Part 1 Chapter 1
W HEN I was fifteen, I got hepatitis. It started in the fall and lasted until spring. As the old year darkened and turned colder, I got weaker and weaker. Things didn’t start to improve until the new year. January was warm, and my mother moved my bed out onto the balcony. I saw sky, sun, clouds, and heard the voices of children playing in the courtyard. As dusk came one evening in February, there was the sound of a blackbird singing.
The first time I ventured outside, it was to go from Blumenstrasse, where we lived on the second floor of a massive turn-of-the-century building, to Bahnhofstrasse. That’s where I’d thrown up on the way home from school one day the previous October. I’d been feeling weak for days, in a way that was completely new to me. Every step was an effort. When I was faced with stairs either at home or at school, my legs would hardly carry me. I had no appetite. Even if I sat down at the table hungry, I soon felt queasy. I woke up every morning with a dry mouth and the sensation that my insides were in the wrong place and too heavy for my body. I was ashamed of being so weak. I was even more ashamed when I threw up. That was another thing that had never happened to me before. My mouth was suddenly full, I tried to swallow everything down again, and clenched my teeth with my hand in front of my mouth, but it all burst out of my mouth anyway straight through my fingers. I leaned against the wall of the building, looked down at the vomit around my feet, and retched something clear and sticky.
When rescue came, it was almost an assault. The woman seized my arm and pulled me through the dark entryway into the courtyard. Up above there were lines strung from window to window, loaded with laundry. Wood was stacked in the courtyard; in an open workshop a saw screamed and shavings flew. The woman turned on the tap, washed my hand first, and then cupped both of hers and threw water in my face. I dried myself with a handkerchief.
“Get that one!” There were two pails standing by the faucet; she grabbed one and filled it. I took the other one, filled it, and followed her through the entryway. She swung her arm, the water sluiced down across the walk and washed the vomit into the gutter. Then she took my pail and sent a second wave of water across the walk.
When she straightened up, she saw I was crying. “Hey, kid,” she said, startled, “hey, kid”—and took me in her arms. I wasn’t much taller than she was, I could feel her breasts against my chest. I smelled the sourness of my own breath and felt her fresh sweat as she held me, and didn’t know where to look. I stopped crying.
She asked me where I lived, put the pails down in the entryway, and took me home, walking beside me holding my schoolbag in one hand and my arm in the other. It’s no great distance from Bahnhofstrasse to Blumenstrasse. She walked quickly, and her decisiveness helped me to keep pace with her. She said goodbye in front of our building.
That same day my mother called in the doctor, who diagnosed hepatitis. At some point I told my mother about the woman. If it hadn’t been for that, I don’t think I would have gone to see her. But my mother simply assumed that as soon as I was better, I would use my pocket money to buy some flowers, go introduce myself, and say thank you, which was why at the end of February I found myself heading for Bahnhofstrasse.
　　我十五岁的时候得了黄疸病，发病时在秋天，病愈时在春天。越到年底，天气越冷，白天越短，我的身体也就越弱，新年伊始才有所好转。一月的天气很暖和，母亲为我在阳台上搭了一张床。我看得见天空、太阳、云彩，也听得见孩子们在院子里玩耍。二月里的一天傍晚，我听见一只乌鸦在歌唱。
　　我们家住在鲜花街一座于世纪之交建造的巨大楼房的二楼。我在这里走的第一段路是从鲜花街到火车站街。十月里的一个星期一，在放学回家的路上，我呕吐了。几天来，我身体特别虚弱，我一生中从未那样虚弱过，每迈一步都很吃力。在家或在学校上楼梯的时候，我的腿几乎抬不起来。我也没有食欲，即使是饥肠辘辘地坐在餐桌旁，也很快就又厌食了。早晨醒来口干舌燥，浑身难受，好像身体的器官都错了位。我的身体这么弱，我感到很害羞，特别是当我呕吐的时候。那样的呕吐在我的一生中还是第一次。我尽力把嘴里的东西咽下去，上嘴唇咬着下嘴唇，手捂着嘴，但是，嘴里的东西还是顺着手指喷了出来。我靠在墙上，看着脚边的污秽物，呕吐起白沫来。
　　把我扶起来的那个女人，她的动作几乎是粗暴的。她搀着我的胳膊，领着我穿过了黑洞洞的门廊来到一座院子里。院子里窗与窗之间都拉上了绳子，上面挂着晾晒的衣服，院子里还堆着木头。在一间露天的工棚里，有人正在锯木头，木屑四溅。在院门旁，有一个水龙头，那个女人拧开了水龙头，先给我洗了手，然后用手捧着水给我冲了脸。我用手帕把脸擦干了。
　　"你拿另外一只！"在水龙头旁有两只水桶，她拿了一只，装满了水，我拿了另外一只，也装满水。跟在她后面。她用力摆了一下把水泼到了路上，呕吐物被冲到了下水道里。她从我手里接过水桶，把这一桶水也泼到了路上。
　　她站起身来，看见我在哭。"小家伙，"她惊讶地说，"小家伙。"她把我搂在了怀里。我几乎和她一样高，感觉到她的胸贴在我的胸上，在这样紧的拥抱中我闻到了自己呼出的难闻的气昧和她身上新鲜的汗味。我不知道应该把两支胳膊放在什么地方。我停止了哭泣。
　　她问我住在什么地方，然后把水桶放到了门廊里，送我回家。她走在我身旁，一手拿着我的书包，一手扶着我的胳膊。从火车站街到鲜花街并不远。她走得很快，很果断，这使我跟上她的步伐很容易。在我家门前她与我告了别。
　　就在同一天，母亲请来了医生，他诊断我得了黄疸病。不知什么时候我向母亲提起了那个女人。我没想到我还应该去看她，但我母亲却理所当然地这样认为。她说，只要有可能，我应该用我的零花钱买一束鲜花，做一下自我介绍，并对她表示感谢。这样，二月底，我去了火车站街。
Part 1 Chapter 2
T HE BUILDING on Bahnhofstrasse is no longer there. I don’t know when or why it was torn down. I was away from my hometown for many years. The new building, which must have been put up in the seventies or eighties, has five floors plus finished space under the roof, is devoid of balconies or arched windows, and its smooth fa?ade is an expanse of pale plaster. A plethora of doorbells indicates a plethora of tiny apartments, with tenants moving in and out as casually as you would pick up and return a rented car. There’s a computer store on the ground floor where once there were a pharmacy, a supermarket, and a video store.
The old building was as tall, but with only four floors, a first floor of faceted sandstone blocks, and above it three floors of brickwork with sandstone arches, balconies, and window surrounds. Several steps led up to the first floor and the stairwell; they were wide at the bottom, narrower above, set between walls topped with iron banisters and curving outwards at street level. The front door was flanked by pillars, and from the corners of the architrave one lion looked up Bahnhofstrasse while another looked down. The entryway through which the woman had led me to the tap in the courtyard was a side entrance.
I had been aware of this building since I was a little boy. It dominated the whole row. I used to think that if it made itself any heavier and wider, the neighboring buildings would have to move aside and make room for it. Inside, I imagined a stairwell with plaster moldings, mirrors, and an oriental runner held down with highly polished brass rods. I assumed that grand people would live in such a grand building. But because the building had darkened with the passing of the years and the smoke of the trains, I imagined that the grand inhabitants would be just as somber, and somehow peculiar—deaf or dumb or hunchbacked or lame.
In later years I dreamed about the building again and again. The dreams were similar, variations on one dream and one theme. I’m walking through a strange town and I see the house. It’s one in a row of buildings in a district I don’t know. I go on, confused, because the house is familiar but its surroundings are not. Then I realize that I’ve seen the house before. I’m not picturing Bahnhofstrasse in my hometown, but another city, or another country. For example, in my dream I’m in Rome, see the house, and realize I’ve seen it already in Bern. This dream recognition comforts me; seeing the house again in different surroundings is no more surprising than encountering an old friend by chance in a strange place. I turn around, walk back to the house, and climb the steps. I want to go in. I turn the door handle.
If I see the house somewhere in the country, the dream is more long-drawn-out, or I remember its details better. I’m driving a car. I see the house on the right and keep going, confused at first only by the fact that such an obviously urban building is standing there in the middle of the countryside. Then I realize that this is not the first time I’ve seen it, and I’m doubly confused. When I remember where I’ve seen it before, I turn around and drive back. In the dream, the road is always empty, as I can turn around with my tires squealing and race back. I’m afraid I’ll be too late, and I drive faster. Then I see it. It is surrounded by fields, rape or wheat or vines in the Palatinate, lavender in Provence. The landscape is flat, or at most gently rolling. There are no trees. The day is cloudless, the sun is shining, the air shimmers and the road glitters in the heat. The fire walls make the building look unprepossessing and cut off. They could be the firewalls of any building. The house is no darker than it was on Bahnhofstrasse, but the windows are so dusty that you can’t see anything inside the rooms, not even the curtains; it looks blind.
I stop on the side of the road and walk over to the entrance. There’s nobody about, not a sound to be heard, not even a distant engine, a gust of wind, a bird. The world is dead. I go up the steps and turn the knob.
But I do not open the door. I wake up knowing simply that I took hold of the knob and turned it. Then the whole dream comes back to me, and I know that I’ve dreamed it before.
　　火车站街上的那座房子，现在已经不在了，我不知道什么时候什么原因被拆除的。我好多年没有回过家乡了。七十年代或八十年代新建的那座房子是五层楼房，带有阁楼，木带凸窗间和阳台，粉刷得光亮。门铃很多，说明小套房很多。人们从这种公寓里搬进搬出，就像租用或退还一辆汽车一样。一楼现在是一家计算机店，以前那里是一家药店、一家日用品店和录像带出租店。
　　原来的那座老房子和现在的新房子一样高，但只有四层楼。一楼用水磨方石建造，上面三层用砖建造，带有用砂岩建造的凸窗间、阳台和窗框。进屋和上楼都要走几步台阶，台阶下宽上窄，两边是扶墙，上有铁扶手，扶手底端呈蜗牛状。门的两边都有圆柱，横梁两角卧着两个狮子，俯视着火车站街。那个女人带我到院里洗手走的那个门是侧门。
　　在我很小的时候，就注意到了那座房子。它在一排房子中鹤立鸡群。我想，如果它再宽、再笨重一些的话，邻近的房子就不得不被挤到一边去而为它让路了。我猜想，房子里面有石膏花饰、交叉穹隆的平顶、东方式的长地毯和磨得锃亮的铜杆扶手。我想，在这样体面的房子里也应住着体面的人。由于经过长年累月的火车烟的烟熏，房子变黑了。于是，我对里面的体面居民的想象也大打折扣，他们变成了怪里怪气的人，非聋即哑，非驼即瘸。
　　在后来的许多年里，我总是反复梦见那座房子。那些梦大同小异，都是同一个梦的翻版，或是同一个主题的翻版。我走在一个陌生的城市里，看见了那座房子。它坐落在一个我所陌生的城区里的一排房子中。我继续往前走，困惑不解，因为我只熟悉那座房子却对那个城区感到陌生。然后，我突然想起我曾经见过那座房子，但我想起的不是在我家乡火车站街上的那座房子，而是在另外一个城市，另外一个国家。例如，我梦见在罗马看见了那座房子，但忆起的却是在伯尔尼曾经见过它。这样的梦中记忆，使我感到很安慰。在另外一种环境里再看到那座房子，对我来说并不像在一个陌生的环境中与一位老朋友不期而遇那样令我感到奇怪。我转身向房子走回去，我上楼梯，我要进去，我按下门把手。
　　如果我梦到在乡下看见那座房子，我的梦持续的时间便会更长些，或者此后我能更好地忆起它的细节。我开着车，看见那座房子在我右边。我继续往前开，先是感到困惑不解，为什么一座很显然属于城市街道两旁的房子会建在一块空旷地里呢？然后，我想起那座房子我曾经见过，于是感到双重的困惑不解。如果我要是想起在什么地方见过它的话，我就会调转车头往回开。梦中的街道总是没有人，我调转车头，轮胎发出刺耳的尖声。我以飞快的速度开回去，我害怕回去得太晚，于是开得更快了。然后，我看见了它。它的周围都是田地、油菜田、谷物。行宫中的葡萄园及法国田园中的草香草。这里很平坦，最多有点小山包，没有树木。天气晴朗，阳光灿烂，空气回荡，街道热得闪闪发光。一道风火墙把那座房子给隔开了，难以看清。那可能是一座房子的风火墙。那座房子不像火车站街的那座房子那样黑，可窗子特别脏，屋里什么东西都辨认不出来，连窗帘都看不出来。那是座模糊不清的房子。
　　我把车停在了路边，穿过了马路来到了房门口，看不到一个人，听不到一点声音，甚至连远处的马达声也听不到。没有风吹，没有鸟语，世界死一般寂静。我迈上了台阶，按下门把手。
　　但是我打不开门。我醒了，只知道抓到了门把手并按下了它。然后，整个梦境又浮现在脑海中，我记得，这样的梦我曾经做过。
Part 1 Chapter 3
I DIDN’T KNOW the woman’s name. Clutching my bunch of flowers, I hesitated in front of the door and all the bells. I would rather have turned around and left, but then a man came out of the building, asked who I was looking for, and directed me to Frau Schmitz on the third floor.
No decorative plaster, no mirrors, no runner. Whatever unpretentious beauty the stairwell might once have had, it could never have been comparable to the grandeur of the fa?ade, and it was long gone in any case. The red paint on the stairs had worn through in the middle, the stamped green linoleum that was glued on the walls to shoulder height was rubbed away to nothing, and bits of string had been stretched across the gaps in the banisters. It smelled of cleaning fluid. Perhaps I only became aware of all this some time later. It was always just as shabby and just as clean, and there was always the same smell of cleaning fluid, sometimes mixed with the smell of cabbage or beans, or fried food or boiling laundry.
I never learned a thing about the other people who lived in the building apart from these smells, the mats outside the apartment doors, and the nameplates under the doorbells. I cannot even remember meeting another tenant on the stairs.
Nor do I remember how I greeted Frau Schmitz. I had probably prepared two or three sentences about my illness and her help and how grateful I was, and recited them to her. She led me into the kitchen.
It was the largest room in the apartment, and contained a stove and sink, a tub and a boiler, a table, two chairs, a kitchen cabinet, a wardrobe, and a couch with a red velvet spread thrown over it. There was no window. Light came in through the panes of the door leading out onto the balcony—not much light; the kitchen was only bright when the door was open. Then you heard the scream of the saws from the carpenter’s shop in the yard and smelled the smell of wood.
The apartment also had a small, cramped living room with a dresser, a table, four chairs, a wing chair, and a coal stove. It was almost never heated in winter, nor was it used much in summer either. The window faced Bahnhofstrasse, with a view of what had been the railroad station, but was now being excavated and already in places held the freshly laid foundations of the new courthouse and administration buildings. Finally, the apartment also had a windowless toilet. When the toilet smelled, so did the hall.
I don’t remember what we talked about in the kitchen. Frau Schmitz was ironing; she had spread a woolen blanket and a linen cloth over the table; lifting one piece of laundry after another from the basket, she ironed them, folded them, and laid them on one of the two chairs. I sat on the other. She also ironed her underwear, and I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help looking. She was wearing a sleeveless smock, blue with little pale red flowers on it. Her shoulder-length, ash-blond hair was fastened with a clip at the back of her neck. Her bare arms were pale. Her gestures of lifting the iron, using it, setting it down again, and then folding and putting away the laundry were an exercise in slow concentration, as were her movements as she bent over and then straightened up again. Her face as it was then has been overlaid in my memory by the faces she had later. If I see her in my mind’s eye as she was then, she doesn’t have a face at all, and I have to reconstruct it. High forehead, high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, full lips that formed a perfect curve without any indentation, square chin. A broad-planed, strong, womanly face. I know that I found it beautiful. But I cannot recapture its beauty.
　　我不知道那个女人叫什么名字。我手持一束鲜花，犹豫不决地站在了楼下门口的门铃前。我真想回去，但这时，从门里走出一个人来，他问我要找谁，并把我领到了四楼的史密芝女士家。
　　没有石膏花饰，没有镜子，没有地毯。楼道里应有的那种纯朴的、不能与门面的那种富丽堂皇相比拟的美，早已不复存在。阶梯中间的红漆已被踩没了，贴在楼梯旁墙上的、与肩齐高的、有压印花纹的绿色漆布被磨得油光锃亮。凡是楼梯扶手支柱坏了的地方，都被拉上了绳子，楼道闻起来有洗涤剂的味道——也许这些都是我后来才注意到的。它总是那样年久失修的样子，总是那样地清洁，闻起来总是同一种洗涤剂的味道，有时和白菜或扁豆的味混在一起，有时和炒炸或煮、洗衣服的味混在一起。除了这些味道、门前的脚垫和门铃按钮下面的姓名牌，我不认识住在这里的任何其他人。我也不记得我是否在楼道里曾遇到过其他住户。
　　我也记不得我是怎样和史密芝女士打的招呼。可能我把事先想好了的两三句有关我的病情、她的帮助和感谢她的话背给了她听。她把我带到厨房里。
　　厨房是所有房间中最大的一间，里面有电炉盘。水池、浴盆、浴水加热炉、一张桌子、两把椅子、一台冰箱、一个衣柜和一张长沙发。沙发椅上铺着一块红色的天鹅绒布料。厨房没有窗子，光线是由通向阳台的门上的玻璃照射进来的，没有多少光线，只是门开着的时候厨房才有亮，可是这样就听得见从院子里木工棚中传来的锯木头的尖叫声，并闻得到木头味。
　　还有一间又小又窄的起居室，里面配有餐具柜。餐桌、四把椅子、耳型扶手沙发和一个炉子。这个房间冬天的时候从来就没生过炉子，夏天的时候也几乎是闲置不用。窗子面向火车站街，看得见以前的被挖得乱七八糟的火车站旧址和已经奠基的新的法院和政府机关办公大楼的工地。房间里还有一间不带窗户的厕所，如果厕所里有臭味的话，房间过道里也闻得到。
　　我也不记得我们在厨房里都说了些什么。史密芝女士在熨衣服，她在桌子上铺了一块毛垫和一块亚麻巾，从筐篓里一件接一件地拿出衣服，熨好之后叠起来放在其中的一把椅子上。我坐在另外的一把椅子上。她也熨她的内裤，我不想看，但又无法把目光移开。她穿着一件无袖的蓝底带有浅红色小花的围裙。她把她的齐肩长的金灰色长发用发夹束在了颈后。她裸露的胳膊是苍白的。她拿着熨斗熨几下，又放下，把熨好的衣服叠在一起放在一边。她手的动作很慢，很专注，转身、弯腰、起身的动作也同样很慢／民专注。她当时的面部表情被我后来的记忆覆盖了。如果我闭上眼睛想象她当时的样子，想象不出她的面部表情是什么样子。我必须重新塑造她。她高额头，高颧骨，两只浅蓝色的眼睛，上下的两片嘴唇均匀而丰满，下颚显得非常有力，一幅平淡的、冷冰冰的女人面孔。我知道，我曾经觉得它很美，眼下我又看出它的漂亮之处。
Part 1 Chapter 4
“W AIT,” SHE said as I got up to go. ‘I have to leave too, and I’ll walk with you.
I waited in the hall while she changed her clothes in the kitchen. The door was open a crack. She took off the smock and stood there in a bright green slip. Two stockings were hanging over the back of the chair. Picking one up, she gathered it into a roll using one hand, then the other, then balanced on one leg as she rested the heel of her other foot against her knee, leaned forward, slipped the rolled-up stocking over the tip of her foot, put her foot on the chair as she smoothed the stocking up over her calf, knee, and thigh, then bent to one side as she fastened the stocking to the garter belt. Straightening up, she took her foot off the chair and reached for the other stocking. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her neck and shoulders, her breasts, which the slip veiled rather than concealed, her hips which stretched the slip tight as she propped her foot on her knee and then set it on the chair, her leg, pale and naked, then shimmering in the silky stocking.
She felt me looking at her. As she was reaching for the other stocking, she paused, turned towards the door, and looked straight at me. I can’t describe what kind of look it was—surprised, skeptical, knowing, reproachful. I turned red. For a fraction of a second I stood there, my face burning. Then I couldn’t take it any more. I fled out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street.
I dawdled along. Bahnhofstrasse, H?usserstrasse, Blumenstrasse—it had been my way to school for years. I knew every building, every garden, and every fence, the ones that were repainted every year and the ones that were so gray and rotten that I could crumble the wood in my hand, the iron railings that I ran along as a child banging a stick against the posts and the high brick wall behind which I had imagined wonderful and terrible things, until I was able to climb it, and see row after boring row of neglected beds of flowers, berries, and vegetables. I knew the cobblestones in their layer of tar on the road, and the changing surface of the sidewalk, from flagstones to little lumps of basalt set in wave patterns, tar, and gravel.
It was all familiar. When my heart stopped pounding and my face was no longer scarlet, the encounter between the kitchen and the hall seemed a long way away. I was angry with myself. I had run away like a child, instead of keeping control of the situation, as I thought I should. I wasn’t nine years old anymore, I was fifteen. That didn’t mean I had any idea what keeping control would have entailed.
The other puzzle was the actual encounter that had taken place between the kitchen and the hall. Why had I not been able to take my eyes off her? She had a very strong, feminine body, more voluptuous than the girls I liked and watched. I was sure I wouldn’t even have noticed her if I’d seen her at the swimming pool. Nor had she been any more naked than the girls and women I had already seen at the swimming pool. And besides, she was much older than the girls I dreamed about. Over thirty? It’s hard to guess ages when you’re not that old yourself and won’t be anytime soon.
Years later it occurred to me that the reason I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her was not just her body, but the way she held herself and moved. I asked my girlfriends to put on stockings, but I didn’t want to explain why, or to talk about the riddle of what had happened between the kitchen and the hall. So my request was read as a desire for garters and high heels and erotic extravaganza, and if it was granted, it was done as a come-on. There had been none of that when I had found myself unable to look away. She hadn’t been posing or teasing me. I don’t remember her ever doing that. I remember that her body and the way she held it and moved sometimes seemed awkward. Not that she was particularly heavy. It was more as if she had withdrawn into her own body, and left it to itself and its own quiet rhythms, unbothered by any input from her mind, oblivious to the outside world. It was the same obliviousness that weighed in her glance and her movements when she was pulling on her stockings. But then she was not awkward, she was slow-flowing, graceful, seductive—a seductiveness that had nothing to do with breasts and hips and legs, but was an invitation to forget the world in the recesses of the body.
I knew none of this—if indeed I know any of it now and am not just making patterns in the air. But as I thought back then on what had excited me, the excitement came back. To solve the riddle, I made myself remember the whole encounter, and then the distance I had created by turning it into a riddle dissolved, and I saw it all again, and again I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
　　"等一下！"当我站起来准备要走的时候，她对我说，"我也要出去一下，可以一起走一段。"
　　我在楼道里等她，她在厨房里换衣服。门开着一条小缝，她脱掉了围裙，换上了一件浅绿色衬衣。在椅子的扶手上挂着两双长统袜，她拿下来一双，用两手把它卷成圆筒状，用一条腿掌握着平衡，并用这条腿的膝盖支撑着另一条腿的后部，弯下腰，把卷好的长统袜套到了脚上，然后把脚放到了椅子上，把长统袜从小腿肚提到膝盖，再从膝盖提到大腿。她把身子倾向一边，把穿到腿上的长统袜用长统袜绳绑好，然后站起身来，把脚从椅子上拿下来，抓起了另一只袜子。
　　我目不转睛地盯着她，从她的脖颈到肩膀，从她的那对只被衬衣围盖但并没有遮严的乳房到她的只被衬衣遮住的屁股。当她把一只脚放到膝盖上并坐到椅子上的时候，就可以看得见她的先是裸露、苍白、后又被长统袜装束起来的光滑的大腿。
　　她感觉到了我的目光，她很熟练地穿好了另一只长统袜，把脸转向门这边，看着我的眼睛。我不知道她是怎样注视着我的：惊奇地、疑问地、知情地，还是谴责地？我脸红了，我面红耳赤地站了一会儿，然后我实在坚持不住了，冲出了房间，跑下了楼梯，跑出了那座房子。
　　我慢慢地走着，火车站街、房子街、鲜花街是我这些年上学、放学的必经之路。我认得每座房子、每座花园和每道拦栅。那些栏栅每年都要重新粉刷，栏栅的木头都变得朽烂不堪，以致我用手都能挤压进去。我小的时候，常常过路边用一根棍子响响地敲打着那些铁栏栅的铁杆。还有那些砖砌的高高的围墙，我曾经想象过里面的美好和恐怖，直到我能爬高时才看见里面不过是一排排枯萎的、无人照料的鲜花、浆果和蔬菜类。我也认得铺在路面上的铺石块和漆在路面上的油漆，还有交替铺在路面上的、形状各异的光滑岩石以及铺成波浪形状的小块玄武岩、油漆和碎石。
　　我熟悉这儿的一切。当我的心不再狂跳，不再面红耳赤的时候，在厨房与门廊之间所看见的那一幕情景也离我远去。我生自己的气，因为我就像一个小孩子一样一跑了之，没有像我对自己所期待的那样沉着自信。我不再是九岁的孩子了，我十五岁了！尽管如此，怎样才算沉着自信对我来说仍是个谜。
　　另一个谜是在厨房与门廊之间所发生的那一幕情景本身。为什么我不能把目光从她身上移开？她的身体很强健，极富有女人味，比我曾喜欢过的、博得我的青睐的姑娘们的身体丰满。我相信，要是我在游泳池看见她的话，她不会引起我的注意。她也不像我曾经在游泳池见过的姑娘们和妇人们那样裸露。另外，她也比我梦想的姑娘们年纪要大得多。她有三十多岁？人们很难估计出自己还未曾经历过的，或尚未达到的年龄段的人们的年龄。
　　多年以后我才明白，并不是因为她的身体本身，而是她的姿势和动作让我目不转睛。我请求我的女友们穿长统袜，但我不想解释我的请求，我不想告诉别人那个令我迷惑不解的、发生在厨房与门廊之间的那一幕情景。这样，我的请求就成了寻求肆无忌惮的情欲、寻求高潮的一种愿望。一旦我的这种请求得到了满足，它也是以一种卖弄风情的姿态出现，并非那种让我目不转睛的姿态。汉娜并没有拿姿态，没有卖弄风情，我也不记得她曾拿过什么姿态、卖弄过什么风情。我只记得她的身体、她的姿势和动作，它们有时显得有点笨重。但那不是真的笨重，那是她让自己回到了内心世界，那是她不让由大脑所支配的任何命令来干扰她这安静的生活节奏，那是她完全忘却了外部世界的存在。这样的忘却外部世界的情形还体现在她那次穿长统袜的姿势和动作上。但那一次，她的动作并非慢慢腾腾，相反，它非常麻利、妩媚和具有诱惑力。但诱惑人的不是乳房、屁股和大腿，而是吸引你进入她的内心世界而忘却外部世界的一种力量。
　　当时，我并不知道这些——尽管我现在知道了，而且知道了为什么。那时，每当我思考使我那样兴奋的原因时，我就又兴奋起来。为了解开这个谜，我就必须追忆那一幕情景。当我把那一幕视为不解之谈时，我实际上是在与它保持距离。这种距离感解除后，当时所发生的一切就又历历在目了，我仍旧在目不转睛地盯着。
Part 1 Chapter 5
A WEEK LATER I was standing at her door again.
For a week I had tried not to think about her. But I had nothing else to occupy or distract me; the doctor was not ready to let me go back to school, I was bored stiff with books after months of reading, and although friends still came to see me, I had been sick for so long that their visits could no longer bridge the gap between their daily lives and mine, and became shorter and shorter. I was supposed to go for walks, a little further each day, without overexerting myself. I could have used the exertion.
Being ill when you are a child or growing up is such an enchanted interlude! The outside world, the world of free time in the yard or the garden or on the street, is only a distant murmur in the sickroom. Inside, a whole world of characters and stories proliferates out of the books you read. The fever that weakens your perception as it sharpens your imagination turns the sickroom into someplace new, both familiar and strange; monsters come grinning out of the patterns on the curtains and the carpet, and chairs, tables, bookcases, and wardrobes burst out of their normal shapes and become mountains and buildings and ships you can almost touch although they’re far away. Through the long hours of the night you have the church clock for company and the rumble of the occasional passing car that throws its headlights across the walls and ceiling. These are hours without sleep, which is not to say that they’re sleepless, because on the contrary, they’re not about lack of anything, they’re rich and full. Desires, memories, fears, passions form labyrinths in which we lose and find and then lose ourselves again. They are hours when anything is possible, good or bad.
This passes as you get better. But if the illness has lasted long enough, the sickroom is impregnated with it and although you’re convalescing and the fever has gone, you are still trapped in the labyrinth.
I awoke every day feeling guilty, sometimes with my pajama pants damp or stained. The images and scenes in my dreams were not right. I knew I would not be scolded by my mother, or the pastor who had instructed me for my confirmation and whom I admired, or by my older sister who was the confidante of all my childhood secrets. But they would lecture me with loving concern, which was worse than being scolded. It was particularly wrong that when I was not just idly dreaming, I actively fantasized images and scenes.
I don’t know where I found the courage to go back to Frau Schmitz. Did my moral upbringing somehow turn against itself? If looking at someone with desire was as bad as satisfying the desire, if having an active fantasy was as bad as the act you were fantasizing—then why not the satisfaction and the act itself? As the days went on, I discovered that I couldn’t stop thinking sinful thoughts. In which case I also wanted the sin itself.
There was another way to look at it. Going there might be dangerous. But it was obviously impossible for the danger to act itself out. Frau Schmitz would greet me with surprise, listen to me apologize for my strange behavior, and amicably say goodbye. It was more dangerous not to go; I was running the risk of becoming trapped in my own fantasies. So I was doing the right thing by going. She would behave normally, I would behave normally, and everything would be normal again.
That is how I rationalized it back then, making my desire an entry in a strange moral accounting, and silencing my bad conscience. But that was not what gave me the courage to go to Frau Schmitz. It was one thing to tell myself that my mother, my admired pastor, and my older sister would not try to stop me if they really thought about it, but would in fact insist that I go. Actually going was something else again. I don’t know why I did it. But today I can recognize that events back then were part of a lifelong pattern in which thinking and doing have either come together or failed to come together—I think, I reach a conclusion, I turn the conclusion into a decision, and then I discover that acting on the decision is something else entirely, and that doing so may proceed from the decision, but then again it may not. Often enough in my life I have done things I had not decided to do. Something—whatever that may be—goes into action; “it” goes to the woman I don’t want to see anymore, “it” makes the remark to the boss that costs me my head, “it” keeps on smoking although I have decided to quit, and then quits smoking just when I’ve accepted the fact that I’m a smoker and always will be. I don’t mean to say that thinking and reaching decisions have no influence on behavior. But behavior does not merely enact whatever has already been thought through and decided. It has its own sources, and is my behavior, quite independently, just as my thoughts are my thoughts, and my decisions my decisions.
　　一个星期以后，我又站在了她的门口。
　　我试了一个星期不去想她。可我又无所事事，没有任何事情可以转移我的注意力，医生还不允许我去上学。读了几个月书以后，读书也令我感到厌倦。朋友们虽然来看我，但我已经病了这么久，他们的来访已经不能在我们之间的日常生活中架起桥梁，再说，他们逗留的时间也越来越短。他们说我该去散步，一天比一天多走一点，又不要累着。其实，我需要这种累。
　　童年和少年时代生病是多么讨厌！外部世界，庭院里、花园里或大街上的休闲世界的喧嚣只是隐隐约约地传到病房中。里面的病人在阅读，书中的历史和人物世界在屋里滋长。发烧使知觉减弱，使幻想敏锐，病房成了新的即熟悉又陌生的房间。蓬莱蕉在窗帘上显出它的图案，墙壁纸在做鬼脸，桌子、椅子、书架和衣柜堆积如山，像楼房，像轮船，它们近得触手可及，但又十分遥远。伴随病人们度过漫长夜晚的是教堂的钟声，是偶尔开过的汽车的鸣笛声和它的前灯反射到墙上和被子上的灯光。那是些无限但并非失眠的夜晚，不是空虚而是充实的夜晚。病人们时而渴望什么，时而沉浸在回忆中，时而又充满恐惧，时而又快乐不已，这是些好事坏事都可能发生的夜晚。
　　如果病人的病情有所好转，这种情形就会减少。但如果病人久病不愈，那么．病房就会笼罩上这种气氛，即使是不发烧也会产生这种错乱。
　　我每天早上醒来都问心有愧，有时睡裤潮湿污秽，因为梦中的情景不正经。我知道，母亲，还有我所尊敬的、为我施坚信礼的牧师以及我可以向其倾吐我童年时代秘密的姐姐，他们都不会责怪我，相反，他们会以一种慈爱的、关心的方式来安慰我。但对我来说，安慰比责怪更让我难受。特别不公平的是，如果不能在梦中被动他梦到那些情景，我就会主动地去想象。
　　我不知道，我哪儿来的勇气去了史密芝女士那儿。难道道德教育在一定程度上适得其反吗？如果贪婪的目光像肉欲的满足一样恶劣，如果主动想象和幻想行为一样下流的话，那么，为什么不选择肉欲的满足和幻想的行为呢？我一天比一天地清楚，我无法摆脱这种邪念。这样，我决定把邪念付诸行动。
　　我有一个顾虑，认为去她那儿一定会很危险。但实际上不可能发生这种危险。史密芝女士将会对我的出现表示惊讶，但她会欢迎我，听我为那天的反常行为向她道歉，然后和我友好地告别。不去才危险呢，不去我就会陷入危险的幻想中而不能自拔。去是对的，她的举止会很正常，我的举止也会很正常，一切都会重新正常起来。
　　就这样，我当时理智地把我的情欲变成了少见的道德考虑，而把内疚隐而不宣。但这并没有给我勇气去史密芝女士那儿。我想，母亲、尊敬的牧师还有姐姐在仔细考虑后不阻止我，反而鼓励我到她那儿去，这是一回事；真的到她那儿去却完全是另一回事。我不知道我为什么去了。现在，在当时发生的事情中我看到了一种模式，一种我的思想和行为始终都没有跳出的模式：凡事我先思考，然后得出一种结论，在做决定时坚持这种结论，然后才知道，做事有其自身的规律，它可能跟着决定走，但也可能不跟着它走。在我的一生中，我做了许多我没有决定去做的事，而有许多我决定去做的事却没去做。但不管做什么都在做。我去见了我不想再见到的女人，在审判长面前拼命地解释一些问题，尽管我决定戒烟了，而且也放弃了吸烟，但当我意识到我是个吸烟者并且想要保持这种状态时，我又继续吸烟了。我不是说思维和决定对行为没有影响，但行为并非总是按事先想好或已决定的那样发生。行为有它自己的方式，同样我的行为也有它自己独特的方式，就像我的思想就是我的思想，我的决定就是我的决定一样。
Part 1 Chapter 6
S HE WASN’T at home. The front door of the building stood ajar, so I went up the stairs, rang the bell, and waited. Then I rang again. Inside the apartment the doors were open, as I could see through the glass of the front door, and I could also make out the mirror, the wardrobe, and the clock in the hall. I could hear it ticking.
I sat down on the stairs and waited. I wasn’t relieved, the way you can sometimes be when you feel funny about a certain decision and afraid of the consequences and then relieved that you’ve managed to carry out the former without incurring the latter. Nor was I disappointed. I was determined to see her and to wait until she came.
The clock in the hall struck the quarter hour, then the half hour, then the hour. I tried to follow its soft ticking and to count the nine hundred seconds between one stroke and the next, but I kept losing track. The yard buzzed with the sound of the carpenter’s saws, the building echoed with voices or music from one of the apartments, and a door opened and closed. Then I heard slow, heavy, regular footsteps coming up the stairs. I hoped that whoever he was, he lived on the second floor. If he saw me—how would I explain what I was doing there? But the footsteps didn’t stop at the second floor. They kept coming. I stood up.
It was Frau Schmitz. In one hand she was carrying a coal scuttle, in the other a box of briquets. She was wearing a uniform jacket and skirt, and I realized that she was a streetcar conductor. She didn’t notice me until she reached the landing—she didn’t look annoyed, or surprised, or mocking—none of the things I had feared. She looked tired. When she put down the coke and was hunting in her jacket pocket for the key, coins fell out onto the floor. I picked them up and gave them to her.
“There are two more scuttles down in the cellar. Will you fill them and bring them up? The door’s open.”
I ran down the stairs. The door to the cellar was open, the light was on, and at the bottom of the long cellar stairs I found a bunker made of boards with the door on the latch and a loose padlock hanging from the open bolt. It was a large space, and the coke was piled all the way up to the ceiling hatch through which it had been poured from the street into the cellar. On one side of the door was a neat stack of briquets; on the other side were the coal scuttles.
