else—with the dead. And who knows if the truth did not die with them. I often used to think: “Luckily, I am witness and not judge: I would condemn myself.” Now I have become judge. Without wanting it, without expecting it. That is the trap: I am at the point where I cannot go back. I must pass sentence. From now on, whatever my attitude may be, it will have the weight of a verdict.
The smell of the sea rises to my nostrils, I hear the whisper of the waves, we are leaving the center of the city and its lights. We are coming to the end of the line. I must hurry and make a decision, try my former barracks-chief. I will take on all the roles: first, the witnesses, then the judge, then the attorney for the defense. Will the prisoner play only one role, the accused—the victim? Full powers will be conferred upon me, my sentence will be without appeal. Facing the accused, I will be God.
Let us begin at the beginning. With the customary questions. Last name, first name, occupation, age, address. The accused does not recognize the legitimacy of this procedure, or of the court; he refuses to take part in the trial. It is noted. His crimes are what interest us, nothis identity. Let us open the dossier, examine the charges leveled against him. Once again I see the scene of the crime, the uniform face of suffering; I hear the sound of the whip on emaciated bodies. At night, surrounded by his sturdy protégés, the accused shows he is skilled in doing two things at once: with one hand he distributes the soup, with the other he beats the inmates to impose silence. Whether the tears and moaning touch him or irritate him does not matter. He hits harder to make them stop. The sight of the sick enrages him: he senses in them a bad omen for himself. He is particularly cruel with the aged: “Why are you hanging on to this disgusting, filthy life? Hurry up and die, you won’t suffer anymore! Give your bread to the young, at least do one good deed before you croak!”
One day he saw my father and me near the barracks. As he always did, my father was handing me his half-full bowl and ordering me to eat. “I’m not hungry anymore.” he explained and I knew he was lying. I refused: “Me neither, Father, really, I’m not hungry anymore.” I was lying and he knew it, too. This same discussion went on day after day. This time the barracks-chief came over and turned to my father: “This your son?”—Yes.—“And you aren’t ashamed to take away his soup?”—But … —“Shut up! Give him back that bowl or I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget!”
To keep him from carrying out that threat, I grabbed the bowl and started eating. At first I wanted to vomit but soon I felt an immense well-being spread through my limbs. I ate slowly to make this pleasure, stronger than my shame, last longer. Finally, the barracks-chief moved on. I hated him, and yet, down deep, I was glad that he had intervened. My father murmured, “He’s a good man, charitable.” He was lying, and I lied too: “Yes, Father, charitable.”
How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?
My father did not conceal his pride: his son hadobeyed him. As in the past. Even better than in the past. So there was, in the camp, in the midst of this organized insanity, someone who depended on him and in whose eyes he was not a servile rag. He did not realize that it had not been his will I had been performing, but yours. I was aware of that, and so were you, but I refused to think of it; you did not. I also knew that by obeying you both as your slave and your accomplice, I was cutting short my father’s life by one breath, by one awakening. I buried my remorse in the yellowish soup. But you were wiser and certainly shrewder than my father; you were not deceived. As you moved away, you had an air of assurance, as if to say: “That’s the way it is, that’s life, the boy will learn, he’ll find his way and who knows? someday maybe he’ll succeed me.” And I did
The smell of the sea rises to my nostrils, I hear the whisper of the waves, we are leaving the center of the city and its lights. We are coming to the end of the line. I must hurry and make a decision, try my former barracks-chief. I will take on all the roles: first, the witnesses, then the judge, then the attorney for the defense. Will the prisoner play only one role, the accused—the victim? Full powers will be conferred upon me, my sentence will be without appeal. Facing the accused, I will be God.
Let us begin at the beginning. With the customary questions. Last name, first name, occupation, age, address. The accused does not recognize the legitimacy of this procedure, or of the court; he refuses to take part in the trial. It is noted. His crimes are what interest us, nothis identity. Let us open the dossier, examine the charges leveled against him. Once again I see the scene of the crime, the uniform face of suffering; I hear the sound of the whip on emaciated bodies. At night, surrounded by his sturdy protégés, the accused shows he is skilled in doing two things at once: with one hand he distributes the soup, with the other he beats the inmates to impose silence. Whether the tears and moaning touch him or irritate him does not matter. He hits harder to make them stop. The sight of the sick enrages him: he senses in them a bad omen for himself. He is particularly cruel with the aged: “Why are you hanging on to this disgusting, filthy life? Hurry up and die, you won’t suffer anymore! Give your bread to the young, at least do one good deed before you croak!”
One day he saw my father and me near the barracks. As he always did, my father was handing me his half-full bowl and ordering me to eat. “I’m not hungry anymore.” he explained and I knew he was lying. I refused: “Me neither, Father, really, I’m not hungry anymore.” I was lying and he knew it, too. This same discussion went on day after day. This time the barracks-chief came over and turned to my father: “This your son?”—Yes.—“And you aren’t ashamed to take away his soup?”—But … —“Shut up! Give him back that bowl or I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget!”
To keep him from carrying out that threat, I grabbed the bowl and started eating. At first I wanted to vomit but soon I felt an immense well-being spread through my limbs. I ate slowly to make this pleasure, stronger than my shame, last longer. Finally, the barracks-chief moved on. I hated him, and yet, down deep, I was glad that he had intervened. My father murmured, “He’s a good man, charitable.” He was lying, and I lied too: “Yes, Father, charitable.”
How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?
My father did not conceal his pride: his son hadobeyed him. As in the past. Even better than in the past. So there was, in the camp, in the midst of this organized insanity, someone who depended on him and in whose eyes he was not a servile rag. He did not realize that it had not been his will I had been performing, but yours. I was aware of that, and so were you, but I refused to think of it; you did not. I also knew that by obeying you both as your slave and your accomplice, I was cutting short my father’s life by one breath, by one awakening. I buried my remorse in the yellowish soup. But you were wiser and certainly shrewder than my father; you were not deceived. As you moved away, you had an air of assurance, as if to say: “That’s the way it is, that’s life, the boy will learn, he’ll find his way and who knows? someday maybe he’ll succeed me.” And I did
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