Chapter 63 Chapter 63

A door to Natalie's bedroom was left open, so Hitler's screams woke the child awake.Natalie had turned the radio down in the living room, but a sudden scream from the Führer: "Ro-s-fu!" made her and Ellen look at each other in surprise, and Louis sobbed. "He's a madman after all." Ellen Jastrow, in a bathrobe and scarf, sat down heavily in an armchair, tears streaming from his sunken red eyes, shaking his head, shaking his teacup Raise it to your lips.Hitler was still yelling and taunting, now lowering his voice, now shouting loudly. "Extremely alert, touching, powerful, and yet a madman. I confess I never knew that before. I thought he was putting on a show."

Natalie cast a slightly contemptuous look at her uncle, then went over to her doll. The Fuehrer's speech began with the usual indictment of the injustices suffered by Germany and himself, and then gradually raised the tone to one of the greatest war criminals, who was responsible for all the bloodshed and suffering that he, as Fuehrer, had tried so hard to achieve. What was avoided, however, was the demented hypocrite who sold his country and himself to the Jews and took every opportunity against Germany to bring about the ruin of humanity.After a long and inexplicably long pause, he uttered the violent cry that woke the child: "Ro-------Foot!"

Ellen Jastrow was awakened by this ferocious cry of a beast full of hatred.Jastrow had rarely listened to Hitler's speeches in recent years.He is disgusted.He was a historian, and the pages of history are filled with such invincible tyrants who swaggered through their short golden days, did all their damage, erected their grand monuments, and disappeared.So would Hitler.Jastrow, after one of his visits to Germany, had written a sober reflection published in Harper's magazine entitled "Führer: Thoughts Before Midnight." In this essay, Jastrow juxtaposes Nazi fanaticism with other ephemeral violent mass disturbances that have arisen and vanished in various eras throughout history.Sometimes they changed the order of things, as in the Crusades and the French Revolution; sometimes they left only destruction, as in the bloody massacres of Alarek and Timur.Maybe this eccentric little beggar who has been praised by others will have something to contribute to the world.His call for a new order of European unity also makes sense.He may start a world war; he may win, he may lose; but in the end he will die, and the world will go on.God—Jastrow uses the term with mischievous sarcasm to indicate the way things go—is like a master magician on the side of the road who puts on his show using whatever comes at hand.If Hitler wins and brings Europe, and even the whole world, a tyrannical unified Germany that lasts for a century or two, maybe this means that our small world needs him at this time.After all, what happened just had to happen.There are no dice to roll in heaven.The human spirit is constantly yearning for freedom, either to finally soften and subdue their Teutonic masters, or to burst through the tyrant's prison as a weed bursts through a concrete sidewalk.

① Timur (1336-1405), a descendant of Genghis Khan, proclaimed Khan in 1369, established his capital in Samarkand, and made expeditions to the countries of Central Asia, India, Turkey and other places. ②Alarek (370-410), king of the Visigoths, once broke through the city of Rome in AD 410. After dealing with the German dictator in a few concise words, Ellen Jastrow has already solved the problem of this man in his mind.On this day, by shouting Roosevelt's name, Hitler popped up again in Ellen Jastrow's mind. The dictator went on, making lengthy, rambunctious and vitriolic comparisons between Roosevelt and himself.He, the son of struggling parents; Roosevelt, the pampered only son of a millionaire.He, an ordinary soldier of the First World War who endured wind, rain, gunfire and mud for four years; Roosevelt, a well-born government dignitary working in the safety and comfort of the Navy Department.He, the gassed veteran, lay penniless in the hospital; Roosevelt, the cunning financial speculator who doubled his estate after the war.He is the restorer and rebuilder of a defeated and subdued nation; Roosevelt is an economic tinkerer, using his fantastical new economic plan to rescue a rich country.He is a brave corrector of past evils, a savior-like unifier of Europe; Roosevelt is a major war criminal trying to maintain Jewish world hegemony regardless of the future.Ellen Jastrow began to waver on his philosophical footing, and finally panicked, listening to this fierce, mad, strange coherence of delusions.