I don’t know what I did wrong. At home I also fetched the coke from the cellar and never had any problems. But then the coke at home wasn’t piled so high. Filling the first scuttle went fine. As I picked up the second scuttle by the handles and tried to shovel the coke up off the floor, the mountain began to move. From the top little pieces started bouncing down while the larger ones followed more sedately; further down it all began to slide and there was a general rolling and shifting on the floor. Black dust rose in clouds. I stood there, frightened, as the lumps came down and hit me and soon I was up to my ankles in coke.
I got my feet out of the coke, filled the second scuttle, looked for a broom, and when I found it I swept the lumps that had rolled out into the main part of the cellar back into the bunker, latched the door, and carried the two scuttles upstairs.
She had taken off her jacket, loosened her tie and undone the top button, and was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of milk. She saw me, began to choke with laughter, and then let it out in full-throated peals. She pointed at me and slapped her other hand on the table. “Look at you, kid, just look at you!” Then I caught sight of my black face in the mirror over the sink, and laughed too.
“You can’t go home like that. I’ll run you a bath and beat the dust out of your clothes.” She went to the tub and turned on the faucet. The water ran steaming into the tub. “Take your clothes off carefully, I don’t need black dust all over the kitchen.”
I hesitated, took off my sweater and shirt, and hesitated again. The water was rising quickly and the tub was almost full.
“Do you want to take a bath in your shoes and pants? I won’t look, kid.” But when I had turned off the faucet and taken off my underpants, she looked me over calmly. I turned red, climbed into the tub, and submerged myself. When I came up again she was out on the balcony with my clothes. I heard her beating the shoes against each other and shaking out my pants and sweater. She called down something about coal dust and sawdust, someone called back up to her, and she laughed. Back in the kitchen, she put my things on the chair. Glancing quickly at me, she said, “Take the shampoo and wash your hair. I’ll bring a towel in a minute,” then took something out of the wardrobe, and left the kitchen.
I washed myself. The water in the tub was dirty and I ran in some fresh so that I could wash my head and face clean under the flow. Then I lay there, listening to the boiler roar, and feeling the cool air on my face as it came through the half-open kitchen door, and the warm water on my body. I was comfortable. It was an exciting kind of comfort and I got hard.
I didn’t look up when she came into the kitchen, until she was standing by the tub. She was holding a big towel in her outstretched arms. “Come!” I turned my back as I stood up and climbed out of the tub. From behind, she wrapped me in the towel from head to foot and rubbed me dry. Then she let the towel fall to the floor. I didn’t dare move. She came so close to me that I could feel her breasts against my back and her stomach against my behind. She was naked too. She put her arms around me, one hand on my chest and the other on my erection.
“That’s why you’re here!”
“I . . .” I didn’t know what to say. Not yes, but not no either. I turned around. I couldn’t see much of her, we were standing too close. But I was overwhelmed by the presence of her naked body. “You’re so beautiful!”
“Come on, kid, what are you talking about!” She laughed and wrapped her arms around my neck. I put my arms around her too.
I was afraid: of touching, of kissing, afraid I wouldn’t please her or satisfy her. But when we had held each other for a while, when I had smelled her smell and felt her warmth and her strength, everything fell into place. I explored her body with my hands and mouth, our mouths met, and then she was on top of me, looking into my eyes until I came and closed my eyes tight and tried to control myself and then screamed so loud that she had to cover my mouth with her hand to smother the sound.
　　她不在家，楼房的大门虚掩着。我上了楼梯，按了门铃，等在那儿。我又按了一遍。透过房门的玻璃我可以看到，屋子里的门没有关。我可以看到门廊里的镜子、衣架和挂钟，并听得见挂钟的滴答声。
　　我坐在楼梯上等，感觉并不轻松。如果一个人在做决定时感到软弱无力，如果他对后果感到恐惧，如果对他的决定得以实施，而且没有产生什么不良后果而感到高兴的话，那么，他会感觉如何呢？我也并没有感到失望，我决心见到她，一定等她回来。
　　门廊里的挂钟先后敲响了一刻钟、半点钟和整点钟的钟声。我数着钟摆轻轻的滴答声，从一次响声之后开始数，直数到下次响声的九百秒。但是，我的注意力总是被分散。院子里发出锯木头的刺耳尖叫声，楼道里可听得见从别的房间里传出来的说话声或音乐声。然后，我听见有人脚步均匀地、沉稳地、慢慢地上楼的声音。我希望他住在三楼，如果他看见我，我该怎样向他解释我在这儿做什么呢？但是，脚步声在三楼没有停下来而是继续往上走，我站了起来。
　　来人是史密芝女士，她一手提着焦炭篮，另一只手拎着煤球篓。她穿了一身制服，夹克衫和裙子，从着装上我看得出来，她是有轨电车售票员。直到走上楼梯平台，她才发现我。她看上去没有生气，没有惊奇，没有嘲笑，完全没有我所恐惧的样子。她看上去很疲惫。当她把煤篓子放下，在夹克衫兜里找钥匙的时候，硬币掉到了地上，我把它们抬起来交给她。
　　"楼下的地下室里还有两个篮子，能去把它们装满提上来吗？门是开着的。"
　　我跑到了楼下，地下室的门开着，里面的灯也亮着。在走了很长一段台阶后，到了地下室，看见了一间用木板隔开的房间，房门虚掩着，开着的环状锁挂在门闩上。房间很大，焦炭一直堆到了棚顶下的小窗那么高，焦炭就是从这个小窗口从街上倒进来的。在门的两边，一侧整齐地分层堆放着煤坯，另一侧摆放着煤篮子。
　　我不知道，我哪儿做错了。我在家里也从地下室里往上提煤，而且从来没出过什么问题，只不过我们家的煤没有堆得那么高。装第一篮子的时候还没有什么问题，当我提第二篮子准备往里装的时候，煤山开始晃动，从上面蹦蹦跳跳地滑落下来大大小小的煤块，在地下又堆成了一堆。黑色的煤灰像云雾一样散开，我愣在那儿，看着一个煤块接着一个煤块地往下掉，一会儿工夫，我的两脚就被埋在了煤堆里。
　　当煤山安静下来的时候，我从煤堆里迈了出来，把第二个篮子装满，找到一把扫帚，把地下室过道里的和木板间里的煤扫到了一起，锁上门，提着两个篮子上了楼。
　　她已经脱掉了夹克衫，领带也放松了，最上边的扣子也解开了，手里拿着一杯牛奶，坐在厨房里的桌子旁。她看到我的时候，先是咯咯地笑，接着就放声大笑。她一手指着我，另一只手敲着桌子："瞧瞧你什么样子，小家伙，瞧瞧你什么样子！"这时，从洗手池上面的镜子里，我也看到了自己的黑脸，我和她一起笑了起来。
　　"你不能这个样子回家，我给你放洗澡水，并把你的衣服打扫干净。"她走向浴盆，打开水龙头，水冒着热气哗哗地流进浴盆。"你脱衣服小心点儿，我的厨房里可不需要煤炭。"
　　我迟迟疑疑地脱掉了毛衣和衬衣之后，又犹豫起来。水涨得很快，浴盆几乎都满了。
　　"你想穿着鞋和裤子洗澡吗，小家伙？我不看的。"但是，当我把水龙头关掉并脱掉了内裤之后，她在静静地、仔细地打量着我。我脸红了，迈进了浴盆，潜在水里。当我从水里露出头的时候，她已经拿着我的东西在阳台上了。我听得见她把两只鞋子对着敲打着，我听得见她在抖着我的裤子和毛衣。她在向楼下喊着"煤灰"，底下的人也向上喊着"木屑"，她笑了。回到厨房后，她把我的东西放在了椅子上。她只是很快地向我瞥了一眼，"用点洗头膏，洗洗你的头发，我马上去拿浴巾。"她从衣柜里拿出了什么东西就离开了厨房。
　　我洗着，浴盆里的水脏了，我放着干净水，以便把头和脸冲干净。然后，我躺在那儿，听着热水器的轰鸣声，脸上感觉到从敞开一条缝的厨房门里流入的冷空气。身体泡在热水里，我感觉很舒服，舒服得令我兴奋，我的生殖器坚挺起来。
　　当她走进厨房时，我没有抬头，直到她走到浴盆前我才抬头。她张开双臂，手里拿着一条大浴巾："来！"当我站起身来迈出浴盆的时候，我背对着她。她用毛巾从后面把我围了起来，从头到脚给我擦干，然后她让浴巾滑落到地上。我不敢动，她站得离我如此之近，使我的后背感觉到了她的乳房，我的屁股感觉到了她的腹部。她也一丝不挂。她用双臂搂着我。
　　"你不就是为这个才来的吗！"
　　"我……"我不知道我该说什么，没有说不，也没有说是。我转过身来，没有看到她什么，我们站得太近了。但是，我被眼前她的裸体征服了。"你多美呀！""啊，小家伙，你在说什么呀！"她笑着用两手搂住了我的脖子，我也拥抱着她。
　　我害怕，怕抚摸，怕接吻，怕我不能令她满意，怕我满足不了她。但当我们拥抱了一会儿之后，我闻到了她的体味，感觉出她的体温和力量，一切就水到渠成了。我用手，用嘴探索着她的身体，最后吻到嘴。我双眼紧闭，起初还努力控制自己，接着就大声叫喊起来。我的叫声如此之大，她只好用手把我的嘴捂住。
Part 1 Chapter 7
T HE NEXT night I fell in love with her. I could barely sleep, I was yearning for her, I dreamed of her, thought I could feel her until I realized that I was clutching the pillow or the blanket. My mouth hurt from kissing. I kept getting erections, but I didn’t want to masturbate. I wanted to be with her.
Did I fall in love with her as the price for her having gone to bed with me? To this day, after spending the night with a woman, I feel I’ve been indulged and I must make it up somehow—to her by trying at least to love her, and to the world by facing up to it.
One of my few vivid recollections of early childhood has to do with a winter morning when I was four years old. The room I slept in at that time was unheated, and at night and first thing in the morning it was often very cold. I remember the warm kitchen and the hot stove, a heavy piece of iron equipment in which you could see the fire when you lifted out the plates and rings with a hook, and which always held a basin of hot water ready. My mother had pushed a chair up close to the stove for me to stand on while she washed and dressed me. I remember the wonderful feeling of warmth, and how good it felt to be washed and dressed in this warmth. I also remember that whenever I thought back to this afterwards, I always wondered why my mother had been spoiling me like this. Was I ill? Had my brothers and sisters been given something I hadn’t? Was there something coming later in the day that was nasty or difficult that I had to get through?
Because the woman who didn’t yet have a name in my mind had so spoiled me that afternoon, I went back to school the next day. It was also true that I wanted to show off my new manliness. Not that I would ever have talked about it. But I felt strong and superior, and I wanted to show off these feelings to the other kids and the teachers. Besides, I hadn’t talked to her about it but I assumed that being a streetcar conductor she often had to work evenings and nights. How would I see her every day if I had to stay home and wasn’t allowed to do anything except my convalescent walks?
When I came home from her, my parents and brother and sisters were already eating dinner. “Why are you so late? Your mother was worried about you.” My father sounded more annoyed than concerned.
I said that I’d lost my way, that I’d wanted to walk through the memorial garden in the cemetery to Molkenkur, but wandered around who knows where for a long time and ended up in Nussloch. “I had no money, so I had to walk home from Nussloch.”
“You could have hitched a ride.” My younger sister sometimes did this, but my parents disapproved.
My older brother snorted contemptuously. “Molkenkur and Nussloch are in completely opposite directions.”
My older sister gave me a hard look.
“I’m going back to school tomorrow.”
“So pay attention in Geography. There’s north and there’s south, and the sun rises . . .”
My mother interrupted my brother. “The doctor said another three weeks.”
“If he can get all the way across the cemetery to Nussloch and back, he can also go to school. It’s not his strength he’s lacking, it’s his brains.” As small boys, my brother and I beat up on each other constantly, and later we fought with words. He was three years older than me, and better at both. At a certain point I stopped fighting back and let his attacks dissipate into thin air. Since then he had confined himself to grousing at me.
“What do you think?” My mother turned to my father. He set his knife and fork down on his plate, leaned back, and folded his hands in his lap. He said nothing and looked thoughtful, the way he always did when my mother talked to him about the children or the household. As usual, I wondered whether he was really turning over my mother’s question in his mind, or whether he was thinking about work. Maybe he did try to think about my mother’s question, but once his mind started going, he could only think about work. He was a professor of philosophy, and thinking was his life—thinking and reading and writing and teaching.
Sometimes I had the feeling that all of us in his family were like pets to him. The dog you take for a walk, the cat you play with and that curls up in your lap, purring, to be stroked—you can be fond of them, you can even need them to a certain extent, and nonetheless the whole thing—buying pet food, cleaning up the cat box, and trips to the vet—is really too much. Your life is elsewhere. I wish that we, his family, had been his life. Sometimes I also wished that my grousing brother and my cheeky little sister were different. But that evening I suddenly loved them all. My little sister. It probably wasn’t easy being the youngest of four, and she needed to be cheeky just to hold her own. My older brother. We shared a bedroom, which must be even harder for him than it was for me, and on top of that, since I’d been ill he’d had to let me have the room to myself and sleep on the sofa in the living room. How could he not nag me? My father. Why should we children be his whole life? We were growing up and soon we’d be adults and out of the house.
I felt as if we were sitting all together for the last time around the round table under the five-armed, five-candled brass chandelier, as if we were eating our last meal off the old plates with the green vine-leaf border, as if we would never talk to each other so intimately again. I felt as if I were saying goodbye. I was still there and already gone. I was homesick for my mother and father and my brother and sisters, and I longed to be with the woman.
My father looked over at me. “ ‘I’m going back to school tomorrow’—that’s what you said, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” So he had noticed that it was him I’d asked and not my mother, and also that I had not said I was wondering whether I should go back to school or not.
He nodded. “Let’s have you go back to school. If it gets to be too much for you, you’ll just stay home again.”
I was pleased. And at the same time I felt I’d just said my final goodbyes.
　　在第二天夜里，我发现我爱上了她。我睡不实，想她，梦见她。我感觉我在抱着她，后来才发现我抱的是枕头或者被子。昨天把嘴都吻疼了。我想和她在一起。
　　她跟我睡觉是她对我爱她的回报吗？迄今为止，每与一个女人睡过一夜之后，我都会产生一种感觉：我被宠爱了，为此我必须要报答，以爱的方式报答她，报答我所处的世界。
　　儿童时代的事情我能记起的不多，但是，四岁时的一个冬日早晨仍让我记忆犹新。当时，我睡觉的房间没有暖气，夜里和早晨通常都很冷。我还记得暖烘烘的厨房里面生着一个笨重的铁炉子，上面总烧着一盆热水，如果把上面的圆形炉盖用钩子挪掉的话，就能看到红彤彤的火苗。在炉子前，我妈妈放了一把椅子，当她给我擦洗和穿衣服的时候，我站在上面。我还记得那种温暖舒服的感觉，记得在洗澡和穿衣时得到的温暖享受。我还记得，每当这种情形在记忆中出现时，我就会想，为什么我妈妈那样宠爱我，我生病了吗？我的兄弟姐妹得到了一些我所没有得到的东西吗？是否今天还有我必须要承受的不愉快和难办的事情在等着我？
　　也正是因为那个我不知道她叫什么名字的女人头一天下午对我如此宠爱，第二天我才又去上学了。此外，我想要显示一下我已具备的男子汉气。我自觉强健有力，比别人都强。我想把我的这种强健有力和优越感展示给学校的同学和老师们看。再有，尽管我和她没有谈到过，但我想象得出，一个有轨电车的售票员会经常工作到晚上和夜里。如果只允许我呆在家里，为了康复而散散步的话，那么我怎么能够每天都见到她呢？
　　当我从她那儿回到家的时候，我的父母和兄弟姐妹已经在吃晚饭了。"你为什么这么晚才回来？你妈妈都为你担心了。"我爸爸的口气听上去与其说是担忧，倒不如说是生气。
　　我说，我迷路了。我本打算从荣誉陵园散步到慕垦库尔，但走来走去，最终却走到了挪施涝赫，我身上没带钱，只好从挪施涝赫走回来。
　　"你可以搭车吗！"我妹妹偶尔搭车，但我父母不允许她这样做。
　　我哥哥对我的话嗤之以鼻："慕垦库尔和挪施涝赫根本就不在同一个方向。"
　　我姐姐也审视地看着我。
　　"我明天想去上学。"
　　"那么好好学学地理，分清东南西北，而且，太阳在…•"
　　我母亲打断了我哥哥的话："医生说还要三周。"
　　"如果他能从荣誉陵园走到挪施涝赫，并从那儿又走回来，那他也能去上学。他缺的不是体力，而是聪明才智。"我和我哥哥小的时候就经常打架，后来大了就斗嘴。他比我大三岁，在各方面都比我占优势，不知从什么时候起，我停止了反击，让他的好斗行为找不到对手。从此，他也只能发发牢骚而已。
　　"你看呢？"我妈妈转向了我爸爸。他把刀叉放到了盘子上，身子靠在椅背上，两手放在大腿上。他没有说话，看上去在沉思。就像妈妈每次问他关于孩子们的情况或家务事时一样，就像每次一样，我心里都在想，他是否真的在想妈妈的问题还是在思考他的工作。也许，他也想去思考妈妈的问题，可他一旦陷入沉思，那么他所思考的无非就是他的工作了。他是哲学教授，思考是他的生命，他的生命就是思考、阅读、写作和教学。
　　有时候，我有一种感觉，我们——也就是他的家庭成员——对他来说就像家庭宠物一样，就像可以和人一道散步的狗、跟人玩耍的猫——蜷缩在人的怀里、一边发着呼噜声一边让人轻轻抚摸的猫。家庭宠物可能对人挺有好处，人们在一定程度上甚至需要它们，但是，买食料，打扫粪便，看兽医，这又未免太多了，因为，生活本身不在这儿。我非常希望，我们——也就是他的家庭，应当是他的生命。有时，我也真希望我那爱抱怨的哥哥和调皮的妹妹不是这样子。但是，那天晚上，我突然觉得他们都非常可爱。我妹妹：她是四个孩子中最小的一个，大概最小的也不太好当，她不调皮捣蛋就不行。我哥哥：我们住在一个房间，他一定比我觉得更不方便。此外，自从我生病后，他必须把房间彻底让给我，而在客厅的沙发上睡觉，他怎能不抱怨呢？我父亲：为什么我们这些孩子该成为他的生活呢？我们很快就会长大成人，离开这个家。
　　我感觉，这好像是我们最后一次一起围坐在上面吊着麦芯产的五蕊灯的圆桌旁，好像是我们最后一次用带有绿边的老盘子吃饭，好像是我们最后一次相互信任地交谈。我感觉，我们好像是在告别。我人虽在，但心已飞了。我一方面渴望与父母和兄弟姐妹在一起，另一方面，我也渴望和那个女人在一起。
　　我爸爸看着我说："'我明天要上学。'你是这样说的，对吗？"
　　"是的。"他注意到，我问的是他，而不是妈妈，而且这之前也没有提到过。我在想，我明天是否该上学。
　　他点头说："我们让你去上学，如果你觉得受不了的话，那就再呆在家里。"
　　我很高兴，同时也感到，现在和他们告别过了。
Part 1 Chapter 8
F OR THE next few days, the woman was working the early shift. She came home at noon, and I cut my last class every day so as to be waiting for her on the landing outside her apartment. We showered and made love, and just before half past one I scrambled into my clothes and ran out the door. Lunch was at one-thirty. On Sundays lunch was at noon, but her early shift also started and ended later.
I would have preferred to skip the shower. She was scrupulously clean, she showered every morning, and I liked the smell of perfume, fresh perspiration, and streetcar that she brought with her from work. But I also liked her wet, soapy body; I liked to let her soap me and I liked to soap her, and she taught me not to do it bashfully, but with assurance and possessive thoroughness. When we made love, too, she took possession of me as a matter of course. Her mouth took mine, her tongue played with my tongue, she told me where to touch her and how, and when she rode me until she came, I was there only because she took pleasure in me and on me. I don’t mean to say that she lacked tenderness and didn’t give me pleasure. But she did it for her own playful enjoyment, until I learned to take possession of her too.
That came later. I never completely mastered it. And for a long time I didn’t miss it. I was young, and I came quickly, and when I slowly came back alive again afterwards, I liked to have her take possession of me. I would look at her when she was on top of me, her stomach which made a deep crease above her navel, her breasts, the right one the tiniest bit larger than the left, her face and open mouth. She would lean both hands against my chest and throw them up at the last moment, as she gave a toneless sobbing cry that frightened me the first time, and that later I eagerly awaited.
Afterwards we were exhausted. She often fell asleep on top of me. I would listen to the saws in the yard and the loud cries of the workers who operated them and had to shout to make themselves heard. When the saws fell silent, the sound of the traffic echoed faintly in the kitchen. When I heard children calling and playing, I knew that school was out and that it was past one o’clock. The neighbor who came home at lunchtime scattered birdseed on his balcony, and the doves came and cooed.
“What’s your name?” I asked her on the sixth or seventh day. She had fallen asleep on me and was just waking up. Until then I avoided saying anything to her that required me to choose either the formal or the familiar form of address.
She stared. “What?”
“What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?” She looked at me suspiciously.
“You and I . . . I know your last name, but not your first. I want to know your first name. What’s the matter with . . .”
She laughed. “Nothing, kid, there’s nothing wrong with that. My name is Hanna.” She kept on laughing, didn’t stop, and it was contagious.
“You looked at me so oddly.”
“I was still half asleep. What’s yours?”
I thought she knew. At that time it was the in thing not to carry your schoolbooks in a bag but under your arm, and when I put them on her kitchen table, my name was on the front. But she hadn’t paid any attention to them.
“My name is Michael Berg.”
“Michael, Michael, Michael.” She tried out the name. “My kid’s called Michael, he’s in college.”
“In high school.”
“In high school, he’s what, seventeen?”
I was proud at the two extra years she’d given me, and nodded.
“He’s seventeen and when he grows up he wants to be a famous . . .” She hesitated.
“I don’t know what I want to be.”
“But you study hard.”
“Sort of.” I told her she was more important to me than school and my studies. And I wished I were with her more often. “I’ll have to repeat a class in any case.”
“What class?” It was the first real conversation we’d had with each other.
“Tenth grade. I’ve missed too much in the last months while I was ill. If I still wanted to move up next year I’d have to work like an idiot. I’d also have to be in school right now.” I told her I was cutting classes.
“Out.” She threw back the coverlet. “Get out of my bed. And if you don’t want to do your work, don’t come back. Your work is idiotic? Idiotic? What do you think selling and punching tickets is?” She got out of bed, stood naked in the kitchen being a conductor. With her left hand she opened the little holder with the blocks of tickets, using her left thumb, covered with a rubber thimble, to pull off two tickets, flipped her right hand to get hold of the punch that hung from her wrist, and made two holes. “Two to Rohrbach.” She dropped the punch, reached out her hand for a bill, opened the purse at her waist, put the money in, snapped it shut again, and squeezed the change out of the coin holder that was attached to it. “Who still doesn’t have a ticket?” She looked at me. “Idiotic—you don’t know what idiotic is.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. I was stunned. “I’m sorry. I’ll do my work. I don’t know if I’ll make it, school only has another six weeks to go. I’ll try. But I won’t get through it if I can’t see you anymore.” I . . .” At first I wanted to say, I love you. But then I didn’t. Maybe she was right, of course she was right. But she had no right to demand that I do more at school, and make that the condition for our seeing each other again. “I can’t not see you.”
The clock in the hall struck one-thirty. “You have to go.” She hesitated. “From tomorrow on I’m working the main shift. I’ll be home at five-thirty and you can come. Provided you work first.”
We stood facing each other naked, but she couldn’t have seemed more dismissive if she’d had on her uniform. I didn’t understand what was going on. Was she thinking of me? Or of herself? If my schoolwork is idiotic, that makes her work even more so—that’s what upset her? But I hadn’t ever said that my work or hers was idiotic. Or was it that she didn’t want a failure for a lover? But was I her lover? What was I to her? I dressed, dawdling, and hoped she would say something. But she said nothing. Then I had all my clothes on and she was still standing there naked, and as I kissed her goodbye, she didn’t respond.
　　在随后的几天里，那个女人上早班，十二点钟回家。我一天接一天地逃掉最后一节课，为的是坐在她房门前的楼梯台阶上等她。我们淋浴，我们做爱，快到一点半的时候，我匆匆地穿上衣服，快速离开。我们家一点半吃午饭。周日十二点就吃午饭，而她的早班上得晚，结束得也晚。
　　我宁愿放弃淋浴，可她干净得过分，早晨起来就淋浴。我喜欢闻她身上的香水味、新鲜的汗味，还有她从工作中带回来的有轨电车味。我也喜欢她湿淋淋的、打了香皂的身子，也乐意让她给我身上打香皂，也乐意给她打香皂。她教我不要难为情，而要理所当然地、彻底地去占有她。当我们做爱时，她也理所当然地采取占有我的做法，因为她在和我做爱，在从我身上获得情欲的满足。我不是说她不温柔，也不是说我没有得到乐趣。但在我学会去占有她之前，她只是顾及她的感受和乐趣。
　　学会占有她，那是以后的事——但我从未做到完全学会，因为我很久都觉得没有这种必要。我年轻，很快就能达到高潮。当我的体力慢慢恢复后，我又接着和她做爱。她把两手支撑在我的胸上，在最后一刻使劲抓我，抬起头猛地发出一种轻轻的抽咽般的喊叫声。第一次，我被她的这种叫声吓坏了，后来我开始渴望地期盼听到她的这种声音。
　　之后，我们都精疲力尽了。她经常躺在我怀里就睡着了，我听着院子里的锯木声和淹没在锯木声中的工人们的大喊大叫声。当听不到锯木声的时候，火车站街上微弱的交通嘈杂声就传入了厨房。当我听见孩子们的喊叫声、玩耍声时，我就知道学校已放学，已过一点钟了。中午回家的邻居在阳台上给鸟儿撒上鸟食，鸽子飞来，咕咕地叫着。
　　"你叫什么名字？"在第六天或第七天的时候，我问她。她在我怀里刚刚睡醒。这之前我一直避免用"你"和"您"来称呼她。
　　她一下子跳起来说："什么？"
　　"你叫什么名字？"
　　"你为什么想知道？"她满脸不信任地看着我说。
　　"你和我……我知道你姓什么，但不知道你叫什么。我想知道你的名字，这有什么……"
　　她笑了："没什么，小家伙，这没什么不对的。我叫汉娜。"她接着笑，止不住地笑，把我都感染了。
　　"你刚才看我时的表情很奇怪。"
　　"我还没睡醒呢。你叫什么名字？"
　　我以为她知道我的名字。当时时兴的是把上学用的东西不放在书包里，而是夹在腋下。当我把它们放在厨房桌子上时，我的名字都是朝上的，在作业本上和用很结实的纸包的书皮的课本上都贴上了小标签，上面写着课本的名称和我的名字，但是，她却从未注意这些。
　　"我叫米夏尔•白格。"
　　"米夏尔，米夏尔，米夏尔。"她试着叫着这个名字。
　　"我的小家伙叫米夏尔，是个大学生……"
　　"中学生。"
　　"……是个中学生，有……多大，十七岁？"
　　我点点头，她把我说大两岁，我感到很自豪。
　　"……十七岁了，当他长大的时候，想当一个著名的……"她犹豫着。
　　"我不知道我要当什么。"
　　"但你学习很用功。"
　　"就那么回事吧。"我对她说，她对我来说比学习和上学还重要，我更愿意经常地到她那儿去。"反正我得留级。"
　　"你在哪儿留级？"她坐了起来，这是我们之间第一次真正地交谈。
　　"高一。在过去的几个月里，由于生病我落下的课程太多了。如果我要跟班上的话，就必须用功学。这真无聊。就是现在也应该呆在学校里。"我告诉了她我逃学的事儿。
　　"滚！"她掀开鸭绒被子，"从我的床上滚出去2如果你的功课做不好的话，就再也别来了。学习无聊？无聊？你以为卖票、验票是什么有趣的事吗？"她站起来，一丝不挂地在厨房里表演起售票员来。她用左手把装票本的小夹子打开，用戴着胶皮套的大拇指撕下两张票，右手一摇就把挂在右手腕上来回摇摆着的剪票钳子抓在了手里，喀喀两下说："两张若坝河。"她放下剪票钳子，伸出手来，拿了一张纸票，打开放在肚子前的钱夹把钱放了进去，再关上钱夹，从钱夹外层放硬币的地方挤出了零钱。"谁还没有票？"她看着我说："无聊，你知道什么是无聊。"
　　我坐在床沿上，呆若水鸡。"很抱歉，我会跟班上课的，我不知道我能不能跟上，还有六周这个学期就要结束了。我要试试。可是，如果你不允许我再见到你的话，我就做不到。我……"起初我想说"我爱你"，但是又不想说了。也许她说的有道理，有一定的道理。但是，她没有权利要求我去做更多的功课，也没有权利把我做功课的情况作为我们能否相见的条件。"我不能不见你。"
　　过廊里的挂钟敲响了一点半的钟声。"你必须走了，"她犹豫着，"从明天起我上白班，五点钟就上班，下了班我就回家，你也可以来，如果在这之前你把功课做好的话。"
　　我们一丝不挂地、面对面地站在那儿。她对我来说是不可抗拒的，如果她穿着工作制服，其不可抗拒性也不过如此。我弄不明白所发生的事情。这到底是关系到我，还是关系到她？如果说我的功课无聊话，那么她的工作才是真正的无聊，这样说是对她的一种伤害吗？不过，我并没说谁做的事情无聊。或许她不想让一个功课不好的人做她的情人？可是我是她的情人吗？我对她来说算什么呢？我磨磨蹭蹭地在穿衣服，希望她能说点什么，可她什么都没说。我穿好了衣服，她仍就一丝不挂地站在那儿。当我和她拥抱告别时，她一点反应都没有。
Part 1 Chapter 9
W HY DOES it make me so sad when I think back to that time? Is it yearning for past happiness—for I was happy in the weeks that followed, in which I really did work like a lunatic and passed the class, and we made love as if nothing else in the world mattered. Is it the knowledge of what came later, and that what came out afterwards had been there all along?
Why? Why does what was beautiful suddenly shatter in hindsight because it concealed dark truths? Why does the memory of years of happy marriage turn to gall when our partner is revealed to have had a lover all those years? Because such a situation makes it impossible to be happy? But we were happy! Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily. Because happiness is only real if it lasts forever? Because things always end painfully if they contained pain, conscious or unconscious, all along? But what is unconscious, unrecognized pain?
I think back to that time and I see my former self. I wore the well-cut suits which had come down to me from a rich uncle, now dead, along with several pairs of two-tone shoes, black and brown, black and white, suede and calf. My arms and legs were too long, not for the suits, which my mother had let down for me, but for my own movements. My glasses were a cheap over-the-counter pair and my hair a tangled mop, no matter what I did. In school I was neither good nor bad; I think that many of the teachers didn’t really notice me, nor did the students who dominated the class. I didn’t like the way I looked, the way I dressed and moved, what I achieved and what I felt I was worth. But there was so much energy in me, such belief that one day I’d be handsome and clever and superior and admired, such anticipation when I met new people and new situations. Is that what makes me sad? The eagerness and belief that filled me then and exacted a pledge from life that life could never fulfill? Sometimes I see the same eagerness and belief in the faces of children and teenagers and the sight brings back the same sadness I feel in remembering myself. Is this what sadness is all about? Is it what comes over us when beautiful memories shatter in hindsight because the remembered happiness fed not just on actual circumstances but on a promise that was not kept?
She—I should start calling her Hanna, just as I started calling her Hanna back then—she certainly didn’t nourish herself on promises, but was rooted in the here and now.
I asked her about her life, and it was as if she rummaged around in a dusty chest to get me the answers. She had grown up in a German community in Rumania, then come to Berlin at the age of sixteen, taken a job at the Siemens factory, and ended up in the army at twenty-one. Since the end of the war, she had done all manner of jobs to get by. She had been a streetcar conductor for several years; what she liked about the job was the uniform and the constant motion, the changing scenery and the wheels rolling under her feet. But that was all she liked about it. She had no family. She was thirty-six. She told me all this as if it were not her life but somebody else’s, someone she didn’t know well and who wasn’t important to her. Things I wanted to know more about had vanished completely from her mind, and she didn’t understand why I was interested in what had happened to her parents, whether she had had brothers and sisters, how she had lived in Berlin and what she’d done in the army. “The things you ask, kid!”
It was the same with the future—of course I wasn’t hammering out plans for marriage and future. But I identified more with Julien Sorel’s relationship with Madame de Renal than his one with Mathilde de la Mole. I was glad to see Felix Krull end up in the arms of the mother rather than the daughter. My sister, who was studying German literature, delivered a report at the dinner table about the controversy as to whether Mr. von Goethe and Madame von Stein had had a relationship, and I vigorously defended the idea, to the bafflement of my family. I imagined how our relationship might be in five or ten years. I asked Hanna how she imagined it. She didn’t even want to think ahead to Easter, when I wanted to take a bicycle trip with her during the vacation. We could get a room together as mother and son, and spend the whole night together.
Strange that this idea and suggesting it were not embarrassing to me. On a trip with my mother I would have fought to get a room of my own. Having my mother with me when I went to the doctor or to buy a new coat or to be picked up by her after a trip seemed to me to be something I had outgrown. If we went somewhere together and we ran into my schoolmates, I was afraid they would think I was a mama’s boy. But to be seen with Hanna, who was ten years younger than my mother but could have been my mother, didn’t bother me. It made me proud.
When I see a woman of thirty-six today, I find her young. But when I see a boy of fifteen, I see a child. I am amazed at how much confidence Hanna gave me. My success at school got my teachers’ attention and assured me of their respect. The girls I met noticed and liked it that I wasn’t afraid of them. I felt at ease in my own body.
The memory that illuminates and fixes my first meetings with Hanna makes a single blur of the weeks between our first conversation and the end of the school year. One reason for that is we saw each other so regularly and our meetings always followed the same course. Another is that my days had never been so full and my life had never been so swift and so dense. When I think about the work I did in those weeks, it’s as if I had sat down at my desk and stayed there until I had caught up with everything I’d missed during my hepatitis, learned all the vocabulary, read all the texts, worked through all the theorems and memorized the periodic table. I had already done the reading about the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich while I was in my sickbed. And I remember our meetings in those weeks as one single long meeting. After our conversation, they were always in the afternoon: if she was on the late shift, then from three to four-thirty, otherwise until five-thirty. Dinner was at seven, and at first Hanna forced me to be home on time. But after a while an hour and a half was not enough, and I began to think up excuses to miss dinner.
It all happened because of reading aloud. The day after our conversation, Hanna wanted to know what I was learning in school. I told her about Homer, Cicero, and Hemingway’s story about the old man and his battle with the fish and the sea. She wanted to hear what Greek and Latin sounded like, and I read to her from the Odyssey and the speeches against Cataline.
“Are you also learning German?”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you only learn foreign languages, or is there still stuff you have to learn in your own?”
“We read texts.” While I was sick, the class had read Emilia Galotti and Intrigues and Love, and there was an essay due on them. So I had to read both, which I did after finishing everything else. By then it was late, and I was tired, and next day I’d forgotten it all and had to start all over again.
“So read it to me!”
“Read it yourself, I’ll bring it for you.”
“You have such a nice voice, kid, I’d rather listen to you than read it myself.”
“Oh, come on.”
But next day when I arrived and wanted to kiss her, she pulled back. “First you have to read.”
She was serious. I had to read Emilia Galotti to her for half an hour before she took me into the shower and then to bed. Now I enjoyed showering too—the desire I felt when I arrived had got lost as I read aloud to her. Reading a play out loud so that the various characters are more or less recognizable and come to life takes a certain concentration. Lust reasserted itself under the shower. So reading to her, showering with her, making love to her, and lying next to her for a while afterwards—that became the ritual in our meetings.
She was an attentive listener. Her laugh, her sniffs of contempt, and her angry or enthusiastic remarks left no doubt that she was following the action intently, and that she found both Emilia and Luise to be silly little girls. Her impatience when she sometimes asked me to go on reading seemed to come from the hope that all this imbecility would eventually play itself out. “Unbelievable!” Sometimes this made even me eager to keep reading. As the days grew longer, I read longer, so that I could be in bed with her in the twilight. When she had fallen asleep lying on me, and the saw in the yard was quiet, and a blackbird was singing as the colors of things in the kitchen dimmed until nothing remained of them but lighter and darker shades of gray, I was completely happy.
