the future.

Bauriel Jastrow didn't want to refute the rumors, even though he knew the truth.In the bakery, he still has the shortwave radio hidden away.His identity card allowed him to go beyond the boundaries of the ghetto, because the Germans needed bread and the bakers in Minsk were fighting hundreds of miles away.At a conclave of Jewish leaders that night in a hospital boiler room, Ben Riel reported the correct broadcast he had heard from Sweden.But he was a foreigner, and he told the committee what no one wanted to hear.Someone interrupted him abruptly to remind him that he might be listening to Norwegian radio station controlled by the Germans; and they went on excitedly planning an armed uprising in Minsk in cooperation with the partisans when the Americans landed in France.

A few days later, Jastrow disappeared with his son, daughter-in-law and children.They walked away quietly at night, without asking permission or help from anyone in the ghetto, or asking for a password to communicate with the partisans in the forest.The Jewish Residents Committee got into some trouble with the State Secret Police because of the baker's disappearance.But they pleaded that the Jastrows were fugitives from Poland and that they could not be held responsible, and that the Germans themselves had issued him a special identity card.The three Polish Jews and their children never returned to Minsk.People in the ghetto assumed they had been shot on the spot by Wehrmacht forest patrols, as most of the Jews who tried to sneak out of town without partisan guidance ended up doing just that.It was the custom of the Germans to throw the bodies of those who had just been killed in the forest in the Jubilee Square, as a warning to other Jews.But the Jastrows were not to be seen amidst this horrible, stiff mass of unburied friends.That was the only reason to believe that the Jastrows were still alive somewhere.

In Rome, the Germans behaved well, at least in the eyes of Natalie and her uncle.The arrogance with which they treated the Italians may have been heightened by the conquest, but that was the way the Germans always behaved.Horrible rumors about the Nazis' treatment of the Jews had been circulating in Europe for several years.Now there are tales of their barbaric atrocities against hordes of captured Slav soldiers.And when Ellen Jastrow and his pregnant niece ate in hotels or in good restaurants in Rome, there were always Germans sitting at the tables on either side of them.Too much wine might cause a Teutonic quarrel; but no one can say that these well-dressed, discreet, and handsome people--in many ways resembling Americans--would massacre people. will believe.

Jastrow was anxious to go home at last.He had finished his first draft of On Constantine, and he wanted to show it to his publisher quickly, and then finish the revisions in the Byzantine section of the Harvard University Library.Of course, it was better in the Vatican library, and he made some good friends there.But there are fewer and fewer things, and Rome is getting more and more boring.Hitler's victory in the Soviet Union shook Italy like an earthquake, and the Italians sank in gloom and distress.Even in the fascist news coverage there was no real joy, but rather surprise at the Führer's strides in the last unconquered region of Europe. Food and drink in Rome is bad now, and getting worse, even in the best restaurants, no matter the price.Lime-like hard bread is almost unpalatable; freshly baked brown macaroni tastes like mud; to a decent bottle of wine.Natalie got the occasional bit of real milk from the embassy; Italian mother-to-be had to