Italians have canceled exit visas for Americans.The chargé d'affaires of the American embassy had told Jastrow that this was only a precautionary measure and that they should be preparing to leave on the fifteenth of this month, if war had not been declared by then.For several days Jastrow slept very little and ate very little.Now, as he heard Hitler's speech, it was as if an iron door had clanged shut. "How is it?" Natalie said, cradling the crying doll wrapped in felt. "Is there any hope?" "He hasn't declared war yet. Not a word of war out of all the words."

With nonchalant, practiced movements, not too shy about being shy, she unbuttoned her sweater, jacket, and blouse, revealing one snow-white breast, and pulled the brown sweater over the doll. "Why is this room so much colder? It's freezing, and..." Jastrow put a finger to his lips and told her not to speak.Hitler's words grew more and more agitated, gradually reaching a climax.His audience, which had been silent for a long time, erupted in applause, cheers and shouts of "Long live the Führer!" "Ellen, what does this mean?" Jastrow raised his voice to drown out the cacophony of the crowd. "I'm afraid that's it. He said he had summoned American diplomats and handed them passports to go home. That's when the cheering started."

"Well, all I can say is that I was surprised too." Natalie ran a finger over the baby's face; when the baby quieted down and began to nurse, she smiled sadly. "You're just hungry, little naughty, aren't you?" Her uncle said: "Mussolini is still speaking. We'll know in an hour or two." "Oh, Ellen, what would he choose?" He turned off the radio. "Well, that's it anyway. I'd like a glass of sherry. Would you like one?" "No, no, I'd better keep my head clear today and see what they have to say." Jastrow poured a full glass of wine, drank it dry, poured another glass, huddled in the armchair, sipped slowly, and looked aimlessly around the tall and tall place full of suitcases and wooden boxes. Long cold room.The hotel is quiet, and the road outside is also quiet.

"Don't lose heart, Natalie. Did you know that the Italian leader got away once in 1939. He was no use against Hitler militarily. The Italians are weak, stubborn, and broken." Yes, if he declares war on America, he might be assassinated, which Hitler would not like to see. Besides, he is cunning. He will find some tactful words, and we can still sit on the 15th of that plane." "Oh, Ellen, please stop talking. He'll declare war." Jastrow sighed deeply. "I think so. Natalie, I'm sorry, I'm deeply and sincerely sorry." She holds up one hand, palm outward. "No, no, don't. What's the use of it?"

"Let me go on. It's too much for me to drag you and your baby into it. I never—" "Ellen, I did it myself. Don't bring it up again now. Don't. I can't stand it." There was a long silence in the room except for the sound of the baby suckling.Jastrow sipped his sherry and looked at his niece with a dejected expression: "Honey, maybe I should call the embassy and ask if there is a special car for diplomatic staff .” "It's a good idea if you can get through. Otherwise we'll go there ourselves." "That's what I'm planning," Jastrow said. "Try it." He called, but the embassy line was busy.He poured some more sherry and talked slowly, coughing now and then. "One of the mistakes a historian can make is to distort one's view of the present. I seem to be looking at the present situation with the telescope turned upside down. The characters seem small and comical. The events seem so trivial and repetitive , so ordinary! I think, I can see the past very well, and I can see the future clearly. It's just that I am so confused about the present. My dear, Hitler and Mussolini have no resources to keep them. All the flamboyant and shabby militaristic madhouses will fall. Russia and America are awesome, and they will crush Nazism in between. The only question is how soon. Well, I Time to get dressed."