　　为什么一想起过去我就很伤心？这是一种对过去幸福时光的怀念吗？——在随后的几周里，我的确很幸福愉快，我拼命地用功学习而没有留级；我们相亲相爱，仿佛世界上只有我俩。还是由于我后来知道了事实真相？
　　为什么？为什么对我们来说那么美好的东西竟在回忆中被那些隐藏的丑恶变得支离破碎？为什么对一段幸福婚姻的回忆在发现另一方多年来竟还有一个情人之后会变得痛苦不堪？是因为人在这种情况下无幸福可言吗？但是他们曾经是幸福的！有时候人们对幸福的回忆大打折扣，如果结局令人痛苦。是因为只有持久的幸福才称得上幸福吗？是因为不自觉的和没有意识到的痛苦一定要痛苦地了结吗？可什么又是不自觉和没有意识到的痛苦呢？
　　我回想着过去，眼前出现了当时的我自己。我穿着一套讲究的西服，那是我一位富有的叔叔的遗物，它和几双有两种颜色的皮鞋——黑色和棕色、黑色和白色、生皮和软皮，一起传到了我手里。我的胳膊和腿都很长，穿妈妈为我放大的任何制服都不合身。我胳膊腿不是为穿衣长的，而是为动作协调长的。我的眼镜的式样是疾病保险公司所支付的那种，价钱最便宜。我的头发是那种蓬松型，我可以随心所欲地梳理它。在学校里，我的功课不好不坏。我相信，许多老师没有把我当回事，班里的好学生也没把我放在眼里。我不喜欢我的长相，不喜欢我的穿戴举止，不满我的现状，对别人对我的评价不屑一顾。希望有朝一日变得英俊聪明，超过其他人，让他们羡慕我。不过，我有多少精力，多少信心？我还能期待遇到什么新人和新情况呢！
　　是这些令我伤感吗？还是我当时的勤奋努力和内心所充满的信念令我伤感？我的信念是对生活的一种承诺，一种无法兑现的承诺。有时候，我在儿童和青少年的脸上能看到这种勤奋和信念。我看到它们时，我感到伤感，一种令我想起自己的过去的伤感。这是一种绝对的伤感吗？当一段美好的回忆变得支离破碎时，我们就一定伤感吗？因为被追忆的幸福不仅仅存在于当时的现实生活中，也存在于当时没有履行的诺言中？
　　她——从现在起我应叫她汉娜，就像我当时开始叫她汉娜一样，她当然不是生活在承诺中，而是生活在现实中，仅仅生活在现实中。
　　我问过她的过去，她的回答仿佛像从布满灰尘的老箱子里折腾出来的东西一样没有新意。她在七座堡长大，十七岁去了柏林，曾是西门子公司的一名女工，二十一岁时去当了兵。战争结束以后，所有可能的工作她都做过。有轨电车售票员的工作，她已经干了几年了，她喜欢那套制服和这种往返运动，喜欢变换的风景还有脚下车轮的转动。除此之外，她并不喜欢这份工作。三十六岁了，仍没有成家。她讲述这些的时候，仿佛讲的不是她自己的生活，而是另外一个她不熟悉、与她无关的人的生活。我想详细知道的事情，她往往都不记得了。她也不理解我为什么对诸如此类的问题感兴趣：她父母从事什么职业？她是否有兄弟姐妹？她在柏林是怎样生活的？她当兵时都做了什么？"你都想知道些什么呀！小家伙。"
　　她对未来的态度也是如此。当然，我没有想结婚组建家庭的计划。但是，相对而言，我对朱连•索雷尔与雷娜尔的关系比他与马蒂尔德•德拉莫尔的关系更为同情。我知道，腓力斯•科鲁尔最后不愿在他女儿的怀里，而愿在他母亲的怀里死去。我姐姐是学日耳曼学的，她曾在饭桌上讲述过关于歌德和施泰因夫人的暧昧关系的争论。我强词夺理地为他．们辩护，这令全家人感到震惊。我设想过我们的关系在五年或十年之后会是什么样子。我问汉娜她是怎么想的，她说她甚至连复活节的事都还没想。我们曾商定，复活节放假时，我和她骑自行车出去。这样，我们就可以以母子身份住在一个房间里，可以整夜呆在一起了。
　　我的设想和建议很少有不令我痛苦的时候。有一次和妈妈一起度假，我本想为自己力争一个单间。由妈妈陪着去看医生，或者去买一件新大衣，或者旅行回来由她去接站，这些我觉得都已与我的年龄不相称了。如果和妈妈在路上遇到同学的话，我害怕他们把我当做妈妈的宝贝儿子。尽管汉娜比我妈妈年轻十岁，可也够做我妈妈的年龄了。不过，和她在一起，我不但不怕别人看见，反而还为此感到自豪。
　　如果现在我见到一个三十六岁的女人，我会认为她很年轻，但是，如果我现在看到一个十五岁的男孩，我会认为他还是个孩子。汉娜给了我那么多自信，这使我感到惊讶。我在学校取得的成绩引起了老师们的注意，他们已对我刮目相看。我接触的女孩们也察觉到，我在她们面前不再胆怯，她们也喜欢我这样。我感到惬意。
　　我对与汉娜最初的相遇记忆犹新，当时的情景历历在目，这使得我对后来发生的事情，即从我与她的那次谈话到学年结束之前的那几周内发生的事情，反而记不清了。其中原因之一，是我们见面、分手都太有规律了。另一个原因是，在此之前，我从未有过这么忙碌的日子，我的生活节奏还从本这么快过，生活从未这么充实过。如果我回想我在那几周内所做的功课的话，我仿佛感觉到我又坐在写字台旁，而且一直坐在那儿，直到把我生病期间所落下的功课都赶上为止。我学了所有的生词，念了所有的课文，证明了所有的数学习题，连接了所有的化学关系。关于魏玛共和国和第三帝国，我在医院的病床上就读过了。还有我们的约会，在我的记忆中，这时约会的时间持续最长。自我们那次谈话之后，我们总是在下午见面。如果她上晚班的话，就从三点到四点半，否则就到五点半。七点钟开晚饭。开始时，她还催我准时回家，可是，过了一段时间以后，我就不止呆一个半小时了，我开始找借口放弃吃晚饭。
　　这是由于要朗读的缘故。在我们交谈之后的第二天，汉娜想知道我在学校都学什么。于是，我向她讲述了荷马史诗、西塞罗的演讲和海明威的《老人与海》的故事——老人怎样与鱼、与海搏斗。她想知道希腊语和拉丁语听起来是什么样。我给她朗读了《奥德赛》中的一段和反对卡塔琳娜的演讲。
　　"你还学德语吗？"
　　"你是什么意思？"
　　"你是只学外语呢，还是自己的本国语言也有要学？"
　　"我们念课文。"我生病期间，我们班读了《爱米丽雅•葛洛获》和《阴谋与爱情》。这之后，我们要写一篇读后感。这样，我还要补读这两本书。我每次都是在做完其他作业之后才开始阅读它们。这样，当我开始阅读时，时间就已经很晚了，我也很累了，读过的东西第二天就全忘记了，我必须重读一遍。
　　"读给我听听！"
　　"你自己读吧，我把它给你带来。"
　　"小家伙，你的声音特别好听，我宁愿听你朗读而不愿自己去读。"
　　"是吗？原来如此？"
　　第二天，我仍去她那儿。当我想亲吻她时，她却躲开了："你得先给我朗读！"
　　她是认真的。在她让我淋浴和上床之前，我要为她朗读半个小时的《爱米丽雅•葛洛获》。现在我也喜欢淋浴了。我来时的性欲，在朗读时都消失了，因为朗读一段课文时要绘声绘色地把不同的人物形象表现出来，这需要集中精力。淋浴时，我的性欲又来了。朗读、淋浴、做爱，然后在一起躺一会儿，这已成了我们每次约会的例行公事。
　　她是个注意力集中的听众，她的笑，她的嗤之以鼻，她的愤怒或者是赞赏的惊呼，都毫无疑问地表明，她紧张地跟踪着情节。她认为爱米丽雅像露伊莎一样都是愚蠢的、没有教养的女孩。她有时迫不及待地求我继续念下去，这是由于她希望这段愚蠢的故事应该早点结束。"怎么会有这种事呢／有时我自己也渴望读下去。当天变长的时候，我读的时间也长些，为的是在黄昏时才与她上床。当她在我怀里入睡，院子里的锯木声沉默下来，乌鸦在唱歌，厨房里也只剩下越来越淡的和越来越黯的颜色时，我也沉浸在无限幸福之中。
Part 1 Chapter 10
O N THE first day of Easter vacation, I got up at four. Hanna was working the early shift. She rode her bicycle to the streetcar depot at a quarter past four and was on the streetcar to Schwetzingen at four-thirty. On the way out, she’d told me, the streetcar was often empty. It only filled up on the return journey.
I got on at the second stop. The second car was empty; Hanna was standing in the first car close to the driver. I debated whether I should sit in the first or the second car, and decided on the second. It promised privacy, a hug, a kiss. But Hanna didn’t come. She must have seen that I had been waiting at the stop and had got on. That’s why the streetcar had stopped. But she stayed up with the driver, talking and joking. I could see them.
The streetcar passed one stop after another. No one was waiting to get on. The streets were empty. It was not yet sunrise, and under a colorless sky everything lay pale in the pale light: buildings, parked cars, the new leaves on the trees and first flowers on the shrubs, the gas tank, and the mountains in the distance. The streetcar was moving slowly; presumably the schedule was based both on stopping times and on the time between each stop, and so the speed of travel had to be slowed down when there were no actual stops. I was imprisoned in the slow-moving car. At first I sat, then I went and stood on the front platform and tried to impale Hanna with my stare; I wanted her to feel my eyes in her back. After some time she turned around and glanced at me. Then she went on talking to the driver. The journey continued. Once we’d passed Eppelheim the rails were no longer in the surface of the road, but laid alongside on a graveled embankment. The car accelerated, with the regular clackety-clack of a train. I knew that this stretch continued through various places and ended up in Schwetzingen. But I felt rejected, exiled from the real world in which people lived and worked and loved. It was as if I were condemned to ride forever in an empty car to nowhere.
Then I saw another stop, a shelter in the middle of open country. I pulled the cord the conductors used to signal the driver to stop or start. The streetcar stopped. Neither Hanna nor the driver looked back at me when they heard the bell. As I got off, I thought they were looking at me and laughing. But I wasn’t sure. Then the streetcar moved on, and I looked after it until it headed down into a dip and disappeared behind a hill. I was standing between the embankment and the road, there were fields around me, and fruit trees, and further on a nursery with greenhouses. The air was cool, and filled with the twittering of birds. Above the mountains the pale sky shone pink.
The trip on the streetcar had been like a bad dream. If I didn’t remember its epilogue so vividly, I would actually be tempted to think of it as a bad dream. Standing at the streetcar stop, hearing the birds and watching the sun come up was like an awakening. But waking from a bad dream does not necessarily console you. It can also make you fully aware of the horror you just dreamed, and even of the truth residing in that horror. I set off towards home in tears, and couldn’t stop crying until I reached Eppelheim.
I walked all the way back. I tried more than once to hitch a ride. When I was halfway there, the streetcar passed me. It was full. I didn’t see Hanna.
I was waiting for her on the landing outside her apartment at noon, miserable, anxious, and furious.
“Are you cutting school again?”
“I’m on vacation. What was going on this morning?”
She unlocked the door and I followed her into the apartment and into the kitchen.
“What do you mean, what was going on this morning?”
“Why did you behave as if you didn’t know me? I wanted . . .”
“I behaved as if I didn’t know you?” She turned around and stared at me coldly. “You didn’t want to know me. Getting into the second car when you could see I was in the first.”
“Why would I get up at four-thirty on my first day of vacation to ride to Schwetzingen? Just to surprise you, because I thought you’d be happy. I got into the second car . . .”
“You poor baby. Up at four-thirty, and on your vacation too.”
I had never seen her sarcastic before. She shook her head.
“How should I know why you’re going to Schwetzingen? How should I know why you choose not to know me? It’s your business, not mine. Would you leave now?”
I can’t describe how furious I was. “That’s not fair, Hanna. You knew, you had to know that I only got in the car to be with you. How can you believe I didn’t want to know you? If I didn’t, I would not have got on at all.”
“Oh, leave me alone. I already told you, what you do is your business, not mine.” She had moved so that the kitchen table was between us; everything in her look, her voice, and her gestures told me I was an intruder and should leave.
I sat down on the sofa. She had treated me badly and I had wanted to call her on it. But I hadn’t got through to her. Instead, she was the one who’d attacked me. And I became uncertain. Could she be right, not objectively, but subjectively? Could she have, must she have misunderstood me? Had I hurt her, unintentionally, against my will, but hurt her anyway?
“I’m sorry, Hanna. Everything went wrong. I didn’t mean to upset you, but it looks . . .”
“It looks? You think it looks like you upset me? You don’t have the power to upset me. And will you please go, finally? I’ve been working, I want to take a bath, and I want a little peace.” She looked at me commandingly. When I didn’t get up, she shrugged, turned around, ran water into the tub, and took off her clothes.
Then I stood up and left. I thought I was leaving for good. But half an hour later I was back at her door. She let me in, and I said the whole thing was my fault. I had behaved thoughtlessly, inconsiderately, unlovingly. I understood that she was upset. I understood that she wasn’t upset because I couldn’t upset her. I understood that I couldn’t upset her, but that she simply couldn’t allow me to behave that way to her. In the end, I was happy that she admitted I’d hurt her.
So she wasn’t as unmoved and uninvolved as she’d been making out, after all.
“Do you forgive me?”
She nodded.
“Do you love me?”
She nodded again. “The tub is still full. Come, I’ll bathe you.”
Later I wondered if she had left the water in the tub because she knew I would come back. If she had taken her clothes off because she knew I wouldn’t be able to get that out of my head and that it would bring me back. If she had just wanted to win a power game.
After we’d made love and were lying next to each other and I told her why I’d got into the second car and not the first, she teased me. “You want to do it with me in the streetcar too? Kid, kid!” It was as if the actual cause of our fight had been meaningless.
But its results had meaning. I had not only lost this fight. I had caved in after a short struggle when she threatened to send me away and withhold herself. In the weeks that followed I didn’t fight at all. If she threatened, I instantly and unconditionally surrendered. I took all the blame. I admitted mistakes I hadn’t made, intentions I’d never had. Whenever she turned cold and hard, I begged her to be good to me again, to forgive me and love me. Sometimes I had the feeling that she hurt herself when she turned cold and rigid. As if what she was yearning for was the warmth of my apologies, protestations, and entreaties. Sometimes I thought she just bullied me. But either way, I had no choice.
I couldn’t talk to her about it. Talking about our fights only led to more fighting. Once or twice I wrote her letters. But she didn’t react, and when I asked her about them, she said, “Are you starting that again?”
　　复活节第一天，我四点钟就起床了。汉娜上早班，她四点一刻骑自行车去有轨电车停车场，四点半她就在开往施魏青根的电车上了。她对我说过，去时车上往往很空，只是回来时，车上才满满的。
　　我在第二站上了车。第二节车厢是空的，汉娜在第一节车厢里，站在司机旁边。我犹豫着是上前面的车厢还是上后面的车厢，最后我还是决定上了后面的车厢。后面的车厢很隐蔽，可以拥抱，可以接吻，但是汉娜没有过来。她一定看到了我在车站等车，也看到我上了车，否则车也不会停下来。可是她还是呆在司机旁边和他聊天说笑，这些我都能看到。
　　车开过了一站又一站，没有人在等车。街道上也没有人，太阳还没有升起来，白云下面，一切都笼罩在白茫茫的晨曦中：房屋、停着的小汽车、刚刚变绿的树木、开花的灌木丛、煤气炉还有远处的山脉。因为好多站都没有停车，车现在开得很慢，估计是由于车到每站的时间是固定的，车必须按时到站。我被关在了慢慢行驶的车厢里。最初，我还坐在那儿，后来，我站到了车厢前面的平台上，而且尽力注视着汉娜。她应该能感觉到我在她身后注视着她。过了一会儿，她转过身来仔细地打量着我，然后又接着和司机聊天。车继续行驶着，过了埃佩尔海姆之后，铁轨不是建在街上，而是建在街旁用鹅卵石砌成的路堤上。车开得快些了，带着有轨电车那种均匀的咔哒咔哒声。我知道这条路线要经过好多地方，终点站是施魏青根。此时此刻，我感觉自己与世隔绝了，与人们生活、居住、相爱的正常世界隔绝了。好像我活该要无目的地、无止境地坐在这节车厢里。
　　后来，在一块空地上，我看见了一个停车站，也就是一个等车的小房子。我拉了一下售票员用以给司机发出停车或开车信号的绳子。车停了下来，汉娜和司机都没有因为我拉了停车信号而回头看看我。当我下车的时候，好像她对我笑了笑，但我不敢肯定。接着车就开走了。我目送它先是开进了一块凹地，然后在一座小山丘后面消失不见了。我站在路堤和街道中间，环绕着我的是田地、果树，再远一点是带着花房的花园。这里空气清新、鸟语花香，远处山上的白云下，飘浮着红霞。
　　坐在车上的那段时间，就好像做了一场噩梦。如果我对那后果不是如此记忆犹新的话，我真的会把它当做一场噩梦来对待。我站在停车站，听着鸟语，看着日出，就好像刚刚睡醒一样。但是，从一场噩梦中醒来也并非是件轻松的事，也许恶梦会成真，甚至人们梦中的可怕情景也会在现实生活中再现。我泪流满面地走在回家的路上，一直到了埃佩尔海姆我才止住了哭泣。
　　我徒步往家走，试了几次想搭车都没有搭成。当我走了一半路程的时候，有轨电车从我身边开了过去，车上很拥挤，我没有看到汉娜。
　　十二点的时候，我伤心地、忧心忡忡地。大为恼怒地坐在她房门前的台阶上等候她。
　　"你又逃学了？"
　　"我放假了，今天早上是怎么回事？"她打开房门，我跟她进了屋，进了厨房。
　　"你为什么装做不认识我的样子？我想要……"
　　"我装做不认识你的样子？"她转过身来，冷冰冰地看着我的脸说，"你根本不想认识我，你上了第二节车厢而你明明看见我在第一节车厢里。"
　　"我为什么在放假的第一天早上四点半就乘车去施魏青根？我仅仅是想要给你个惊喜，因为我想你会高兴的。我上了第二节车厢……"
　　"你这可怜的孩子，在四点半就起床了，而且还是在你的假期里。"我还没有领教过她嘲讽的口吻。她摇着头："我怎么知道你为什么要去施魏青根，我怎么知道你为什么不想认得我，这是你的事情，不是我的，现在你还不想走吗？"
　　我无法描述我的气愤程度。"这不公平，汉娜，你知道的，你一定知道的，我是为你才去坐车的，你怎么能认为我不想认得你呢？如果我不想认识你的话，我也就根本不会去乘车了。"
　　"啊，行了，我已经说过，你怎么做是你的事，不关我的事。"她调整了自己的位置，这样，我们之间就隔了厨房的一张桌子。她的眼神、她的声音、她的手势都说明她正把我当成了一个破门而入者来对付，并要求我走开。
　　我坐到沙发里。她恶劣地对待了我，我想质问她。但我还根本没有来得及开始，她却先向我进攻了。这样一来，我开始变得没有把握了。她也许是对的？但不是在客观上，而是在主观上？她会或者她一定误解了我吗？我伤害她了吗？我无意伤害她，也不愿伤害她，可还是伤害了她？
　　"很抱歉，汉娜，一切都搞糟了，我没想伤害你，可是看来……"。"看来？你的意思是，看来你把我伤害了？你没那能力伤害我，你不行。现在你总该走了吧？我干了一天的活，想洗澡，我要安静一会儿。"她敦促地看着我。看我还没站起来，她耸了耸肩，转过身去，开始放水脱衣服。
　　现在，我站起来走了。我想，我这一走就一去不复返了。可是半小时之后，我又站在了她的房门前。她让我进了屋。我把一切都承担了，承认我毫无顾及地、不加思考地、无情无爱地处理了这事。我知道她受到了伤害。我也知道她没有受到伤害，因为我没有能力伤害她。我明白我不可能伤害她，因为她根本就不给我这种机会。最后，当她承认我伤害了她的时候，我很幸福。这样看来，她并非像她所表现的那样无动于衷，那样无所谓。
　　"你原谅我了吗？"
　　她点点头。
　　"你爱我吗？"
　　她又点点头。"浴缸里还有水，来，我给你洗澡！"
　　后来我自问，她把浴缸里的水留在那儿，是不是因为她知道我还会回来的？她把衣服脱掉了是不是因为她知道我忘不了看到她脱衣服时的感觉，因此，会为此再回去的？她是否只是为了在这场争执中取胜？当我们做完爱，躺在一起时，我给她讲了我为什么没有上第一节车厢而是上了第二节车厢的原因。她以嘲弄的口吻说：'小家伙，小家伙，你甚至在有轨电车上也想和我做爱吗？"这样一来，引起我们争吵的原因就似乎无关紧要了。
　　可事情的结果却至关重要。我在这场争吵中不仅仅败下阵来，在短暂的争执之后，当她威胁着要把我拒之门外时，当她回避我时，我屈服了。在接下来的几周里，我没有和她争吵过一次，即使是很短暂的一次也没有。当她一威胁我对，我立刻就无条件地投降。我把所有的过错都揽到自己身上。不是我的过错我也承认，不是故意的也说是故意的。当她的态度冷淡和严厉的时候，我乞求她重新对我好，原谅我，爱我。有时候，我感觉到，她似乎也为自己的冷淡无情而苦恼。好像她也渴望得到我的温暖、我的道歉、我的保证和我的恳求。有时我想，她太轻易地就征服了我，可是无论如何，我都没有选择的余地。
　　我和她无法就此交谈。就我们的争吵来交谈会导致一场新的争吵。我给她写了一封或两封长信，可她对此毫无反应。当我问起此事时，她反问道："你怎么又开始了？"
Part 1 Chapter 11
N OT THAT Hanna and I weren’t happy again after the first day of Easter vacation. We were never happier than in those weeks of April. As sham as our first fight and indeed all our fights were, everything that enlarged our ritual of reading, showering, making love, and lying beside each other did us good. Besides which, she had trumped herself with her accusation that I hadn’t wanted to know her. When I wanted to be seen with her, she couldn’t raise any fundamental objections. “So it was you who didn’t want to be seen with me”—she didn’t want to have to listen to that. So the week after Easter we set off by bike on a four-day trip to Wimpfen, Amorbach, and Miltenberg.
I don’t remember what I told my parents. That I was doing the trip with my friend Matthias? With a group? That I was going to visit a former classmate? My mother was probably worried, as usual, and my father probably found, as usual, that she should stop worrying. Hadn’t I just passed the class, when nobody thought I could do it?
While I was sick, I hadn’t spent any of my pocket money. But that wouldn’t be enough if I wanted to pay for Hanna as well. So I offered to sell my stamp collection to the stamp dealer next to the Church of the Holy Spirit. It was the only shop that said on the door that it purchased collections. The salesman looked through my album and offered me sixty marks. I made him look at my showpiece, a straight-edged Egyptian stamp with a pyramid that was listed in the catalog for four hundred marks. He shrugged. If I cared that much about my collection, maybe I should hang on to it. Was I even allowed to be selling it? What did my parents say about it? I tried to bargain. If the stamp with the pyramid wasn’t that valuable, I would just keep it. Then he could only give me thirty marks. So the stamp with the pyramid was valuable after all? In the end I got seventy marks. I felt cheated, but I didn’t care.
I was not the only one with itchy feet. To my amazement, Hanna started getting restless days before we left. She went this way and that over what to take, and packed and repacked the saddlebag and rucksack I had got hold of for her. When I wanted to show her the route I had worked out on the map, she didn’t want to look, or even hear about it. “I’m too excited already. You’ll have worked it out right anyway, kid.”
We set off on Easter Monday. The sun was shining and went on shining for four days. The mornings were cool and then the days warmed up, not too warm for cycling, but warm enough to have picnics. The woods were carpets of green, with yellow green, bright green, bottle green, blue green, and black green daubs, flecks, and patches. In the flatlands along the Rhine, the first fruit trees were already in bloom. In Odenwald the first forsythias were out.
Often we could ride side by side. Then we pointed out to each other the things we saw: the castle, the fisherman, the boat on the river, the tent, the family walking single file along the bank, the enormous American convertible with the top down. When we changed directions or roads, I had to ride ahead; she didn’t want to have to bother with such things. Otherwise, when the traffic was too heavy, she sometimes rode behind me and sometimes vice versa. Her bike had covered spokes, pedals, and gears, and she wore a blue dress with a big skirt that fluttered in her wake. It took me some time to stop worrying that the skirt would get caught in the spokes or the gears and she would fall off. After that, I liked watching her ride ahead of me.
How I had looked forward to the nights. I had imagined that we would make love, go to sleep, wake up, make love again, go to sleep again, wake up again and so on, night after night. But the only time I woke up again was the first night. She lay with her back to me, I leaned over her and kissed her, and she turned on her back, took me into her and held me in her arms. “Kid, kid.” Then I fell asleep on top of her. The other nights we slept right through, worn out by the cycling, the sun, and the wind. We made love in the mornings.
Hanna didn’t just let me be in charge of choosing our direction and the roads to take. I was the one who picked out the inns where we spent the nights, registered us as mother and son while she just signed her name, and selected our food from the menu for both of us. “I like not having to worry about a thing for a change.”
The only fight we had took place in Amorbach. I had woken up early, dressed quietly, and crept out of the room. I wanted to bring up breakfast and also see if I could find a flower shop open where I could get a rose for Hanna. I had left a note on the night table. “Good morning! Bringing breakfast, be right back,” or words to that effect. When I returned, she was standing in the room, trembling with rage and white-faced.
“How could you go just like that?”
I put down the breakfast tray with the rose on it and wanted to take her in my arms. “Hanna.”
“Don’t touch me.” She was holding the narrow leather belt that she wore around her dress; she took a step backwards and hit me across the face with it. My lip split and I tasted blood. It didn’t hurt. I was horrorstruck. She swung again.
But she didn’t hit me. She let her arm fall, dropped the belt, and burst into tears. I had never seen her cry. Her face lost all its shape. Wide-open eyes, wide-open mouth, eyelids swollen after the first tears, red blotches on her cheeks and neck. Her mouth was making croaking, throaty sounds like the toneless cry when we made love. She stood there looking at me through her tears.
I should have taken her in my arms. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do. At home none of us cried like that. We didn’t hit, not even with our hands, let alone a leather belt. We talked. But what was I supposed to say now?
She took two steps towards me, beat her fists against me, then clung to me. Now I could hold her. Her shoulders trembled, she knocked her forehead against my chest. Then she gave a deep sigh and snuggled into my arms.
“Shall we have breakfast?” She let go of me. “My God, kid, look at you.” She fetched a wet towel and cleaned my mouth and chin. “And your shirt is covered with blood.” She took off the shirt and my pants, and we made love.
“What was the matter? Why did you get so angry?” We were lying side by side, so satiated and content that I thought everything would be cleared up now.
“What was the matter, what was the matter—you always ask such silly questions. You can’t just leave like that.”
“But I left you a note . . .”
“Note?”
I sat up. The note was no longer on the night table where I had left it. I got to my feet, and searched next to the night table, and underneath, and under the bed and in it. I couldn’t find it. “I don’t understand. I wrote you a note saying I was going to get breakfast and I’d be right back.”
“You did? I don’t see any note.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’d love to believe you. But I don’t see any note.”
We didn’t go on fighting. Had a gust of wind come and taken the note and carried it away to God knows where? Had it all been a misunderstanding, her fury, my split lip, her wounded face, my helplessness?
Should I have gone on searching, for the note, for the cause of Hanna’s fury, for the source of my helplessness? “Read me something, kid!” She cuddled up to me and I picked up Eichendorff’s Memoirs of a Good-for-Nothing and continued from where I had left off. Memoirs of a Good-for-Nothing was easy to read aloud, easier than Emilia Galotti and Intrigues and Love. Again, Hanna followed everything eagerly. She liked the scattering of poems. She liked the disguises, the mix-ups, the complications and pursuits which the hero gets tangled up in in Italy. At the same time, she held it against him that he’s a good-for-nothing who doesn’t achieve anything, can’t do anything, and doesn’t want to besides. She was torn in all directions; hours after I stopped reading, she was still coming up with questions. “Customs collector—wasn’t much of a job?”
Once again the report on our fight has become so detailed that I would like to report on our happiness. The fight made our relationship more intimate. I had seen her crying. The Hanna who could cry was closer to me than the Hanna who was only strong. She began to show a soft side that I had never seen before. She kept looking at my split lip, until it healed, and stroking it gently.
We made love a different way. For a long time I had abandoned myself to her and her power of possession. Then I had also learned to take possession of her. On this trip and afterwards, we no longer merely took possession of each other.
I have a poem that I wrote back them. As poetry, it’s worthless. At the time I was in love with Rilke and Benn, and I can see that I wanted to imitate them both. But I can also see how close we were at the time. Here is the poem:
When we open ourselves
you yourself to me and I myself to you,
when we submerge
you into me and I into you
when we vanish
into me you and into you I
Then
am I me
and you are you
　　汉娜和我并不是在复活节第一天过后就不再幸福了。四月份的那周我们很愉快，我们从本那样愉快过。这第一次争吵——也是我们的主要争吵之一，改变了我们日常生活的所有方式，即朗读、淋浴。做爱，然后躺在一起的生活方式，这对我们有好处。此外，她一口认定我那天不想认她。但是，当我想和她一起展示给外人看时，她又提不出原则性的反对意见。"原来你还是不愿意让别人看见我和你在一起。"她不想听到我说这样的话。这样，复活节过后的那周，我们骑车出去了四天，我们去了温普芬、阿木尔巴赫和米尔藤堡。
　　我已不记得，我当时都对父母说了些什么。是说我和好朋友马蒂亚斯一起出去？还是和几个人一起出去？是说我去拜访一位老同学？大概我母亲像以往一样对我很不放心，而我父亲却也像往常一样，认为母亲对我不应该有什么木放心。别人都不相信我会赶上功课，我不是也赶上了吗？
　　生病期间，我的零花钱都没花。可是如果我为汉娜付钱的话，却又不够。因此，我就在圣灵大教堂附近的一家邮票店出售了我的集邮邮票。那是惟一的一家门上贴着收购集邮邮册招牌的邮票店。一位店员翻了翻我的集邮册，然后出价六十马克。我指给他看了一张我的王牌邮票，一张带有金字塔的方形埃及邮票，这张邮票在票册中的标价为四百马克。他耸耸肩。如果我十分眷恋我的集邮的话，也许我该保留它们。我到底可不可以卖掉它们呢？我的父母会对此说些什么呢？我尽量讨价还价，我说，如果像他说的那样带金字塔那张邮票不值钱的话，那么我干脆就不卖它了。这样一来，他又仅出三十马克了。这么说，带金字塔的那张邮票还是值钱？最后，我卖了七十马克。我感觉自己被骗了，可这对我来说无所谓。
　　不仅我对这次旅行激动不已，令我感到惊讶的是汉娜在出发的前几天也已经心神不定了。她考虑来考虑去应该带些什么东西，把东西装到了自行车的挂包里和我为她买来的肩背包里，折腾来折腾去的。当我想在地图上指给她看我考虑好的路线图时，她什么都不想听，什么都不想看。"我现在太兴奋了，小家伙，你做的一定错不了。"
　　复活节的星期一我们上路了。当日阳光明媚，一连四天都阳光明媚。早晨天气凉爽，白天天气暖和，但对骑自行车来说还不是太暖和，不过在外野餐已不冷了。森林像一块绿地毯一样，由黄绿、浅绿、深绿、蓝绿和墨绿组成。一会儿深，一会儿浅地交织在一起。莱茵平原上的第一批果树已经开花了，奥登森林的连翘刚刚抽芽。
　　我们常常并肩而行，我们相互指看一些沿途见到的东西：城堡、垂钓者、河上行驶的船、帐篷、岸上列队行走的一家家人，还有敞篷美国大轿车。转弯和走新路时，必须由我带路。朝哪个方向走和走哪条路的事她不想操心。如果路面很拥挤的话，时而她在前面骑，时而我在前面骑。她骑的自行车的链条、脚蹬和齿轮处都有遮板。她穿着一件蓝色的连衣裙，宽肥的下摆随风飘舞。我曾为她担心，怕她的裙子被卷到链条或车链子里，怕她因此而跌倒。在我不再担心之后，我愿意看着她在我前面骑。
　　我多么盼望着夜晚的降临啊！我想象着我们做爱、睡觉、醒来、再做爱、再入睡、再醒来等等，夜复一夜。可是，只是在第一天夜里，我醒过来一次。她背对着我躺着，我俯身亲吻她，她转过身来，仰卧着，把我搂在怀里：'我的小家伙，我的小家伙。"之后，我就躺在她怀里睡着了。由于风吹日晒，加之骑车的疲劳，后来我们都一觉睡到天亮。我们在早上做爱。
　　汉娜不仅把选择方向道路的事交给我，还要由我来寻找我们过夜的客栈。我们以母子关系登记住宿，她只需在登记条上签字就行。我不仅要为自己点菜，还要为她点菜。"这次我什么都不想操心。"
　　我们唯一的一次争吵发生在阿木尔巴赫。我很早就醒了，蹑手蹑脚地穿好衣服从房间里溜了出去。我想把早餐端上来，也想着一看有没有已经开门的花店，好给汉娜买一枝玫瑰。我给她在夜桌上留了一张字条："早上好。取早餐，一会儿就回来。"或者类似这样的话。当我回来时，她站在房中间，衣服穿了一半，愤怒地发抖，脸色苍白。
　　"你怎么能就这样一走了之了呢！"
　　我把放早餐的托盘和玫瑰放下，想把她搂在怀里。"汉娜…"
　　"别碰我！她手里拿着扎连衣裙的细皮带，往后退了一步，对着我的脸就抽了过来。我的嘴唇被抽破了，鲜血直流，我感觉不到疼痛。我被吓坏了，她又举起了手臂。
　　可是她没有再打下来，她把手臂垂了下来，皮带落到了地上。她哭了，我还从未看见她哭过。她的脸变了形，变得目瞪口呆，眼皮哭得红肿，面颊上、脖颈上泛着红癍，嘴里发出沙哑的喉音，类似我们做爱时她发出的那种无声的喊叫。她站在那里，泪水汪汪地看着我。
　　我应该把她搂在怀里，可我又不能，我不知道该做什么。我们家里的人不是这样的哭法，我们家里的人不动手打人，更不用皮带抽人，我们家里的人只动口。可是我该说什么呢？
　　她向我走近了两步扑到了我的怀里，用拳头捶我，紧紧地抓着我。现在我可以抱着她了，她的肩在抽搐，她用额头撞着我的胸。接着她深深地端了口气，紧紧地依偎在我怀里。
　　"我们吃早餐吧？"她从我怀里挣脱出来说。"我的天哪，小家伙，你看上去像什么样子！'她取了条湿毛巾把我的嘴和下巴擦干净了。"怎么连衬衫都到处是血。"她为我脱掉了衬衫，然后脱掉了裤子，之后她自己也把衣服脱了，我们就做起爱来。
　　"到底是怎么回事？你为什么那么气愤？"我们躺在一起，是那样的心满意足。我想现在一切都该得到解释了吧。
　　"怎么回事，怎么回事，你总是问愚蠢的问题！你不能就这么走了。"
　　"可是我给你留了一张字条……"
　　"一张字条？"
　　我坐了起来，在夜桌上放字条的地方什么都没有。我站了起来，桌边、桌下、床上、床下，到处找，都没有找到。"我搞不明白是怎么一回事，我给你写了一张字条，说我去取早餐，即刻就回。"
　　"你写了吗？我没有看到字条。"
　　"你不相信我吗？"
　　"我倒是情愿相信你，可我没有见到字条。"
　　我们不再争吵了。来了一阵风把字条刮走了吗？刮到了什么地方或者利到了一个虚无地。她的愤怒、我流血的嘴唇、她受到伤害的面部表情还有我的无能为力，难道所有这一切都是误解吗？
　　我还应该继续寻找那张字条吗？寻找汉娜生气的原因？寻找我为什么那么无能为力的原因吗？"小家伙，念点什么吧！"她紧紧地依偎在我怀里。我拿出了艾兴道夫的《无用之人》，接着上次停下来的地方念了起来。《无用之人》比《爱米丽雅•葛洛获》和《阴谋与爱情》念起来容易。汉娜又紧张地跟随着情节。她喜欢里面的诗，喜欢主人公在意大利时所穿的服装，喜欢混淆不清，喜欢梦想成真，喜欢追逐，同时她也认为主人公可恶，因为他是个无用之人，无所事事，游手好闲，什么都不会做，而且也愿意什么都不会做。她对一些问题犹豫不决，在我念完之后的几小时还可能提出这样的问题："海关税收员不是什么好职业吧？"
　　我又不自觉地这么详尽地叙述了我们的争吵，现在我也乐意讲一讲我们的幸福一面。这次争吵把我们的关系变得更密切了。我看见了她哭，哭泣的汉娜比坚强的汉娜更令我感到亲切。她开始显露出她温柔的一面，她的这种温柔，以前我还从未体验过。我破裂的嘴唇在愈合之前，她不时地就看看，轻轻地摸摸。
　　我们做爱的方式也不一样了。很长时间里，我完全听她指挥，由她采取主动。后来，我也学会了采取主动。在我们的旅行中和自从旅行以来，我们做爱时已不仅仅采取上下位的姿势了。
　　我有一首当时写的诗，作为诗它没有什么价值。我当时很崇拜里尔克和本，我清楚地意识到我是想同时效仿他们两位，可我也再次意识到我们的关系当时是多么的密切。下面是那首诗：
　　当我们敞开心扉时，
　　我们合二为一。
　　当我们沉浸时，
　　你中有我，我中有你。
　　当我们消失时，
　　你在我心里，我在你心里。
　　这之后，
　　我是我，
　　你是你。
Part 1 Chapter 12
W HILE I have no memory of the lies I told my parents about the trip with Hanna, I do remember the price I had to pay to stay alone at home the last week of vacation. I can’t recall where my parents and my older brother and sister were going. The problem was my little sister. She was supposed to go and stay with a friend’s family. But if I was going to be at home, she wanted to be at home as well. My parents didn’t want that. So I was supposed to go and stay with a friend too.