drink the same viscous blue liquid served with artificial coffee by that poor shrugging waiter. Dr. Jastrow was therefore going to go; but he was not alarmed.He had read so much history that current events seemed to be nothing more than rehash.He procrastinated and did not leave Italy, and he was almost glad that he had encountered difficulties in obtaining the identity card, because he thought in his heart that the war would soon be over.Even if the mustachioed wretch (as he liked to call Hitler) won, it didn't matter much, as long as the Nazis didn't march on Italy.Well, why would they invade a begging satellite country? He liked to say over drinks that Germany might very well be a new Byzantium, a stable and well-managed tyranny organized to last a thousand years, as Hitler boasted.Byzantium lasted almost that long, and from century to century it rose to prominence or impoverishment as its enemies grew stronger or weaker; like Germany, it now expanded and now contracted; but it always existed, and by its The tyranny, centralization, and military superiority of fighting inside often won the battles.The history of a country is shaped by its geography, as another murderous tyrant, Napoleon, pointed out long ago; and dictatorship is in any case the most suitable form of government in Europe.As a Jew, Jastrow certainly loathed Hitler.But as a philosopher of history, he can give Hitler a certain status and even a good evaluation because of his willpower and political skills.He didn't believe the rumored atrocities at all; he said it was British propaganda, as he remembered it had been during the last war. Natalie, however, panicked.She had been looking for another way to get out since Finland was involved in the war and the cargo ship couldn't be anchored.They are still completely free to go.But now she has to deal with Italian railways, airlines and immigration.All in all, these places are soft on you, so that you can't get angry.The thought of giving birth so far from home and feeding a newborn baby on the meager rations of this impoverished Italy terrified her as never before.President Roosevelt meddled more and more openly in the Atlantic; any sudden declaration of war by Hitler would undoubtedly drag Mussolini into it, and she and her uncle would be interned as enemy aliens! During this period, the worst obstacle is a thing called an exit permit.It had never bothered her before.This yellow card with a purple seal costs only a few lire and can be bought as soon as you show a boat, train or plane ticket.But now as soon as an application is made, there will be a series of hums and hahas, asking for the truth in an official tone.Once, after many twists and turns, Natalie managed to get two plane tickets to Lisbon, and she rushed to the immigration office immediately.An official took the plane ticket and passport from her and told her to come back in four days.When she went again, the cute fat official with a mouthful of garlic sighed and returned the passport to her.The military authorities had requisitioned the two seats on the plane, so the exit permit could not be issued, he said, although the ticket money would be refunded to her in due course. Just the next day, she heard the BBC's first gleeful broadcast of the Newfoundland conference.The entry of the United States into the war sounds like a fait accompli.In desperation, she came up with a helpless plan.She was going to play the card that would touch the Italian heart most sympathetically: her pregnancy.She did bleed intermittently a few times.The Americans she knew were ridiculed and skeptical of Roman doctors.They introduced her to a