"Yes, Ellen, put it on." "Let me finish my drink first." Natalie got up impatiently and carried the child to the bedroom so as not to quarrel with her uncle.She had little respect or affection for the garrulous, pompous, cranky old man whose high-spirited sarcasm and obstinate blind-eyed optimism had brought her and her child into this jeopardy , though in the end it was she herself who was largely responsible—she often looked back on it. Henri Natalie thought and thought of her predicament until she could bear no more of this self-exploration.Under what circumstances had she committed such an unfortunate folly?When you come back?When you married Byron?Didn't leave Zurich on a German plane?Didn't take the boat to Palestine with Herb Ross?No, the fault was in the depths of her mind.For all her superficial intelligence, she was downright stupid.She is nothing and nobody; she has no real identity.Her life is like the fluff of a dandelion floating in the air.She's Jewish, but the sign doesn't mean anything to her other than to cause trouble.Her first love affair was with a pagan, non-Jewish intellectual.She married a Christian, and did not give much thought to the conflict in their backgrounds; his youth and lack of education added to her troubles.What a strange, accidental, incoherent chain of encounters had created this little blue-eyed creature sleeping in her arms!

For the past few weeks, Natalie has been dreaming at night as if none of the above-mentioned encounters had ever happened.In these dreams, time travels backwards, sometimes to Paris, sometimes to college, more often to her childhood on Long Island.In her sleep she found relief and joy in her escape from the nightmare of real life; but when she awoke to find that the bad side of the dream was the real side, a cold and depressing melancholy set in. to.But at least this kid is on the real side. The child has become the sustenance of her life.At this moment, the most real thing in the world was this warm little mouth on her chest: lively and sweet and wonderfully beautiful.Beyond that—in a hotel room, in Rome, in Europe—it's all dirty, dangerous, unreliable, and dimming vistas.The private car for diplomatic staff is the last chance.While the baby was asleep, Natalie wrapped him up and dressed herself for the embassy. "Hey, darling, you look pretty." In the living room, Ellen was now reclining proudly on the chaise longue, wearing the blue shorts that the Sol family had given him for his sixty-second birthday. Cape, in one of his best dark suits, with a large cravat.He was still drinking sherry. "Boring! If I get home safely, my first thing will be to burn this wretched suit. I'll never wear coffee-colored clothes again." Ellen waved her half-empty glass at her with unnatural smugness, and laughed cheerfully. "It's amazing that you still have your sense of humor," he said, though Natalie was rather serious. "Sit down, dear. Stop pacing up and down." "Aren't we going to the embassy?" She sat on the arm of a recliner. "Tell me, Natalie, have you seen Father Enrico Spannelli?" "The curator of the Vatican library? No." He smiled at her with the half-eyed amused smile that he always had at the end of the evening when he had drunk too much brandy. "However, I think we all dined together one evening." "I think it did. Louis is ill." "Ah, yes. I remember now. Well, Enrico will be driving us to Piazza Venezia in a moment. He knows all the journalists, and we can hear Mussolini in the press box." "What? My God, I don't want to take my child to a fascist thug! How—" Holding up his hand for her attention, Jastrow scribbled a few lines on a note while continuing to talk to her. "Hey, dear, this is visible history. Now that we're in this situation, we might as well make the most of it." The note he handed her said: If war is declared, he will send us all the way to the embassy.That's the plan.We don't stay in hotels, where we might be arrested. Below she wrote: "Why can you trust him?" They weren't sure there was a bug in their room, but sometimes they wrote notes to talk, as a precaution. Jastrow winked at her, took off his glasses, and wiped them with a handkerchief.It was an involuntary signal that Natalie had long known that he was about to talk.He said softly, "Natalie, do you