As I look back, I find it remarkable that my parents were willing to leave me, a fifteen-year-old, at home alone for a week. Had they noticed the independence that had been growing in me since I met Hanna? Or had they simply registered the fact that I had passed the class despite the months of illness and decided that I was more responsible and trustworthy than I had shown myself to be until then? Nor do I remember being called on to explain the many hours I spent at Hanna’s. My parents apparently believed that, now that I was healthy again, I wanted to be with my friends as much as possible, whether studying or just enjoying our free time. Besides, when parents have a pack of four children, their attention cannot cover everything, and tends to focus on whichever one is causing the most problems at the moment. I had caused problems for long enough; my parents were relieved that I was healthy and would be moving up into the next class.
When I asked my little sister what her price was for going to stay with her friend while I stayed home, she demanded jeans—we called them blue jeans back then, or studded pants—and a Nicki, which was a velour sweater. That made sense. Jeans were still something special at that time, they were chic, and they promised liberation from herringbone suits and big-flowered dresses. Just as I had to wear my uncle’s things, my little sister had to wear her big sister’s. But I had no money.
“Then steal them!” said my little sister with perfect equanimity.
It was astonishingly easy. I tried on various jeans, took a pair her size with me into the fitting room, and carried them out of the store against my stomach under my wide suit pants. The sweater I stole from the big main department store. My little sister and I went in one day and strolled from stand to stand in the fashion department until we found the right stand and the right sweater. Next day I marched quickly through the department, seized the sweater, hid it under my suit jacket, and was outside again. The day after that I stole a silk nightgown for Hanna, was spotted by the store detective, ran for my life, and escaped by a hair. I didn’t go back to the department store for years after that.
Since our nights together on the trip, I had longed every night to feel her next to me, to curl up against her, my stomach against her behind and my chest against her back, to rest my hand on her breasts, to reach out for her when I woke up in the night, find her, push my leg over her legs, and press my face against her shoulder. A week alone at home meant seven nights with Hanna.
One evening I invited her to the house and cooked for her. She stood in the kitchen as I put the finishing touches on the food. She stood in the open double doors between the dining room and living room as I served. She sat at the round dining table where my father usually sat. She looked around.
Her eyes explored everything—the Biedermeier furniture, the piano, the old grandfather clock, the pictures, the bookcases, the plates and cutlery on the table. When I left her alone to prepare dessert, she was not at the table when I came back. She had gone from room to room and was standing in my father’s study. I leaned quietly against the doorpost and watched her. She let her eyes drift over the bookshelves that filled the walls, as if she were reading a text. Then she went to a shelf, raised her right index finger chest high and ran it slowly along the backs of the books, moved to the next shelf, ran her finger further along, from one spine to the next, pacing off the whole room. She stopped at the window, looked out into the darkness, at the reflection of the bookshelves, and at her own.
It is one of the pictures of Hanna that has stayed with me. I have them stored away, I can project them on a mental screen and watch them, unchanged, unconsumed. There are long periods when I don’t think about them at all. But they always come back into my head, and then I sometimes have to run them repeatedly through my mental projector and watch them. One is Hanna putting on her stockings in the kitchen. Another is Hanna standing in front of the tub holding the towel in her outstretched arms. Another is Hanna riding her bike with her skirt blowing in her slipstream. Then there is the picture of Hanna in my father’s study. She’s wearing a blue-and-white striped dress, what they called a shirtwaist back then. She looks young in it. She has run her finger along the backs of the books and looked into the darkness of the window. She turns to me, quickly enough that the skirt swings out around her legs for a moment before it hangs smooth again. Her eyes are tired.
“Are these books your father has just read, or did he write them too?”
I knew there was a book on Kant and another on Hegel that my father had written, and I searched for them and showed them to her.
“Read me something from them. Please, kid?”
“I . . .” I didn’t want to, but didn’t like to refuse her either. I took my father’s Kant book and read her a passage on analysis and dialectics that neither of us understood. “Is that enough?”
She looked at me as though she had understood it all, or as if it didn’t matter whether anything was understandable or not. “Will you write books like that some day?”
I shook my head.
“Will you write other books?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you write plays?”
“I don’t know, Hanna.”
She nodded. Then we ate dessert and went to her apartment. I would have liked to sleep with her in my bed, but she didn’t want to. She felt like an intruder in our house. She didn’t say it in so many words, but in the way she stood in the kitchen or in the open double doors, or walked from room to room, inspected my father’s books and sat with me at dinner.
I gave her the silk nightgown. It was aubergine-colored with narrow straps that left her shoulders and arms bare, and came down to her ankles. It shone and shimmered. Hanna was delighted; she laughed and beamed. She looked down at herself, turned around, danced a few steps, looked at herself in the mirror, checked her reflection, and danced some more. That too is a picture of Hanna that has stayed with me.
　　我虽然不记得为了能和汉娜一起出游，我在父母面前都撤了哪些流，却还记得为了在假期的最后一周里能一个人留在家里所付出的代价。我的父母、哥哥和姐姐去哪里旅行，我已不记得了。问题是我的小妹，她应该去一位女朋友家里，可是如果我留在家里的话，她也要呆在家里。我父母不想这样，这样一来，我也必须去一位朋友家里住。
　　回顾当时的情况，我发现有一点非常值得注意，那就是我父母准备让我一个十五岁的男孩子独自一人在家里呆上一周的时间。他们已注意到了我通过与汉娜的交往已经变得独立了吗？或者他们只是注意到，尽管我生了几个月的病，还是照样跟上了功课并由此得出结论，认为我比这之前他们所认为的更有责任心，更值得信赖了吗？当时我有那么多的时间是在汉娜那里度过的，我也记不得了当时我是否必须对此做出解释。看来，我父母认为我已经恢复了健康，以为我想更多地和朋友在一起，一起学习，一起玩耍。此外，四个孩子就像一群羊，父母不可能把注意力平分在每个孩子身上，而是集中在有特别问题的孩子身上。我有问题的时间够长的了，现在我身体健康并可以跟班上课，这已令我的父母感到轻松。
　　我想把妹妹打发到她的女朋友家里，以便我一个人留在家里。当我问她想要什么时，她说要一条牛仔裤——当时我们把牛仔裤叫做蓝牛仔裤或斜纹工装裤，一件市套衫和一件天鹅绒毛衣，这我能理解。牛仔裤在当时还是很特别的东西，很时髦。此外，牛仔裤还把人们从人字型西服和大花图案的服装中解放出来。就像我必须穿我叔叔穿过的衣服一样，我的妹妹也必须要穿我姐姐穿过的衣服。可是，我没有钱。
　　"那就去偷把！"我的妹妹看上会沉着冷静地这样说到。
　　这件事容易得令你吃惊。我在试衣间里试穿了不同型号的牛仔裤，也拿了几条我妹妹所穿的型号，把它们掖到又肥又宽的裤腰里就溜出了商店。那件布套衫是我在考夫豪夫店里偷出来的。有一天，我和妹妹在一家时装店里，从一个摊位溜达到另一个摊位，直到找到了卖正宗布套衫的正确摊位为止。第二天，我急匆匆地迈着果断的脚步，走过了这个经销部，抓起了一件毛衣，藏到了外套里，成功地带了出去。在此之后的第二天，我为汉娜偷了一件真丝睡衣，但被商店的侦探发现了。我拼命地跑，费了九牛二虎之力才逃掉。有好几年，我都没有再踏入考夫豪夫商店的大门。
　　自我们一起出游，一起过夜之后，每晚我都渴望着在身边感觉到她的存在，都渴望依偎在她怀里，都渴望着把肚子靠在她的屁股上，把胸贴在她后背上，把手放在她的乳房上，也渴望着夜里醒来时，用手臂去摸她，找她，把一条腿伸到她的一条腿上去，把脸在她肩上路路。独自一人在家里呆一周就意味着有机会和汉娜在一起度过七个夜晚。
　　其中的一个晚上，我把汉娜邀请了过来并为她做了饭。当我忙着做饭时，她站在厨房里。当我把饭菜端上来时，她站在餐厅和客厅开着的门之间。在圆餐桌旁，她坐到了通常我父亲所坐的位子上，朝四处打量。
　　她的眼神在审视着一切。毕德麦耶尔家具、三角大钢琴、老式的座钟、油画、摆满书的书架，还有放在餐桌上的餐具。当我起来去准备饭后甜食时，把她一个人留在了那儿。回来时发现她已不在桌边坐着了。她从一个房间走到另一个房间，最后她站在了我父亲的书房里。我轻轻地靠在门框上，看着她。她的目光在布满墙面的书架上漫游，好像在读一篇文章。然后，她走到一个书架前，在齐胸高的地方用右手的食指慢慢地在书脊上移动，从一个书架移到另一个书架，从一本书移到另一本书。她巡视了整个房间。在窗前，她停了下来，在昏暗中注视著书架的反光和倒影。
　　这是汉娜留在我心目中的形象之一。我把它储存在大脑中，可以在内心的银幕上放映，她总是那样没有变化。有时候，我很长时间都不想她，可是她总是让我又想起她，这可能是我多次地、一遍又一遍地在内。动的屏幕上非要放映、观赏她不可。其中的一个情景是汉娜在厨房里穿长筒袜，另外一个情景是汉娜站在浴缸前张开双手拿着浴巾。还有一个情景是汉娜骑着自行车，她的连衣裙随风飘舞。然后，就是汉娜在我父亲书房里的情景。她穿着一件蓝白相间的连衣裙，当时人们称之为衬衣裙。穿着它她看上去很年轻。她用手指摸著书脊走到了窗前，向窗外眺望。现在她把身子转向了我，她转得太快了，以至于她的裙子有那么一瞬间把她的腿给缠住了，过了一会裙子才又平放下来。她的眼神看上去有些疲倦。
　　"这些书只是你父亲读过的呢还是也有他写的？"
　　我知道父亲写过关于康德和黑格尔的书。我把两本书都找了出来给她看。
　　"给我朗读一段，你不愿意吗，小家伙！"
　　"我……"我不愿意，可是我又不想拒绝她的请求。我拿出了父亲的那本关于康德的书，给她朗读了其中关于分析学和辩证法的一段。她和我都不懂。"够了吗？"
　　她看着我，好像她都听懂的样子或者说懂与不懂都无关紧要的样子。"有一天你也会写这样的书吗？"
　　我摇摇头。
　　"你会写其他书吗？"
　　"我不知道。"
　　"你会写剧本吗？"
　　"我不知道，汉娜。"
　　她点点头。然后，我们吃了饭后甜食就去了她那里。我非常想和她在我的床上睡觉，但是她不愿意。她在我家里感觉像个闯入者。她并没有用语言表述这些，可是通过她的举止可以看得出来，她站在厨房里或者站在开着的门之间，她从一个房间走到另一个房间，她在我父亲的书房里摸著书，她和我坐在一起吃饭时的举止，所有这些都表明了这一点。
　　我把那件真丝睡衣送给了她。睡衣是紫红色的，细细的背带，袒胸露背的式样，一直拖到脚踝，质地柔润光滑。汉娜高兴得眉开眼笑。她上上下下地打量着自己，转过身来跳了几步舞，对着镜子看了一会自己在镜中的形象，接着又跳起来。
　　这也是汉娜留在我脑中的一个形象。
Part 1 Chapter 13
I ALWAYS EXPERIENCED the beginning of a new school year as a watershed. Moving up from tenth to eleventh grade was a major one. My class was disbanded among the three other parallel classes. Quite a few students had failed to make the grade, so four small classes were combined into three larger ones.
My high school traditionally had taken only boys. When girls began to be accepted, there were so few of them to begin with that they were not divided equally among the parallel classes, but were assigned to a single class, then later to a second and a third, until they made up a third of each class. There were not enough girls in my year for any to be assigned to my former class. We were the fourth parallel class, and all boys, which is why we were the ones to be disbanded and reassigned, and not one of the other classes.
We didn’t find out about it until school began. The principal summoned us into a classroom and informed us about the why and how of our reassignment. Along with six others, I crossed the empty halls to the new classroom. We got the seats that were left over; mine was in the second row. They were individual seats, but in pairs, divided into three rows. I was in the middle row. On my left I had a classmate from my old class, Rudolf Bargen, a heavyset, calm, dependable chess and hockey player with whom I hadn’t ever spent any time in my old class, but who soon became a good friend. On my right, across the aisle, were the girls.
My neighbor was Sophie. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown summer skin, with tiny golden hairs on her bare arms. After I’d sat down and looked around, she smiled at me.
I smiled back. I felt good, I was excited about a new start in a new class, and the girls. I had observed my mates in tenth grade: whether they had girls in their class or not, they were afraid of them, or kept out of their way, or showed off to them, or worshipped them. I knew my way around women, and could be comfortable and open in a friendly way. The girls liked that. I would get along with them well in the new class, which meant I’d get along with the boys too.
Does everyone feel this way? When I was young, I was perpetually overconfident or insecure. Either I felt completely useless, unattractive, and worthless, or that I was pretty much a success, and everything I did was bound to succeed. When I was confident, I could overcome the hardest challenges. But all it took was the smallest setback for me to be sure that I was utterly worthless. Regaining my self-confidence had nothing to do with success; every goal I set myself, every recognition I craved made anything I actually did seem paltry by comparison, and whether I experienced it as a failure or triumph was utterly dependent on my mood. With Hanna things felt good for weeks—in spite of our fights, in spite of the fact that she pushed me away again and again, and again and again I crawled to her. And so summer in the new class began well.
I can still see the classroom: right front, the door, along the right-hand wall the board with the clothes hooks, on the left a row of windows looking onto the Heiligenberg and—when we stood next to the glass at recess—down at the streets, the river and the meadows on the opposite bank; in front, the blackboard, the stands for maps and diagrams, and the teacher’s desk and chair on a foot-high platform. The walls had yellow oil paint on them to about head height, and above that, white; and from the ceiling hung two milky glass globes. There was not one superfluous thing in the room: no pictures, no plants, no extra chair, no cupboard with forgotten books and notebooks and colored chalk. When your eyes wandered, they wandered to what was outside the window, or to whoever was sitting next to you. When Sophie saw me looking at her, she turned and smiled at me.
“Berg, Sophia may be a Greek name, but that is no reason for you to study your neighbor in a Greek lesson. Translate!”
We were translating the Odyssey. I had read it in German, loved it, and love it to this day. When it was my turn, it took me only seconds to find my place and translate. After the teacher had stopped teasing me about Sophie and the class had stopped laughing, it was something else that made me stutter. Nausicaa, white-armed and virginal, who in body and features resembled the immortals—should I imagine her as Hanna or as Sophie? It had to be one of the two.
　　我总是认为每个学年的开始都是一个重大的转折。从文科中学的六年级升入七年级发生了重大的变化，我原来所在的班被解散了，我们被分插到其他三个同年级的班里。有相当多的学生没能过六年级升入七年级这一关。这样，原来的四个小班被合并为三个大班。
　　我所在的那所文科中学有好长一段时间只招男生。当也开始招收女生时，最初人数很少，不能均匀地分配到每个班里，而只能分配到一个班，后来，又分配到第二、第三班，直到每班都分入了三分之一的女生为止。我原来所在的班在我上学的那年没有这么多的女生可分。我们为第四班，是个纯男生班。正因为如此，才是我们班而不是其他别的班被解散，被分插。
　　我们只是在新学期伊始才知道这些。校长把我们召集到一间教室里，告诉了我们分班的情况。我和六名同班同学一起穿过空空荡荡的走廊走进了新教室。我们得到的座位都是剩余的，我的座位在第二排。每人一张课桌，两个课桌并列为一对。共有三个纵排，我坐在中间那排，左边坐着原来班上的同学鲁道夫•巴根，他比较胖，比较安静，是个可信赖的国际象棋和曲棍球手。在原来的班里，我和他几乎没有什么往来，可是到了新班我们很快就成了好朋友。右边的那排坐的都是女生。
　　我的邻桌叫索菲，•她头发棕色，眼睛绿色，皮肤被夏日的阳光晒成棕色，裸露的胳膊上长着金黄色的汗毛。我坐下之后，向四周张望了一下，她冲我笑了笑。
　　我也报之以微笑。我现在自我感觉良好，很高兴在新的班级里开始新的生活，还为班里有女生而高兴。在六年级时，我曾经观察过我的男同学：不管班里是否有女同学，他们都怕她们，回避她们，或者在她们面前吹牛，或者对她们崇拜得五体投地。我了解女人，可以和她们友好地、泰然自若地相处。女孩子们也喜欢这样，在新班里，我要和她们融洽相处，同样也要和男同学友好相处。
　　所有的人都是像我一样吗？我在年轻时总是感觉不是太自信了，就是．不知所措；不是显得完全无能、微不足道或一事无成，就是自我认为在各方面都很成功，而且必须在各方面都要成功。只要我自信，就可以克服最大的困难。但一个小小的失败又足以让我感到我一事无成。重新获得的自信从不是成功的结果。我也期望自己能做出成绩，渴望他人的认同，但我却很少能做出什么成绩，即使能，也都是微不足道的成绩。我能否感觉到这种微不足道，是否为这种微不足道的成绩感到自豪，这完全取决于我的心清如何。几个星期以来，和汉娜在一起我感觉很不错，尽管我们之间有争吵，尽管她不断地训斥我，而我又总是屈就于她。这样，随着新班级生活的开始，一个愉快的夏天也来临了。
　　我眼前的教室是这样的：门在右前方，右面墙上是木制挂衣钩，左边是一排窗户，透过窗户可以望到圣山。当课间休息时，我们站在窗前，这时向外可以看到下面的街道、一条河。以及河对岸的一片草坪。前面是黑板、放地图的架子和图表。在齐脚面高的小讲台上摆着讲桌和椅子。内墙到齐头高的地方都剧上了黄色的油漆，一人高以上的地方刷上了白色。天花板上吊了两个乳白色的圆灯泡。教室里再没有什么多余的东西，没有图片，没有植物，没有多余的桌位，没有放忘记带走的书本或者彩色粉笔的柜子。如果你的眼睛开小差的话，你只能把目光投向窗外或者偷看邻桌的男女同学。当索菲察觉到我在看她时，就转向我这边来，对我笑笑。
　　"白格，即使索菲是一个希腊名字，那您也没有理由在上希腊语课时研究您的邻桌女同学。快翻译！"
　　我们翻译《奥德赛》，我读过德文版，很喜欢读，直到今天仍旧很喜欢。如果轮到我的话，我只需几秒钟，就能进入状态把它翻译出来。但当老师把我叫起来，又把我和索菲的名字联系在一起时，同学们哄堂大笑。当他们的笑声停止时，我却由于其他的原因口吃起来。瑞西卡，这个婀娜多姿、手臂白嫩的少女，她应该是汉娜呢，还是索菲？反正她应该是二者中的一个。
Part 1 Chapter 14
W HEN AN airplane's engines fail, it is not the end of the flight. Airplanes don’t fall out of the sky like stones. They glide on, the enormous multi-engined passenger jets, for thirty, forty-five minutes, only to smash themselves up when they attempt a landing. The passengers don’t notice a thing. Flying feels the same whether the engines are working or not. It’s quieter, but only slightly: the wind drowns out the engines as it buffets the tail and wings. At some point, the earth or sea look dangerously close through the window. But perhaps the movie is on, and the stewards and air hostesses have closed the shades. Maybe the very quietness of the flight is appealing to the passengers.
That summer was the glide path of our love. Or rather, of my love for Hanna. I don’t know about her love for me.
We kept up our ritual of reading aloud, showering, making love, and then lying together. I read her War and Peace with all of Tolstoy’s disquisitions on history, great men, Russia, love and marriage; it must have lasted forty or fifty hours. Again, Hanna became absorbed in the unfolding of the book. But it was different this time; she withheld her own opinions; she didn’t make Natasha, Andrei, and Pierre part of her world, as she had Luise and Emilia, but entered their world the way one sets out on a long and dazzling journey, or enters a castle which one is allowed to visit, even stay in until one feels at home, but without ever really shedding one’s inhibitions. All the things I had read to her before were already familiar to me. War and Peace was new for me, too. We took the long journey together.
We thought up pet names for each other. She began not just to call me Kid, but gave me other attributes and diminutives, such as Frog or Toad, Puppy, Toy, and Rose. I stuck to Hanna, until she asked me, “Which animal do you see when you hold me and close your eyes and think of animals?” I closed my eyes and thought of animals. We were lying snuggled close together, my head on her neck, my neck on her breasts, my right arm underneath her against her back and my left hand on her behind. I ran my arms and hands over her broad back, her hard thighs, her firm ass, and also felt the solidity of her breasts and stomach against my neck and chest. Her skin was smooth and soft to the touch, the body beneath it strong and reliable. When my hand lay on her calf, I felt the constant twitching play of muscles. It reminded me of the way a horse twitches its hide to repel flies. “A horse.”
“A horse?” She disentangled herself, sat up and stared at me, stared in shock.
“You don’t like it? It came to me because you feel so good, smooth and soft and all firm and strong underneath. And because your calf twitches.” I explained my association.
She looked at the ripple of the muscles in her calf. “Horse.” She shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”
That wasn’t how she usually was. Usually she was absolutely single-minded, whether in agreement or disagreement. Faced with her look of shock, I had been ready to take it all back if necessary, blame myself, and apologize. But now I tried to reconcile her to the horse. “I could call you Cheval or Pony or Little Equus. When I think of horses, I don’t think horse’s teeth or horse face or whatever it is that worries you, I think of something good, warm, soft, strong. You’re not a bunny or a kitten, and whatever there is in a tiger—that evil something—that’s not you either.”
She lay down on her back, arms behind her head. Now it was me who sat up to look at her. She was staring into space. After a while she turned her face to me. Her expression was curiously naked. “Yes, I like it when you call me Horse or those other horse names—can you explain them to me?”
Once we went to the theater in the next town to see Schiller’s Intrigues and Love. It was the first time Hanna had been to the theater, and she loved all of it, from the performance to the champagne at intermission. I put my arm around her waist, and didn’t care what people might think of us as a couple, and I was proud that I didn’t care. At the same time, I knew that in the theater in our hometown I would care. Did she know that too?
She knew that my life that summer no longer revolved around her, and school, and my studies. More and more, when I came to her in the late afternoon, I came from the swimming pool. That was where our class got together, did our homework, played soccer and volleyball and skat, and flirted. That was where our class socialized, and it meant a lot to me to be part of it and to belong. The fact that I came later than the others or left earlier, depending on Hanna’s schedule, didn’t hurt my reputation, but made me interesting. I knew that. I also knew that I wasn’t missing anything, and yet I often had the feeling that absolutely everything could be happening while I wasn’t there. There was a long stretch when I did not dare ask myself whether I would rather be at the swimming pool or with Hanna. But on my birthday in July, there was a party for me at the pool, and it was hard to tear myself away from it when they didn’t want me to go, and then an exhausted Hanna received me in a bad mood. She didn’t know it was my birthday. When I had asked her about hers, and she had told me it was the twenty-first of October, she hadn’t asked me when mine was. She was also no more bad-tempered than she always was when she was exhausted. But I was annoyed by her bad temper, and I wanted to be somewhere else, at the pool, away with my classmates, swept up in the exuberance of our talk, our banter, our games, and our flirtations. Then when I proceeded to get bad-tempered myself and we started a fight and Hanna treated me like a nonentity, the fear of losing her returned and I humbled myself and begged her pardon until she took me back. But I was filled with resentment.
　　飞机发动机的失灵并不意味飞机末日的马上来临。飞机并不像石头那样从天空突然坠落下来，那种带有多个喷气式发动机的大型客机在坠毁之前，还能继续飞行半小时到四十五分钟。这期间，乘客们什么也感觉不出来。发动机失灵的飞机和发动机正常工作的飞机在飞行中感觉上没有什么不一样，它的声音比较小，但也仅仅是小一点点。比发动机声音大的是机身和机体所带动的风。不定什么时候，当你朝窗外看时，才会发现地面或海洋是那样令人可怕地近在咫尺。或者空中小姐和先生把这光窗关上开始放电影。这时，乘客们甚至可能觉得噪音稍小的飞机还特别舒服。
　　那个夏天，我们的爱情开始走下坡路，尤其是我对汉娜的爱、她爱我的程度我都一无所知。
　　我们保持了例行公事式的朗读、淋浴、做爱。躺在一起的习惯。我朗读了《战争与和平》这部托尔斯泰描述历史、伟人、俄国、爱情与婚姻的小说，大概用了四十到五十个小时的时间。汉娜还是一如既往地，紧张地关注着故事情节的发展。与以往有所不同的是，她不再做评论，不再把娜塔莎、安德列和比尔纳入她的世界，就像她曾把露伊莎和爱米丽雅纳入她的世界一样，而是进人了他们的世界，就像一个人惊奇地做一次远一样，或者像一个人进入一座城堡一样，你可以进来，你可以在此逗留，你可以越来越熟悉它，但是却不能一点不胆怯。在此之前，我给她朗读的书，我自己都读过。《战争与和平》对我也是一本新书。我们一起进行了这次远游。
　　我们相互给对方编造了昵称，她开始不仅仅叫我小家伙了，而是用各种不同的修饰语和缩略词来称呼我；什么青蛙、蛤蟆、小狗、鹅卵石和玫瑰。我一直称她为汉娜，直到她问我："如果你把我搂在怀里，闭上眼睛想一想动物，你会想到什么动物呢？"我闭上眼睛开始想动物。她的皮肤摸上去光滑柔软而她的下身结实有力。当我把手放到她小腿肚子上时，感到她的肌肉开始持续不断地抽动起来。这让我想起了马在驱赶苍蝇时的皮肤抽动。"一匹马。"
　　"一匹马？"她挣脱了我，坐起来吃惊地望着我。
　　"你不喜欢吗？我想到了马是因为你摸上去是如此之好，即光滑又柔软，下身结实强壮，而且也因为你的小腿肚子在抽动。"我向她解释我的联想。
　　她看着她的小腿上的肌肉说："一匹马，"她摇摇头："怎么会……"
　　那不是她的性格，她一向都不模棱两可，或者是赞同或者是拒绝。在她惊讶目光的注视下，我已做好准备，如果有必要，就收回一切，做自我谴责并向她赔不是。但是，现在我想要尽力用马来和她和解。"我可以用马的不同美称来称呼你，如'谢瓦尔'、呵吁'、小爱快'或'小快快'。我想到马并不是想到了马嚼子或是马的头盖骨或是什么你不喜欢的东西，而是想到了它好的一面，它的温暖、温顺和坚强。你不是小兔子。小猫或者一只母老虎。在这些动物身上有它可恶的一面，你身上并没有。"
　　地仰面躺着，两个手臂枕在头下面。现在我坐了起来看着她，她的目光空洞无神。过了一会儿，她把脸转向了我，她的面部表情特别真诚。"是的，我喜欢，如果你叫我马或者马其他的名字时，你能给我解释一下吗？"
　　有一次，我们一起去了临近的城市，在那儿的一家剧院我们看了《阴谋与爱情》那是汉娜第一次看戏，她享受着那里的一切：从演出到中间休息时的香槟酒。我搂着她的腰，无所谓人们可能会把我们看做是一对。我为自己的这种无所谓而自豪。同时，我也知道若在我家乡的剧院里，我就不会无所谓了。她也知道这个吗？
　　她知道，我的生活在那个夏天不再仅仅是围绕地、学校和学习循环了。下午去她那里时，我常常是游完泳才去，这样的情况越来越多。在游泳池，我们男女同学聚集在一起，一起做作业，踢足球，打排球，玩三人玩的戏牌，一起调情嬉闹。我们班里的课余生活都在那里度过。去那里和属于那里对我来说很重要。我视汉娜的工作时间而定，或者比其他人晚来或者早走。我知道，这对我的名声没有什么坏处，相反，别人都觉得我挺有趣。我也知道，我什么也没错过。可我经常还是有种感觉，好像刚好在我不在时发生了什么事，但鬼知道是什么事。我是否比呆在汉娜那儿更愿意呆在游泳池？这个问题，我很长时间里都不敢对自己提出来。但是，我在七月里的生日却是在游泳池庆祝的。生日过得很遗憾，汉娜筋疲力尽、心情很不好地接待了我，她不知道那天是我的生日。当我问起她的生日时，她说了十月二十一日，并没有问起我的生日。不过，她的情绪也不比她平时精疲力尽时更坏。但是，她不佳的情绪令我生气。我希望离开这儿去游泳池，去我的男女同学们那儿，去和他们轻松地聊天说笑，嘻闹调情。当我也表现出坏情绪时，我们又陷入了争吵。当汉娜不理睬我时，我又害怕失去她了，我低三下四地向她赔不是，直到她把我搂到怀里为止，但是我却满腔怨恨。
Part 1 Chapter 15
T HEN I began to betray her.
Not that I gave away any secrets or exposed Hanna. I didn’t reveal anything that I should have kept to myself. I kept something to myself that I should have revealed. I didn’t acknowledge her. I know that disavowal is an unusual form of betrayal. From the outside it is impossible to tell if you are disowning someone or simply exercising discretion, being considerate, avoiding embarrassments and sources of irritation. But you, who are doing the disowning, you know what you’re doing. And disavowal pulls the underpinnings away from a relationship just as surely as other more flamboyant types of betrayal.
I no longer remember when I first denied Hanna. Friendships coalesced out of the casual ease of those summer afternoons at the swimming pool. Aside from the boy who sat next to me in school, whom I knew from the old class, the person I liked especially in the new class was Holger Schlüter, who like me was interested in history and literature, and with whom I quickly felt at ease. He also got along with Sophie, who lived a few blocks behind our house, which meant that we went to and from the swimming pool together. At first I told myself that I wasn’t yet close enough to my friends to tell them about Hanna. Then I didn’t find the right opportunity, the right moment, the right words. And finally it was too late to tell them about Hanna, to present her along with all my other youthful secrets. I told myself that talking about her so belatedly would misrepresent things, make it seem as if I had kept silent about Hanna for so long because our relationship wasn’t right and I felt guilty about it. But no matter what I pretended to myself, I knew that I was betraying Hanna when I acted as if I was letting my friends in on everything important in my life but said nothing about Hanna.
The fact that they knew I wasn’t being completely open only made things worse. One evening Sophie and I got caught in a thunderstorm on our way home and took shelter under the overhang of a garden shed in Neuenheimer Feld, which had no university buildings on it then, just fields and gardens. It thundered, the lightning crackled, the wind came in gusts, and rain fell in big heavy drops. At the same time the temperature dropped a good ten degrees. We were freezing, and I put my arm around her.
“You know . . .” She wasn’t looking at me, but out at the rain.
“What?”
“You were sick with hepatitis for a long time. Is that what’s on your mind? Are you afraid you won’t really get well again? Did the doctors say something? And do you have to go to the clinic every day to get tests or transfusions?”
Hanna as illness. I was ashamed. But I really couldn’t start talking about Hanna at this point. “No, Sophie, I’m not sick anymore. My liver is normal, and in a year I’ll even be able to drink alcohol if I want, but I don’t. What’s . . .” Talking about Hanna, I didn’t want to say “what’s bothering me.” “There’s another reason I arrive later or leave earlier.”
“Do you not want to talk about it, or is it that you want to but you don’t know how?”
Did I not want to, or didn’t I know how? I didn’t know the answer. But as we stood there under the lightning, with the explosions of thunder rumbling almost overhead and the pounding of the rain, both freezing, warming each other a little, I had the feeling that I had to tell her, of all people, about Hanna. “Maybe I can tell you some other time.”
But there never was another time.
　　后来我开始背叛她。
　　不是我泄露了我们之间的秘密或者出汉娜的丑。我不该讲的，什么都没有讲，该讲的我也什么都没讲。我没有透露我和她的关系。我知道否认是不明显的、变相的背叛。一个人是否能保守秘密或者是否不承认一件事，是否替他人着想，是否能避免尴尬和令人生气的场面，从外表上是看不出来的。但是，这个隐瞒心事而不宜的人对此是一清二楚。否认——变相的背叛，会使我们的关系失去基础。
　　我已不记得了，我第一次否认汉娜是什么时候。夏日的午后，游泳池把我们同学之间的关系发展为朋友的关系。在新班上，除了我的邻桌以外——他是我原来班上的同学，我尤其喜欢像我一样喜爱历史和文学的霍尔格•施吕特，我们很快就成为知己。他不久也和索菲成了好朋友。索菲住得离我家不远，这样我和她去游泳池同路。起初，我心想，我和朋友之间的信任程度还不足以使我向他们敞开心扉讲述我和汉娜的关系，后来，我又没有找到合适的机会和恰如其分的言辞。再往后，当别人都讲述年轻人的秘密时，我再讲述汉娜就太迟了。我想，这么晚了才讲述汉娜一定会给人造成一种错误的印象。我沉默了这么长时间是因为我们的关系在其他人看来不正常而且我感到内疚，可是我知道我只字没提汉娜是对她的背叛，我这样做似乎是想让朋友们知道什么是我生活中重要的事情，实际上也是在自欺欺人。
　　尽管他们注意到我不是很坦率，但这并未改变我的缄口。有一天晚上，我和索菲在回家的路上遇上了一场大雷雨。我们躲到了新家园，在一座园圃的门檐下避雨。当时那里还尚未建大学楼，只是田园。当时，电闪雷鸣，风雨交加，下着豆大的雨点，与此同时，气温骤然降了五度左右。我们冷得要命，我一手搂着她。
　　"喂？"她并不看着我而是望着外面的雨对我说。
　　"什么？"
　　"你病了很久吧，是黄胆病。这就是你在忙碌的事情吗？你害怕再也恢复不了健康吗？医生们是怎么说的呢？你必须每天去医院换血或者输液吗？"
　　把汉娜当做病，我感到可耻。可是要谈起汉娜我又实在无法启齿。"不，索菲，我的病已经好了，我的肝胆也正常，如果我愿意，一年后我甚至可以喝酒，但我不想喝。我要……"汉娜使我忙忙碌碌，但我不想提汉娜。"我为什么晚来或早走是因为其他事情。"
　　"你不想就此谈一谈吗？或者你实际上想谈却又不知道如何谈？"
　　我不想谈，还是不知道怎样谈？这个连我自己也说不清楚，但是，当我俩站在电闪雷鸣、劈啪作响的雨中时，在都冻得发抖又相互可以取点暖的时候，我有一种感觉，那就是我对她，也只有对她才能提到汉娜。"也许下一次我能讲吧。"
　　但是，再也没有这样的下一次了。
Part 1 Chapter 16
I NEVER FOUND out what Hanna did when she wasn’t working and we weren’t together. When I asked, she turned away my questions. We did not have a world that we shared; she gave me the space in her life that she wanted me to have. I had to be content with that. Wanting more, even wanting to know more, was presumption on my part. If we were particularly happy with each other and I asked her something because at that moment it felt as if everything was possible and allowed, then she sometimes ducked my questions, instead of refusing outright to answer them. “The things you ask, kid!” Or she would take my hand and lay it on her stomach. “Are you trying to make holes in me?” Or she would count on her fingers. “Laundry, ironing, sweeping, dusting, shopping, cooking, shake plums out of tree, pick up plums, bring plums home and cook them quick before the little one”—and here she would take hold of the fifth finger of her left hand between her right thumb and forefinger—“eats them all himself.”
I never met her unexpectedly on the street or in a store or a movie theater, although she told me she loved going to the movies, and in our first months together I always wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t let me. Sometimes we talked about films we had both seen. She went no matter what was showing, and saw everything, from German war and folk movies to Westerns and New Wave films, and I liked what came out of Hollywood, whether it was set in ancient Rome or the Wild West. There was one Western in particular that we both loved: the one with Richard Widmark playing a sheriff who has to fight a duel next morning that he’s bound to lose, and in the evening he knocks on Dorothy Malone’s door—she’s been trying, but failing, to get him to make a break for it. She opens up. “What do you want now? Your whole life in one night?” Sometimes Hanna teased me when I came to her full of desire, with “What do you want now? Your whole life in one hour?”
Only once did I ever see Hanna by chance. It was the end of July or the beginning of August, in the last few days before summer vacation.