Zurich obstetrician named Dr. Winter, who was the best doctor in Europe outside Nazi jurisdiction.She decided to ask the Swiss authorities to allow her to go there for treatment for two weeks, ten days, or as many days as she could.And because of her poor health, she asked to be accompanied by her uncle in order to obtain an exit permit.Once in Switzerland, they can figure out ways to stay there until they figure out a way to get to America.Ellen Jastrow knew a publisher in Zurich, and Punch Zelston she knew had been transferred there from Lisbon.As soon as she thought about it, it seemed to her that this method was very clever. After some discussion, Ellen agreed to take on the role, and she was delighted.He would leave his books, luggage, and all his work materials in the hotel with him, and only packed the typewritten manuscripts with his personal clothes in a small suitcase.If cross-examined, he said that during his brief stay in Zurich he intended to rewrite the pages he had corrected in ink pen.If the Italians didn't want Jastrow to never come back--which Natalie still half-believed--this temporary absence might have fooled them. The Atlantic Charter broadcast worried Jastrow a little too, which was why he agreed to go. The trick worked like magic.Natalie booked a plane ticket to Zurich and got an exit permit.A week later, she and Dr. Jastrow flew to Switzerland.Everything was arranged, except that he had not been formally granted ten days by the Swiss authorities, as she had been.The document sent to him simply stated that he was accompanying a sick person for safety on the road, and Natalie called Bunch Zelston in Zurich to tell him about it.Bunche said they'd better be like that, start with that, and forget about better luck; he'd take care of Ellen when they got there. Zurich Airport is astonishingly clean and bustling.The wide-open shops are packed with fine clothing, watches, china and jewellery; there are stacks of boxed chocolates, delicious pastries, and fresh fruit.Natalie bit a large pineapple and hummed softly as she walked to Zelston's car. "Oh, this pear! My God," she said, "how ugly fascism is! How nasty, stupid war is! Europe is a rich continent, why do these bloody fools keep it barren again and again? Only The Swiss are smart Europeans." "Yeah, the Swiss are smart," sighed Zelston, stroking his beard; it was still smooth and neat.But the rest of his face looked pale and old, as if sick. "How's your submariner?" "Who knows? Let's go rushing around in the Pacific. Have you ever witnessed a crazier wedding?" Natalie turned to Jastrow, and her eyes suddenly got rid of the pained expression, and changed again. It turned out to be so naughty and radiant. "It's the marriage certificate signed by Bunche. Don't you like Zurich better than Lisbon, Bunchy?" "I don't want to think about the 80 million Germans who are tossing around in the Alps. But at least these high Alps are nice—here's this red Citroen—and the plight of those exiles is here too , Natalie, but not so obvious, not so strong. In Lisbon, it was really scary." As their car hit the road, Ellen Jastrow said, "Are they going to send our passports to the consulate for you?" "Or you can pick it up when you go back." "But we're not going back, dear," said Natalie. "Give me your handkerchief, Ellen, I've got pear juice all over my face. I wish I could have a bath in it." "That's all I have," said Jastrow. Zelston drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. "What do you mean, you are not going back?" "My uncle and I are ready to hop on the first train, the first plane, or the goat-drawn wagon that leaves here, if