know I'm a Catholic?" "What! What do you mean?" "Oh, then you don't know. I thought you might have been wary all these years. I tell you, I'm telling the whole truth." Ellen often made queer remarks over brandy or sherry, but he never said anything of the sort.Confused by him, Natalie shrugged and said, "What should I say? Are you serious?" "Yes, very seriously. It's a family scandal, my dear. I'm a little surprised they didn't tell you. I converted to Catholicism when I was twenty-three." His eyes were red and his mouth was writhing. , grinning shyly, scratching his beard. "But never really believed. I was afraid my blood type didn't fit that religion or any religion. At the time, the behavior was sincere." So Ellen told her about a girl at Radcliffe College who had been her tutor in history and aesthetics, the daughter of a wealthy Catholic family.After a year and a half of passionate love, the love between the two collapsed.Then he left Cambridge to finish his doctorate at Yale, leaving all memories of the girl and him behind. His conversion was a very secret affair.He took his teachings carefully and in secret, for many of his Jewish friends in Boston were kind to him, and he did not want to upset or argue with them.He had worked his way up to a skeptical naturalism, which was his fixed point of view, so that by the time he left Harvard he concluded that his conversion had been a mistake.Thereafter, whenever the question of his religious beliefs came up, he referred to his self-evident Jewish origin and said nothing more.He did nothing about this conversion to Catholicism, but let it pass from his life. But at the beginning of this matter, he made a big mistake.He had discussed it in his own family. "That's what I've been regretting," he said sadly. "It probably shortened my father's life, and my mother was dead by then, and your parents will never forget the blow. We were estranged forever, although I told your father that this stage is over, I Thinking of myself as a non-religious Jew, nothing else. But it didn't help either. They cut me off. "When 'Book of the Month' picked Jesus of a Jew, Lewis wrote me a curt text. His rabbi asked me to preach at his church. His The wording was hard for me to accept. I found his letter to be cruel. I returned one of his letters very kindly, but declined it. That was the way it was. I have not seen either of them since. Yes, Natalie, in more than thirty years, I have only talked to one person besides you about this matter, and that person is Enrico Spannelli. "In September, when I returned from Switzerland, I told him about it. I thought it might be good. He was a wonderful man, a brilliant scholar of the Classics, although he had no knowledge of early Byzantine culture. Poor research. He is an extremely compassionate man. He never had an argument with my religious opinions, just wrote a letter to America to prove it. He has the supporting papers and I have a few copies .So, honey, we have friends in the Vatican too. I hope we won't need them, but it's a guarantee." Natalie wondered and delighted, thinking only of the possible effect on her child.It's like finding a forgotten rusty key to a dungeon room.Ellen's youthful upheavals in matters of religion were his own business, but indeed this technicality might offer help and refuge, even aid in escape in a pinch!This truth finally explained her parents' peculiarly reluctant and unhappy attitude towards Ellen.In the depths of her heart, unconsciously, there was a feeling of contempt for her uncle. She said: "Well, Ellen, I'm a little breathless in amazement, but I think you're so smart that you stopped being a Jew more than forty years ago. What prescientness! !" "Why, I'm still a Jew. Make no mistake. Paul, you know, after his conversion, too. You don't hate me, then, like your parents do? How nice it is!" A sarcastic smile formed on her lips. "A Jew's Jesus, really. But you're lying." "He's a Jew's Jesus." Ellen Jastrow straightened up in his thick short cloak, lifting his bearded chin triumphantly. "I will insist on this. This book is the result of my own fierce struggle. I discovered in college that the entire structure of the rich art of Christian thought was built on this man whom the Palestinians called a murdered Jew. I was Kind of