Hanna had been behaving oddly for days, moody and peremptory, and at the same time palpably under some kind of pressure that was absolutely tormenting her and left her acutely sensitive and vulnerable. She pulled herself together and held herself tight as if to stop herself from exploding. When I asked what was upsetting her so, she snapped at me. That was hard for me to take. I felt rejected, but I also felt her helplessness, and I tried to be there for her and at the same time to leave her in peace. One day the pressure was gone. At first I thought Hanna was her usual self again. We had not started a new book after the end of War and Peace, but I had promised I’d see to it, and had brought several books to choose from.
But she didn’t want that. “Let me bathe you, kid.”
It wasn’t summer’s humidity that had settled on me like a heavy net when I came into the kitchen. Hanna had turned on the boiler for the bathwater. She filled the tub, put in a few drops of lavender oil, and washed me. She wore her pale blue flowered smock with no underwear underneath; the smock stuck to her sweating body in the hot, damp air. She excited me very much. When we made love, I sensed that she wanted to push me to the point of feeling things I had never felt before, to the point where I could no longer stand it. She also gave herself in a way she had never done before. She didn’t abandon all reserve, she never did that. But it was as if she wanted us to drown together.
“Now go to your friends.” She dismissed me, and I went. The heat stood solidly between the buildings, lay over the fields and gardens, and shimmered above the asphalt. I was numb. At the swimming pool the shrieks of playing, splashing children reached me as if from far, far away. I moved through the world as if it had nothing to do with me nor I with it. I dived into the milky chlorinated water and felt no compulsion to surface again. I lay near the others, listening to them, and found what they said silly and pointless.
Eventually the feeling passed. Eventually it turned into an ordinary afternoon at the swimming pool with homework and volleyball and gossip and flirting. I can’t remember what it was I was doing when I looked up and saw her.
She was standing twenty or thirty meters away, in shorts and an open blouse knotted at the waist, looking at me. I looked back at her. She was too far away for me to read her expression. I didn’t jump to my feet and run to her. Questions raced through my head: Why was she at the pool, did she want to be seen with me, did I want to be seen with her, why had we never met each other by accident, what should I do? Then I stood up. And in that briefest of moments in which I took my eyes off her, she was gone.
Hanna in shorts, with the tails of her blouse knotted, her face turned towards me but with an expression I cannot read at all—that is another picture I have of her.
　　我一直都不知道汉娜不上班而我们又不在一起时她做什么。问起她这个问题，她就驳回我。我们没有共同的生活世界，她在她的生活中给我留有了她想给予我的一席之地，对此我该满足了。如果我想知道更多一点，不过是更多一点，那就是胆大妄为了。如果我们在一起感到特别地心满意足时，我有一种感觉，现在什么都可以问也允许问，可随之却出现了这样的情况：她不拒绝回答我的问题却绕开我的问题。"你怎么什么都想知道，小家伙！"或者她把我的手放在她的肚子上："你想让它被打出洞来吗？"或者她掰着手指数："我要洗衣服，熨衣服，打扫卫生，买菜做饭，要把李子从树上摇晃下来，还要把它们抬起来运回屋里，尽快把它们做成果酱，否则的话，这个小东西就吃了。"她把左手的小拇指放到右手的大拇指和食指间，"否则的话，它一个人就给吃光了。"
　　我也从来没有与她不期而遇过，在街上，或者在商店里，在电影院，在一些如她所说的经常喜欢去的地方，或在最初的几个月里我总想和她一起去而她不愿意去的地方。有时我们谈论我俩都看过的影片。她毫无选择地看所有的影片，从德国的战争片到家乡片，从西部片到新浪潮派。我喜欢看好莱坞影片，不论是描写古罗马的还是西部片都喜欢。有一部西部片我们两人都特别喜欢，里查德•魏德马克扮演一名司法官，他第二天早上必须要和人决斗而且注定要战败。晚上，他来到多梦西•马隆的门前，她徒劳地劝其逃离。她把if打开："你现在要做什么？你为了一个晚上不要命了吗？"当我满怀急切的渴望去汉娜那儿时，她有时戏弄地对我说："你现在要做什么？为了一个小时你不要命了吗？"
　　我仅有一次与汉娜不期而遇。那是七月底或八月初，放暑假的前一天。
　　有好几天，汉娜的情绪都极不寻常，她任性粗暴同时明显地处于一种使其极端痛苦、敏感和脆弱的压力之下。她在极力控制自己，好像要避免在压力下彻底崩溃。我问她是什么事情使她如此痛苦，她对此的反应是没好气地对待我。我不知如何是好，无论如何我不仅感觉到她对我的训斥而且也感觉到了她的无助。我尽量去陪伴她同时又尽量少打扰她。有一天，这种压力不见了。于是，我想汉娜又和从前一样了。我们朗读完《战争与和平》之后没有马上开始朗读另一本书，我已答应这事由我来管，并带了很多书来挑选。
　　但是她不想挑，"让我来给你洗澡，小家伙。"
　　走进厨房里，我感到身上像加了一层厚布一样的闷热，但是，那不是夏日里的闷热。汉娜打开了热水炉，她让热水淌着，在里面加了几滴洗澡的香料之后给我洗澡。在那件浅蓝色的花罩裙下，她没有穿内裤。那件罩裙在潮湿的空气中贴在了汗淋淋的身上。她把我撩逗得兴奋不已。当我们做爱时，我感到她要让我体验到到目前为止所有的感受，直到我不能承受为止。她对我还从来没那么倾心过，但又不是绝对倾心，她对我从来没有绝对倾心过。但是，那情景就好像她要和我一起溺死一样。
　　"现在去你的朋友们那儿吧！"她和我告别之后，我就走了。房屋之间、田园之上都笼罩着炎热，柏油马路被晒得闪闪发光。我昏昏沉沉地去了游泳池，那里，孩子们玩耍的喊叫声、戏水的劈劈啪啪声传到了我耳中，好像来自很遥远的地方。总而言之，我好像在穿过一个不属于我的，我也不属于它的世界。我潜入了乳白色的放有氯气的水中不想再出来。我躺在其他人旁边，听着他们在谈论什么可笑的和不足挂齿的事情。
　　不知什么时候这种气氛消失了，不知什么时候，游泳池里又变得和往常一样：做作业，打排球，聊天，调情。我已记不得了，当我抬头看到她的时候我正在做什么。
　　她站在离我二十到三十米远的地方，穿着一条短裤，一件开襟的衬衫，腰间系着带子，正向我这边张望。我向她回望过去，离得太远，我看不清她的面部表情。我没有跳起来向她跑过去，我脑子里在想，她为什么在游泳池里？她是否愿意被我看见？她是否愿意我们被别人看到？我是否愿意我们被别人看到？因为我们还从未不期而遇过，我该如何是好？随后，我站了起来，就在我没有注视她的这一眨眼的工夫里，她离开了。
　　汉娜穿着短裤，一件开襟衬衫，腰间系着带子，带着我看不清的面部表情向我张望着。这也是汉娜留在我脑中的一个形象。
Part 1 Chapter 17
N EXT DAY she was gone. I came at the usual time and rang the bell. I looked through the door, everything looked the way it always did, I could hear the clock ticking.
I sat down on the stairs once again. During our first few months, I had always known what line she was working on, even though I had never repeated my attempt to accompany her or even pick her up afterwards. At some point I had stopped asking, stopped even wondering. It hadn’t even occurred to me until now.
I used the telephone booth at the Wilhelmsplatz to call the streetcar company, was transferred from one person to the next, and finally was told that Hanna Schmitz had not come to work. I went back to Bahnhofstrasse, asked at the carpenter’s shop in the yard for the name of the owner of the building, and got a name and address in Kirchheim. I rode over there.
“Frau Schmitz? She moved out this morning.”
“And her furniture?”
“It’s not her furniture.”
“How long did she live in the apartment?”
“What’s it to you?” The woman who had been talking to me through a window in the door slammed it shut.
In the administration building of the streetcar company, I talked my way through to the personnel department. The man in charge was friendly and concerned.
“She called this morning early enough for us to arrange for a substitute, and said that she wouldn’t be coming back, period.” He shook his head. “Two weeks ago she was sitting there in your chair and I offered to have her trained as a driver, and she throws it all away.”
It took me some days to think of going to the citizens’ registration office. She had informed them she was moving to Hamburg, but without giving an address.
The days went by and I felt sick. I took pains to make sure my parents and my brothers and sisters noticed nothing. I joined in the conversation at table a little, ate a little, and when I had to throw up, I managed to make it to the toilet. I went to school and to the swimming pool. I spent my afternoons there in an out-of-the-way place where no one would look for me. My body yearned for Hanna. But even worse than my physical desire was my sense of guilt. Why hadn’t I jumped up immediately when she stood there and run to her! This one moment summed up all my halfheartedness of the past months, which had produced my denial of her, and my betrayal. Leaving was her punishment.
Sometimes I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t her I had seen. How could I be sure it was her when I hadn’t been able to make out the face? If it had been her, wouldn’t I have had to recognize her face? So couldn’t I be sure it wasn’t her at all?
But I knew it was her. She stood and looked—and it was too late.
　　第二天她不在了。和往常的时间一样我去了她那里，按响了门铃。透过房门我看到一切依旧，听得见挂钟在滴答滴答地响。
　　我又坐在了楼梯台阶上。在最初的几个月里，我一直知道她在哪条路段工作，尽管我不再设法去陪伴她，也不再想方设法去接她。不知从什么时候起，我不再问起此事，对此不再感兴趣了。现在，我又想到这事。
　　在威廉广场的电话厅里，我给有轨电车公司打了电话。电话被转来转去，最后得知汉娜•史密芝没有去上班。我又回到了火车站街，在院子里的木工厂那儿打听到那座房子为谁所有。我得到了一个名字和地址。这样我就去了基西海姆。
　　"史密芝女士？她今天早上搬了出去。"
　　"那她的家具呢？"
　　"那不是她的家具。"
　　"她是从什么时候起住在那个房子里的？"
　　"这与您有什么关系呢？"那个透过门窗跟我说话的女人把窗户关上了。
　　在有轨电车公司的办公大楼里，我到处打听人事部。有关的一位负责人很友好，也很担忧。
　　"她今天早上打来电话，很及时，使我们有可能安排别人来代替。她说她不再来了，彻底地不来了。"他摇着头说，"十四天前，她坐在您现在的位子上，我给她提供了一次受培训当司机的机会，可她放弃了一切。"
　　几天以后，我才想起来去居民登记局。她注销了户籍去了汉堡，可没有留下地址。
　　我难受了许多天，注意着不让父母和兄弟姐妹看出来。在饭桌上，我参与他们的谈话，吃少许的东西，如果非要呕吐不可，也能忍看到了洗手间才吐出来。我去上学，去游泳池。在游泳池一个无人找得到的偏僻的角落里把下午的时间打发掉。我的肉体思念着汉娜，但是，比这种肉体的思念更严重的是我的负疚感。当她站在那儿时，我为什么没有立即跳起来向她跑过去！这件小事使我联想起了我在过去的几个月里对她的半心半意，由于这种半心半意，我否认了她，背叛了她。她的离去是对我的惩罚。
　　有时候，我企图这样开脱自己，说我看见的那个人不是她。我怎么能确信就是她呢？当时我的确没有看清楚她的脸。如果真的是她，难道我连她都认不出来吗？我真的不能确定那个人是不是她。
　　但是，我知道那个人就是她。她站在那儿，望着我。一切都晚了。
Part 2 Chapter 1
A FTER HANNA left the city, it took a while before I stopped watching for her everywhere, before I got used to the fact that afternoons had lost their shape, and before I could look at books and open them without asking myself whether they were suitable for reading aloud. It took a while before my body stopped yearning for hers; sometimes I myself was aware of my arms and legs groping for her in my sleep, and my brother reported more than once at table that I had called out “Hanna” in the night. I can also remember classes at school when I did nothing but dream of her, think of her. The feeling of guilt that had tortured me in the first weeks gradually faded. I avoided her building, took other routes, and six months later my family moved to another part of town. It wasn’t that I for got Hanna. But at a certain point the memory of her stopped accompanying me wherever I went. She stayed behind, the way a city stays behind as a train pulls out of the station. It’s there, somewhere behind you, and you could go back and make sure of it. But why should you?
I remember my last years of school and my first years at university as happy. Yet I can’t say very much about them. They were effortless; I had no difficulty with my final exams at school or with the legal studies that I chose because I couldn’t think of anything else I really wanted to do; I had no difficulty with friendships, with relationships or the end of relationships—I had no difficulty with anything. Everything was easy; nothing weighed heavily. Perhaps that is why my bundle of memories is so small. Or do I keep it small? I also wonder if my memory of happiness is even true. If I think about it more, plenty of embarrassing and painful situations come to mind, and I know that even if I had said goodbye to my memory of Hanna, I had not overcome it. Never to let myself be humiliated or humiliate myself after Hanna, never to take guilt upon myself or feel guilty, never again to love anyone whom it would hurt to lose—I didn’t formulate any of this as I thought back then, but I know that’s how I felt.
I adopted a posture of arrogant superiority. I behaved as if nothing could touch or shake or confuse me. I got involved in nothing, and I remember a teacher who saw through this and spoke to me about it; I was arrogantly dismissive. I also remember Sophie. Not long after Hanna left the city, Sophie was diagnosed with tuberculosis. She spent three years in a sanitorium, returning just as I went to university. She felt lonely, and sought out contact with her old friends. It wasn’t hard for me to find a way into her heart. After we slept together, she realized I wasn’t interested in her; in tears, she asked, “What’s happened to you, what’s happened to you?” I remember my grandfather during one of my last visits before his death; he wanted to bless me, and I told him I didn’t believe in any of that and didn’t want it. It is hard for me to imagine that I felt good about behaving like that. I also remember that the smallest gesture of affection would bring a lump to my throat, whether it was directed at me or at someone else. Sometimes all it took was a scene in a movie. This juxtaposition of callousness and extreme sensitivity seemed suspicious even to me.
　　汉娜离开这座城市之后，我走到哪儿都期望能见到她，这种情况持续了好长一段时间。后来我才习惯于下午没有她，我才在阅读或随便翻阅书籍时停止自问，哪些书适合朗读。过了一段时间，我的肉体才不再对她的肉体那么渴望了。有时候，我自己也注意到了我的胳膊和大腿在睡觉时是怎样地在寻摸着她。我哥哥多次在饭桌上开我的玩笑，说我在睡觉时叫喊着汉娜。我还记得我在课堂上魂不守舍，只是在想她的情景。最初几周里所具有的这种令我痛苦万分的负疚感后来消失了。我避开她住过的房子走另外的路，而且，半年后我的家搬到了另外的一个城区里。不是我把汉娜忘记了，而是不知从什么时候起对她的回忆自己停止了，不再伴随我了。回忆被留在了身后，就像一列火车继续向前行驶而把一座城市留在其后一样。它依然存在，在什么地方潜伏着，我可以随时驶向它，得到它。但是，我不必非这样做不可。
　　我记得，中学生活的最后几年和大学生活的最初几年我过得非常愉快，但是，能让我说得出的幸福又微乎其微。我没费什么力气就完成了学业，中学结业考试和出于无奈而选择的法律专业对我来说没什么了不起，友爱、情爱和离别对我来说也没什么了不起，什么都不在话下。我把一切都看得很轻，这样，一切对我来说都很轻松。也许正因为如此，记忆中的内容才如此之少。或许这种少只是我的一种感觉？我也在怀疑我现在的这种认为当年我过着幸福生活的感觉符合当年的实际吗？如果我再往前追忆的话，就会想起足以令我感到痛苦难堪的情景，我也就会意识到，虽然我告别了对汉娜的回忆，但却没有战胜它。汉娜不会使我再低三下四了，我也不会再卑躬屈膝了，我不再欠谁什么，不再感到内疚，不会再与任何人如此相爱，以至于她的离去会让我感到痛苦。当时，我对这些并没有这么清楚地思考过，但却明显地感觉到了。
　　我养成了傲慢自大、目空一切的习惯，表现得对任何事情都不闻不问，都无动于衷和不困不惑。我不参与任何事情。我还记得，有位老师对此看得很清楚。一次他与我谈起此事，我很傲慢地就把他打发掉了。我也记得索菲。在汉娜离开这座城市不久，索菲被诊断患有肺结核。她在疗养院度过了三年的光阴，在我刚上大学时她回来了。她感到孤独寂寞，在寻找与老朋友的联系，这样，我很容易就赢得了她的心。我们一起睡过觉之后，她发现我的心不在她那儿，她含着眼泪说："你怎么了，你出了什么事？'我还记得，我的祖父去世前，在我最后一次去看望他的时候，他要给我祝福，我都解释说我不信这个，它对我毫无价值。当时，我对自己的这种行为还感到沾沾自喜，现在想起来简直木可思议。我也记得，一个小小的示爱的手势，不管这手势是针对我的还是对别人的，都会让我激动得喉咙咬住。有时候，电影里面的一个情节就足以使我如此激动。我既麻木不仁又多愁善感，这甚至连我自己都难以置信。
Part 2 Chapter 2
W HEN I saw Hanna again, it was in a courtroom.
It wasn’t the first trial dealing with the camps, nor was it one of the major ones. Our professor, one of the few at that time who were working on the Nazi past and the related trials, made it the subject of a seminar, in the hope of being able to follow the entire trial with the help of his students, and evaluate it. I can no longer remember what it was he wanted to examine, confirm, or disprove. I do remember that we argued the prohibition of retroactive justice in the seminar. Was it sufficient that the ordinances under which the camp guards and enforcers were convicted were already on the statute books at the time they committed their crimes? Or was it a question of how the laws were actually interpreted and enforced at the time they committed their crimes, and that they were not applied to them? What is law? Is it what is on the books, or what is actually enacted and obeyed in a society? Or is law what must be enacted and obeyed, whether or not it is on the books, if things are to go right? The professor, an old gentleman who had returned from exile but remained an outsider among German legal scholars, participated in these debates with all the force of his scholarship, and yet at the same time with a detachment that no longer relied on pure scholarship to provide the solution to a problem. “Look at the defendants—you won’t find a single one who really believes he had the dispensation to murder back then.”
The seminar began in winter, the trial in spring. It lasted for weeks. The court was in session Mondays through Thursdays, and the professor assigned a group of students to keep a word-for-word record for each day. The seminar was held on Fridays, and explored the data gathered during the preceding week.
Exploration! Exploring the past! We students in the seminar considered ourselves radical explorers. We tore open the windows and let in the air, the wind that finally whirled away the dust that society had permitted to settle over the horrors of the past. We made sure people could breathe and see. And we placed no reliance on legal scholarship. It was evident to us that there had to be convictions. It was just as evident that conviction of this or that camp guard or enforcer was only the prelude. The generation that had been served by the guards and enforcers, or had done nothing to stop them, or had not banished them from its midst as it could have done after 1945, was in the dock, and we explored it, subjected it to trial by daylight, and condemned it to shame.
Our parents had played a variety of roles in the Third Reich. Several among our fathers had been in the war, two or three of them as officers of the Wehrmacht and one as an officer of the Waffen SS. Some of them had held positions in the judiciary or local government. Our parents also included teachers and doctors, and one of us had an uncle who had been a high official in the Ministry of the Interior. I am sure that to the extent that we asked and to the extent that they answered us, they had very different stories to tell. My father did not want to talk about himself, but I knew that he had lost his job as lecturer in philosophy for scheduling a lecture on Spinoza, and had got himself and us through the war as an editor for a house that published hiking maps and books. How did I decide that he too was under sentence of shame? But I did. We all condemned our parents to shame, even if the only charge we could bring was that after 1945 they had tolerated the perpetrators in their midst.
We students in the seminar developed a strong group identity. We were the students of the camps—that’s how the other students described us, and how we soon came to call ourselves. What we were doing didn’t interest the others; it alienated many of them, literally repelled some. When I think about it now, I think that our eagerness to assimilate the horrors and our desire to make everyone else aware of them was in fact repulsive. The more horrible the events about which we read and heard, the more certain we became of our responsibility to enlighten and accuse. Even when the facts took our breath away, we held them up triumphantly. Look at this!
I had enrolled in the seminar out of sheer curiosity. It was finally something new, not contracts and not property, torts or criminal law or legal method. I brought to the seminar my arrogant, superior airs. But as the winter went on, I found it harder and harder to withdraw—either from the events we read and heard about, or from the zeal that seized the students in the seminar. At first, I pretended to myself that I only wanted to participate in the scholarly debate, or its political and moral fervor. But I wanted more; I wanted to share in the general passion. The others may have found me distant and arrogant; for my part, I had the good feeling all that winter that I belonged, and that I was at peace with myself about what I was doing and the people with whom I was doing it.
　　我又见到汉娜是在法庭上。
　　那不是第一次对集中营罪犯的开庭审判，也不是规模很大的一次。有位教授就这次审判开了一门课，他希望借助学生们的帮助对整个审判过程进行追踪并对此加以分析。他是当时为数不多的对纳粹历史及有关的审判程序进行研究的人士之一。我已记不得了他要考查、证明或者驳斥什么。我记得在课堂上我们就禁止追加惩罚进行过讨论。根据他们犯罪时就业已存在的刑法的有关条款来审判那些集中营看守和刽子手就足够了吗？或者视其犯罪之时人们如何理解运用这些刑法条款，并要看这些条款是否也涉及到他们？什么是法？是法律条文的规定还是在社会上真正被实施和遵守的东西？或者，法就是在正常情况下必须加以实施和遵守的东西，不管它们是否已被写进法律条文？那位教授是一位流亡国外后归来的老先生，但在德国法学界仍是一位局外人。他以他的渊博学识，但同时又保持一定距离地参加了关于一些问题的讨论，不过，那些问题都是些不能靠学问解决的问题。"仔细观察一下那些被告人，您将找不出任何一个真的认为他当时可以杀人的人。"
　　我们上的那门课在冬季学期开始，法庭的审判在年初，审判持续了很长时间。从星期一到星期四法庭开庭审判。教授每天都指派了一组学生做文字记录。星期五大家坐下来讨论，把一周来的审判情况清理出来。
　　清理！清理过去！我们参加这门课的学生把自己看做是清理的先锋。在过去的可怕历史上已经积满了一层尘埃，我们用力地把窗户打开，让最终能卷起这种尘埃的风进来。但是我们还要为人们的呼吸、人们的视觉而负责。同样，我们也不完全依赖我们的法律知识。必须要进行审判，这对我们来说是确定无疑的。到目前为止，对这个或那个集中营的看守或刽子手的审判流于肤浅，这我们来说同样是确定无疑的。那些利用看守和刽子手的人，那些没有阻止他们的人，或者至少在一九四五年该揭发检举他们而没有这样做的人现在被送上了法庭。我们在清理工作中对他们进行审判，谴责他们的可耻行为。
　　我们这些人的父母在第三帝国时期扮演的角色也完全不同。有些人的父亲参加了战争，其中有两位或三位是德国国防军的军官，有一位是纳粹党卫军兵器部的军官，有几位在司法、行政机构发迹升迁。我们的父母中也有教师和医生，其中一位同学的叔叔是和帝国内政部长共事的高级官员。我敢肯定，只要我们问起他们而他们又给我们答复的话，他们所要告诉我们的会是五花八门。我的父亲不想讲他自己，但是我知道，他哲学讲师的位子是因为预告要开一门关于斯宾诺莎的深而丢掉的。做为一家出版旅游图和导游手册的出版社的编辑，他带领我们全家度过了那场战争。我怎么能谴责他是可耻的呢？但是我还是这样做了。我们都谴责我们的父母是可耻的，如果可能的话，我们还起诉他们，因为一九四五年之后他们容忍了他们周围的罪犯。
　　参加我们这门课的学生形成了一个拥有自己的明显特征的小组。起初其他学生称我们为集中营问题研究班，不久之后我们自己也如此称呼起来。对我们的所作所为，一些人不感兴趣，更多的人感到惊讶，另一些人感到反感。现在我想，我们在了解这段可怕的历史并在试图让其他人也了解这段可怕历史的过程中所表现出的热情，的确令人反感。我们读到、听到的事实真相越可怕，控诉和清理的任务也就越明确。即使是令我们窒息的事实真相，我们也要胜利地高举着它们。瞧这！
　　我报名参加这个研讨班完全是出于好奇，因为这样就可以换点其他内容了，否则一味是买卖法、犯罪和参与犯罪、德国中世纪法典或古代法律哲学。我把已经养成的傲慢自大、目空一切的习惯也带到了班上。不过，在那个冬季里，我越来越不能自拔，不是不能从我们所读、所看到的事实真相中自拔，也不是不能从研究班的学生们所表现出的热情中自拔。起初，我只想分担一点同学们的科学、政治或伦理道德方面的热情，但是，这不过是自欺而已。我越来越想更多地参与，想与他们分担全部热情。其他人可能还是觉得我仍！日与他们保持着距离，认为我高傲自大。可我在那个冬季的几个月里自我感觉不错，觉得已属于那个研究班了，觉得我了解了自己、自己所做的事和与我共事的同学。
Part 2 Chapter 3
T HE TRIAL was in another town, about an hour’s drive away. I had no other reason ever to go there. Another student drove. He had grown up there and knew the place.
It was a Thursday. The trial had begun on Monday. The first three days of proceedings had been taken up with defense motions to recuse. Our group was the fourth, and so would witness the examination of the defendants at the actual start of proceedings.
We drove along Bergstrasse under blossoming fruit trees. We were bubbling over with exhilaration: finally we could put all our training into practice. We did not feel like mere spectators, or listeners, or recorders. Watching and listening and recording were our contributions to the exploration of history.
The court was in a turn-of-the-century building, but devoid of the gloomy pomposity so characteristic of court buildings of the time. The room that housed the assize court had a row of large windows down the left-hand side, with milky glass that blocked the view of the outdoors but let in a great deal of light. The prosecutors sat in front of the windows, and against the bright spring and summer daylight they were no more than black silhouettes. The court, three judges in black robes and six selected local citizens, was in place at the head of the courtroom and on the right-hand side was the bench of defendants and their lawyers: there were so many of them that the extra chairs and tables stretched into the middle of the room in front of the public seats. Some of the defendants and their lawyers were sitting with their backs to us. One of them was Hanna. I did not recognize her until she was called, and she stood up and stepped forward. Of course I recognized the name as soon as I heard it: Hanna Schmitz. Then I also recognized the body, the head with the hair gathered in an unfamiliar knot, the neck, the broad back, and the strong arms. She held herself very straight, balanced on both feet. Her arms were relaxed at her sides. She wore a gray dress with short sleeves. I recognized her, but I felt nothing. Nothing at all.
Yes, she wished to stand. Yes, she was born on October 21, 1922, near Hermannstadt and was now forty-three years old. Yes, she had worked at Siemens in Berlin and had joined the SS in the autumn of 1943.
“You enrolled voluntarily?
“Yes.”
“Why?
Hanna did not answer.
“Is it true that you joined the SS even though Siemens had offered you a job as a foreman?”
Hanna’s lawyer was on his feet. “What do you mean by ‘even though’? Do you mean to suggest that a woman should prefer to become a foreman at Siemens than join the SS? There are no grounds for making my client’s decision the object of such a question.”
He sat down. He was the only young defense attorney; the others were old—some of them, as became apparent, old Nazis. Hanna’s lawyer avoided both their jargon and their lines of reasoning. But he was too hasty and too zealous in ways that were as damaging to his client as his colleagues’ Nazi tirades were to theirs. He did succeed in making the judge look irritated and stop pursuing the question of why Hanna had joined the SS. But the impression remained that she had done it of her own accord and not under pressure. It didn’t help her when one of the legal members of the court asked Hanna what kind of work she expected to do for the SS and she said that the SS was recruiting women at Siemens and other factories for guard duties and she had applied and was hired.
To the judge’s questions, Hanna testified in monosyllables that yes, she had served in Auschwitz until early 1944 and then in a small camp near Cracow until the winter of 1944-45, that yes, when the prisoners were moved to the west she went with them all the way, that she was in Kassel at the end of the war and since then had lived in one place and another. She had been in my city for eight years; it was the longest time she had spent in any one place.
“Is her frequent change of residence supposed to be grounds for viewing her as a flight risk?” The lawyer was openly sarcastic. “My client registered with the police each time she arrived at a new address and each time she left. There is no reason to assume she would run away, and there is nothing for her to hide. Did the judge feel it impossible to release my client on her own recognizance because of the gravity of the charges and the risk of public agitation? That, members of the court, is a Nazi rationale for custody; it was introduced by the Nazis and abolished after the Nazis. It no longer exists.” The lawyer’s malicious emphasis underlined the irony in this truth.
I was jolted. I realized that I had assumed it was both natural and right that Hanna should be in custody. Not because of the charges, the gravity of the allegations, or the force of the evidence, of which I had no real knowledge yet, but because in a cell she was out of my world, out of my life. I wanted her far away from me, so unattainable that she could continue as the mere memory she had become and remained all these years. If the lawyer was successful, I would have to prepare myself to meet her again, and I would have to work out how I wanted to do that, and how it should be. And I could see no reason why he should fail. If Hanna had not tried to escape the law so far, why should she try now? And what evidence could she suppress? There were no other legal reasons at that time to hold someone in custody.
The judge seemed irritated again, and I began to realize that this was his particular trick. Whenever he found a statement either obstructionist or annoying, he took off his glasses, stared at the speaker with a blank, short-sighted gaze, frowned, and either ignored the statement altogether or began with “So you mean” or “So what you’re trying to say is” and then repeated what had been said in a way as to leave no doubt that he had no desire to deal with it and that trying to compel him to do so would be pointless.
“So you’re saying that the arresting judge misinterpreted the fact that the defendant ignored all letters and summonses, and did not present herself either to the police, or the prosecutor, or the judge? You wish to make a motion to lift the order of detention?”
The lawyer made the motion and the court denied it.
　　法庭的审理在另外的一个城市里进行，开车去那里需要近一个小时的时间。此前，我与那个城市从未发生什么关系。另外一位同学开车，他是在那里长大的，对那里的情况非常熟悉。
　　那是一个星期四。法庭的审理在星期一就开始了，前三天的审理时间都用于辩护律师为辩护人提申请。我们第四组将要经历的是法庭对被告人的直接审理、这将是法庭审理的真正开始。
　　我们轻松愉快，情绪高涨地沿着山路在盛开的果树下面行驶。我们的所学总算有用武之地了，我们感觉自己不仅仅是观众、听众和记录员，观审、听审和做记录是我们对清理工作所做的一份贡献。
　　这座法庭是一座世纪之交的建筑，但又没有当时法庭建筑所常有的富丽堂皇和睦俄昏暗。刑事陪审法庭开庭的大厅里，左边是一排大窗户，乳白色的玻璃挡住了人们从里向外张望的视线，但却挡不住从外面照射进来的光线。检察官们坐在窗前，在明媚的春天和夏日里人们只能辨认出他们的轮廓。法庭上坐着三位身着黑色长袍的法官和六位陪审员。他们坐在大厅的正面，在他们右侧的长椅上坐着被告人和辩护律师。由于人数众多，桌椅一直摆到大厅中间，摆到了观众席前。有几位被告和辩护律师背对着我们坐着，其中就有汉娜。当她被传唤，站起来走向前面时，我才认出她来。当然，我立即就听出了她的名字：汉娜•史密芝。随后我也辨认出了她的形体，她的头，她的脖颈，她的宽阔的后背和她那强健有力的手臂，令我感到陌生的是那盘起来的头发。她站在那儿，挺着胸，两腿纹丝不动，手臂松弛下垂，穿着一件蓝色的短袖上衣。我认出了她，但是，我什么感觉都没有，我什么感觉都没有。
　　当法官问到她是否愿意站着时，她说是；当问她是否于一九二二年十月二十一日在赫尔曼市附近的一个地方出生，现年四十三岁时，她说是；当问她是否在柏林的西门子公司工作过并于一九四三年秋去了党卫队时，她说是。
　　"您是自愿去党卫队的吗？"
　　"是的。"
　　"为什么？"
　　汉娜没有回答。
　　"尽管西门子给您提供了一个做领班的职位，您还是去了党卫队，对吗？"
　　汉娜的辩护律师跳了起来："尽管'在这里是什么意思？这不就是假设一个女人应该更喜欢在西门子做个领班而不应该去党卫队吗？您没有任何理由就我的委托人的决定提出这样的问题。"
　　他坐下了。他是谁一的一位年轻的辩护人，其他人都上了年纪，有几位很快就暴露出来是老纳粹。汉娜的辩护人制止了他们使用隐语和推论。但是，他很急躁，这对他的委托人非常不利，就像他的同事们的满口纳粹论调对他们的委托人也十分不利一样。尽管他的话让审判长看上去不知所措，使他对汉娜为什么去了党卫队这个问题不再刨根问底，但是他的话给人留下一个印象，那就是，她去党卫队是经过深思熟虑的，并非迫不得已。一位陪审法官问了汉娜想在党卫队里做什么工作。汉娜解释说，党卫队在西门子和其他工厂征聘女工做替补看守，这样，她就报了名，并被录用了。尽管她做了这样的解释，但是，人们对她的不佳印象已无法改变了。
　　审判长要求汉娜用是与否来证实下列问题：是否直到一九四四年年初一直在奥斯威辛，是否于一九四四年与一九四五年之交的冬天被派往克拉科夫一所小集中营，与那里的被关押者一起西行并到达了目的地，是否在战争结束时到过卡塞尔，是否从那以后经常更换居住地。她在我的家乡住了八年，那是她居住时间最长的一个地方。
　　"经常更换居住地就能证明有逃跑的嫌疑吗？"辩护律师用很明显的讽刺口吻问道。"我的委托人每次更换居住地都在警察局登记和注销户籍。没有任何迹象说明她要逃跑，她也掩饰不了任何事情。逮捕法官认为我的委托人受到的指控严重，面临引起公愤的危险，他感到无法容忍。难道这可以成为剥夺她人身自由的理由吗？我尊敬的法官先生，这是纳粹时期抓人的理由，是纳粹时盛行的做法，纳粹之后被废除了，这种做法现在早已不存在了。"辩护律师说话时带有一种人们在兜售下流故事时所表现的不良用心和洋洋得意。
　　我对此感到震惊。我发现，我认为逮捕汉娜是自然的和理所当然的，不是因为人们对她提出了控告、严重谴责和强烈怀疑——关于这些我还一点不知详情，而是因为把她关在单人牢房里她就会从我的世界中，从我的生活中消失。我想离她远远的，让她远不可及，让在过去几年里成为我生活中的一部分的她变成一种记忆，仅仅是一种记忆。如果辩护律师成功的话，那就意味着我必须做好再次见到她的准备，我就必须使自己清楚我是否见她和如何见她。而且，我看不出他怎么能不成功。如果汉娜到目前为止没有企图逃跑，那么她为什么现在要去这么做呢？她能掩饰什么呢？这恰是逮捕她的一个理由。
　　审判长看上去又不知所措了。我发现这是他的一个计策。每当他认为某种意见具有阻碍性和令他感到不愉快时，他就摘掉眼镜，用近视的、不肯定的目光打量着发表意见的人，同时皱着眉头，或者避而不谈已经发表的意见，或者开始这样发问："您的意思是……"或"您是想说……"并用另一种方式重述一遍别人发表的意见，让人确实感到他对此不感兴趣，同时也使人相信逼他是没用的。
　　"您的意思是逮捕官错误地估计了下面的情况：被告人没有对书面的传讯做出反应，没有去找警察局、检查院和法官？您是想提交一份撤销逮捕令的报告吗？"
　　辩护律师提交了一份这样的报告，被法庭驳回了。
Part 2 Chapter 4
I DID NOT miss a single day of the trial. The other students were surprised. The professor was pleased that one of us was making sure that the next group learned what the last one had heard and seen.
Only once did Hanna look at the spectators and over at me. Usually she was brought in by a guard and took her place and then kept her eyes fixed on the bench throughout the day’s proceedings. It appeared arrogant, as did the fact that she didn’t talk to the other defendants and almost never with her lawyer either. However, as the trial went on, the other defendants talked less among themselves too. When there were breaks in the proceedings, they stood with relatives and friends, and in the mornings they waved and called hello to them when they saw them in the public benches. During the breaks Hanna remained in her seat.
So I watched her from behind. I saw her head, her neck, her shoulders. I decoded her head, her neck, her shoulders. When she was being discussed, she held her head very erect. When she felt she was being unjustly treated, slandered, or attacked and she was struggling to respond, she rolled her shoulders forward and her neck swelled, showing the play of muscles. The objections were regularly overruled, and her shoulders regularly sank. She never shrugged, and she never shook her head. She was too keyed up to allow herself anything as casual as a shrug or a shake of the head. Nor did she allow herself to hold her head at an angle, or to let it fall, or to lean her chin on her hand. She sat as if frozen. It must have hurt to sit that way.
Sometimes strands of hair slipped out of the tight knot, began to curl, lay on the back of her neck, and moved gently against it in the draft. Sometimes Hanna wore a dress with a neckline low enough to reveal the birthmark high on her left shoulder. Then I remembered how I had blown the hair away from that neck and how I had kissed that birthmark and that neck. But the memory was like a retrieved file. I felt nothing.
