North (10 page)

Le Vig decided not to defend his bedspring barricade . . . for fear of setting the house on fire . . . his concierge, a big-hearted woman, had begged him:

"Go away, Monsieur Le Vigan! you know we all love you! . . . you'll be back . . ."

Myself I'd thought of blowing up the whole place on rue Girardon . . . I wouldn't have been buried with honors like Guérin, the stool-pigeon anarchist . . . they'd have sent me to Villa Said ° . . . the Dental Institute . . . Cousteau ° would have sent me . . . and
Je suis partout
. . . no need of any mean bastards from outside . . . the ones in my own crowd are enough for me . . . Lili, me, and Le Vig, we'd have looked fine as shish kebab, with our friends doing the snake dance all around us . . . flutes and tambourines!

All very amusing these meditations, but we had to get going . . . and watch out that the junkies down there . . . when they lined up for soup at No. 26 down the street . . . didn't see us . . . then socko to the
Untergrundbahn
. . . I'd located the station . . . at the end of our street . . . I had a map of the
Untergrundbahn
. . . bought it in Paris in '39, I'd said to myself: one of these days! . . . you get these hunches . . . but never clear enough . . . never really imperative! . . . terrible the things I should have hunched! . . . my hunch had ended there, with a map of their subway . . . while I was at it I could have foreseen . . . as a seer I'm a failure . . . I say to Le Vig:

"Now you know, we're going to Grünwald!"

"Who's in Grünwald?"

"Sap! Harras! Harras is our man, remember that name!"

There on the bed I'd overloaded his mind, he was staring out into space . . . his role was catching up with him again . . . he often went back to that role . . . "the man from nowhere" ° . . .

"Harras, I tell you! I've told you often enough! . . . wake up . . . Grünwald! . . . seven stations on the map! . . . the High Chamber of Reich Physicians! . . .
Professor Harras!
That's where we're going! . . . but get this! . . . a genuine Nazi! . . . oh yes! . . .
ober! ober Alles!
. . . no choice, son . . . no use shillyshallying . . . it's him or the clink! what do you say?"

"Yes, son, you're right . . ."

I pull him out of his dream . . . he shakes himself . . .

"Where'd you say?"

"Grünwald . . . you'd dunk you wore in the Bois de Boulogne . . . look . . . seven . . . eight stations . . ."

I show him . . . I fill him in . . .

"We take it at the end of Schinderstrasse . . . no, not that one! . . . Unterdenlinden . . . the next one!"

"Okay . . . but what about Ivan?"

"We'll tell him we're coming right back . . . going to the police, they want to inspect our suitcases . . ."

"You're the boss . . ."

"Got it, Lili?"

With her I don't have to worry, she seldom opens her mouth, except to Bébert in his bag, a word or two . . . their private conversation . . . here we are on the stairs . . . and on the sidewalk . . . we haven't met a soul . . . no Ivan! . . .

"Hey, Le Vig, did you look?"
^;

"Where?"

"Under the beds!"

"Sure . . . Nothing! . . . but say! they could have been listening!"

"Right . . . but now watch your step!"

At the window I ask for three tickets to Grünwald . . . their
métro
is like in Paris . . . corridors, stairways . . . one more . . . Big crowd like everywhere else in Berlin, people that don't know why they should take this street or that one . . . this corridor at the end? or this one? . . . they bump into, each other . . . they collide . . .
bitte! bitte!
pardon me! every language! Lili begs pardon . . . so does Le Vig . . . I'm not going to stop one of these lost souls to ask him which way to Grünwald . . . right or left? . . . where we change? is this the right platform? . . . will we see the train coming? . . . it must be written someplace! . . . ah, a sign! . . . enormous! . . . at least a hundred stations on it! in red and neon! . . . the whole mob under it, searching, mumbling . . . finding! . . . not finding! . . .
bitte! pardon! versegoul! 
° 
Teufel!
stepping on each other's feet! studs, hags, brats! . . .
bitte!
a lot of them hardly know how to read, just pretend . . . would somebody else read it for them? they've lost their glasses . . . Sub-Hebraics, Semi-Latvians, Triestines, Africano-Czechs . . . they used to know but they've forgotten . . . and what language? . . . forgotten how to read every time the world around them went ass over end, change of presidents, different frontier river, different frontier mountain, ever since Sarajevo, you can imagine! . . . canals, corridors, and oil wells! . . . what a binge! . . . and now these names . . . which one is right? . . . ten times they've gone wrong! . . . they've passed whole nights and days on benches in at least twenty stations . . . no worse than anyplace else . . . better than outside . . .
"Kraft! donnerwetter! ach! merde!"
A few expatriates from Asnières with only a smattering of Boche, but the carloads of insults from Outermost Mongolia, the Scandinavian choctaw, the
lager
lingo . . . where do they come from? . . . fields and factories, all overt . . . a lot of them wiped out by Vlasov's army. . .these people . . . don't tell me that Europe is a hoax! . . .
ach! bitte!
which platform? . . . but first they've got to find their shoes . . . Platform 5? . . . 6? . . . us, it's Grünwald! I'm very patient, but enough's enough . . . I'd said I wouldn't ask . . . I see a lady guard with a raspberry-colored cap . . .