obsessed. We Jews pretend that structure doesn't exist, Natalie—Jews like your parents and mine—but, you know, it doesn't work. It's there. Finally , I set aside religious metaphors to investigate, took Jesus seriously as he was, and tried to grasp the truth of history. This is the substantive issue that I have struggled for a year. I found a particularly touching and attractive character, a gifted, miserable poor relative of mine, who lived in Palestine in ancient times. So the book really—” The phone rang. "Ah," said Jastrow, springing up from his chair, "this must be Enrico. Go get the doll, honey." Natalie hesitated, then said, "Okay. Let's go Bar." In a rusty and faded car outside the hotel, a man in a priest hat and a mouse fur coat sat behind the wheel, waving a smoking gun at them with a thick peasant's hand. cigarettes. "Professor!" The librarian priest had a rather Mussolini-like face—bulging brown eyes, a large curved chin, and a wide, fat mouth.But the genial tenderness of his expression beneath the rimless spectacles and black flat hat, and the pallor with which he sat indoors every day, diminished much of the unlucky resemblance between the two.He greeted Natalie in Italian with a nice Roman accent, complimented the heavily wrapped, almost invisible child, and said, "Professor, you look tired." The wheezing sound like a rheumatic patient started. "I didn't sleep well." The priest gave him a gentle and loving look. "I understand. I have asked you at your request about your asylum in the Vatican. It is not impossible to do so. But the agreement between the Holy See and the government unfortunately limits our freedom of movement. I want to ask you A word of caution, this exceptional expediency may have the opposite effect. It will be noticeable. It will be exceptional." He drove cautiously through the almost deserted boulevard, turned into a street, There were a lot of people crowded there, holding up placards, walking towards Piazza Venezia. "The trouble is," Jastrow said, "I'm already a special case." The priest pouted and tilted his head in a very Italian manner. "That's true. Anyway, your vague nationality may be in your favor. If you really have no nationality, then obviously you are not an enemy." Spannelli lowered his eyes and looked at Natalie. one time. "Of course, that doesn't apply to your niece. I suppose your embassy will always try to find ways for her—" "Father, please forgive me. Whoever gives me refuge must take her along." The priest pursed his lips again, but said nothing.As they approached the square the crowd grew, silent and sad-faced people in ragged winter coats.The black shirts holding placards tried their best to lift their chins and stare like their leader. "These placards are meaner than usual," Jastrow said.Beside their car, a fat, red-faced blackshirt marched holding up a vulgar cartoon of Mrs. Roosevelt sitting on a potty, swearing obscenities at her husband.In front of the car, another placard showed a pocket of money, with a grinning Roosevelt on crutches, smoking a cigarette with its holder slanted. "When the kettle boils, the dirt floats to the surface," said the priest. He slid the car into a narrow alley, parked it under a rubbish-strewn archway, and led them down an alley onto Piazza Venezia.The crowded square was surprisingly silent.People standing around said nothing, or talked in low tones.The sky was overcast and the wind was blowing hard and cold.A large group of children holding flags gathered docilely in front of the balcony, neither laughing nor fighting, just holding fluttering flags, showing a restless look. The priest took Jastrow and Natalie to a roped-off area near the balcony, where photographers and journalists gathered, including several Americans, and several Natalies at the reception The most cheerful Japanese journalist with a toothy smile ever seen on the Internet.Someone brought out a folding chair for her.She sat down and hugged the sleeping baby tightly in her lap.Although she was still wearing a thick sweater under her coat, she still shivered from time to time.The cold wind seemed to blow straight into her bones. People waited for a long time, and suddenly Mussolini came out, stood on the balcony, and raised one hand in salute.There was a roar from the