During the weeks of the trial, I felt nothing: my feelings were numbed. Sometimes I poked at them, and imagined Hanna doing what she was accused of doing as clearly as I could, and also doing what the hair on her neck and the birthmark on her shoulder recalled to my mind. It was like a hand pinching an arm numbed by an injection. The arm doesn’t register that it is being pinched by the hand, the hand registers that it is pinching the arm, and at first the mind cannot tell the two of them apart. But a moment later it distinguishes them quite clearly. Perhaps the hand has pinched so hard that the flesh stays white for a while. Then the blood flows back and the spot regains its color. But that does not bring back sensation.
Who had given me the injection? Had I done it myself, because I couldn’t manage without anesthesia? The anesthetic functioned not only in the courtroom, and not only to allow me to see Hanna as if it was someone else who had loved and desired her, someone I knew well but who wasn’t me. In every part of my life, too, I stood outside myself and watched; I saw myself functioning at the university, with my parents and brother and sister and my friends, but inwardly I felt no involvement.
After a time I thought I could detect a similar numbness in other people. Not in the lawyers, who carried on throughout the trial with the same rhetorical legalistic pugnacity, jabbing pedantry, or loud, calculated truculence, depending on their personalities and their political standpoint. Admittedly the trial proceedings exhausted them; in the evenings they were tired and got more shrill. But overnight they recharged or reinflated themselves and droned and hissed away the next morning just as they had twenty-four hours before. The prosecutors made an effort to keep up and display the same level of attack day after day. But they didn’t succeed, at first because the facts and their outcome as laid out at the trial horrified them so much, and later because the numbness began to take hold. The effect was strongest on the judges and the lay members of the court. During the first weeks of the trial they took in the horrors—sometimes recounted in tears, sometimes in choking voices, sometimes in agitated or broken sentences—with visible shock or obvious efforts at self-control. Later their faces returned to normal; they could smile and whisper to one another or even show traces of impatience when a witness lost the thread while testifying. When going to Israel to question a witness was discussed, they started getting the travel bug. The other students kept being horrified all over again. They only came to the trial once a week, and each time the same thing happened: the intrusion of horror into daily life. I, who was in court every day, observed their reactions with detachment.
It was like being a prisoner in the death camps who survives month after month and becomes accustomed to the life, while he registers with an objective eye the horror of the new arrivals: registers it with the same numbness that he brings to the murders and deaths themselves. All survivor literature talks about this numbness, in which life’s functions are reduced to a minimum, behavior becomes completely selfish and indifferent to others, and gassing and burning are everyday occurrences. In the rare accounts by perpetrators, too, the gas chambers and ovens become ordinary scenery, the perpetrators reduced to their few functions and exhibiting a mental paralysis and indifference, a dullness that makes them seem drugged or drunk. The defendants seemed to me to be trapped still, and forever, in this drugged state, in a sense petrified in it.
Even then, when I was preoccupied by this general numbness, and by the fact that it had taken hold not only of the perpetrators and victims, but of all of us, judges and lay members of the court, prosecutors and recorders, who had to deal with these events now; when I likened perpetrators, victims, the dead, the living, survivors, and their descendants to each other, I didn’t feel good about it and I still don’t.
Can one see them all as linked in this way? When I began to make such comparisons in discussions, I always emphasized that the linkage was not meant to relativize the difference between being forced into the world of the death camps and entering it voluntarily, between enduring suffering and imposing it on others, and that this difference was of the greatest, most critical importance. But I met with shock and indignation when I said this not in reaction to the others’ objections, but before they had even had the chance to demur.
At the same time I ask myself, as I had already begun to ask myself back then: What should our second generation have done, what should it do with the knowledge of the horrors of the extermination of the Jews? We should not believe we can comprehend the incomprehensible, we may not compare the incomparable, we may not inquire because to inquire is to make the horrors an object of discussion, even if the horrors themselves are not questioned, instead of accepting them as something in the face of which we can only fall silent in revulsion, shame, and guilt. Should we only fall silent in revulsion, shame, and guilt? To what purpose? It was not that I had lost my eagerness to explore and cast light on things which had filled the seminar, once the trial got under way. But that some few would be convicted and punished while we of the second generation were silenced by revulsion, shame, and guilt—was that all there was to it now?
　　法庭的审理我一天都没有错过，其他同学对此感到奇怪，教授对此表示赞赏，因为，这样一来，我们当中就有了一位能把上一组同学的所见所闻传达给下一组同学的人。
　　只有一次汉娜向观众和我这边看了看，否则的话，在所有审理的日子里，当她被一位女看守带进来时和坐下之后，她都把目光投向法庭的长椅上。这使她看上去很傲慢，同样使她显得傲慢的是她与其他被告人不交谈，与她的辩护律师也几乎不说什么。不过，法庭审理持续时间越长，其他被告人之间的交谈也越少。他们在法庭中间休息时与亲朋好友站在一起交谈，早上在观众席上看到他们时，向他们招手呼唤。汉娜在法庭休息时仍旧留在她的座位上。
　　这样一来我只能从后面看她。我可以看到她的头、她的脖颈和肩膀。我研究她的头、她的脖颈和她的肩。如果事情与她有关时，她会把头抬得特别高。当她感到受到了不公平的对待时，或遭到了诽谤中伤和攻击时，或吃力地回答问题时，她都把肩往前探，脖颈青筋就暴涨起来。她的反驳总是不成功，她的肩也就总是又垂下来。她从未耸过肩，也从未摇过头。她太紧张了，以至于连耸肩、摇头所要求的轻松自如的动作都做不到。她也不允许自己把头偏着，也不允许自己低头或者靠着。她僵硬地坐着，这种坐姿一定很痛苦。
　　有时候，一咎头发慢慢地从她的发夹中掉出来，卷曲在一起垂在脖颈上，在穿堂风中来回飘摆。有时候汉娜穿一件连衣裙，它的领口很大，以致她左肩膀上面的一块胎痣都露了出来。这使我想起我把她脖颈上的头发吹开然后去亲吻那块股清、亲吻她的脖颈的情景。但是，这种回忆只是一种记忆而已，我什么感觉都没有。
　　在持续了几周长的法庭审理期间，我什么感觉都没有，我的感觉就像麻木了一样。我也偶尔刺激过它，尽可能十分清楚地去想象汉娜被指控的那些行为，同时我也去回想她脖颈上的头发和她肩膀上的那块胎痣。结果就像用手拖了一下打了麻醉药的胳膊一样，胳膊不知道被手掐了一下，而手却知道它把胳膊掐了，大脑起初也分不清这两种感觉，但下一步就把二者分得十分清楚了。也许手用力太大，被掐的地方一时会苍白无血色，过了一会儿血液才流通，被掐的地方才又恢复了血色，但是，感觉却没有随之回来。
　　是谁给我打了麻醉药呢？是我自己，因为若不麻木不仁的话，我能承受得了吗？这种麻木不仁不仅仅在法庭的大厅里起作用，它不仅仅使我能够面对汉娜——我好像不是我，而是我的一位熟人，一位爱过她、渴望过她的熟人，它还使我与我身边所有的人都相处得平平淡淡，不论是在大学里的与朋友相处，还是在家里的与父母及兄弟姐妹相处。
　　过了一段时间，我发现，类似的麻木不仁在其他人身上也可以观察到，但在辩护律师身上你观察不到这种麻木不仁。在整个审理期间，他们始终是吵吵闹闹、非常自负地争高争低，有时过分尖刻，有时大吵大闹、厚颜无耻，其程度根据个人气质和政治素质而有所不同。虽然审理已使他们精疲力竭，使他们到了晚上也疲惫不堪或者声音更尖锐刺耳，可是经过一夜的养精蓄锐，他们第二天又和前一天一样，吵吵嚷嚷地上阵了。那些法官也并不示弱，每天都斗志昂扬。但他们并没有达到预期结果，这首先因为审理对象和结果太使他们震惊，而后麻木不仁又开始发挥了作用。这种麻木不仁在审判员和陪审员身上体现得最明显。在最初几周的审理中，当他们听到那些可怕的事实时，明显地表现出震惊或者强做镇定自若：有时讲述人泪流满面，有时泣不成声，有时非常具有煽动性，有时又偶然若失。后来，他们的面部表情就又趋于正常了。他们相互之间也能笑着在对方的耳边低声评论什么，或者当一位证人事无巨细地做证时，他们也开始不耐烦地叹气。在审理期间，当需要到以色列一位女证人那儿取证的消息被公布时，人人争先恐后。其他同学总是被新的事实所震惊，他们每周只来一次法庭，每次都要面对可怕的历史打破他们的日常生活的事实。我却日复一日地留在法庭，冷眼旁观他们的反应。
　　集中营的囚犯如何才能一个月接着一个月地活过来，如何才能适应自己，如何才能对新来囚犯的惊恐万状冷眼视之呢？麻木不仁！他们以同样的麻木不仁对待杀人和死亡。那些幸存者留下的所有文字材料都记载了这种麻木不仁。这种麻木不仁削弱了生命的作用，使不法行为肆无忌惮，使用毒气杀人和焚烧人的行为变成了家常便饭。在那些罪犯寥寥数语的说明中可以看到，他们也把毒气室和焚烧炉看做是日常生活，把他们自己的作用看得很轻，把他们的肆无忌惮和冷漠无情视为一种像被注射了麻醉药或喝醉了酒一样的麻痹状态。在我眼里，那些被告人好像仍！日而且永久地被束缚在这种麻木不仁中，在某种程度上，他们已变成了化石。
　　当我对这种麻木不仁的共性进行研究时，当我不仅仅研究罪犯和受害者身上的麻木不仁，而且也对我们这些人——法官、陪审员、检查官和记录员，这些后来与此有关人员的麻木不仁进行研究时，当我把罪犯、受害者、死亡者、活着的人、幸存者和永垂不朽者相互进行比较时，我就感觉不舒服，过去感觉不舒服，现在仍然感觉不舒服。允许人们做这样的比较吗？当我在发言中做这样的比较时，我虽然总是强调不应该抹杀罪犯是被迫去集中营还是自愿去的这两者之间的区别，以及是他们自己在忍受痛苦还是给别人带来痛苦这两者之间的区别——相反，我们应该特别强调这种区别的重要性，但是，我总是引火烧身——引起别人的震惊和愤怒，如果我的这种观点不是针对其他人的指责所做出的一种反应，而是在他们尚未对我进行指责之前就提出来的话。我现在自问——当时我就已经开始对自己提出这样的问题：我们这代人应该如何对待屠杀犹太人的那段可怕的历史观？我们不应该认为我们能理解无法理解的事情，不应该去比较无法比较的事情，也不应该去询问，因为询问者本人把那可怕的过去变成了一种谈话的题材。虽然他们对那可怕的过去毫不怀疑，但却不把它视为骇人听闻的奇耻大辱和弥天大罪。我们应该仅仅停留在这种耻辱感和负疚感上吗？为什么？我之所以这样自问，不是因为我参加研究班时所拥有的那种清理和解释过去的热情在法庭审理期间消失殆尽了，但是，仅仅审判和惩罚少数几个人，我们肇事者的后代也仅仅感到那段历史是骇人听闻的奇耻大辱和弥天大罪，就可以了吗？
Part 2 Chapter 5
I N THE SECOND week, the indictment was read out. It took a day and a half to read—a day and a half in the subjunctive. The first defendant is alleged to have . . . Furthermore she is alleged . . . In addition, she is alleged . . . Thus she comes under the necessary conditions of paragraph so-and-so, furthermore she is alleged to have committed this and that act . . . She is alleged to have acted illegally and culpably. Hanna was the fourth defendant.
The five accused women had been guards in a small camp near Cracow, a satellite camp for Auschwitz. They had been transferred there from Auschwitz in early 1944 to replace guards killed or injured in an explosion in the factory where the women in the camp worked. One count of the indictment involved their conduct at Auschwitz, but that was of minor significance compared with the other charges. I no longer remember it. Was it because it didn’t involve Hanna, but only the other women? Was it of minor importance in relation to the other counts, or minor, period? Did it simply seem inexcusable to have someone available for trial who had been in Auschwitz and not charge them about their conduct in Auschwitz?
Of course the five defendants had not been in charge of the camp. There was a commandant, plus special troops, and other female guards. Most of the troops and guards had not survived the bombing raid that put an end one night to the prisoners’ westward march. Some fled the same night, and vanished as surely as the commandant, who had made himself scarce as soon as the column of prisoners set off on the forced march to the west.
None of the prisoners should, by rights, have survived the night of the bombing. But two did survive, a mother and her daughter, and the daughter had written a book about the camp and the march west and published it in America. The police and prosecutors had tracked down not only the five defendants but several witnesses who had lived in the village which had taken the bombing hits that ended the death march. The most important witnesses were the daughter, who had come to Germany, and the mother, who had remained in Israel. To depose the mother the court, prosecutors, and defense lawyers were going to go to Israel—the only part of the trial I did not attend.
One main charge concerned selections in the camp. Each month around sixty new women were sent out from Auschwitz and the same number were sent back, minus those who had died in the meantime. It was clear to everyone that the women would be killed in Auschwitz; it was those who could no longer perform useful work in the factory who were sent back. The factory made munitions; the actual work was not difficult, but the women hardly ever got to do the actual work, because they had to do raw construction to repair the devastating damage caused by the explosion early in the year.
The other main charge involved the night of the bombing that ended everything. The troops and guards had locked the prisoners, several hundred women, in a church in a village that had been abandoned by most of its inhabitants. Only a few bombs fell, possibly intended for the nearby railroad or a factory, or maybe simply released because they were left over from a raid on a larger town. One of them hit the priest’s house in which the troops and guards were sleeping. Another landed on the church steeple. First the steeple burned, then the roof; then the blazing rafters collapsed into the nave, and the pews caught fire. The heavy doors were unbudgeable. The defendants could have unlocked them. They did not, and the women locked in the church burned to death.
　　第二周，法庭宣读起诉书。宣读起诉书用了一天半的时间，使用了一天半的虚拟式。被告首先犯有……此外她犯有……再有她犯有……因此她触犯了某条某款，此外她犯有这种罪行和那种罪行，她的行为是违法的和犯罪的。汉娜是第四名被告人。
　　这五名被告都是克拉科夫一所小集中营的女看守。克拉科夫是奥斯威辛的一个外围集中营。一九四四年春，她们从奥斯威辛被派往那里。她们是代替在一家工厂的爆炸中被炸死或者炸伤的女看守们。在那家工厂里，集中营里的女囚犯们要做工。指控之一是被告们在奥斯威辛的行为，不过，与另一项指控相比，这一指控又显得不那么重要了。我已不记得另一项指控是什么了。它们与汉娜毫无关系而只涉及到另外几位女看守吗？难道与另一项指控相比对奥斯威辛的指控就不重要了吗？或者它本身就不重要？一个在奥斯威辛呆过并由此而被捕的人却不是因为他在奥斯威辛的行为而遭到指控，这不显得令人难以容忍吗？
　　当然了，这五名被告并不是那所集中营的头头。集中营有一名指挥官，一个警卫队还有其他女看守。一天夜里，囚犯们被赶着西行，途中遭到轰炸，大部分警卫队的人和女看守在轰炸中丧了生，有几位当天夜里开了小差，而指挥官出发不久就逃得无影无踪了。
　　那些囚犯在那天晚上的轰炸中本不该有任何人能活下来，但是还是有一对母女活了下来。那位女儿写了一本关于集中营和那次西行的书，并在美国付样。警察和检查院不仅找到了这五名被告，而且还找到了几位证人，西行队伍在一个村子遭到轰炸时他们就住在那个村子里。最重要的证人就是那位女儿和她的留在以色列的母亲。女儿专程来到了德国。为了向她的母亲取证，法庭、检查官和辩护人去了以色列。那是审理过程中我唯一没经历到的一个片段。
　　最主要的一项指控是在集中营中进行的挑选。每个月大约有六十名妇女被送出奥斯威辛，同样也有这个数目的妇女被送进来，这个数目不包括在这期间死掉的。所有的人都清楚，这些妇女在奥斯威辛将被杀掉，这些被送进来的都是在工厂里木能再做工的。那是一家弹药厂，尽管弹药厂本身的工作并不繁重，但是在那家弹药厂里，妇女们几乎没做她们本该做的工作，而是要参加建筑，因为年初的一次爆炸使工厂遭到严重破坏。
　　另一项重要指控涉及那个遭到轰炸的夜晚，一切都结束于那一夜。警卫队和女看守们一起把好几百号的女囚徒关在了一个村子的教堂里。大部分村民已经逃离。没有落下几枚炸弹，轰炸的目标也许是附近的火车道，或者一座工厂，也许是在空袭一座大城市之后还剩几枚炸弹，于是随意乱投下一枚炸弹刚好击中了警卫队和女看守们过夜的牧师住宅，另一枚炸弹落到了教堂的塔上。起初是搭着了火，接着是教堂的房顶，然后教堂的全部屋梁火光冲天地塌陷到了教堂的里面，于是，教堂里面的全部椅子都开始着火。沉重的大门纹丝不动。那些被告完全可以把门打开，但是她们没有这样做，那些被关在教堂里的妇女都被烧死了。
Part 2 Chapter 6
T HE TRIAL could not have gone any worse for Hanna. She had already made a bad impression on the court during the preliminary questioning. After the indictment had been read out, she spoke up to say that something was incorrect; the presiding judge rebuked her irritably, telling her that she had had plenty of time before the trial to study the charges and register objections; now the trial was in progress and the evidence would show what was correct and incorrect. When the presiding judge proposed at the beginning of the actual testimony that the German version of the daughter’s book not be read into the record, as it had been prepared for publication by a German publisher and the manuscript made available to all participants in the trial, Hanna had to be argued into it by her lawyer under the exasperated eyes of the judge. She did not willingly agree. She also did not want to acknowledge that she had admitted, in an earlier deposition, to having had the key to the church. She had not had the key, no one had had the key, there had not been any one key to the church, but several keys to several different doors, and they had all been left outside in the locks. But the court record of her examination by the judge, approved and signed by her, read differently, and the fact that she asked why they were trying to hang something on her did not make matters any better. She didn’t ask loudly or arrogantly, but with determination, and, I think, in visible and audible confusion and helplessness, and the fact that she spoke of others trying to hang something on her did not mean she was claiming any miscarriage of justice by the court. But the presiding judge interpreted it that way and responded sharply. Hanna’s lawyer leapt to his feet and let loose, overeagerly; he was asked whether he was agreeing with his client’s accusations, and sat down again.
Hanna wanted to do the right thing. When she thought she was being done an injustice, she contradicted it, and when something was rightly claimed or alleged, she acknowledged it. She contradicted vigorously and admitted willingly, as though her admissions gave her the right to her contradictions or as though, along with her contradictions, she took on a responsibility to admit what she could not deny. But she did not notice that her insistence annoyed the presiding judge. She had no sense of context, of the rules of the game, of the formulas by which her statements and those of the others were toted up into guilt and innocence, conviction and acquittal. To compensate for her defective grasp of the situation, her lawyer would have had to have more experience and self-confidence, or simply to have been better. But Hanna should not have made things so hard for him; she was obviously withholding her trust from him, but had not chosen another lawyer she trusted more. Her lawyer was a public defender appointed by the court.
Sometimes Hanna achieved her own kind of success. I remember her examination on the selections in the camp. The other defendants denied ever having had anything to do with them. Hanna admitted so readily that she had participated—not alone, but just like the others and along with them—that the judge felt he had to probe further.
“What happened at the selections?”
Hanna described how the guards had agreed among themselves to tally the same number of prisoners from their six equal areas of responsibility, ten each and sixty in all, but that the figures could fluctuate when the number of sick was low in one person’s area of responsibility and high in another’s, and that all the guards on duty had decided together who was to be sent back.
“None of you held back, you all acted together?”
“Yes.”
“Did you not know that you were sending the prisoners to their death?”
“Yes, but the new ones came, and the old ones had to make room for the new ones.”
“So because you wanted to make room, you said you and you and you have to be sent back to be killed?”
Hanna didn’t understand what the presiding judge was getting at.
“I . . . I mean . . . so what would you have done?” Hanna meant it as a serious question. She did not know what she should or could have done differently, and therefore wanted to hear from the judge, who seemed to know everything, what he would have done.
Everything was quiet for a moment. It is not the custom at German trials for defendants to question the judge. But now the question had been asked, and everyone was waiting for the judge’s answer. He had to answer; he could not ignore the question or brush it away with a reprimand or a dismissive counterquestion. It was clear to everyone, it was clear to him too, and I understood why he had adopted an expression of irritation as his defining feature. It was his mask. Behind it, he could take a little time to find an answer. But not too long; the longer he took, the greater the tension and expectation, and the better his answer had to be.
“There are matters one simply cannot get drawn into, that one must distance oneself from, if the price is not life and limb.”
Perhaps this would have been all right if he had said the same thing, but referred directly to Hanna or himself. Talking about what “one” must and must not do and what it costs did not do justice to the seriousness of Hanna’s question. She had wanted to know what she should have done in her particular situation, not that there are things that are not done. The judge’s answer came across as hapless and pathetic. Everyone felt it. They reacted with sighs of disappointment and stared in amazement at Hanna, who had more or less won the exchange. But she herself was lost in thought.
“So should I have . . . should I have not . . . should I not have signed up at Siemens?”
It was not a question directed at the judge. She was talking out loud to herself, hesitantly, because she had not yet asked herself that question and did not know whether it was the right one, or what the answer was.
　　法庭审理对汉娜来说糟得不能再糟了。在审问她个人情况时，她就没给法庭留下什么好印象。起诉书宣读完之后，她要求发言，因为她认为有些事不属实。审判长愤怒地驳回了她。他说，在刑事诉讼主要程序开始之前，她已有足够的时间研究起诉书，而且可以提出反对意见，现在人们已进入了主要程序，起诉书中起诉的事属实不属实，要由听证来决定。听证开始时，审判长建议放弃朗读那位女儿写的那本书的德文版本，因为有家德国出版社正准备出版此书，所有与此有关的人都已经人手一本草稿。审判长恼怒的目光注视着汉娜，他让其辩护律师说服她，使她同意这样做。汉娜不同意。她也不想接受那种认为她在一次初审中承认过她曾经拿到过教堂的钥匙的说法。她说，她没有拿过那把钥匙，没有人拿过那把钥匙，根本就没有开教堂的一把钥匙，而是有好多把开好多门的钥匙，它们都插在门外的锁眼里。但是，在一份审判员的审讯记录中所记载的情况却是另外一个样子，那份记录由她本人阅读过并签了字。她问人们为什么要把这件事强加于她，但这丝毫无济于事。她问得声音不大，听起来并不自以为是，但却很固执。就像我感觉到的那样，她感到困惑不解和无可奈何。她说人们强加于她时，并不是谴责他们这样做违反了法律。但是，审判长先生却是这样理解的，而且反应强烈。汉娜的辩护律师急忙跳起来，热心地为她辩护。当他被问到他是否想把人们对他的委托人的谴责据为己有时，他又坐了下来。
　　汉娜想要讨个公道。她认为她被冤枉的地方，她就提出抗议；如果她认为别人对她的谴责公正的话，她也接受。她有时固执地抗议，有时心甘情愿地承认，好像她要通过承认来获得抗议的权利，或者通过抗议的方式来承认她正常情况下无法争辩的事情。但是，她没有注意到她的固执惹恼了审判长。她对前后关系没有概念，对游戏规则没有概念，对自己的和别人的表达方式都没有概念，不知有罪或无罪，判刑或释放往往取决于表达方式。为了弥补她的这种缺陷，她的辩护律师必须是个经验丰富、沉着自信或者高人一筹的高手才行。或许汉娜不该那样难为他，她明显地表现出对他的不信任，但她没有能选择她所信赖的律师。她的律师是由审判长为她指定的，他有义务、有责任为她进行辩护。
　　有时汉娜也能取得某种胜利。我还记得对她在集中营里挑选囚犯这一问题所进行的审讯。其他被告用某时某刻做了某事来否认参与了此事，汉娜却心甘情愿地承认参与了此事，但她说她不是惟一的一个，而是像其他人一样，和其他人一起参与了此事。这样一来，审判长就不得不逼问她。
　　"挑选是如何进行的？"
　　汉娜描述道，她们几位女看守取得了一致意见，从她们六人所主管的同样大小的范围内，选出同等数目的囚犯，也就是说，每人选出十名，总共为六十名。但是，被选出的人数在低发病的情况下和高发病的情况下要有所木同。这样，所有当班的女看守最后要一起决定谁该被送回去。
　　"你们当中没有人回避此事，您所讲的包括所有的人吗？"
　　"是的。"
　　"难道您不知道您是送那些囚犯去死吗？"
　　"当然是知道的，可是新的要来，先来的必须要给后来的让地方。"
　　"因为要腾地方，您是这样说的吧：你，你，还有你就必须被送回去杀掉吗？"
　　汉娜没有弄明白审判长想以此问什么问题。
　　"我有……我认为……要是您的话，您会怎么做呢？"汉娜是把这个问题作为一个严肃问题提出来的。她不知道她该怎样做，又能怎么做。因此她想听一听看上去广见多识的审判长该怎样做。
　　一时，大厅里鸦雀无声。被告人向审判长提问题不合乎德国的刑事审判程序。但是，现在问题被提出来了，而且所有的人都在等着审判长的回答。他必须回答，不能避开问题或者做非难性的评论或者用反问的方式拒绝回答。每个人都清楚，他自己也明白，我也明白了他做出恼怒的表情的诡计。恼怒的表情给他戴上了一副假面具，在这副假面具的背后，他为自己回答问题赢得了一点时间，但是没有太多的时间，他拖延的时间越长，人们的期待就越大，气氛就越紧张，而他的回答就必须越好。
　　"有些事情人们根本就不该做，如果不去做不会要命的话，人们就必须回避。"
　　假如他说汉娜或者他自己如何做，也许就足够了。只谈论人们必须做什么，不允许做什么和人们做什么要付出什么代价，这与汉娜提出的问题的严肃性不相符。她想知道的是处在她当时的情况下，她应该怎样做，而不是有什么事情人们不可以做。审判长的回答显得无可奈何，毫无分量。在座的人都有同感。大家都很失望地深深地呼了口气，惊奇地望着在某种程度上赢得了这场舌战的汉娜。但是，汉娜本人仍在沉思。
　　"那么，我要是……没有……如果我不能在西门子公司报名呢？"
　　那不是向法官提出的问题。她在自言自语，她在犹豫不定地自问，因为她还没有把这个问题提出来。她在怀疑这个问题的正确性，在寻找它的答案。
Part 2 Chapter 7
J UST AS Hanna’s insistent contradictions annoyed the judge, her willingness to admit things annoyed the other defendants. It was damaging for their defense, but also her own.
In fact the evidence itself was favorable to the defendants. The only evidence for the main count of the indictment was the testimony of the mother who had survived, her daughter, and the daughter’s book. A competent defense would have been able, without attacking the substance of the mother’s and daughter’s testimony, to cast reasonable doubt on whether these defendants were the actual ones who had done the selections. Witnesses’ testimony on this point was not precise, nor could it be; there had, after all, been a commandant, uniformed men, other female guards, and a whole hierarchy of responsibilities and order with which the prisoners had only been partially confronted and which, correspondingly, they could only partially understand. The same was true of the second count. Mother and daughter had both been locked inside the church, and could not testify as to what had happened outside. Certainly the defendants could not claim not to have been there. The other witnesses who had been living in the village then had spoken with them and remembered them. But these other witnesses had to be careful to avoid the charge that they themselves could have rescued the prisoners. If the defendants had been the only ones there—could the villagers not have overpowered the few women and unlocked the church doors themselves? Would they not have to fall in line with the defense, that the defendants had acted under a power of compulsion that also extended to them, the witnesses? That they had been forced by, or acted on the orders of, the troops who had either not yet fled or who, in the reasonable assumption of the guards, had left for a brief interval, perhaps to bring the wounded to the field hospital, and would be returning soon?
When the other defendants’ lawyers realized that such strategies were being undone by Hanna’s voluntary concessions, they switched to another, which used her concessions to incriminate Hanna and exonerate the other defendants. The defense lawyers did this with professional objectivity. The other defendants backed them up with impassioned interjections.
“You stated that you knew you were sending the prisoners to their deaths—that was only true of you, wasn’t it? You cannot know what your colleagues knew. Perhaps you can guess at it, but in the final analysis you cannot judge, is that not so?” Hanna was asked by one of the other defendants’ lawyers.
“But we all knew . . .”
“Saying ‘we,’ ‘we all’ is easier than saying ‘I,’ ‘I alone,’ isn’t it? Isn’t it true that you and only you had special prisoners in the camp, young girls, first one for a period, and then another one?”
Hanna hesitated. “I don’t think I was the only one who . . .”
“You dirty liar! Your favorites—all that was just you, no one else!” Another of the accused, a coarse woman, not unlike a fat broody hen but with a spiteful tongue, was visibly worked up.
“Is it possible that when you say ‘knew,’ the most you can actually do is assume, and that when you say ‘believe,’ you are actually just making things up?” The lawyer shook his head, as if disturbed by her acknowledgment of this. “And is it also true that once you were tired of your special prisoners, they all went back to Auschwitz with the next transport?”
Hanna did not answer.
“That was your special, your personal selection, wasn’t it? You don’t want to remember, you want to hide behind something that everyone did, but . . .”
“Oh God!” The daughter, who had taken a seat in the public benches after being examined, covered her face with her hands. “How could I have forgotten?” The presiding judge asked if she wished to add anything to her testimony. She did not wait to be called to the front. She stood up and spoke from her seat among the spectators.
“Yes, she had favorites, always one of the young ones who was weak and delicate, and she took them under her wing and made sure that they didn’t have to work, got them better barracks space and took care of them and fed them better, and in the evenings she had them brought to her. And the girls were never allowed to say what she did with them in the evening, and we assumed she was . . . also because they all ended up on the transports, as if she had had her fun with them and then had got bored. But it wasn’t like that at all, and one day one of them finally talked, and we learned that the girls read aloud to her, evening after evening after evening. That was better than if they . . . and better than working themselves to death on the building site. I must have thought it was better, or I couldn’t have forgotten it. But was it better?” She sat down.
Hanna turned around and looked at me. Her eyes found me at once, and I realized that she had known the whole time I was there. She just looked at me. Her face didn’t ask for anything, beg for anything, assure me of anything or promise anything. It simply presented itself. I saw how tense and exhausted she was. She had circles under her eyes, and on each cheek a line that ran from top to bottom that I’d never seen before, that weren’t yet deep, but already marked her like scars. When I turned red under her gaze, she turned away and back to the judges’ bench.
The presiding judge asked the lawyer who had cross-examined Hanna if he had any further questions for the defendant. He also asked Hanna’s lawyer. Ask her, I thought. Ask her if she chose the weak and delicate girls, because they could never have stood up to the work on the building site anyway, because they would have been sent on the next transport to Auschwitz in any case, and because she wanted to make that final month bearable. Say it, Hanna. Say you wanted to make their last month bearable. That that was the reason for choosing the delicate and the weak. That there was no other reason, and could not be.
But the lawyer did not ask Hanna, and she did not speak of her own accord.
　　汉娜有时固执己见地进行抗议，这使审判长大为恼火。同样，她有时心甘情愿地认错，这也气坏了其他被告。这无论是对她自己的辩护还是对她们的辩护都十分不利。
　　证明材料本来对被告有利。那幸存下来的母女和她们写的书是第一项主要指控的推一证明材料。一个好的辩护律师，应该能够在不抨击母女证词的情况下就能够令人信服地驳回对那几位被告参与挑选囚犯的指控。就这一点而言，证词不精确，也不可能精确，因为毕竟还有一名指挥官、一个警卫队和其他的女看守，以及一项层层下达的命令和任务，这样，这些囚犯在这个等级制中就只是一个组成部分，他们也只能看清楚与这相关的部分。类似的情形在第二项指控中也存在：那母女俩被关押在教堂里，不能就外面所发生的事情做证。虽然被告不能找任何借口，说她们当时不在现场，因为当时在那座村子里生活过的那些证人与被告交谈过，现在还记得她们，但是，这些证人必须要注意防止引火烧身，否则，人们会说，本来他们是可以把那些囚犯救出来的。如果仅仅是那几位被告在场的话，难道村民们就制服不了几个女人而自己把教堂的门打开吗？为了减轻那几位被告和作为证人的他们自己的负担，他们难道不必须站到被告这一边来吗？他们不会说当时他们都处在警卫队的暴力或命令之下吗？不会说因为警卫队确实没有逃跑，或者至少像那几位被告估计的那样，他们为了抢救一座野战医院的伤员只是离开了很短的时间，不久就又回来了吗？
　　当其他被告的辩护律师意识到像这样的策略由于汉娜心甘情愿地认错而落空时，他们又换了一个策略。他们想利用汉娜认错的主动性，把责任都推到她身上，以此减轻其他被告的罪行。辩护律师们很专业地不动声色地这样做着，其他被告以愤怒的谴责为其助威。
　　"您说过，您知道您是送囚犯去死，这只是说您自己，是吗？您的同事们知道什么，您不可能知道。您也许能猜测，但是却不能最终断定，不对吗？"
　　问汉娜的是另外一位被告的辩护律师。
　　"但是，我们大家都知道……"
　　"'我们'，'我们大家'，这样说比说'我'或说'我自己'要容易得多，不对吗？您，仅您一人，在集中营里有被您保护起来的人，每次都是位年轻的姑娘，每过一段时间就换一位，有这么回事吧？"
　　汉娜犹豫不决地说："我相信，我不是淮一的一个…，
　　"你这个卑鄙下流说谎话的家伙！你的心肝宝贝，那是你的，你一个人的！"另一位被一个油嘴滑舌。尖酸刻毒的悍妇，用一种慢得像母鸡打咯咯的口吻说道。她显然很恼怒。
　　"可能是这样的吧，您说'知道'的地方仅仅是您的猜想，而'猜想'的地方是您的捏造吧？"'那位辩护律师摇着头，好像对得到她的肯定的回答比较担心。"所有在您保护之下的人，当她们令您感到厌倦时，您就会在下一批被送往奥斯威辛的人中把她送走，有没有这回事？"
　　汉娜没有回答。
　　"那是您特殊的、个人的选择，难道不是这样吗？您不再想承认它了，您想把它隐藏在大家都做过的事情的背后。但是……"
　　"啊，天哪！"在接受听证之后又坐到观众席上的那位女儿用手蒙住了脸说，"我怎么能把这件事给忘了呢？"审判长问她是否想补充她的证词。她没有等被传呼到前面去，就站了起来在观众席的座位上讲了起来。
　　"是的，她有心爱的人，总是年轻、体弱而温柔的姑娘中的一位。她把她们保护起来，关照她们，不让她们干活，给她们安排较好的住处并在饮食上给予较好的照顾。到了晚上，她把姑娘带到她那儿，姑娘们不允许说出她们晚上和她做了什么。我们当时想，她和那些姑娘在一起……因为她们也都被送走，好像她用她们来满足她自己的乐趣，然后又厌倦了她们似的。但事实根本不是这么回事。有一天，有位姑娘还是说了出来。我们才知道那些姑娘是一个晚上接着一个晚上地在为她朗读。这要比她那样……好得多，也比在建筑工地干活累得要死好得多。我一定是这么想的，否则的话，我不会把这件事给忘掉的。但是，那样确实好吗？"她坐下了。
　　汉娜转过身来望着我，她的目光一下子就捕捉到了我，我才意识到她早就知道我在这儿了。她只是看着我。从她的面部表情看，她既不是在请求什么，也不是在追求什么，更不是在保证或许诺什么。我看得出来，她的心里是多么紧张，身体是多么疲惫。她的眼圈是黑的，面颊两边从上到下各有一条我所不熟悉的皱纹，虽然还不太深，可是却已像一条疤痕一样。我在她的注视下脸红了，于是她移开了目光，把它转向法庭中的长椅子。
　　审判长想知道向汉娜发问的那位辩护律师是否还有问题要问被告。他想知道汉娜的律师是否还有问题要问。应该问她，我在想，问她选择了体弱、温柔的姑娘是否是因为她们反正承受不了建筑工作，是否是因为她们总归要被送往奥斯威辛，是否是因为她想使她们最后几个月的日子过得好受一点。说呀，汉娜！说你是想使她们最后的日子过得好一点。说这就是你挑选体弱、温柔姑娘们的原因，说不存在其他原因，也不可能有其他的原因。
　　但是，辩护律师没有问汉娜，汉娜自己也什么都没有说。
Part 2 Chapter 8
T HE GERMAN version of the book that the daughter had written about her time in the camps did not appear until after the trial. During the trial the manuscript was available, but to those directly involved. I had to read the book in English, an unfamiliar and laborious exercise at the time. And as always, the alien language, unmastered and struggled over, created a strange concatenation of distance and immediacy. I worked through the book with particular thoroughness and yet did not make it my own. It remained as alien as the language itself.