"Bitte!
pardon me! . . . Grünwald!"

"Hier!
 Right here!"

I don't know if she's heard me . . . maybe . . . anyway here comes thunder . . . out of the tunnel! a volley of pebbles!

"Let's go!"

It stops . . . we're not the only ones shoving in . . . the whole crowd under the big sign . . . they don't care where they're going . . . they coagulate . . . they rush . . . looks like New York from five to six . . . got to get in . . . twenty times more than the car can hold . . . the passion they put into it . . . the violence . . . you could cram in all Berlin . . . plus enormous bundles . . . and the City Hall . . . and the schools! into a single car! the pneumatic doors close . . . ooooh! . . . we shrivel up, we melt into one solid mass . . . worse than Paris at République . . . or Lilas . . . once you're in there's no use thinking . . . you've just got to amalgamate with all those people, feet, heads! . . . and not suffocate when the car jolts . . .
bim!
. . .
bam!
when the wheels joggle! breathe on the
bim
, not on the
bam!
. . . our cat Bébert is pretty well compressed in his bag by the five hundred people in the car . . . every bump! especially at the stations, the knots of people getting in and out. . . ah, Tiergarten! I wonder . . . is Tiergarten the end of the line? . . . I should have asked . . . everybody gets out . . . slowly . . . I ask another broad with a raspberry dip . . . our train for Grünwald is on the other platform . . . let's get it straight this time . . . the right direction . . . we should have changed twice . . . I ask her to repeat . . . I monopolize her, the only employee on the platform . . . naturally there's a lot of griping . . . angry, mean . . . say, that's a good one!
"fallschirm!"
"parachute!" . . . meant for us . . . I'd heard it before . . . the duffel coats we were wearing . . . some kids had glommed us . . . pretty soon there were ten of them . . . twenty . . . all pointing their fingers, calling us parachutes . . . the girl in the raspberry cap ignored them . . . all those kids are
Hitlerjugend
, they're wearing swastika armbands, "Hitler Youth". . . Attila Youth, Pétain Youth, Thiers, de Gaulle, tomorrow Kroukrou, Ramses, Beelzebub Youth, just give them a badge! they'll die of joy! deliver whole carloads of scalps!

The Hitler Youth spent half their time tracking down parachutists . . . at the time all Teutonia was haunted by fear of
"fallschirmfäger,"
parachutist saboteurs . . . the newspapers ran full-page stories, teen-age heroes decorated by Hitler, in person! Iron Crosses with diamonds! . . . the Chancellor kissing little boys and girls! . . . just what they were looking for. . . we and our duffel coats! tomorrow you'll see Astrabub kissing the brats that have cut our heads off, you don't know Astrabub, you don't know those kids either, but one thing is sure, those kids were born under the Empire and now they're poking around in their flies . . . well anyway, the hunt for parachutists was going strong . . . the Iron Cross wasn't the only attraction, the kids could get a reward of 100,000 marks and the "Super-Siegfried" certificate . . . a hell of a jam . . . we were really surrounded . . . the people who'd left the station came back from the street to see us . . . getting captured by the
Hitlerjugend!
. . . no joke! the crowd set up a chorus and not only Boches, foreigners tool every language! Say, that sounds friendly:
Da! da!
they love us! . . .
da! da!
they hug us and kiss us! happy as larks! . . .
paraschutt!
they think we've fallen from the sky just for them! . . . a family, two families . . . with "OST" badges . . .
da! da!
they're like Ivan, brought back from the East by the German Army to work in the fields, to clear mines, clean up the streets, the rubble . . . we were their deliverance! our duffel coats! . . . that's all they saw . . . American saboteurs, what else could we be? . . . actually our coats were straight out of Paris, from Lili's dressmaker on rue Monge, Mademoiselle Brandon . . . I shout at them:
von Paris! von Paris! 
. . . go fly a kite! they want us to be Canadians! . . . the whole platform! the whole mob from two platforms! . . . three trains! hopeless! they should look at our coats! the label on the collar! . . . not from New York! . . . from rue Monge! . . . "they've come to set the harvests on fire! to blow up the railroads'' . . . Try and argue! they'd made up their minds . . . on one side: hurrah! . . . on the other: kill them! . . . all steamed up . . . kids, grownups . . . they're going to skin us alive . . . give them the slip? not a chance . . . and still more coming, hordes on hordes! . . . if it was the police at least, we might be able to explain . . . but not a
schupo
in sight! maybe the girl with the raspberry cap has gone for help . . . anyway we're in bad shape . . . jammed tighter than in the car . . . all of them happy . . . one side because we're
"paraschutt"
. . . the others because we're at their mercy: "monsters, wreckers, incendiaries'' . . . one of my sleeves is gone! Le Vig's too . . . are they going to eat us from the sleeves up? . . . in a minute we'll be naked . . . in the middle of these lunatics . . . Providence! . . . a little man comes by . . . he recognizes Le Vigan . . .