crowd, which echoed over and over the square: "Leader! Leader! Leader!" The effect was strange, for all the people silently stared at the squat figure with dazed or hostile faces, This man wore a black hat with a golden eagle insignia and a tassel, and a gold and black jacket in a dress more like opera costume than a uniform.Below the balcony, a few blackshirts cheered desperately, crowding around the loudspeakers.A tall man in the uniform of a German diplomat followed, and with him was a Japanese in a frock coat and a tall hat.The two of them flanked the dictator, who was even shorter than the Oriental, and Mussolini looked as if he had been held hostage between the two guards who came to arrest him.The black-shirted team members stopped shouting, turned their pale duck-egg-shaped faces to the balcony.This, Natalie thought, was a bunch of waiters and barbers sloppily dressed in fake military guise. Mussolini's short speeches were murderous, the tone was murderous, the gestures were familiar and murderous, but all of this made people feel ridiculous.The voice does not match the posture.Mussolini lowered his voice as he waved a punching fist, yelled out a few innocuous prepositions and conjunctions, and grinned with his teeth at the most inappropriate moments.The pudgy old dictator, already defeated in Greece and losing much of his North African empire, seemed to be declaring war on the United States at a most inopportune time.The crowd began to disperse when the black shirts cheered casually and shouted "Leader!"Mussolini, a poor old actor who was despised by the audience, yelled the last words to the thousands of departing figures-an unbelievable sight under a dictatorship: "Italians, come again!" Stand up for once and live up to this historic moment. We will win!" He smiled again. Amid the cheers of the blackshirts, the three figures on the balcony backed away; then Mussolini came out twice more and bowed to the audience, but the crowd was dispersing, as if it had suddenly rained. A small group of Americans remained together, talking excitedly in tense low voices.Although the thing itself is not surprising, it is strange that it has happened; they are standing on enemy soil.The journalists kept looking at the police officers who were prowling nearby, debating whether it was time to return to the office and clear their desks, or to go straight to the embassy.A few decided to go back to the office first, thinking that once inside the embassy they would be left there to hide for a long time, perhaps even until the diplomatic staff drove away. This reminded Ellen Jastrow of his manuscript.He asked Father Spannelli to take him to the hotel before they went to the embassy.The priest agreed, and Natalie did not object.She was still in a state of shock.At this moment, the child started crying, and she thought of going to take out some diapers and some daily necessities.So they got back in the car and drove towards the Elegant Hotel, but a block away from the hotel, the priest stopped the car suddenly; he pointed through the windshield of the car to two police cars that were coming into the driveway of the hotel entrance.He turned his large moist, troubled brown eyes to Ellen Jastrow and said: "Of course, the manuscript is precious, Professor. But, all things considered, wouldn't it be better for you to go to the embassy first?" ? If things get too bad, I can get the manuscript out for you." "Embassy, ​​embassy," Natalie said, "he's right, go to the embassy." Jastrow nodded sadly. But two blocks from the embassy, ​​Spanelli pulled over again.A cordon of police and soldiers stood in front of the embassy building.A small group of onlookers stood across the street, waiting to see the action.For a moment, from a distance, everything was quiet. "Let's walk," said the priest. "You should have no trouble getting through that cordon, but we'll see." Natalie sat in the back of the car, and Jastrow turned and placed one hand soothingly on hers.His face became expressionless, tired and defiant. "Come on, dear, there is no other choice now." They walked to the side of the street where bystanders were standing.Beside the crowd, they met the Time reporter who had taken Natalie to the Japanese reception.He was frightened and complained; he dissuaded