Years later I reread it and discovered that it is the book that creates distance. It does not invite one to identify with it and makes no one sympathetic, neither the mother nor the daughter, nor those who shared their fate in various camps and finally in Auschwitz and the satellite camp near Cracow. It never gives the barracks leaders, the female guards, or the uniformed security force clear enough faces or shapes for the reader to be able to relate to them, to judge their acts for better or worse. It exudes the very numbness I have tried to describe before. But even in her numbness the daughter did not lose the ability to observe and analyze. And she had not allowed herself to be corrupted either by self-pity or by the self-confidence she had obviously drawn from the fact that she had survived and not only come through the years in the camps but given literary form to them. She writes about herself and her pubescent, precocious, and, when necessary, cunning behavior with the same sobriety she uses to describe everything else.
Hanna is neither named in the book, nor is she recognizable or identifiable in any way. Sometimes I thought I recognized her in one of the guards, who was described as young, pretty, and conscientiously unscrupulous in the fulfillment of her duties, but I wasn’t sure. When I considered the other defendants, only Hanna could be the guard described. But there had been other guards. In one camp the daughter had known a guard who was called “Mare,” also young, beautiful, and diligent, but cruel and uncontrolled. The guard in the camp reminded her of that one. Had others drawn the same comparison? Did Hanna know about it? Did she remember it? Was that why she was upset when I compared her to a horse?
The camp near Cracow was the last stop for mother and daughter after Auschwitz. It was a step forward; the work was hard, but easier, the food was better, and it was better to sleep six women to a room than a hundred to a barracks. And it was warmer; the women could forage for wood on the way from the factory to the camp, and bring it back with them. There was the fear of selections, but it wasn’t as bad as at Auschwitz. Sixty women were sent back each month, sixty out of around twelve hundred; that meant each prisoner had a life expectancy of twenty months, even if she only possessed average strength, and there was always the hope of being stronger than the average. Moreover, there was also the hope that the war would be over in less than twenty months.
The misery began when the camp was closed and the prisoners set off towards the west. It was winter, it was snowing, and the clothing in which the women had frozen in the factory and just managed to hold out in the camp was completely inadequate, but not as inadequate as what was on their feet, often rags and sheets of newspaper tied so as to stay on when they stood or walked around, but impossible to make withstand long marches in snow and ice. And the women did not just march; they were driven, and forced to run. “Death march?” asks the daughter in the book, and answers, “No, death trot, death gallop.” Many collapsed along the way; others never got to their feet again after nights spent in barns or leaning against a wall. After a week, almost half the women were dead.
The church made a better shelter than the barns and walls the women had had before. When they had passed abandoned farms and stayed overnight, the uniformed security force and the female guards had taken the living quarters for themselves. Here, in the almost deserted village, they could commandeer the priest’s house and still leave the prisoners something more than a barn or a wall. That they did it, and that the prisoners even got something warm to eat in the village seemed to promise an end to the misery. The women went to sleep. Shortly afterwards the bombs fell. As long as the steeple was the only thing burning, the fire could be heard in the church, but not seen. When the tip of the steeple collapsed and crashed down onto the rafters, it took several minutes for the glow of the fire to become visible. By then the flames were already licking downwards and setting clothes alight, collapsing burning beams set fire to the pews and pulpit, and soon the whole roof crashed into the nave and started a general conflagration.
The daughter thinks the women could have saved themselves if they had immediately gotten together to break down one of the doors. But by the time they realized what had happened and was going to happen, and that no one was coming to open the doors, it was too late. It was completely dark when the sound of the falling bombs woke them. For a while they heard nothing but an eerie, frightening noise in the steeple, and kept absolutely quiet, so as to hear the noise better and figure out what it was. That it was the crackling and snapping of a fire, that it was the glow of flames that flared up now and again behind the windows, that the crash above their heads signaled the spreading of the fire from the steeple to the roof—all this the women realized only once the rafters began to burn. They realized, they screamed in horror, screamed for help, threw themselves at the doors, shook them, beat at them, screamed.
When the burning roof crashed into the nave, the shell of the walls acted like a chimney. Most of the women did not suffocate, but burned to death in the brilliant roar of the flames. In the end, the fire even burned its glowing way through the ironclad church doors. But that was hours later.
Mother and daughter survived because the mother did the right thing for the wrong reasons. When the women began to panic, she couldn’t bear to be among them anymore. She fled to the gallery. She didn’t care that she was closer to the flames, she just wanted to be alone, away from the screaming, thrashing, burning women. The gallery was narrow, so narrow that it was barely touched by the burning beams. Mother and daughter stood pressed against the wall and saw and heard the raging of the fire. Next day they didn’t dare come down and out of the church. In the darkness of the following night, they were afraid of not finding the stairs and the way out. When they left the church in the dawn of the day after that, they met some of the villagers, who gaped at them in silent astonishment, but gave them clothing and food and let them walk on.
　　那位女儿写的关于她在集中营生活的那本书的德文版，在法庭审判结束后才出版。虽然在法庭审理期间已经有草稿，但是，只有与此案有关的人才能得到。我只好读英文版的，这对当时的我来说是件非同寻常和颇为吃力的事情。运用一门尚未完全掌握的外语，总会让人产生一种特有的若即若离、似是而非的感觉。尽管人们特别仔细认真地读过那本书，但仍旧没把它变为自己的东西。就像对书写它的这门外语一样，人们对它的内容也感到陌生。
　　多年以后，我又重读了那本书，并且发现，这种距离感是书本身造成的。它没能让你从中辨认出任何人，也不使任何人让你同情，包括那母女俩以及和她们一起在不同的集中营里呆过，最后在奥斯威辛和克拉科夫遭受了共同命运的那些人。无论是集中营元老、女看守，还是警卫，他们的形象都不鲜明，以致人们无法褒贬他们的行为。书中充斥着我在前面已经描述过的那种麻木不仁。然而，在这种麻木不仁中，那位女儿并没有失去记录和分析事实的能力。她没有垮下来，她的自怜和由此产生的自觉意识没有使她垮下来。她活下来了，集中营里的那几年，她不但熬过来了，而且还用文学形式又把它再现了出来。她冷静客观地描述一切，描写她自己v她的青春期和她的早熟，如果必要的话还有她的机智。
　　书中既没有出现汉娜的名字，也没有任何东西可以让人联想到或辨认出她。有时候，我认为书中的某一位年轻漂亮的女看守就是汉娜：执行任务时认真到丧尽天良的地步，但是，我又不能肯定。如果我仔细地对照一下其他被告的话，那个女看守又只能是汉娜。但是书中还有其他女看守。在一所集中营里，那位女儿领教了一位被称做"牡马"的女看守的厉害，她年轻漂亮，俗尽职守，残酷无情，放荡不羁，正是这些令作者回忆起了这个集中营里这一位女看守。其他人也做过这种比喻吗？汉娜知道这些吗？当我把她比喻为一匹马时，她是不是回想起了这些，因而触及了她的要害？
　　克拉科夫集中营是那母女俩去奥斯威辛的最后一站。相比之下，到那里算是改善。那儿的活虽然繁重，但是生活容易些，伙食好些，而且六个人睡在一个房间总也比上百号人睡在一间临时搭建的木板房里要好。房里也暖和一些，女犯们可以从工厂回集中营的路上捡一些木材带回来。人们恐怕被挑选出来，但是这种恐惧感也不像在奥斯威辛那样严重。每个月有六十名女犯要被送回去，这六十名是从大约一千二百名中被挑选出来的。这样一来，人们只需拥有一般体力就有希望继续活二十个月，而且，人们甚至可以希望其体力超过一般水平。此外，人们也可以期望这场战争在不到二十个月的时间里就会结束。
　　随着集中营的被解散和囚犯的西迁，悲惨再次降临。当时正值隆冬时节，冰天雪地。女囚们身上穿的衣服在工厂里已是薄不可耐，在集中营里尚能让人承受，但是在冰天雪地里就不足以抵寒了。她们的鞋子就更惨了，它们通常是用破布或报纸做的，这样的鞋在站立和慢走时还能不散架子，但是在冰天雪地里进行长途跋涉就不可能不散架子了。那些女人不仅仅要长途跋涉，她们常被驱赶着小跑。"向死亡进军？"那位女儿在书中这样问道并回答道，"不，是赶死，是向死亡飞奔！"许多人在路上就垮掉了，又有许多人在粮仓里，或者在一面墙下过夜后就再也爬不起来了。一个星期之后，这些妇女中几乎一半都死掉了。
　　教堂要比那些女囚此前的栖身之处——粮仓或墙下要好多了。在这之前，当她们经过被遗弃的庭院并在那过夜时，警卫队和女看守们就分别占据能住人的房间。但在这里，一个正在被遗弃的村庄，看守们住进了教士住宅，而让女囚们住进了一个比粮仓和墙角好得多的教堂里。她们这样做了。在村子里她们甚至还得到了热汤喝，好像结束这种痛苦不堪的生活变得有希望了。这些妇女就这样入睡了。随后不久炸弹就落了下来。教堂的塔尖在燃烧时，在教堂里面只能听得见燃烧声却看不见火焰。塔尖坍塌并砸到屋架后，又过了几分钟才看得见火光，随后火焰也一点一点地蹿了进来，点燃了衣服。燃烧着的房梁掉下来点燃了座椅和布道坛。屋架很快塌人大堂，一切都熊熊燃烧了起来。
　　那位女儿认为，如果那些女人马上齐心协力地砸开其中的一扇门的话，她们还是可以得救的。但是当她们明白过来，知道发生了什么事，什么事将要发生，以及没人给她们开门时，为时已晚。当击中教堂的炸弹把她们惊醒时，正值漆黑的夜晚，有好一会儿工夫，她们只听得见塔顶上的一种令人奇怪和惊恐杂音。为了能更好地听清楚、弄明白那杂音是怎么一回事，她们都屏住了呼吸。那是火焰发出劈劈啪啪的声音，火光时而在窗后闪烁，那是投在她们头顶上的炸弹，那意味着大火由塔顶蔓延到了房顶，女人们直到屋架上的火焰明显地看得见的时候，才意识到这些。她们一旦意识到了这些，就开始大喊大叫，她们惊慌失措呼喊救命，向大门冲去，一边叫喊，一边拼命地摇撼和捶打着大门。
　　当燃烧的房顶轰轰隆隆地塌到教堂里面时，教堂里面的墙皮脱落下来使火势更旺，就像一座壁炉一样。大多数女人并不是窒息而死，而是被熊熊燃烧的大火给活活烧死的。最后，大火甚至烧透、烧红了教堂的铁皮大门，不过那是几个小时之后的事情了。那母女俩能活下来，完全是侥幸。当那些女人陷入惊慌失措时，她们也在其中。由于实在无法忍受，她们逃到了教堂的廊台上。尽管她们在那儿离火焰更近，但是这无所谓，她们只想单独呆着，远离那些吱哇乱叫的、挤来又挤去的、浑身上下着火的女人。廊台上很狭窄，狭窄到燃烧着的房顶都没有触及到它。母女俩紧紧地挨在一起，站在墙边，看着。听着那大火的肆意燃烧。就是第二天她们都不敢走下台阶来，不敢走出去。夜幕降临后，在黑暗中又担心害怕摸不到台阶，找不到路。在第三天的黎明时分，当她们从教堂里走出来时，遇到了几位村民。村民们不知所措，目瞪口呆地凝视着她们而说不出话来。他们给了她们衣物和食物，然后让她们逃走了。
Part 2 Chapter 9
“W HY DID you not unlock the doors?” The presiding judge put the question to one defendant after another. One after the other, they gave the same answer. They couldn’t unlock the doors. Why? They had been wounded when the bombs hit the priest’s house. Or they had been in shock as a result of the bombardment. Or they had been busy after the bombs hit, with the wounded guard contingent, pulling them out of the rubble, bandaging them, taking care of them. They had not thought about the church, had not seen the fire in the church, had not heard the screams from the church.
The judge made the same statement to one defendant after another. The record indicated otherwise. This was deliberately phrased with caution. To say that the record found in the SS archives said otherwise would be wrong. But it was true that it suggested something different. It listed the names of those who had been killed in the priest’s house and those who had been wounded, those who had brought the wounded to a field hospital in a truck, and those who had accompanied the truck in a jeep. It indicated that the women guards had stayed behind to wait out the end of the fires, to prevent any of them from spreading and to prevent any attempts to escape under the cover of the flames. It referred to the death of the prisoners.
The fact that the names of the defendants appeared nowhere in the report suggested that the defendants were among the female guards who had remained behind. That these guards had remained behind to prevent attempts at escape indicated that the affair didn’t end with the rescue of the wounded from the priest’s house and the departure of the transport to the field hospital. The guards who remained behind, the report indicated, had allowed the fire to rage in the church and had kept the church doors locked. Among the guards who remained behind, the report indicated, were the defendants.
No, said one defendant after the other, that is not the way it was. The report was wrong. That much was evident from the fact that it mentioned the obligation of the guards to prevent the fires from spreading. How could they have carried out that responsibility? It was ridiculous, as was the other responsibility of preventing attempted escapes under the cover of the fires. Attempted escapes? By the time they no longer had to worry about their own people and could worry about the others, the prisoners, there was no one left to escape. No, the report completely ignored what they had done and achieved and suffered that night. How could such a false report have been filed? They didn’t know.
Until it was the turn of the plump and vicious defendant. She knew. “Ask that one there!” She pointed at Hanna. “She wrote the report. She’s the guilty one, she did it all, and she wanted to use the report to cover it up and drag us into it.”
The judge asked Hanna. But it was his last question. His first was “Why did you not unlock the doors?”
“We were . . . we had . . .” Hanna was groping for the answer. “We didn’t have any alternative.”
“You had no alternative?”
“Some of us were dead, and the others had left. They said they were taking the wounded to the field hospital and would come back, but they knew they weren’t coming back, and so did we. Perhaps they didn’t even go to the hospital, the wounded were not that badly hurt. We would have gone with them, but they said they needed the room for the wounded, and anyway they didn’t . . . they weren’t keen to have so many women along. I don’t know where they went.”
“What did you do?”
“We didn’t know what to do. It all happened so fast, with the priest’s house burning and the church spire, and the men and the cart were there one minute and gone the next, and suddenly we were alone with the women in the church. They left behind some weapons, but we didn’t know how to use them, and even if we had, what good would it have done, since we were only a handful of women? How could we have guarded all those women? A line like that is very long, even if you keep it as tight together as possible, and to guard such a long column, you need far more people than we had.” Hanna paused. “Then the screaming began and got worse and worse. If we had opened the doors and they had all come rushing out . . .”
The judge waited a moment. “Were you afraid? Were you afraid the prisoners would overpower you?”
“That they would . . . no, but how could we have restored order? There would have been chaos, and we had no way to handle that. And if they’d tried to escape . . .”
Once again the judge waited, but Hanna didn’t finish the sentence. “Were you afraid that if they escaped, you would be arrested, convicted, shot?”
“We couldn’t just let them escape! We were responsible for them . . . I mean, we had guarded them the whole time, in the camp and on the march, that was the point, that we had to guard them and not let them escape. That’s why we didn’t know what to do. We also had no idea how many of the women would survive the next few days. So many had died already, and the ones who were still alive were so weak . . .”
Hanna realized that what she was saying wasn’t doing her case any good. But she couldn’t say anything else. She could only try to say what she was saying better, to describe it better and explain it. But the more she said, the worse it looked for her. Because she was at her wits’ end, she turned to the judge again.
“What would you have done?”
But this time she knew she would get no answer. She wasn’t expecting one. Nobody was. The judge shook his head silently.
Not that it was impossible to imagine the confusion and helplessness Hanna described. The night, the cold, the snow, the fire, the screaming of the women in the church, the sudden departure of the people who had commanded and escorted the female guards—how could the situation have been easy? But could an acknowledgment that the situation had been hard be any mitigation for what the defendants had done or not done? As if it had been a car accident on a lonely road on a cold winter night, with injuries and totaled vehicles, and no one knowing what to do? Or as if it had been a conflict between two equally compelling duties that required action? That is how one could imagine what Hanna was describing, but nobody was willing to look at it in such terms.
“Did you write the report?”
“We all discussed what we should write. We didn’t want to hang any of the blame on the ones who had left. But we didn’t want to attract charges that we had done anything wrong either.”
“So you’re saying you talked it through together. Who wrote it?”
“You!” The other defendant pointed at Hanna.
“No, I didn’t write it. Does it matter who did?”
A prosecutor suggested that an expert be called to compare the handwriting in the report and the handwriting of the defendant Schmitz.
“My handwriting? You want my handwriting? . . .”
The judge, the prosecutor, and Hanna’s lawyer discussed whether a person’s handwriting retains its character over more than fifteen years and can be identified. Hanna listened and tried several times to say or ask something, and was becoming increasingly alarmed. Then she said, “You don’t have to call an expert. I admit I wrote the report.”
　　"您为什么不把门打开？"
　　审判长一个接一个地向每个被告都提出同样的问题，每个被告都给予了同样的回答：她们无法打开。为什么？有的说，当炸弹击中教士住宅时，她受伤了。有的说，她被轰炸吓得呆若木鸡。有的说，在轰炸之后，她要照料受伤的警卫队员和其他受伤的女看守，她把她们从废墟中救出来，为她们包扎，护理她们。有的说，她没有想到教堂，她不在教堂附近，没有看到教堂着火，也没听见从教堂里传来的呼救声。
　　审判长一个接一个地警告她们：报告读上去可全不是这么回事。这是经过深思熟虑后的一种谨慎表达方式。如果说从纳粹党卫队的档案里发现的报告所记载的是另外一回事；那就错了。但报告读上去的确是另一番情形。报告里指名道姓地提到谁在教土住宅里被炸死了，谁受了伤，谁把伤员用货车送到了一家野战医院，还有谁乘坐军用吉普车陪送。报告提到，女看守们被留了下来，目的是让她们等候大火烧尽，防止火势蔓延和阻止囚犯们趁火逃跑。报告中也提到了囚犯们的死亡。
　　被告们的名字不在名单里面，这说明她们属于留下来的女看守之列。既然把女看守们留下来是为了阻止囚犯们逃跑，这说明从教士住宅抢救伤员并把他们送到野战医院的工作还没有全部结束。从报告中可以看出，那些留守下来的女看守让教堂里的大火肆意疯狂地燃烧，并坚持不打开教堂的大门。在那些被留下来的女看守中间，正如从报告中可以看到的那样，有这几位被告在内。
　　不，根本不是这么回事。被告们一个接着一个地这样说。他们说那篇报告是错的。报告里讲，被留下的女看守的任务是阻止火势的蔓延，只凭这一点就可以看到那篇报告的荒谬。她们怎么能来完成这项任务。这是胡说八道，而且另外的一项任务，即阻止囚犯趁火逃跑，同样也是胡说八道。阻止逃跑？好像她们不必要照料自己人了似的，也好像不能去照料囚犯了似的，好像没有任何人可以跑掉似的。不！那篇报告把她们那天晚上的所作所为，她们的功绩和所遭受的痛苦，完全颠倒了。怎么会有这样一篇如此错误的报告？她们也都自称不知道。
　　轮到那位慢条斯理、尖酸刻毒的被告人时，她说她知道。"您问她吧！"她用手指着汉娜说："是她写的那篇报告，她有罪，只她一人有罪，她在报告中隐瞒了自己而想把我们扯进去。"
　　审判长就此问了汉娜，不过，那是他的最后的问题。他的第一个问题是："您为什么没有把门打开？"
　　"我们在……我们要……"汉娜在寻找答案，"我们不知道该怎样帮助他们才是。"
　　"你们不知道该怎样帮助他们才是？"
　　"我们当中的一些人死掉了，一些人开小差了。他们说，他们要把伤员送往野战医院，然后再返回来。但是他们心里明白他们不会再回来了，我们对此也十分清楚。也许他们根本就没去野战医院，伤员们的伤势并非十分严重。他们还说，伤员需要地方，他们正好没有什么东西……正好不愿带着这么多的女人一起走，否则我们也一起走了。我不知道他们去了哪儿。"
　　"您都干了什么？"
　　"我们不知道该做什么，一切都发生得很快。教士住宅起火了，还有教堂的塔顶。男人们，还有小汽车开始时还都在，随后他们就离开了。转眼之间只剩下我们和教堂里的女囚。他们给我们留下了一些武器，但是我们不会用。假使我们会用它们的话，这对我们几个女人来说又能帮上什么忙呢？我们该如何看守住这么多的女囚呢？走起路来长长的一列，就是紧凑一起也够长的，看守这样长的队伍，需要比我们这几个女人多得多的人力。"汉娜稍稍停顿了一下，"然后她们开始喊叫起来，而且越来越严重。如果我们此时把门打开让所有的人都跑出来的话
　　审判长等了一会问："您害怕吗？您害怕被囚犯们战胜吗？"
　　"囚犯会把我们……不，不会。但是，我们怎样才能使她们重新就范呢？那一定会乱作一团的，我们一定对付不了这种局面，而且一旦她们企图逃跑的话…•"
　　审判长又等了一会儿，但是，汉娜没有把那句话说完。"您害怕一旦逃跑的事情发生，您会被捕，会被判决，会被枪毙吗？"
　　"我们当然不会轻易地让她们逃跑的，我们就是干这个的……我的意思是我们一直都在看守她们，在集中营，在行军的路上。我们看守她们的意义所在正是不让她们逃跑。正因为如此，我们才不知道如何做是好，我们也不知道有多少囚犯在后来的日子里能活下来。已经死了那么多了，剩下这些活着的也已经如此虚弱……"
　　汉娜注意到，她所说的事情无助于事，但是她又没别的可说。她只能尽力而为他说好她所要说的事情，更好地去描述，去解释。但是她说得越多，事情对她就越糟糕。由于她感到进退维谷，就又转向了审判长问道：
　　"要是您的话会怎么做呢？"
　　但是，这一次她自己也知道她不会得到回答。她不期待回答，没有人期望得到一个回答。审判长默不作声地摇着头。
　　不是人们对汉娜所描述的那种不知所措和无助的情形无法想象。那个夜晚的情景：寒冷，冰雪，大火，教堂里女人的喊叫，那些曾命令她们和陪同她们的人的逃之夭夭。在这样的情况下，把囚犯放出来该会是什么样子呢！但是，认为当时这些被告的处境确实很难就可以相对减轻她们的罪责吗？人们就可以对她们的行为不那么感到震惊了吗？就可以把它看做是在一个寒冷的冬夜里，在一条人烟稀少的道路上发生的一场造成人员伤亡的车祸，而认为人们在这种情况下本来不知道如何是好？或者，这是不是反映了我们都应该担负的两种责任之间的矛盾呢？人们可以这样做，但是人们不愿意去想象汉娜所描述的情景。
　　"报告是您写的吗？"
　　"我们在一起商量了该写什么，我们不想把责任都推到那些开小差的人的身上，但是我们也不想把责任都揽到我们自己身上。"
　　"您说，你们一起商量了。谁执的笔呢？"
　　"称！"另外的那位被告又用手指着汉娜。
　　"不，我没有写。谁写的，这重要吗？"
　　一位律师建议请一位鉴定专家对报告的字体和被告人史密兰女士的字体进行比较鉴定。
　　"我的字体？您想要我的字体……"
　　审判长、那位律师还有汉娜的辩护律师在讨论了一个人的字体超过十五年之后是否还能保持它的同一性，是否还能让人辨认出来。汉娜注意听着，几次想插话说什么，或者要问什么，越来越坐立不安。最后她说："您不需要请鉴定专家，我承认报告是我写的。"
Part 2 Chapter 10
I HAVE NO memory of the Friday seminar meetings. Even when I recall the trial, I cannot remember what topics we selected for scholarly discussion. What did we talk about? What did we want to know? What did the professor teach us?
But I remember the Sundays. The days in court gave me a new hunger for the colors and smells of nature. On Fridays and Saturdays I managed to catch up on what I had missed of my studies during the other days of the week, so that I could complete my course assignments and pass the semester. On Sundays, I took off by myself.
Heiligenberg, St. Michael’s Basilica, the Bismarck Tower, the Philosophers’ Path, the banks of the river—I didn’t vary my route much from one Sunday to the next. I found there was enough variety in the greens that became richer and richer from week to week, and in the floodplain of the Rhine, that was sometimes in a heat haze, sometimes hidden behind curtains of rain and sometimes overhung by storm clouds, and in the smells of the berries and wildflowers in the woods when the sun blazed down on them, and of earth and last year’s rotting leaves when it rained. Anyway I don’t need or seek much variety. Each journey a little further than the last, the next vacation in the new place I discovered during my last vacation and liked . . . For a while I thought I should be more daring, and made myself go to Ceylon, Egypt, and Brazil, before I went back to making familiar regions more familiar. I see more in them.
I have rediscovered the place in the woods where Hanna’s secret became clear to me. There is nothing special about it now, nor was there anything special then, no strangely shaped tree or cliff, no unusual view of the city and the plain, nothing that would invite startling associations. In thinking about Hanna, going round and round in the same tracks week after week, one thought had split off, taken another direction, and finally produced its own conclusion. When it did so, it was done—it could have been anywhere, or at least anywhere the familiarity of the surroundings and the scenery allowed what was truly surprising, what didn’t come like a bolt from the blue, but had been growing inside myself, to be recognized and accepted. It happened on a path that climbed steeply up the mountain, crossed the road, passed a spring, and then wound under old, tall, dark trees and out into light underbrush.
Hanna could neither read nor write.
That was why she had had people read to her. That was why she had let me do all the writing and reading on our bicycle trip and why she had lost control that morning in the hotel when she found my note, realized I would assume she knew what it said, and was afraid she’d be exposed. That was why she had avoided being promoted by the streetcar company; as a conductor she could conceal her weakness, but it would have become obvious when she was being trained to become a driver. That was also why she had refused the promotion at Siemens and become a guard. That was why she had admitted to writing the report in order to escape a confrontation with an expert. Had she talked herself into a corner at the trial for the same reason? Because she couldn’t read the daughter’s book or the indictment, couldn’t see the openings that would allow her to build a defense, and thus could not prepare herself accordingly? Was that why she sent her chosen wards to Auschwitz? To silence them in case they had noticed something? And was that why she always chose the weak ones in the first place?
Was that why? I could understand that she was ashamed at not being able to read or write, and would rather drive me away than expose herself. I was no stranger to shame as the cause of behavior that was deviant or defensive, secretive or misleading or hurtful. But could Hanna’s shame at being illiterate be sufficient reason for her behavior at the trial or in the camp? To accept exposure as a criminal for fear of being exposed as an illiterate? To commit crimes to avoid the same thing?
How often I have asked myself these same questions, both then and since. If Hanna’s motive was fear of exposure—why opt for the horrible exposure as a criminal over the harmless exposure as an illiterate? Or did she believe she could escape exposure altogether? Was she simply stupid? And was she vain enough, and evil enough, to become a criminal simply to avoid exposure?
Both then and since, I have always rejected this. No, Hanna had not decided in favor of crime. She had decided against a promotion at Siemens, and fell into a job as a guard. And no, she had not dispatched the delicate and the weak on transports to Auschwitz because they had read to her; she had chosen them to read to her because she wanted to make their last month bearable before their inevitable dispatch to Auschwitz. And no, at the trial Hanna did not weigh exposure as an illiterate against exposure as a criminal. She did not calculate and she did not maneuver. She accepted that she would be called to account, and simply did not wish to endure further exposure. She was not pursuing her own interests, but fighting for her own truth, her own justice. Because she always had to dissimulate somewhat, and could never be completely candid, it was a pitiful truth and a pitiful justice, but it was hers, and the struggle for it was her struggle.
She must have been completely exhausted. Her struggle was not limited to the trial. She was struggling, as she always had struggled, not to show what she could do but to hide what she couldn’t do. A life made up of advances that were actually frantic retreats and victories that were concealed defeats.
I was oddly moved by the discrepancy between what must have been Hanna’s actual concerns when she left my hometown and what I had imagined and theorized at the time. I had been sure that I had driven her away because I had betrayed and denied her, when in fact she had simply been running away from being found out by the streetcar company. However, the fact that I had not driven her away did not change the fact that I had betrayed her. So I was still guilty. And if I was not guilty because one cannot be guilty of betraying a criminal, then I was guilty of having loved a criminal.
　　我对每天都自愿参加的研讨会没有留下什么记忆，即使我回忆法庭的审理情形，也记不起来我们都做了哪些科学的整理工作，我们就什么问题进行了讨论，我们想要知道什么，那位教授都教了我们什么。
　　但是，我却记得那些周日。在法庭的那些天，使我对大自然的色彩和气息产生了新的渴望。在节假日和星期六，我把在学习中所落下的课程尽可能都补上了，这样，在做课堂练习时，我至少能跟得上，也能完成本学期的学分。星期天，我总是出去。
　　圣山，米西尔教堂，彼斯麦塔，哲学家之路，河岸，一个星期天接着一个星期天，我走的路线仅有很小的变动。一个星期接着一个星期，我所看到的大自然足以用丰富多彩、变化无穷来形容。深绿色的莱茵平原有时处在热气中，有时在云雾中，有时在雷雨乌云中。在森林里，当阳光照耀时可闻得花香，闻得果甜；当雨水四溅时可喷得到泥土的气息，嗅得到去年新落下的树叶的味道。我一点不需要也不寻找比这更多的多样性。行程一次比一次远些，下次度假的地方通常是上次度假时发现并喜欢的地方。有好长一段时间，我认为我应该更大胆一些，应该强迫自己去锡兰、埃及和巴西，不过，我还是去了我所熟悉的地区，为的是加深对旧地的了解。在这些地方我看到的更多。
　　在森林里，我又发现了我揭开汉娜秘密的地方。那不是一个什么特别的地方，当时也没有什么特别之处，没有别具一格的树木或悬崖峭壁，没有什么非同一般的可以看到那座城市和那片平原的视角，没有什么会促使你产生意想不到的联想。在周而复始他对汉娜进行思考后，我竟产生了一种想法，我追踪了这个想法，最后也得出了结论。真是筋疲力尽之时，也正是柳暗花明之日。这种情况随处可见，或者至少在这种情况下随处可见：你对一个环境或一种情况非常熟悉，以至于凡是你感受到并接受了的、令你惊讶的东西，都不是来自外部世界，而是产生于内心。我得出结论的过程就像一个人走在一条路上，先爬上陡峭的山坡，再穿越马路，再经过一个泉井，然后穿过一片森林：先是古老的、遮天蔽日的参天大树，之后才是明亮的小树丛。
　　汉娜既不会读也不会写。
　　所以她才让人给她朗读，所以在我们骑车旅行时，才让我承担读写的任务，所以当她那天早上在旅馆里发现我的字条时，才大发雷霆——她猜测出了字条的内容和我的期待，害怕自己出丑，所以她才逃避了有轨电车公司对她的提升——作为售票员，她可以掩饰她的弱点，如果被培训当司机，那她的弱点将暴露无遗，所以她才回避了西门子公司对她的提升而做了一名女看守，所以为了避免和鉴定专家对质，她承认了那篇报告是她写的。也正是因为如此她才在法庭上拼命地争辩吗？因为她既不能读那位女儿写的那本书又不会看控告词，她才看不到为自己辩护的机会并为此做相应的准备吗？也正因为如此她才把受到她特殊照顾的人送往奥斯威辛吗？是因为她怕她们发现她的弱点而想杀人灭口吗？也正是因为如此她才把那些体弱者纳入她的保护之下吗？
　　都是由于这个原因吗？她为自己既不会读也不会写而感到羞耻，所以她宁愿让我感到莫名其妙也不愿自己出丑，这个我能理解。我对由于羞耻而去回避、拒绝、隐瞒、伪装并伤害他人的这些行为有亲身体会，但是，汉娜在法庭上和集中营中的所作所为是因为她对不会读写感到可耻吗？她认为做一个文盲比做一名罪犯更丢脸吗？她比暴露自己是个罪犯更害怕暴露自己是个文盲吗？
　　当时和从那时以来，我经常向自己提出这个问题。如果汉娜的动机是害怕暴露自己，那为什么不暴露自己是一个无害的文盲而要暴露自己是个可怕的罪犯呢？或许她认为什么都不暴露就能蒙混过关吗？她这么愚蠢吗？她这么爱虚荣，这么邪恶吗？为了避免暴露就去做罪犯吗？
　　当时和自那时以来，我总是拒绝这样想。不，我对自己说，汉娜没有想去犯罪。她没有接受西门子公司对她的提拔，而不自觉地决定做了女看守。木，她没有因为她们为她朗读过就把那些温柔体弱的人送往奥斯威辛。她特别把她们挑选出来为她朗读，是因为她想使她们在被送往奥斯威辛以前的最后几个月的日子过得好一点。木，在法庭上，汉娜没有在暴露自己是文盲还是暴露自己是罪犯之间进行斟酌。她并没有三思而后行，她的行为举止缺少策略性。她宁可被绳之以法，也不愿暴露自己是文盲。她进行的斗争不是为了自己的利益，而是为了她的真理、她的正义。那是个可悲的真理、可怜的正义，因为她总要伪装自己，因为她从未开诚布公过，从未完全自我过。不过，那是她的真理和正义，为此而进行的奋斗是她的奋斗。
　　她必须要使出全身解数来。她不仅仅在法庭上要争要斗，她必须要永远奋斗，其目的不是为了向世人显示她能做的事情，而是向世人掩饰她不能做的事情。这是一种其起步意味着节节败退，而其胜利隐藏着失败的生活。
　　汉娜离开我家乡时的处境和我当时对它的想象之间存在分歧，这种分歧不同寻常地触动着我。我曾十分肯定她是被我赶走的，因为我曾经背叛和否认过她。她离开了有轨电车公司确实逃避了一次暴露。不过，我没有把她赶走的这一事实，丝毫没有改变我背叛了她的这一事实。这就是说，我仍旧负有责任。如果说我没有什么责任的话，是因为背叛一名罪犯不必负什么责任；如果说我负有责任，是因为我曾经爱上过一个罪犯。
Part 2 Chapter 11
O NCE HANNA admitted having written the report, the other defendants had an easy game to play. When Hanna had not been acting alone, they claimed, she had pressured, threatened, and forced the others. She had seized command. She did the talking and the writing. She had made the decisions.
The villagers who testified could neither confirm nor deny this. They had seen that the burning church was guarded by several women who did not unlock it, and they had not dared to unlock it themselves. They had met the women the next morning as they were leaving the village, and recognized them as the defendants. But which of the defendants had been the spokeswoman at the early-morning encounter, or if anyone had played the role of spokeswoman, they could not recall.
“But you cannot rule out that it was this defendant”—the lawyer for one of the other defendants pointed at Hanna—“who took the decisions?”
They couldn’t, how could they even have wanted to, and faced with the other defendants, visibly older, more worn out, more cowardly and bitter, they had no such impulse. In comparison with the other defendants, Hanna was the dominant one. Besides, the existence of a leader exonerated the villagers; having failed to achieve rescue in the face of a fiercely led opposing force looked better than having failed to do anything when confronted by a group of confused women.
Hanna kept struggling. She admitted what was true and disputed what was not. Her arguments became more desperate and more vehement. She didn’t raise her voice, but her very intensity alienated the court.
Eventually she gave up. She spoke only when asked a direct question; her answers were short, minimal, sometimes beside the point. As if to make clear that she had given up, she now remained seated when speaking. The presiding judge, who had told her several times at the beginning of the trial that she did not need to stand and could remain seated if she preferred, was put off by this as well. Towards the end of the trial, I sometimes had the sense that the court had had enough, that they wanted to get the whole thing over with, that they were no longer paying attention but were somewhere else, or rather here—back in the present after long weeks in the past.
I had had enough too. But I couldn’t put it behind me. For me, the proceedings were not ending, but just beginning. I had been a spectator, and then suddenly a participant, a player, and member of the jury. I had neither sought nor chosen this new role, but it was mine whether I wanted it or not, whether I did anything or just remained completely passive.
“Did anything”—there was only one thing to do. I could go to the judge and tell him that Hanna was illiterate. That she was not the main protagonist and guilty party the way the others made her out to be. That her behavior at the trial was not proof of singular incorrigibility, lack of remorse, or arrogance, but was born of her incapacity to familiarize herself with the indictment and the manuscript and also probably of her consequent lack of any sense of strategy or tactics. That her defense had been significantly compromised. That she was guilty, but not as guilty as it appeared.
Maybe I would not be able to convince the judge. But I would give him enough to have to think about and investigate further. In the end, it would be proved that I was right, and Hanna would be punished, but less severely. She would have to go to prison, but would be released sooner—wasn’t that what she had been fighting for?
Yes, that was what she had been fighting for, but she was not willing to earn victory at the price of exposure as an illiterate. Nor would she want me to barter her self-image for a few years in prison. She could have made that kind of trade herself, and did not, which meant she didn’t want it. Her sense of self was worth more than the years in prison to her.
But was it really worth all that? What did she gain from this false self-image which ensnared her and crippled her and paralyzed her? With the energy she put into maintaining the lie, she could have learned to read and write long ago.
