Blindly (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Claudio Magris Page B
Authors: Claudio Magris
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It’s pleasant listening to Pistorius, who teaches us to describe ships and shipwrecks, in that shadowy room that is lit by sun only in the evening, by the fire of sunset. On the walls are portraits of men dressed in black with high collars, heads lolling heavily on their chests as if merely resting on the neck; so many decapitated heads put back in place so as not to attract attention, even the collars serve to hide the blood and the gash, that way no one notices anything. In Dachau, the Red Cross Commission found everything as it should be or nearly so. Even the group from the French Socialist Party which came to visit Goli Otok, invited by the Central Committeeof the Yugoslavian Communist Party—sixteen eminent individuals, including fourteen parliamentarians—no one saw a thing; only barracks and installations spruced up for the occasion, prisoners selectively chosen, everything in order and in place. The
kroz stroj
and
bojkot
, ready to resume a few hours later, were there, a few metres away, but invisible, non-existent; the French comrades returned home edified and satisfied.
The reek of blood is strong, but deodorizers are even stronger and you don’t smell it, even when it flows and churns in rivers. Even Rankovi, “Marko,” the Minister of the Interior who came to inspect the island, didn’t really see it and he certainly was an expert on blood. Indeed, holy shit, he said, what did we do to these comrades ... He was moved with emotion, even him, to see people who had fought with him in the woods, against the Germans, in such a state, but he too saw little, only a trickle of the hemorrhage. He made them promise him that things would improve and went away leaving things as they were before. Maybe, when you’re used to spilling it and seeing it spilled, you get used to blood, you no longer see it, like you don’t see air.
Who knows, maybe here too ... There was a butcher, in Orlec, they said that when he went home, smeared with blood, he would make love to his wife without even washing his hands; he took off his apron not because it was soiled but only because in those circumstances you can’t help taking off your clothes, dirty or clean.
Childhood. Yes, at that time the red was only that of the judges’ togas, too little to colour the world. It was pleasant listening to Pistorius, in his voluminous dark cloak and floppy collar under a riotous beard, hold forth and expound on descriptions of shipwrecks in fine sonorous verse. Even better was listening to the tales of thesailors in the port of Nyhavn, not far from the palace. Ships don’t sink there, they sway gently and creak, up high among the sails, in the wind; at most you hear about some ship that hasn’t returned. I would run along the banks, jump on the decks, climb up the masts until someone chased me away. Up there among the shrouds, in the sun and wind, you feel small; a small fish that could end up in a seagull’s mouth, but fearless.
That rocking under your feet gives you a sense of safety, of a temporary instability in which it is easier to flee. If they catch you, you’re dead. And even dead you have to hide, escape, because they come looking for you there too, if you have the bad luck that I happened to have. The subantarctic cold preserved me well, too well, when I died down here.—“A cadaver in permafrost with its stem cells still alive ...”—and the Gestapo on duty, no matter under what other false name, took them and forced me to start all over again. For the executioners it’s never enough; I hadn’t suffered enough so they cancelled my ticket of leave, the permission to be released that the governor grants reformed convicts, and called me back into service, compulsory service, forced labour for life and beyond.
In Nyhavn, at the time, I was thinking about leaving, not fleeing. The world was there, in front of me, free and open as the sea, sailing vessels, brigs and schooners with the names and flags of continents. The
It’s pleasant listening to Pistorius, who teaches us to describe ships and shipwrecks, in that shadowy room that is lit by sun only in the evening, by the fire of sunset. On the walls are portraits of men dressed in black with high collars, heads lolling heavily on their chests as if merely resting on the neck; so many decapitated heads put back in place so as not to attract attention, even the collars serve to hide the blood and the gash, that way no one notices anything. In Dachau, the Red Cross Commission found everything as it should be or nearly so. Even the group from the French Socialist Party which came to visit Goli Otok, invited by the Central Committeeof the Yugoslavian Communist Party—sixteen eminent individuals, including fourteen parliamentarians—no one saw a thing; only barracks and installations spruced up for the occasion, prisoners selectively chosen, everything in order and in place. The
kroz stroj
and
bojkot
, ready to resume a few hours later, were there, a few metres away, but invisible, non-existent; the French comrades returned home edified and satisfied.
The reek of blood is strong, but deodorizers are even stronger and you don’t smell it, even when it flows and churns in rivers. Even Rankovi, “Marko,” the Minister of the Interior who came to inspect the island, didn’t really see it and he certainly was an expert on blood. Indeed, holy shit, he said, what did we do to these comrades ... He was moved with emotion, even him, to see people who had fought with him in the woods, against the Germans, in such a state, but he too saw little, only a trickle of the hemorrhage. He made them promise him that things would improve and went away leaving things as they were before. Maybe, when you’re used to spilling it and seeing it spilled, you get used to blood, you no longer see it, like you don’t see air.
Who knows, maybe here too ... There was a butcher, in Orlec, they said that when he went home, smeared with blood, he would make love to his wife without even washing his hands; he took off his apron not because it was soiled but only because in those circumstances you can’t help taking off your clothes, dirty or clean.
Childhood. Yes, at that time the red was only that of the judges’ togas, too little to colour the world. It was pleasant listening to Pistorius, in his voluminous dark cloak and floppy collar under a riotous beard, hold forth and expound on descriptions of shipwrecks in fine sonorous verse. Even better was listening to the tales of thesailors in the port of Nyhavn, not far from the palace. Ships don’t sink there, they sway gently and creak, up high among the sails, in the wind; at most you hear about some ship that hasn’t returned. I would run along the banks, jump on the decks, climb up the masts until someone chased me away. Up there among the shrouds, in the sun and wind, you feel small; a small fish that could end up in a seagull’s mouth, but fearless.
That rocking under your feet gives you a sense of safety, of a temporary instability in which it is easier to flee. If they catch you, you’re dead. And even dead you have to hide, escape, because they come looking for you there too, if you have the bad luck that I happened to have. The subantarctic cold preserved me well, too well, when I died down here.—“A cadaver in permafrost with its stem cells still alive ...”—and the Gestapo on duty, no matter under what other false name, took them and forced me to start all over again. For the executioners it’s never enough; I hadn’t suffered enough so they cancelled my ticket of leave, the permission to be released that the governor grants reformed convicts, and called me back into service, compulsory service, forced labour for life and beyond.
In Nyhavn, at the time, I was thinking about leaving, not fleeing. The world was there, in front of me, free and open as the sea, sailing vessels, brigs and schooners with the names and flags of continents. The
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