Jonathan Littell - The Kindly Ones

In the morning, very early, I paid my bill and took the first train south. The French had to reserve their seats days or even weeks in advance, but the compartments for Germans were always half empty. I went down to Marseille, at the limit of the German zone. The train made frequent stops; in the stations, just as in Russia, farmers crowded round to sell the passengers food—hard-boiled eggs, chicken drumsticks, salted boiled potatoes—and when I was hungry, I took something at random, through the window. I didn’t read, I just idly watched the landscape flow by and toyed with my torn fingers; my thoughts wandered, detached from both the past and the present. In Marseille, I went to the Gestapostelle to inquire about access to the Italian zone. A young Obersturmführer received me: “Relations are a little delicate, right now. The Italians show no understanding for our efforts to resolve the Jewish question. Their zone has become a veritable paradise for Jews. When we asked them at least to intern them, they put them up in the best ski resorts in the Alps.” But I didn’t care about this Obersturmführer’s problems. I explained what I wanted: he looked worried, but I assured him that I relieved him of all responsibility. Finally he agreed to write a letter for me asking the Italian authorities to facilitate my movements for personal reasons . It was getting late and I took a room for the night, on the Vieux Port. The next morning, I got on a bus headed for Toulon; at the boundary line, the bersaglieri , with their ridiculous feathered hats, let us pass without any inspections. In Toulon, I changed buses, then again in Cannes; finally in the afternoon I reached Antibes. The bus dropped me off at the main square; my bag on my shoulder, I walked round the Port Vauban, passed the squat mass of the Fort Carré, and began to follow the road by the sea. A light, salty breeze was coming in from the bay; little waves licked the strip of sand, the cry of the seagulls resounded over the surf and the sounds of the occasional vehicle; aside from a few Italian soldiers, the beach was deserted. With my civilian clothes, no one paid any attention to me: an Italian policeman hailed me, but only to ask me for a light. The house was a few kilometers away from the center of town. I walked calmly, I didn’t feel in a hurry; the sight and smell of the Mediterranean left me indifferent, but I no longer felt any anguish, I remained calm. Finally I reached the dirt path that led to the property. A faint breeze rustled the branches of the umbrella pines along the path, and their fragrance mixed with that of the sea. The gate, its paint chipped, stood half open. A long lane cut across a handsome park planted with black pines; I didn’t follow it, but glided along the inside of the wall to the end of the park; there I got undressed and put on my uniform. It was a little wrinkled from having been folded in my traveling bag; I smoothed it out with my hand, it would do. The sandy ground, between the spaced-out trees, was covered with pine needles; beyond the long, slender trunks, you could see the ochre wall of the house, with its terrace; the sun, behind the wall surrounding the property, shone through the undulating tops of the trees, confusingly. I went back to the gate and up the path; at the front door, I rang the bell. I heard something like a stifled laugh on my right, among the trees: I looked, but didn’t see anything. Then a man’s voice called out from the other side of the house: “Hello! Over here.” Right away I recognized Moreau’s voice. He was waiting in front of the entrance to the living room, below the terrace, an extinguished pipe in his hand; he wore an old knitted sweater and a bow tie, and looked to me lamentably old. He frowned when he saw my uniform: “What do you want? Who are you looking for?” I came forward and took off my cap: “You don’t recognize me?” He stared, and his mouth opened; then he took a step forward and shook my hand vigorously, patting me on the shoulder. “Of course, of course!” He stepped back and contemplated me, embarrassed: “But what’s this uniform?”