"Is it you? Is it really you, Le Vigan?"

French type with a little cap . . . about thirty . . . with a butt in his face . . .

"Come here to work?"

"Yes, sure thing . . . T.O." °

"Same here . . . compulsory . . . they've got their nerve! . . . the motherfuckers! . . . but it won't be long now . . . You in 'a network?"

"Not yet. . . but we're joining up . . ."

"All three?"

"Oh yes, all three . . ."

Le Vig has presence of mind . . . the man with the cap tells us all about it . . . in between the howling . . .

"My name's Picpus, call me Jojo . . . we give it to them good . . . seven factories I've been in already! the last was plumbing supplies! . . . Picpus from Boulogne, don't forget . . . they fire me, I go someplace else . . . I'm going to Magdeburg, tile factory, don't worry, they need men! there'll be four of us from the same outfit! well show 'em! ask to be sent there . . . him too . . . your wife too . . . I'll give you the name of the
firma
. . . they're hiring, they got nobody left . . . their cops are looking for me . . . I give 'em the slip . . . I was Lacosse in Hanover . . . what a clobbering! . . . I was underneath in Erfurt I was Anatole . . . now the name is Picpus . . . you won't forget?"

The people have stopped bellowing now they're listening . . . it's all right with him . . .

"How do you like these papers? . . . take your pick . . . moustache . . . no moustache . . . look . . ."

He's got a collection all right . . . his pockets are full of them . . . well, one pocket . . . pictures . . .

"Pretty slick, eh?"

He sees I'm impressed . . . and that everybody's looking at us . . . 

"The krauts can kiss my ass! if you can't cross 'em up you're fucked!"

"Oh yes . . . that's a fact!"

He's got the right idea.

"Norvins . . . Etienne! That's me!"

Le Vig announces his
nom de guerre
so loud the whole vault echoes . . . both platforms . . . so everybody'll know . . . we've got their attention all right . . . they're not tearing off our sleeves any more, they're listening, they listen to Le Vig, who's yelling louder than Picpus! with authority!

"Naturally, I'm going to change my name! I'm Etienne Norvins . . ."

"Okay. . . I dig you . . . you'll get your card . . .we're organized to the hilt . . . got pictures?"

Have we got pictures! . . . the "unrecognizables"! a dozen each . . .

We give him three . . .

"And your names, you two . . . better make 'em different . . ."

"Labarraque, Jean . . . and Emilie . . ."

Thought them up fust like that. . .

"Perfect. . . Okay . . . Magdeburg . . . better not write, you remember? . . .
Firma Yasma
, tiles . . . you'll find it . . ."

"Well find it all right!" .

But then the brats start up again . . . another pack of Hitlerjugend! a really wicked horde . . . fired up! at least a hundred of them . . .

"Don't worry about them! give 'em a poke in the eye!"

Picpus sails right in . . .
wham!
he goes into action . . .
bang!
the
Hitlerfugend
squealing like stuck pigs . . . Picpus knocks them for a loop! . . . the whole platform! . . . haymakers! . . . kicks in the ass! . . . "little cocksuckers" he calls them . . . he harangues them . . . he defies them!