it's bound for dear old America. Bunch, obviously, I Can't tell you that over the phone. But that's what this trip is all about." "Natalie, this can't be done." "Why can't it be done?" "I secured Ellen's passage through the immigration checks in Switzerland. I have to send him back there. He doesn't have a transit visa." After waiting for a while, Dr. Jastrow, who was sitting in the back seat of the car, said in a low, pathetic voice, "I wonder how it could be so easy." "Bunch, not even the wild horses can take me back to Rome," said Natalie vigorously. "I don't want to have a baby there. That's all. You gotta help Ellen somehow. He's here now. His passport is gold. I know you can handle it." As Alston drove, he reached out a hand and carefully stroked his beard. "Okay, you guys are too sudden, give me some time." "I've got ten days," Natalie said. "There aren't many ways to get out of Zurich anymore," Zelston said. "Let me figure it out." He dropped them off at the door of Dr. Herman Winter's clinic and took their luggage to the hotel.The clinic is an old four-story house, and the windowsills are decorated with wooden boxes full of flowers.Dr. Winter examined Natalie while Jastrow dozed off in the reception room. The bald, freckled doctor was a short man, not as tall as her uncle, with big ears and small brown bulging eyes.He asked a few questions, jotted down the answers on a card, and then, pushing and touching Natalie, took laboratory specimens from her, not only putting her in the usual embarrassing situation of being examined, but And adding new pains to her with strange devices, while he talked to her in French, smiling.She was lying on the examination bed, covered with a quilt, gasping for breath, feeling weak all over, with sweat on her face and constant pain in her lower body.The breeze brought the wonderful aroma of sweet peas in a wooden box on the windowsill. "Very well, let's rest for a while." She heard him washing his hands.Then he came back with a notebook and sat down beside her. "You are as strong as a horse, and you have a fine child." "Three times I bleed in the middle." "Yes, you did. When was the last time?" "Let me see. A month ago. Maybe earlier." "Well, you can wait a day or two for the results of smear tests and urine tests and so on. I'm almost sure the results will be negative. Dr. Carona will deliver a fat baby for you. I told him Very familiar. He is the best doctor in Rome." "Doctor Winter, unless I go back to America, I'd rather stay here and have my baby here. I don't want to go back to Rome." "really? Why?" "Because of the war. If America gets involved, I'll be on enemy soil with a newborn baby." "Did you say your husband was an officer in the United States Navy and was in the Pacific?" "yes." "You are too far away from him." Natalie smiled sadly. "I agree, but that's the way it is now." "What kind of surname is this, this—Henry?" "Oh, I guess it's a Scots name. Scots in England." "Your maiden name is Jastrow, isn't it? Is that a Scot in England?" "It's a Polish name." After waiting a moment, she saw these little brown eyes looking at her, and she said, "Polish Jews." "Is that gentleman outside your uncle? Is he a Polish Jew?" "He is a famous American writer." "Really? How amazing. Is he a Polish Jew?" "He was born in Poland." "Now you can get dressed. Then please come to this room." Dr. Winter sat hunched in a swivel chair in his small clinic, smoking a cigar.Rising smoke rings floated over crumpled and yellowed certificates and a dusty engraving of The Dying Lion of Lucerne taped to the wall.He put the cigar in an agate ashtray and brought the fingertips