them from trying to cross the cordon.Less than five minutes earlier, an Associated Press reporter who had attempted to do so had been stopped at the embassy gate, and after an argument, a police car had arrived and taken him away. "But how can that be? That's uncivilized, stupid," cried Father Spannelli. "There are many of our journalists in the US. This is simply clumsy behaviour, and it will definitely be corrected." "When will it be corrected?" said the reporter of "Time" magazine. "What's going to happen to Phil now? I've heard some hateful things about your country's secret agents." Natalie hugged the baby tightly, trying to get rid of the feeling that the future was dark, which felt like the worst nightmare.She said, "Ellen, what now?" "We must try to get in. What else can we do?" he turned to the priest. "Or - Enrico, can we go to the Vatican now? Is this road still feasible?" The priest spread his hands. "No, no, not now. Don't think about it. There's nothing planned about it. After a while, I might figure out a way. Not now, of course." "God, so you are here!" said a rough American voice. "We're all in big trouble, boys, you better come with me." Natalie looked back and saw the anxious and beautiful Herbert Ross's full Jewish face. For a long time afterward, the overriding reality was the fishy smell of the truck that was taking them to Naples, so strong that Natalie's breath was a little choked.The two drivers are Neapolitan, and their task is to transport fresh fish to Rome.Rabinowitz hired the truck to bring in a replacement part for the ship's old generator; a burnt armature delayed the ship's departure. The stocky Palestinian, pale with migraines, was squatting, staggering, next to a burlap-wrapped armature on the truck bed, eyes closed, hands clasped on his knees.He once spent two days and two nights looking for armatures in Naples and Salerno, and finally found an old one in Rome.He brought along Herbert Ross to help him with the deal.When Ross initially took Jastrow and Natalie to the truck, which was parked in an alley near the embassy, ​​the Palestinian man talked eloquently, but he has since fallen into a coma.The story he told at the time convinced Natalie to climb into the truck with the baby in her arms.Ellen said some final painful words to Father Spannelli about his manuscript, and followed her into the car. Here is the story of the Palestinian.He had been to the Elegant Hotel once at the urging of Herbert Ross, to give Jastrow and Natalie one last chance to run away with them.He found two Germans waiting in Ellen Jastrow's room.The two Germans, well dressed and very talkative, invited him in and closed the door behind them.When he questioned Dr. Jastrow, they began to question him ferociously, without identifying themselves.Rabinowitz backed out when he got his chance, and to his relief, they let him go. For the first hour or so of jostling in the dark and fetid truck, Jastrow tried in vain to explain every possible explanation for the presence of the Germans in his hotel room.He was monologue almost alone, because Natalie was still speechless, Rabinovitz seemed to have a headache all the time, and Herbert Rose was just bored.Ross said that these two men were obviously the German secret police. They came to pick up "high-quality goods" and there was nothing to discuss.But Jastrow had other ideas about his hasty decision to run away with Rabinovitz, and he spoke out.最后，他没有自信地提到外交人员专车是依旧存在的一个可能性。这句话把娜塔丽激动起来，她说，“埃伦，你可以回到罗马去，试一试搭上那列火车。我是不愿去的。祝你好运。”这才使杰斯特罗断了念，穿着他的厚厚的短斗篷蜷缩在一个角落里睡着了。 运鱼的卡车在开往那不勒斯的路上通行无阻。这辆车在公路上经常见到，这对于敌国的逃亡者倒是一种很好的掩蔽。当他们到达这个港口的时候，夜色已经很浓。卡车穿过灯火管制的街道缓缓地朝着海边前进，一路上警察一再盘问司机，但是一两句话就引起一阵笑声并且让他们通过了。娜塔丽在紧张而疲倦的迷惘中听到这一切。她已经失去了日常生活的现实感。她仿佛在腾云驾雾。 卡车停下来。一声尖锐的敲打使她吃了一惊，一个司机用嘶哑的那不勒斯口音说：“醒来，朋友们。咱们到了。” 他们从卡车上下来，到了码头上。海上的轻风是一种极其温存的慰藉。在朦胧的夜色里，靠在码头旁边的一条船呈现出模糊的轮廓，模糊的人影在那儿走来走去。在娜塔丽看来，它似乎跟纽约港口的游览船一般大小。杰斯特罗对拉宾诺维茨说：“什么时候开船？马上吗？” 拉宾诺维茨哼了一声说：“没有这样的运气。咱们还得把这套东西安装好，试验一下。那就需要时间。上船吧，咱们会替你找个舒服地方。”他用手指了指有栏杆的狭窄跳板。 “这条船叫做什么名字？”娜塔丽问。 “啊，它有过许多名字。这是一只旧船了。现在它叫作'救世主'。它是在土耳其注册的。一旦你上了船，你就安全了。港务监督和这儿的土耳其领事彼此很了解。” 娜塔丽一面搂紧娃娃，一面对埃伦•杰斯特罗说：“我开始觉得象一个犹太人了。” 他板着面孔微笑了一下。“是吗？我从来也没有觉得自己不象一个犹太人。我以为我曾经脱离过犹太籍，但是分明没有脱离。来，打这儿走。”埃伦领先走上跳板。娜塔丽跟着他，双臂紧紧地抱着怀里的儿子，拉宾诺维茨拖着脚步走在他们后面。 娜塔丽走上甲板的时候，那个巴勒斯坦人碰了碰她的胳膊。她在幽暗中看见他脸上露出了疲倦的笑容。“好啦，现在请放心吧，亨利太太。你们现在在土耳其了。这是一个起点。”