—“The one I serve under.” He turned around and called into the house: “Héloïse! Come see who’s here!” The living room was deep in shadow; I saw a form move forward, slim, gray; then an old woman appeared behind Moreau and contemplated me in silence. So this was my mother? “Your sister wrote us that you had been wounded,” she said finally. “You could have written to us too. You could at least have told us you were coming.” Her voice, compared to her yellowed face and her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, seemed still young; but for me, it was as if the most ancient times were speaking, in an immense voice that made me shrink, reduced me almost to nothing, despite the protection of my uniform, laughable talisman that it was. Moreau must have seen my confusion: “Of course,” he said quickly, “we’re happy to see you. You’re always at home, here.” My mother was still staring at me enigmatically. “Well, come in,” she said finally. “Come kiss your mother.” I put down my bag, went up to her, and, leaning over, kissed her on the cheek. Then I took her in my arms and hugged her to me. I felt her stiffen; she was like a branch in my arms, a bird I could easily have suffocated. Her hands came up and rested on my back. “You must be tired. Come, we’ll settle you in.” I let her go and straightened up. Again, behind me, I heard soft laughter. I turned around and saw two little identical twins, dressed in matching shorts and jackets, who, standing next to each other, were staring at me with big, curious, amused eyes. They must have been seven or eight. “Who are you?” I asked them.—“The children of a friend,” my mother replied. “We’re keeping them for now.” One of them raised his hand and pointed at me: “And him, who is he?”—“He’s a German,” said the other one. “Can’t you see?”—“He’s my son,” my mother declared. “His name is Max. Come say hello.”—“Your son is a German soldier, Aunt?” the first one asked.—“Yes. Shake his hand.” They hesitated, then came forward together and held out their little hands to me. “What are your names?” I asked. They didn’t answer. “These are Tristan and Orlando,” my mother said. “But I always mix them up. They love passing for each other. You’re never really sure.”—“That’s because there is no difference between us, Aunt,” said one of the little ones. “One name would be enough for both of us.”—“I warn you,” I said, “I’m a policeman. For us, identities are very important.” Their eyes widened: “Oh, super,” said one.—“Have you come to arrest someone?” asked the other.—“Maybe,” I said.—“Stop being silly,” said my mother.

She put me in my old room: but there was nothing there that could help me recognize it as mine. My posters, the few things I’d left there, had all disappeared; they had changed the bed, the chest of drawers, the wallpaper. “Where are my things?” I asked.—“In the attic,” she replied. “I kept everything. You can go see later.” She looked at me, both hands in front of her on her dress. “And Una’s room?” I continued.—“For now, we’ve put the twins there.” She left and I went into the main bathroom to wash my face and neck. Then I went back into the room and changed again, putting my uniform away in the closet. As I came out, I hesitated for an instant in front of Una’s door, then kept going. I went out onto the terrace. The sun was shining behind the tall pines, projecting long shadows through the park, pouring a beautiful, rich saffron color on the stone walls of the house. I saw the twins go by: they ran onto the lawn, then disappeared into the trees. Once, from this terrace, angry over a trifle, I had shot an arrow (a blunt-tipped one, though) at my sister, aiming for her face; it had struck right above her eye, and just missed blinding her. Thinking about it, it seemed to me that I had then been severely punished by my father: if he was still there, the incident must have taken place in Kiel, and not here. But in Kiel there was no terrace at our house, and I thought I clearly remembered, in connection with this gesture, the large clay flowerpots scattered around the graveled area where Moreau and my mother had just welcomed me. I couldn’t make any sense of it and, frustrated by this uncertainty, I turned around and reentered the house. I walked through the hallways, breathing in the smell of furniture polish, opening doors at random. Few things, aside from my room, seemed to have changed. I reached the foot of the stairs that led to the attic; there too, I hesitated, then turned back. I went down the main entryway staircase and out through the front door. Leaving the lane swiftly, I walked again under the trees, brushing past their gray, rough trunks, the streaks of sap hardened but still thick and sticky, kicking at pinecones fallen to the ground. The sharp, heady smell of pine filled the air; I wanted to smoke but didn’t, so I could go on smelling it. There the ground was bare, without any grass, without bushes, without ferns: but it brought powerfully back to memory the forest near Kiel where I played my curious child’s games. I tried leaning against a tree, but the trunk was sticky, so I stayed standing there, my arms dangling, spinning crazily around in my thoughts.