of his hands together to his mouth, his old brown-spotted face looking blankly at her. ① In the 19th century, the Danish sculptor Thorvaldsson carved a monument for the city of Lucerne, Switzerland. On the monument is a dying lion to commemorate the Swiss mercenaries killed by the French people during the French bourgeois revolution. "Mrs. Henry, over the last few years - and I have to be frank with you - here, pregnancy has been used and misused to kill, just to get around passport difficulties. The immigration authorities are very strict about it because of that. I am an expatriate myself, and my license to practice medicine can easily be revoked. I wonder if I made it clear?" "But I have no passport trouble," Natalie replied serenely. "Not at all. Do you think I'll make it all the way back to America? That's all I need to know." The doctor arched his shoulders, puffed out his lips, held his head up like a clever puppy, and never took his eyes off her for a moment. "What way?" "By plane. I think." "What's Dr. Carona's opinion?" "I didn't ask him. Despite what you said just now, I don't trust him very much. That's why I'm staying here, if I can't fly home." The old doctor's eyes lit up, and he spread his hands. "That's exactly what I can't help you with. The authorities will ask me for a paper that says you can't travel. Otherwise they won't extend your stay. You can fly back to Rome. As for flying to America— —” He raised his head again—“It was a hard and long journey.” Natalie maintained a calm demeanor. "You mean I have to lose this baby?" "It's not necessary, but a primipara who is about to become a mother should avoid such exertion. Your pregnancy history is not 100 percent good." "Then why are you telling me to go back to Rome? The milk and the food are bad; I don't like the doctor there, he's wrong about my bleeding." The little doctor said with a dry tone in his voice: "Mrs. Henry, flying back to Rome will be no problem for you, so there is no way to extend your stay. I am very sorry. The authorities will ask me about your health, not Rome." Carona’s milk or Dr. Carona.” He flipped through a follow-up registration book, looked at it and said, “Come back at five quarters tomorrow, and we’ll discuss the results of the tests.” Natalie was in a good mood that night as she ate dinner with Zelston and her uncle.The excited relief of leaving Rome for a peaceful city overcame Winter's indifference; and the results of the examination pleased her.She was "strong as a horse" and the baby was kicking her while they escaped Fascist Italy.The rest would work out, she thought, especially since Zelston seemed optimistic.She decided not to ask him, but to tell him when he was ready. At this time, the common topic between her and him was Leslie Sloter.She told funny stories about her crappy apartment in Paris: the little elevator in the middle of the stairs broke down and Slote was locked up in it all night; The one-eyed lesbian sculptor pestered Sloter for a statue of him.Ellen Jastrow had not heard the love stories of these young people on the left bank of the Seine.The sumptuous and satisfying dinner, the good wine, and the brightly lit night view of Zurich from the open-air dining room lifted his spirits, too.He accepted a cigar that Zelston offered him, even though he had a bad cough. "My God, Havana cigars!" Dr. Jastrow rolled his tongue and puffed out smoke rings. "It made me ten years younger and back in the communal mess. How wonderful life seemed, how easy, how joyful! And yet all this time the bearded wretch was hoarding his tanks. Oh, my God Why. You're so happy, Natalie." "I see. Must have been the drink, and the lights. Bright lights! Bunch, electric lights are magic at its strongest. Live in a blackout for a few months and you'll see! You know what?" , what does Zurich remind me of? Luna Park in Coney Island, when I was a little girl. You walk in a big field of lights, millions and millions of yellow bulbs. The lights are more exciting than horse racing and games Excited. Switzerland is marvelous, isn't it? It's a little dry free diving bell in a sea of ​​terror. What an experience I'll never forget." "You can see why the Swiss have to be very, very careful," Zelston said. "Otherwise they'll be full of exiles." Natalie and her uncle grew serious at his last words, listening for what he had to say. The consul smoothed his beard with both palms. "Don't forget that in Hitler's Europe, more than four million Jews were arrested. In all of Switzerland there were only four million. So the Swiss are starting to have as much trouble with the Jews as our State Department. But there are many more of them Much reason. Their country is only 16,000 square miles of land, much of which is bare rock and snow. We have 3.5 million square miles. Compared to population density, we have a lot of open space And we are considered the land of the free, the refuge of exiles. The Swiss have no such title. So who should accept the Jews? And yet they are doing it, but cautiously and always within limits. Besides, the Swiss depend on the Germans for their oil, steel, and all trade in and out. They are in a circle. They are free only when it suits the Nazis. You go and negotiate with the Swiss authorities. As an American official, I am in a low position in terms of moral character." Jastrow said: "This is understandable." "You must understand that nothing has been decided on your matter," said the consul. "I just asked. It might work out. Natalie, can you stand a long train ride?" "I'm not sure. Why?" "Now the only route from Zurich to Lisbon is Lufthansa." Natalie felt as though she had been cut by a knife, but her tone remained nonchalant. "I see. And what about the Spanish route?" "You've been told incorrectly. The Spanish route stopped in May, and Lufthansa flies it once a week, starting in Berlin with stops in between - Marseilles, Barcelona, ​​Madrid. It's a bad route. I I used to fly when I came here. The planes are often full of Axis dignitaries. Would you like to separate from your uncle and try Lufthansa? Your passport doesn't say you're Jewish. You're Mrs. Byron Henry .Even the Germans have a little pity for pregnant women. Of course, you have to spend more than twenty hours in the hands of the Nazis." "Another way?" "Take the train through Lyon, Nîmes, Perpignan, down the coast of France, through the Pyrenees to Barcelona, ​​and then, God help you, all the way through Spain and Portugal to Lisbon. Hills, holes, crappy roadbeds, and God knows how many obstacles, delays, and changes of trains, a long way through Vichy France. Maybe three days, maybe six days on the road." Natalie said: "Why should I take the risk?" "I wouldn't mind trying Lufthansa," Jastrow said in a flat voice, rolling his cigar with his fingers, "I still don't believe it, I really don't believe the Germans are going to bother me." Zelston shook his head and said, "Dr. Jastrow, she's the wife of a non-Jewish naval officer. I think she'll be fine. You don't fly Lufthansa!" "So what I have to decide is whether to try Lufthansa alone or take the train with Ellen," Natalie said. "You don't have to make any decisions yet. I'm just telling you these things for your consideration." Natalie and her uncle spent the next day walking the streets, looking in shop windows, buying clothes, eating cream cakes, drinking real coffee, driving around in taxis, killing time, enjoying the luxury of Switzerland's full freedom.It's only a few hours' flight from brown and blue Rome.In the evening, she went to see Dr. Winter again.With a mournful shrug, he told her that all tests had come back negative. "That's fine. But I might be able to stay anyway," she said. "Our consul is figuring it out." "Ah, is that so?" The little doctor's face brightened. "Excellent! I couldn't be happier. I'll check you in right away, Mrs. Henry. The hospital is crowded." "I'll let you know in a day or two." "very good." In the morning, she found a white hotel envelope slipped under the door, with a note inside: Hey.Things are going on.Meet me at the lake, you two, at four o'clock, at the Zurich marina.Ben Qi. When they got to the pier, the consul had rented a dinghy with an outboard motor and was sitting and waiting in it.Without saying a word, he helped them out of the boat, started the engine, and drove away from the shore.After a mile or so, he turned off the engine, and they could hear an approaching tour boat playing a German waltz on wind instruments on the blue lake. "I got an almost full report on you guys," Zelston said, and Natalie's heart skipped a beat when she saw his happy smile. "I think we'd better get out of the way when we're talking about that." "Is it all arranged?" said Jastrow, in a way that made his niece look almost childish. Zelston stroked his beard with the palm of his hand and said, "Well, it's doing well." The consul's eyes were shining on Natalie. "You know, I talked and wired to Rome. Your Byron did more than he did in Lisbon, didn't he? He talked to President Roosevelt about your uncle's passport! What a guts! Never Haven't seen it, nobody likes him in Rome." "I can imagine." "Yes, but your uncle's file is now stamped 'Arranged by the President', which is very useful. Now, Natalie, you're settled. I've put your name on the Waiting list for Lufthansa. The next two flights are booked, but you can get a booking for the third. The immigration authorities can extend your stay until then." "But by then I'd be eight months old—" 泽尔斯顿举起一只手说：“汉莎航空公司是靠得住的，你会很早就走。也许就是下星期。而且总是有退票。因为你怀孕，列在名单的前头。” “埃伦怎么办呢？” “他啊，那是另一码子事了。” “她是重要的，”杰斯特罗演戏似的说，“我出什么事完全没关系。我已经活够了。” “别着急，别着急，”泽尔斯顿笑起来了。“我的天哪，杰斯特罗博士！一切都顺利。你就是不能和她一起呆在瑞士。这是毫无问题的。不过你也定下来了。罗马现在因为你而闹得一团糟了。大使发了脾气。他说必要时他就任命你做他的工作人员，然后用外交豁免权把你送回家去。你要回到罗马去，但是由他负责与意大利人办交涉。杰斯特罗博士，在美国我们有一批意大利名流；我答应你，你的出境许可证不会再有什么麻烦。” “你是不是认为我这么做比坐火车到里斯本去要好？”杰斯特罗的问话是婉转的，声调很高兴、很放心。“我很愿意试试。” “天哪，杰斯特罗博士。我自己也不愿意干。这是个累死人的旅程，甚至我也不能肯定那些联络点还有没有用。可是主要的障碍是，你得非法离开瑞士。你得想想这个。无论如何，现在你是合法的，合法居留在这里。” 杰斯特罗转过来对侄女说：“那么，亲爱的！看来我们要分手各走各的路了。” 娜塔丽没有回答。现在对她说来，坐一架德国班机旅行，眼前浮现的是一种丑恶的前景。另外，那条游览轮船正好在附近驶过，船边激起的波浪摇晃着小船，使她恶心。轮船上的游客懒洋洋地往下瞧着他们，乐队正在奏着《蓝色的多瑙河》。 泽尔斯顿锐利地瞥了她一眼，说：“我知道你是坚决反对回到罗马去的，娜塔丽。不过你如果可以重新考虑，大使会给你作出跟你叔父同样的安排。这是我给你的建议，我个人的建议。” “好吧，这都得好好地动动脑筋，是不是？”娜塔丽说。 “我们回去吧？我累了。” “回去吧，”泽尔斯顿马上使劲一抽飞轮上的绳子，引擎发动起来，喷出一阵蓝烟。 “我们非常感谢你，”杰斯特罗叫着，压过引擎声。“你简直创造了奇迹。” “那个'总统交办'的签条帮了忙，”泽尔斯顿说，驾着小艇驶过轮船后面扩展开来的水波，小艇摇摆着、晃荡着，几乎合上了《蓝色的多瑙河》的拍子。 娜塔丽下楼来吃早饭的时候，她的叔父正坐在餐厅窗边的桌子前，在强烈的阳光下喝咖啡。 “你来了，懒骨头，”他说。“我已经起来了几个钟头了。我希望你肚子饿了。他们今天早晨有十分精采的波兰火腿。他们怎么会弄到波兰火腿的？我猜想是德国人偷的，然后他们用金子去买。这是世界上最好的了。”娜塔丽要了咖啡和一个面包。 杰斯特罗还咕噜咕噜地说着：“你不饿？我可饿坏了。很奇怪，是不是，一个人一辈子能变得多厉害！我小时候在梅德西斯生活的时候，要我吞下一片火腿，我真的宁可活活烧死或者被枪打死。那些古老的禁忌剥夺了我们如此简单有效的乐趣。”他望着侄女，而她则坐在那里，脸色苍白，神色紧张，心情忧郁，双手交叉在鼓起的肚子上。“要知道，世界上最美妙的景象之一，就是早晨阳光之中的满满一碗新鲜奶油。瞧那奶油！又香又甜，如同香花一样。一定要尝尝。这咖啡也很好！娜塔丽，亲爱的，我一晚上都在想，我差不多已经决定下一步该怎么办了。” “你已经决定了吗？这很好。我也决定了。” 他说：“我要回到罗马去。我要试试汉莎航空公司，亲爱的。我不怕那些妖怪。不过我明白我会妨碍你逃跑的。那是首要的。现在你绝对应该走你自己的路。这就是我的决定，看来我这个决定是不会改变了。亲爱的孩子，你在瞪眼看什么？是不是我的脸颊沾上鸡蛋了？” “不是，正好我要告诉你，我就是打算这么办。” “是吗？”他的脸温柔地微笑起来。“谢谢老天爷。我以为你会英勇地辩论一场要和我一起回去呢。不，你把你自己拖回去太可笑了。至于我，我相信大使，而且无论如何去和自己的命运作对是没有意义的。常常会时来运转。我在下午去罗马的飞机上弄到了一个位子。看来回去就象从上了油的斜坡上滑下去那么容易。只有向另一个方向去是困难的。” 娜塔丽喝着咖啡。这会不会是个计策，来诱使她自己提出回罗马去？经过长久的经验，她对她叔父的自私已经有所戒备；这种自私有时厚颜无耻，有时巧妙阴险。 “好吧，”她说，“我看这样还有点意思。如果你愿意从罗马走，到了那里就去排队登记，越早越好。你有把握能办得了吗？” “假使大使亲自经手，我还能弄糟吗？我只有一个请求。你能把手稿带走吗？即使我比你先到家，我也宁愿让你管着这本书。你瞧，全部草稿材料在我这里。这样就有两个机会保全《君士坦丁的拱门》，而不是一个了。” 到现在，娜塔丽才第一次开始相信她的叔父，不禁对他显露了一些亲切之感。“好吧，埃伦，就这样吧。这次分离，使人感到十分、十分特别。” “娜塔丽，我会比你更感到放心。我背上压着一个对不起你的重负，至少有你肚子里怀的婴孩那么大。总有一天你会知道我是多么感激你。”他把一只瘦弱的小手放到她的手上。 “你已经为你自己——就象我们的祖先古雅地说的——在未 来的世界中挣得了很大的一份。只要这未来的世界存在的话！ " 埃伦•杰斯特罗就这样乖乖地回到罗马去了。一连十天他的侄女没有听到消息。这十天孤寂的日子，就连瑞士的舒适生活和丰富食物也很快地使她厌烦了。娜塔丽开始想，即使脖子上挂着一只信天翁①，也算是个伴。她寂寞得要命。奔奇•泽尔斯顿正在和一个流亡的法国小说家的女儿谈恋爱，很少有时间来陪她。瑞士人对待她，就象对待一切外国人一样，态度冷淡，因为你花了钱而对你彬彬有礼，仿佛整个国家就是一座庞大高级旅馆的场地。商店里，街道上，游览火车和游览轮船上，那些眼神忧愁的犹太人使她闷闷不乐。终于来了一封信，贴满了快递信件的邮票，盖着邮检的戳子。 我料想得到这封信会被别人看见，但是已经没有关系。你我两人已经不归意大利当局管辖。娜塔丽，现在我手里掌握着两张飞机票，还有两张日期相应的出境许可证，外加葡萄牙的过境签证，泛美航空公司的联票，以及最高级外交人员豁免权的附签。真是了不起的杰作！它们都摊在我面前的桌子上，我还从未见过更为光辉的景象。 ①欧洲传说，信天翁常随着大海里的孤舟飞行，杀之即要遭到祸殃。英国诗人柯勒律治（1772—1834）据此写成叙事诗《老船夫》。 泽尔斯顿在大使馆燃起了一场大爆炸，亲爱的。真是个好小伙子。正好是时候！大使利用了一切他力所能及的渠道，包括梵蒂冈——在那里，你知道，我有许多朋友。其实我老早就应该自己试试去施加我的影响，但是靠着我的著作声誉去恳求似乎太infra dig①，就是这样！ ①拉丁语：降低尊严。 现在说说情况。 飞机票的日期是十二月十五日。还远得很，我知道，不过泛美航空公司是个关口。跑到里斯本去坐在那里等几个月没有意义！而且这趟路程是靠得住的。当然这意味着最后你得在这里分娩。因此，由你决定。 附上可爱而相当机敏的大使夫人的一张条子。要是你不愿意为了等候一个与英俊的德国鬼子们乘飞机旅行的机会而呆在苏黎世受罪的话，她的邀请还是可以接受的。 我等待你的吩咐。我感到年轻了二十岁。你身体好吗？I 日日夜夜挂念着你。 love you 埃伦 大使夫人用绿墨水写的一手妇女进修学校的华丽字体， 第九个字母上都带个小圈： Dear Natalie: 三个月以前我把我的女儿送回家去分娩了。她的房间空着。她的丈夫在大使馆里工作。我们都因为她不在而分外寂寞！ 要是你能从瑞士回家，那就太好了。否则的话，请你考虑回到这里来，在这里，至少你能吃得好些，孩子会生在美国的“土地”上，就是说，生在你的朋友中间。我们热切地盼望你。 同一天早晨，奔奇•泽尔斯顿打电话给她。汉莎航空公司碰巧有一张很早预订的退票，作为特殊照顾给了他：四天以后，九月十七日，到里斯本，一位。他说，泛美航空公司还不卖票，不过他们已经把她登记在里斯本长长的候机名单前头，她会很快得到空位子的。 “我建议你直接到巴诺夫大街的汉莎航空公司办事处去一趟，离开旅馆不过两条街，自己去把这张票子弄到手，”泽尔斯顿说。“有许多表格要填，我没法代你干，要不——” “等一等，奔奇，等一等。”娜塔丽费了好大劲才听明白他的话。早晨她睡醒的时候嗓子痛，发烧发到华氏一百度以上；她吃了阿斯匹林，现在头昏眼花，而且她叔父的这封信把她抛进了犹疑不决的漩涡，使她心里烦闷。“我收到埃伦的一封信，你能不能听一听？” “念吧。”她把信念给他听。 “好啊！他们真的着急了，是不是？娜塔丽，我不敢代你决定。我知道莱斯里•斯鲁特会怎么说。还有拜伦。” “我知道。稳妥的办法，直接回罗马去。” "Not bad." “你对拜伦估计错了。拜伦会对我说，去坐汉莎航空公司的飞机。” “真的吗？你比我对他更了解。不管你怎么决定，都告诉我，看看我有没有办法帮你忙。”泽尔斯顿说。“我听见弗朗索亚斯在按汽车喇叭了。我们要到乡下去玩一天呢。” 娜塔丽最不愿意的事，就是回到罗马去。这是她坚持不放的铁定念头。她头重脑昏地穿好衣服，向汉莎航空公司走去。她不停地空咽看，尽管吃了阿斯匹林，她的喉咙还是象砂纸磨擦那样刺痛。所有的航空公司办事处都在同一条街上。法国航空公司，泛美航空公司，英国海外航空公司都已停业关闭，他们招牌上的油漆褪了颜色。只有汉莎航空公司的镀金飞鹰，栖息在绕着花环的a字上，在阳光中闪闪发光。这个a字使娜塔丽在门外踌躇了一下。透过玻璃窗，她看见一间象医院那么清洁的办公室，在一张光秃秃的柜台后面，一个晒黑了的金发姑娘，穿着天蓝色镶金边的制服，打扮得无瑕可击，露出雪样白的牙齿在笑。一个晒黑了的穿绿色运动外套的男人，和她一起笑。墙上贴的招贴画上，画着河边悬崖上的古堡，穿着巴伐利亚民间服饰的姑娘，喝着啤酒的肥胖男人，在一座巴洛克式歌剧院的上方有贝多芬和瓦格纳的胸像。 他们看见她在看他们，就止住笑，回蹬着她。娜塔丽走进汉莎航空公司的办事处，因为发烧而有点发抖。 “gruss gott①，”那姑娘说。 ①德语：欢迎上帝；德国人见面时的问候话，意即“你好”。 “您好，”娜塔丽哑着嗓子说。“美国领事奔奇•泽尔斯顿给我预订了一张十七日到里斯本去的飞机票。” “啊？您是拜伦•亨利太太吗？”那姑娘很自然地改用清晰的英语说。 "yes." “很好。您的护照呢？” “您有没有预订票？” “有的。请您把您的护照给我。” 姑娘伸出一只修剪过指甲、按摩过皮肤的手来。娜塔丽把护照给她，她递过来一张粗糙绿纸上印的很长的表格。“请您填一下。” 娜塔丽仔细看着这张表格。“老天爷。坐一趟飞机有那么一大堆的问题要问。” “战争时期的安全规定，亨利太太。请您两面都填。” 第一页要求旅客回答去年一年旅行的详细情况。娜塔丽把表格翻过来。后面一页顶上的第一个问题是：本人宗教信仰：父方宗教信仰：母方宗教信仰： 一阵神经性的震颤流遍她的全身。她奇怪为什么泽尔斯顿没有警告她提防这个危险的暗礁。这里需要作出迅速的决定！写上“监理会派新教”是简单不过的事；护照上面写着她母亲娘家的姓，但是“格林果尔德”不一定非得是犹太人的姓。他们怎么能去查对呢？然而，在埃伦的麻烦事发生之后，什么样的名单里不会有她呢？她怎么能肯定柯尼希斯贝格那个事件没有记录下来呢？被德国人弄走的那些柯尼希斯贝格的中立国犹太人碰到了什么事呢？这些念头在她发烧的头脑里盘旋的时候，她肚子里的婴儿轻轻地蹬了下，提醒了她她不是一个人旅行。 外面的街道好象离得很远，而且那么诱人。娜塔丽头脑发昏，嗓子好象被一块块的石子塞住了，噎得慌。她把那张绿纸表格放到柜台上。那个汉莎航空公司的姑娘正动手填一张飞机票，照抄看护照上的项目。娜塔丽瞧她困惑地看了表格—眼，又看看那个穿运动外套的男人。这个人把手伸进—只口袋，对娜塔丽用德语说：“您要不要钢笔？” “请把护照还我，”她说。那姑娘蹙起眉头。“什么地方不对头吗？”娜塔丽过于慌张，想不出一个巧妙的答复，脱口就说：“美国人不为了旅行的目的而问人家的宗教信仰，自己也不说给人家听。” 那个男人和那个姑娘交换了一个会心的眼色。那个男人说：“如果你愿意让它空着，那也由你。这样完全可以，亨利太太。” 他们两个人都那么慢腾腾地古怪地微笑起来。这种微笑就是柯尼希斯贝格党卫军军官的微笑。 “我要我的护照，请您还我。” “我已经在给你填写票子了，”那姑娘说。“到里斯本去是很不容易的，亨利太太。” “我的护照。” 那姑娘把这个紫红色的小本子扔在柜台上，就转过了身子。 娜塔丽走了出来。过去三家门面，瑞士航空公司正在营业。她走进去，买了一张第二天早晨去罗马的飞机票。真是象埃伦•杰斯特罗说的，回去就象从上了油的斜坡上滑下去那么容易。