I tried to talk about the problem with friends. Imagine someone is racing intentionally towards his own destruction and you can save him—do you go ahead and save him? Imagine there’s an operation, and the patient is a drug user and the drugs are incompatible with the anesthetic, but the patient is ashamed of being an addict and does not want to tell the anesthesiologist—do you talk to the anesthesiologist? Imagine a trial and a defendant who will be convicted if he doesn’t admit to being left-handed—do you tell the judge what’s going on? Imagine he’s gay, and could not have committed the crime because he’s gay, but is ashamed of being gay. It isn’t a question of whether the defendant should be ashamed of being left-handed or gay—just imagine that he is.
　　由于汉娜承认那篇报告是她写的，其他被告就可以轻松地出牌了。她们说，凡汉娜一个人处理不了的事情，她就逼迫、威胁和强迫其他被告一起做。她把指挥棒揽在自己手里。她既执笔又代言，她总是做最后决定。
　　对此，做证的村民既不能证实又不能反驳。他们看见那熊熊燃烧的教堂被许多穿制服的女人看守着，门没有被打开。这样，他们自己也不敢去开门。当她们第二天早上开拔时，他们又遇见了她们，而且在这些被告中又认出了她们。但是，由于只是在晨窿中相遇，哪位被告是发号施令者，是否真的有哪位被告在发号施令，他们也说不清楚。
　　"但是你们不能排除这位被告做了决定吧！另一位被告的辩护律师指着汉娜说。
　　他们不能排除，他们怎么能排除！看到其他被告明显地更年老，更疲倦，更胆小和更痛苦，他们也不想排除这种可能性。相比之下，汉娜就是个头头。除此之外，有个头头存在也减轻了村民们的负担。他们在一伙严厉的、有领导的女人面前没有伸出援助之手总比在一帮不知所措的女人面前而没有伸出援助之手要好得多。
　　汉娜继续抗争着，对的她就承认，错的她就反驳。她的反驳越来越困惑，越来越暴躁，她的声音不大，但其厉害程度令法庭感到惊讶。
　　最后，她放弃了争辩，只是在被问到对她才说话。她的回答简短扼要，有时候甚至漫不经心。好像为了让人更明显地看出她已经放弃了，她现在说话时也不站起来。审判长也惊讶地注意到了这一点。在法庭审理刚开始时，审判长曾多次对她说过不必站起来，她可以坐着讲话。有时候我会有一种感觉，觉得法庭在审理接近尾声时已经厌战了，想尽早把事情了结，大家都已经心不在焉，都想在经过几周对过去的审理后再回到现实中来。
　　我也感到厌倦了，但是我却不能把事情置于脑后。对我来说，审理没有结束，而是刚刚开始。起初，我是一名听众，突然之间我变成了参与者、一同游戏的人和共同决策者。我并没有去寻找和选择这一新的角色，但是我却得到了它，不管我愿意与否，不管我是采取了主动还是被动。
　　如果我能做什么的话，我也只能做一件事。我可以去找审判长，对他说汉娜是个文盲，她并非如其他人所说的那样是个主角并负有主要责任。她在法庭上的言谈举止并不能说明她特别固执己见、不理智或者厚颜无耻，而只能说明她对其控告词和那本书事前缺乏了解和认识，也是由于她缺乏战略战术意识的结果。这对她为自己辩护极为不利。她虽然负有责任，但是她所负的责任并不是像看上去的那样重大。
　　也许我的话不能令审判长信服，但是，我会促使他去思考，去调查研究。最终结果将证明我是对的。汉娜尽管将受到惩罚，但是她的罪责将会减轻。她尽管要坐牢，但是会早些时候被放出来，会早些时候重获自由。她的争辩难道不正是为了这些吗？
　　是的，她是为此而抗争的，但是她不愿为了获得成功而暴露出自己是个文盲，她不想为此付出代价。她也不会愿意我为了她在监狱里少呆几年而出卖她。她可以自己讨价还价，但她没有那样做，说明她不想那样做。对她来说，为了她的自我价值蹲几年监狱也值得。
　　但是，这对她来说真的值得吗？她从这种虚伪的、束缚她的、令其丧失活力的、使其无法施展才能的自我价值中能得到什么呢？如果把用于掩饰真实谎言的精力用于学习，她早就能学会读和写了。
　　当时，我曾试着与朋友就这个问题进行探讨。你设想一下，有人想毁掉自己，故意毁掉自己，你就是能挽救他，可你将挽救他吗？你设想一个手术，病人服用了连麻药都无法相比的毒品，但他又耻于向麻醉师开口讲他服用了毒品，在这种情况下，你能告诉麻醉师真相吗？你设想一次法庭审理案，有一名被告将会受到惩罚，他是个左撇子，但是他为此感到羞耻。如果他不讲出自己是一个左撇子，因而不能完成一个用右手实施的行为，你能对法庭说明此事吗？你设想一下，某人是一名同性恋者，作为同性恋他不会于某种行为，可是他又耻于做一名同性恋者而不说明真相。这不是人们是否应该耻于做一名左撇子或做一名同性恋者的问题，您想一想，这是被告为自己感到羞耻的问题。
Part 2 Chapter 12
I DECIDED TO speak to my father. Not because we were particularly close. My father was undemonstrative, and could neither share his feelings with us children nor deal with the feelings we had for him. For a long time I believed there must be a wealth of undiscovered treasure behind that uncommunicative manner, but later I wondered if there was anything behind it at all. Perhaps he had been full of emotions as a boy and a young man, and by giving them no outlet had allowed them over the years to wither and die.
But it was because of the distance between us that I sought him out now. I wanted to talk to the philosopher who had written about Kant and Hegel, and who had, as I knew, occupied himself with moral issues. He should be well positioned to explore my problem in the abstract and, unlike my friends, to avoid getting trapped in the inadequacies of my examples.
When we children wanted to speak to our father, he gave us appointments just like his students. He worked at home and only went to the university to give his lectures and seminars. Colleagues and students who wished to speak to him came to see him at home. I remember lines of students leaning against the wall in the corridor and waiting their turn, some reading, some looking at the views of cities hanging in the corridor, others staring into space, all of them silent except for an embarrassed greeting when we children went down the corridor and said hello. We ourselves didn’t have to wait in the hall when our father had made an appointment with us. But we too had to be at his door at the appointed time and knock to be admitted.
I knew two of my father’s studies. The windows in the first one, in which Hanna had run her fingers along the books, looked out onto the streets and houses. The windows in the second looked out over the plain along the Rhine. The house we moved to in the early 1960s, and where my parents stayed after we had grown up, was on the big hill above the city. In both places, the windows did not open the room to the world beyond, but framed and hung the world in it like a picture. My father’s study was a capsule in which books, papers, thoughts, and pipe and cigar smoke had created their own force field, different from that of the outside world.
My father allowed me to present my problem in its abstract form and with my examples. “It has to do with the trial, doesn’t it?” But he shook his head to show that he didn’t expect an answer, or want to press me or hear anything that I wasn’t ready to tell him of my own accord. Then he sat, head to one side, hands gripping the arms of his chair, and thought. He didn’t look at me. I studied him, his gray hair, his face, carelessly shaven as always, the deep lines between his eyes and from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. I waited.
When he answered, he went all the way back to beginnings. He instructed me about the individual, about freedom and dignity, about the human being as subject and the fact that one may not turn him into an object. “Don’t you remember how furious you would get as a little boy when Mama knew better what was good for you? Even how far one can act like this with children is a real problem. It is a philosophical problem, but philosophy does not concern itself with children. It leaves them to pedagogy, where they’re not in very good hands. Philosophy has forgotten about children.” He smiled at me. “Forgotten them forever, not just sometimes, the way I forget about you.”
“But . . .”
“But with adults I see absolutely no justification for setting other people’s views of what is good for them above their own ideas of what is good for themselves.”
“Not even if they themselves are happy about it later?”
He shook his head. “We’re not talking about happiness, we’re talking about dignity and freedom. Even as a little boy, you knew the difference. It was no comfort to you that your mother was always right.”
Today I like thinking back on that conversation with my father. I had forgotten it until after his death, when I began to search the depths of my memory for happy encounters and shared activities and experiences with him. When I found it, I was both amazed and delighted. Originally I was confused by my father’s mixing of abstraction and concreteness. But eventually I sorted out what he had said to mean that I did not have to speak to the judge, that indeed I had no right to speak to him, and was relieved.
My father saw my relief. “That’s how you like your philosophy?”
“Well, I didn’t know if one had to act in the circumstances I described, and I wasn’t really happy with the idea that one must, and if one really isn’t allowed to do anything at all, I find that . . .” I didn’t know what to say. A relief? A comfort? Appealing? That didn’t sound like morality and responsibility. “I think that’s good” would have sounded moral and responsible, but I couldn’t say I thought it was good, that I thought it was any more than a relief.
“Appealing?” my father suggested.
I nodded and shrugged my shoulders.
“No, your problem has no appealing solution. Of course one must act if the situation as you describe it is one of accrued or inherited responsibility. If one knows what is good for another person who in turn is blind to it, then one must try to open his eyes. One has to leave him the last word, but one must talk to him, to him and not to someone else behind his back.”
Talk to Hanna? What would I say to her? That I had seen through her lifelong lie? That she was in the process of sacrificing her whole life to this silly lie? That the lie wasn’t worth the sacrifice? That that was why she should fight not to remain in prison any longer than she had to, because there was so much she could still do with her life afterwards? Could I deprive her of her lifelong lie, without opening some vision of a future to her? I had no idea what that might be, nor did I know how to face her and say that after what she had done it was right that her short- and medium-term future would be prison. I didn’t know how to face her and say anything at all. I didn’t know how to face her.
I asked my father: “And what if you can’t talk to him?”
He looked at me doubtfully, and I knew myself that the question was beside the point. There was nothing more to moralize about. I just had to make a decision.
“I haven’t been able to help you.” My father stood up and so did I. “No, you don’t have to go, it’s just that my back hurts.” He stood bent over, with his hands pressed against his kidneys. “I can’t say that I’m sorry I can’t help you. As a philosopher, I mean, which is how you were addressing me. As your father, I find the experience of not being able to help my children almost unbearable.”
I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. I thought he was making it easy on himself; I knew when he could have taken care of us more and how he could have helped us more. Then I thought that perhaps he realized this himself and really found it difficult to bear. But either way I had nothing to say to him. I was embarrassed, and had the feeling he was embarrassed too.
“Well then . . .”
“You can come any time.” My father looked at me.
I didn’t believe him, and nodded.
　　我决定和我父亲谈谈，不是因为我们彼此之间无话不谈。我父亲是个沉默寡言的人，他既不能把他的感情告诉我们这些孩子，又不能接收我们带给他的感情。在很长的一段时间里，我猜想在这种互不通气的行为背后蕴藏着丰富的、没有发掘的宝藏。但是后来我怀疑那儿是否真的有什么东西。也许他年轻时有过丰富的感情，但是没有表达出来，天长日久这种感情就变得枯萎，就自消自灭了。
　　然而，正是由于我们之间存在着距离我才找他谈。我找的谈话对象是一位哲学家，他写过有关康德和黑格尔的书，而且我知道书中写的是有关道德问题。他也应该有能力就我的问题和我进行抽象的探讨，而不是像我的朋友们那样只举些空洞的例子。
　　如果我们这些孩子想和父亲谈话的话，他像对待他的学生一样与我们预约时间。他在家里工作，只是在有他的讲座和研讨课时才去大学。想要和他谈话的同事和学生都到家里来。我还记得学生们排着长队靠在走廊的墙上等着，有的阅读点什么，有的观赏挂在走廊里的城市风景图，也有的同学呆呆地东张西望。他们都沉默不语，直到我们这些孩子打着招呼穿过走廊时才回以一个尴尬的问候。我们与父亲约谈当然不必在走廊里等候，但是，我们也要在约定好的时间去谈，敲门后让进去时才能进去。
　　我见过父亲的两个书房。第一个书房，也就是汉娜用手指巡摸书脊的那间，它的窗户面向街道，对面有房屋。第二个书房的窗户面向莱茵平原。我们六十年代初搬进的那座房子坐落在山坡上面，面向城市。当我们这些孩子长大以后我的父母仍旧住在那儿。这处房子的窗户和那处房子的窗户一样不是外凸式的，而是内凸式的，仿佛是挂在房间里的一幅画。在我父亲的书房里，书籍、纸张、思想、烟斗和香烟冒出的烟相互交织在一起，足使外来的人产生各种各样的压抑感。我对它们既熟悉又陌生。
　　我父亲让我把问题全盘兜出，包括抽象描述和举例说明。"与法庭审判有关，对吗？"但是他摇着头向我示意，他并不期待得到回答，也不想逼迫我和不想知道我自己不想说出的事情。这之后，他坐着沉思起来，头侧向一边，两手扶着椅子的扶手。他没有看着我，我却仔细地打量着他，他的满头银发，他的总是刮得很糟糕的胡腮以及他那从鼻梁延伸到嘴角和两眼之间的清晰的皱纹。我等着。
　　当他讲话时，他先把话题拉得很远。他教导我如何对待人、自由和尊严；他教导我把人当做主体对待，不允许把人当做客体来对待。"你还记得你小时候妈妈教你学好时你是如何大发雷霆的吗？把孩子放任到什么程度，这的的确确是个问题。这是个哲学问题，但是哲学不探讨孩子问题，哲学把孩子们交给了教育学，可孩子们在教育学那儿也没有受到很好的照顾。哲学把孩子们遗忘了。"他看着我笑着，"把他们永远忘记了，不是偶尔把他们忘记了，就像我偶尔把你们忘记了一样。"
　　"但是…"
　　"但是在成人身上，我也绝对看不出有什么理由可以把别人认为对他们有好处的东西置于他们自己认为是好的东西之上。"
　　"'如果他们后来对此感到很幸福的话，这样做也不行吗？"
　　他摇着头说："我们谈论的不是幸福而是尊严和自由。当你还是个小孩子时就已经知道它们的区别了。你妈妈总有理，这并没有让你从中得到安慰。"
　　现在我很愿意回想和父亲的那次谈话。我已经把它忘记了，直到他去世后，我才开始在沉睡的记忆中寻找我与他的美好会面和美好的经历及美好的感受。当我找到它时，我惊奇不已地思考着它，它使我非常幸福。当时，父亲把抽象的东西和形象逼真的事情混合在一起，这使我最初感到很困惑，但是，我最终还是按他所说的去做了，我不必去找审判长谈话，我根本不允许自己找他谈话。我感到如释重负。
　　我的父亲看着我说："你这样喜欢哲学吗？"
　　"还可以。我不知道人们在我描述的上述情况下是否应该采取行动。如果人们必须采取行动却又不允许行动的话，我想，对此我会感到非常不幸。现在我感到……"我不知道说什么好。感到轻松？感到安慰？感到愉快？这听上去不道德和不负责任。我现在感觉不错，这听上去既道德又负责任，但我不能说我感觉不错，而且感到比卸下重负还好。
　　"感觉不错吗？"我父亲试探着问。
　　我点点头，耸耸肩。
　　"不，你的问题不会有愉快的解决办法。当然了，如果你所描述的情况是一种责任重大的情况的话，人们就必须要采取行动。如果一个人知道怎样做对其他人有好处，但他却闭上了眼睛，视而不见，这时，人们就必须努力让他睁开眼睛，正视此事。人们必须让他本人做最后的决定，但是人们必须和他谈，和他本人谈，而不是在他背后和其他什么人谈。"
　　和汉娜谈？我该和她说什么呢？说我识破了她的生活谎言？说她正在为这个愚蠢的谎言而牺牲她的整个一生？说为了这个谎言而牺牲不值得？说她应该争取尽量减少蹲监狱的年限，以便在出狱之后能开始更多的生活？到底该说什么呢？说到什么程度？她应该怎样重新开始她的生活呢？我不为她展示一个生活远景就能让她抛弃她的生活谎言吗？我不知道什么是她的生活远景，我也不知道我该如何面对她和该说什么，说她在做了那些事情后，她生活的近期和中期远景就是该坐牢？我不知道该如何面对她，也不知道到底该说些什么。我真的不知道该怎样面对她。
　　我问我父亲："如果人们不能跟他交谈的话，那该怎么办呢？"
　　他怀疑地看着我，我自己也知道这个问题已经离题了。这不存在什么道德问题，而是我必须做出决定的问题。
　　"我无法帮助你。"我父亲说着站了起来，我也站了起来。"不，你不必走，我只是背痛。"他弯曲地站着，双手压着腰。"我不能说，不能帮助你，我感到遗憾，我的意思是说，当你把我作为哲学家向我求教时。作为一名父亲，我不能帮助自己的孩子，这简直令我无法忍受。"
　　我等着，但是他不再往下说了。我发现他把这事看得无足轻重。我知道，他什么时候应该对我们多加关心和他怎样才能更多地帮助我们。随后我又想，他自己也许也清楚这个，而且的确感到难以承受，但是，无论如何我都不能对他说什么了。我感到很尴尬，而且觉得他也很尴尬。
　　"好吧，以后……
　　"你以后可以随时来。"父亲看着我说。
　　我不相信他的话，可我还是点点头。
Part 2 Chapter 13
I N JUNE, the court flew to Israel for two weeks. The hearing there took only a few days, but the judge and prosecutors made it a combined judicial and touristic outing, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, the Negev and the Red Sea. It was undoubtedly all aboveboard as regards rules of conduct, vacations, and expense accounts, but I found it bizarre nonetheless.
I had planned to devote these two weeks to my studies. But it didn’t go the way I had imagined and planned. I couldn’t concentrate enough to learn anything, either from the professors or my books. Again and again, my thoughts wandered off and were lost in images.
I saw Hanna by the burning church, hard-faced, in a black uniform, with a riding whip. She drew circles in the snow with her whip, and slapped it against her boots. I saw her being read to. She listened carefully, asked no questions, and made no comments. When the hour was over, she told the reader she would be going on the transport to Auschwitz next morning. The reader, a frail creature with a stubble of black hair and nearsighted eyes, began to cry. Hanna hit the wall with her hand and two women, also prisoners in striped clothing, came in and pulled the reader away. I saw Hanna walking the paths in the camp, going into the prisoners’ barracks and overseeing construction work. She did it all with the same hard face, cold eyes, and pursed mouth, and the prisoners ducked, bent over their work, pressed themselves against the wall, into the wall, wanted to disappear into the wall. Sometimes there were many prisoners gathered together or running from one place to the other or standing in line or marching, and Hanna stood among them and screamed orders, her screaming face a mask of ugliness, and helped things along with her whip. I saw the church steeple crashing into the roof and the sparks flying and heard the desperation of the women. I saw the burned-out church next morning.
Alongside these images, I saw the others. Hanna pulling on her stockings in the kitchen, standing by the bathtub holding the towel, riding her bicycle with skirts flying, standing in my father’s study, dancing in front of the mirror, looking at me at the pool, Hanna listening to me, talking to me, laughing at me, loving me. Hanna loving me with cold eyes and pursed mouth, silently listening to me reading, and at the end banging the wall with her hand, talking to me with her face turning into a mask. The worst were the dreams in which a hard, imperious, cruel Hanna aroused me sexually; I woke from them full of longing and shame and rage. And full of fear about who I really was.
I knew that my fantasized images were poor clichés. They were unfair to the Hanna I had known and still knew. But still they were very powerful. They undermined my actual memories of Hanna and merged with the images of the camps that I had in my mind.
When I think today about those years, I realize how little direct observation there actually was, how few photographs that made life and murder in the camps real. We knew the gate of Auschwitz with its inscription, the stacked wooden bunks, the piles of hair and spectacles and suitcases; we knew the building that formed the entrance to Birkenau with the tower, the two wings, and the entryway for the trains, and from Bergen-Belsen the mountains of corpses found and photographed by the Allies at the liberation. We were familiar with some of the testimony of prisoners, but many of them were published soon after the war and not reissued until the 1980s, and in the intervening years they disappeared from publishers’ lists. Today there are so many books and films that the world of the camps is part of our collective imagination and completes our ordinary everyday one. Our imagination knows its way around in it, and since the television series Holocaust and movies like Sophie’s Choice and especially Schindler’s List, actually moves in it, not just registering, but supplementing and embellishing it. Back then, the imagination was almost static: the shattering fact of the world of the camps seemed properly beyond its operations. The few images derived from Allied photographs and the testimony of survivors flashed on the mind again and again, until they froze into clichés.
　　六月，法官们去了以色列，为期两周。那里的听证用不了几天，但是法官和律师们把公务和游耶路撒冷、特拉维夫、内盖夫及红海结合了起来。这是一次公私兼顾的度假，费用自然也不会有问题。尽管如此，我认为这不正常。
　　我计划把这两周完全用于学习，但是，事情并未按我所设想的那样进行。我无法集中精力学习，无法集中精力听教授们讲课，无法集中精力看书。我的思想一次又一次地开小差，我浮想联翩。
　　我看见汉娜站在熊熊燃烧的教堂旁，表情僵硬，身着黑色制服，手执马鞭。她用马鞭在雪地里画着小圆圈，然后用长统靴一脚踢开。我看见她怎样让人为她朗读，她聚精会神地听着，不提问题，不做评论。当朗读的时间结束时，她便告诉她的朗读者，明天她将被送往奥斯威辛。那位瘦弱的、头上长出黑色头巷、眼睛近视的宠儿开始哭泣起来。汉娜用手敲敲墙壁，随后进来两位也穿着有条纹衣服的女囚犯，她们便把那位朗读者生拉硬拖出去。我看见汉娜沿着集中营的路走着，进了囚犯们住的临时搭建起来的木板房，监督她们干活。她带着同样僵硬的表情、冷酷的目光、微薄的嘴唇做着这一切。囚犯们突然低下头，弯腰屈背地干活，躲避到墙边，躲进墙里，恨不得消失在墙壁里。有时候囚犯被集合起来，来回跑步，或练习列队行走。汉娜站在她们中间，喊着口令。她喊叫口令时的表情丑陋难看，手中的马鞭令其更难看。我看见教堂的塔顶坍塌到教堂的房顶上，火光冲天。我听见女人们绝望的呼救声。我看见第二天早上被烧毁的教堂。
　　除了这个情景之外，我又看到了另一番景象。那个在厨房里穿长统袜的汉娜，那个在浴缸旁拿着浴巾的汉娜，那个骑着自行车、裙子随风飘舞的汉娜，那个在我父亲书房里的汉娜，那个在镜子前跳舞的汉娜，那个在游泳池向我这边张望着的汉娜，那个听我朗读、与我交谈、喜欢我、爱我的汉娜。当这些情景杂乱地出现在我的脑海中时最为糟糕。汉娜的形象还有：那个长着薄薄的嘴唇的、爱我的和那个目光冷酷的汉娜，那个默不作声听我朗读的和那个在朗读结束时用手敲击墙壁的汉娜，那个与我交谈和那个问我做鬼脸的汉娜。最糟糕透顶的是那些梦，梦境中，那个冷酷无情、专横跋扈、粗暴残酷的汉娜竟然引起了我的性欲。我带着渴望、羞愧和愤恨从梦中醒来，我忐忑不安，不知自己是何许人。
　　我知道，那些幻想已经落入微不足道的俗套，它对我所熟悉、所认识的汉娜来说不公平。不过它还是很有威力的，它破坏了我心目中的汉娜形象，使我总是联想起汉娜在集中营的情景。
　　当我现在回想当年的情景时，我发现，能让人具体地想象集中营生活和谋杀情景的直观形象是多么少。我们知道奥斯威辛刻有铭文的大门、多层的木板床及成堆的头发、眼镜和稻子。我们知道比肯瑙集中营带燎望塔的大门、侧廊和火车通道。我们知道贝尔根一贝尔森集中营由盟军在解放这个集中营时发现并拍摄下来的尸山图片。我们知道为数不多的几篇由囚犯写的报道，但是，许多报道是战后不久出版的。这之后，只是到了八十年代才又有这类报道出版发行。战后到八十年代这期间，这类报道不属出版社的出版发行项目。今天有这么多的书和电影存在，这样，集中营的世界就变成了我们大家共同想象的世界的一部分，集中营的世界使我们共同拥有的现实世界变得完整起来。世界充满想象。自从电视系列片《大屠杀》和电影故事片如《索菲姬的抉择》，尤其是电影《辛德勒的名单》上映以来，想象力开始在世界上活跃起来，想象不仅仅限于现实，而且还给它添枝加叶。这之前，人们的想象力几乎是静止的，人们认为在集中营里犯下的骇人听闻的罪孽不适于活跃的想象力。从盟军拍摄的照片和囚犯们写的报道中，人们联想到一些情景，这些情景反过来又束缚了人们的想象力，使它们变得越来越僵化。
Part 2 Chapter 14
I DECIDED TO go away. If I had been able to leave for Auschwitz the next day, I would have gone. But it would have taken weeks to get a visa. So I went to Struthof in Alsace. It was the nearest concentration camp. I had never seen one. I wanted reality to drive out the clichés.
I hitchhiked, and remember a ride in a truck with a driver who downed one bottle of beer after another, and a Mercedes driver who steered wearing white gloves. After Strasbourg I got lucky; the driver was going to Schirmeck, a small town not far from Struthof.
When I told the driver where I was going, he fell silent. I looked over at him, but couldn’t tell why he had suddenly stopped talking in the midst of a lively conversation. He was middle-aged, with a haggard face and a dark red birthmark or scar on his right temple, and his black hair was carefully parted and combed in strands. He stared at the road in concentration.
The hills of the Vosges rolled out ahead of us. We were driving through vineyards into a wide-open valley that climbed gently. To the left and right, mixed forests grew up the slopes, and sometimes there was a quarry or a brick-walled factory with a corrugated iron roof, or an old sanatorium, or a large turreted villa among tall trees. A train track ran alongside us, sometimes to the left and sometimes to the right.
Then he spoke again. He asked me why I was visiting Struthof, and I told him about the trial and my lack of first-hand knowledge.
“Ah, you want to understand why people can do such terrible things.” He sounded as if he was being a little ironic, but maybe it was just the tone of voice and the choice of words. Before I could reply, he went on: “What is it you want to understand? That people murder out of passion, or love, or hate, or for honor or revenge, that you understand?”
I nodded.
“You also understand that people murder for money or power? That people murder in wars and revolutions?”
I nodded again. “But . . .”
“But the people who were murdered in the camps hadn’t done anything to the individuals who murdered them? Is that what you want to say? Do you mean that there was no reason for hatred, and no war?”
I didn’t want to nod again. What he said was true, but not the way he said it.
“You’re right, there was no war, and no reason for hatred. But executioners don’t hate the people they execute, and they execute them all the same. Because they’re ordered to? You think they do it because they’re ordered to? And you think that I’m talking about orders and obedience, that the guards in the camps were under orders and had to obey?” He laughed sarcastically. “No, I’m not talking about orders and obedience. An executioner is not under orders. He’s doing his work, he doesn’t hate the people he executes, he’s not taking revenge on them, he’s not killing them because they’re in his way or threatening him or attacking him. They’re a matter of such indifference to him that he can kill them as easily as not.”
He looked at me. “No ‘buts’? Come on, tell me that one person cannot be that indifferent to another. Isn’t that what they taught you? Solidarity with everything that has a human face? Human dignity? Reverence for life?”
I was outraged and helpless. I searched for a word, a sentence that would erase what he had said and strike him dumb.
“Once,” he went on, “I saw a photograph of Jews being shot in Russia. The Jews were in a long row, naked; some were standing at the edge of a pit and behind them were soldiers with guns, shooting them in the neck. It was in a quarry, and above the Jews and the soldiers there was an officer sitting on a ledge in the rock, swinging his legs and smoking a cigarette. He looked a little morose. Maybe things weren’t going fast enough for him. But there was also something satisfied, even cheerful about his expression, perhaps because the day’s work was getting done and it was almost time to go home. He didn’t hate the Jews. He wasn’t . . .”
“Was it you? Were you sitting on the ledge and . . .”
He stopped the car. He was absolutely white, and the mark on his temple glistened. “Out!”
I got out. He swung the wheel so fast I had to jump aside. I still heard him as he took the next few curves. Then everything was silent.
I walked up the road. No car passed me, none came in the opposite direction. I heard birds, the wind in the trees, and the occasional murmur of a stream. In a quarter of an hour I reached the concentration camp.
　　我决定去奥斯威辛看看。假使我今天做了决定明天就可以动身去的话，那我也就去了。但是，得到签证需要几周的时间。这样一来我就去了阿尔萨斯地区的斯特鲁特侯夫。那是最近的一个集中营。我从未看过任何一个集中营。我要用真实驱逐脑中的先人之见。
　　我是搭车去的，还记得在搭乘卡车的一段路上，司机一瓶接一瓶地灌着啤酒；也记得一位开奔驰车的司机，他戴着白手套开车。过了斯特拉斯堡之后，我的运气不错，搭的汽车是驶向舍尔麦克的，一个离斯特鲁特侯夫不太远的小城市。
　　当我告诉了司机我要去的具体地方时，他不说话了。我瞧了他一眼，但是从他的脸上我看不出来他为什么从生动活泼的交谈中突然默不作声了。他中等年纪，细长的脸，右边的太阳穴上有块深红色的胎痣或烙印，一架黑发整齐的流向两边。他看上去好像把注意力集中在了道路上。
　　延伸到我们面前的福戈森山脉是一片丘陵。我们穿过了一片葡萄园，来到一个开阔的、缓缓上升的山谷。左边和右边的斜坡上是针叶松和落叶松混长的森林，偶尔路过一个采石场，或一个用砖围砌起来的、带有折顶的厂棚，或一家养老院，或一处大型别墅——那里许多小尖塔林立于参天大树之中。有时，我们沿铁路线而行，铁路线时而在左边，时而在右边。
　　沉默之后，他又开口了，他问我为什么要去参观斯特鲁特俱夫。我向他讲述了审讯过程和我对直观形象的匮乏。
　　"啊，您想弄明白，人们为什么能做出那么恐怖的事情。"他的话听上去有点嘲讽的口吻，但是，这也许仅仅是声音和语言上的地方色彩。没等我回答，他又接着说："您到底想弄明白什么呢？人们之所以杀人有时是出于狂热，有时是出于爱，或者出于恨，或为了名誉，或为了复仇，您明白吗？"
　　我点点头。
　　"有时是为了财富去杀人，有时是为了权力，在战争中，或者在一场革命中都要杀人，这您也明白吗？"
　　我又点点头："但是…、••"
　　"但是，那些在集中营被杀死的人对那些杀害他们的人并没做过什么，对吗？您想说这个吗？您想说不存在憎恨和战争的理由吗？'"
　　我不想再点头了，他所说的没错，但是他说话的口气不对。
　　"您说得有道理，不存在战争和憎恨的理由，刽子手恨不恨他要处死的人，都要处死他。因为他这样做是按命令行事？您认为，他们这样做是因为他被命令这样做吗？您认为我现在在谈论命令和服从命令吗？在谈论集中营的警卫队得到命令和他们必须要服从命令吗？他鄙视地笑了起来，"不，我不是在谈论命令和服从命令。刽子手没有遵循任何命令。他在完成他的工作，他处死的不是他憎恨的人，他不是在向他们报仇雪恨。杀死他们，不是因为他们挡了他的路或者对他进行了威胁和进攻。他们对他来说完全无所谓的，他们对他来说如此地无所谓，以致他杀不杀他们都一样。"
　　他看着我说："没有'但是'吗？您说，一个人对另一个人不可以这样无所谓。您连这个都没学过吗？没学过要一致顾脸面？顾人的尊严？生命算什么？"
　　我被激怒了，但又束手无策。我在搜索一个词，或一句话，一句能让他哑口无言的话。
　　"有一次，"他接着说，"我看到一张枪杀俄国犹太人的照片。犹太人一丝不挂地排着长队在等着，有几位站在一个坑的边上，他们身后是手持步枪向他们颈部开枪射击的士兵。这事发生在一座采石场。在犹太人和土兵的上方，有位军官坐在墙上的隔板上，跷着二郎腿，吸着一支香烟。他看上去有点闷闷不乐，也许枪杀进行得还不够快。但是，他还是感到某种程度的满足，甚至轻松愉快，也许因为白天的活总算要干完了，而且很快就要下班了。他不恨犹太人，他本是……"
　　"那是您吧？是您坐在墙上的隔板上，还……"
　　他把车停下了，脸色苍白，太阳穴上的股清在乱跳。"滚下去！"
　　我下了车，他调转车头的方式使我不得不急忙躲闪。直到下几个拐弯处，我仍能听见他。然后一切才平静下来。
　　我走在上坡的路上，没有来往的汽车从我身边开过。我听得见鸟鸣和树木的风声，有时还有涓涓的溪水声。我松了口气。一刻钟之后，我到了集中营。
Part 2 Chapter 15
I WENT BACK there not long ago. It was winter, a clear, cold day. Beyond Schirmeck the woods were snowy, the trees powdered white and the ground white too. The grounds of the concentration camp, an elongated area on a sloping terrace of mountain with a broad view of the Vosges, lay white in the bright sunshine. The gray-blue painted wood of the two- and three-story watchtowers and the one-story barracks made a pleasant contrast with the snow. True, there was the entryway festooned with barbed wire and the sign CONCENTRATION CAMP STRUTHOF-NATZWEILER and the double barbed-wire fence that surrounded the camp. But the ground between the remaining barracks, where more barracks had once stood side by side, no longer showed any trace of the camp under its glittering cover of snow. It could have been a sledding slope for children, spending their winter vacation in the cheerful barracks with the homely many-paned windows, and about to be called indoors for cake and hot chocolate.
The camp was closed. I tramped around it in the snow, getting my feet wet. I could easily see the whole grounds, and remembered how on my first visit I had gone down the steps that led between the foundations of the former barracks. I also remembered the ovens of the crematorium that were on display in another barracks, and that another barracks had contained cells. I remembered my vain attempts, back then, to imagine in concrete detail a camp filled with prisoners and guards and suffering. I really tried; I looked at a barracks, closed my eyes, and imagined row upon row of barracks. I measured a barracks, calculated its occupants from the informational booklet, and imagined how crowded it had been. I found out that the steps between the barracks had also been used for roll call, and as I looked from the bottom of the camp up towards the top, I filled them with rows of backs. But it was all in vain, and I had a feeling of the most dreadful, shameful failure.
On the way back, further down the hill, I found a small house opposite a restaurant that had a sign on it indicating that it had been a gas chamber. It was painted white, had doors and windows framed in sandstone, and could have been a barn or a shed or servants’ living quarters. This building, too, was closed and I didn’t remember if I had gone inside it on my first visit. I didn’t get out of the car. I sat for a while with the motor running, and looked. Then I drove on.
At first I was embarrassed to meander home through the Alsatian villages looking for a restaurant where I could have lunch. But my awkwardness was not the result of real feeling, but of thinking about the way one is supposed to feel after visiting a concentration camp. I noticed this myself, shrugged, and found a restaurant called Au Petit Gar?on in a village on a slope of the Vosges. My table looked out over the plain. Hanna had called me kid.
The previous time I had walked around the concentration camp grounds until they closed. Then I had sat down under the memorial that stood above the camp, and looked down over the grounds. I felt a great emptiness inside, as if I had been searching for some glimpse, not outside but within myself, and had discovered that there was nothing to be found.
Then it got dark. I had to wait an hour until the driver of a small open truck let me climb up and sit on the truck bed and took me to the next village, and I gave up the idea of hitchhiking back that same day. I found a cheap room in a guest house in the village and had a thin steak with french fries and peas in the dining room.
Four men were loudly playing cards at the next table. The door opened and a little old man came in without greeting anyone. He wore short pants and had a wooden leg. He ordered a beer at the bar. He sat facing away from the neighboring table, so that all they saw was his back and the back of his overly enlarged, bald skull. The card players laid down their cards, reached into the ashtrays, picked up the butts, took aim, and hit him. The man at the bar flapped his hands behind his head as if swatting away flies. The innkeeper set his beer in front of him. No one said a word.
I couldn’t stand it. I jumped up and went over to the next table. “Stop it!” I was shaking with outrage. At that moment, the man half hobbled, half hopped over and began fumbling with his leg; suddenly he was holding the wooden leg in both hands. He brought it crashing down onto the table so that the glasses and ashtrays danced, and fell into an empty chair, laughing a squeaky, toothless laugh as the others laughed in a beery rumble along with him. “Stop it!” they laughed, pointing at me. “Stop it!”
During the night the wind howled around the house. I was not cold, and the noise of the wind and the creaking of the tree in front of the house and the occasional banging of a shutter were not enough to have kept me awake. But I became more and more inwardly restless, until my whole body began to shiver. I felt afraid, not in anticipation that something bad was going to happen, but in a physical way. I lay there, listening to the wind, feeling relieved every time it weakened and died down, but dreading its renewed assaults and not knowing how I would get out of bed next day, hitchhike back, continue my studies, and one day have a career and a wife and children.
I wanted simultaneously to understand Hanna’s crime and to condemn it. But it was too terrible for that. When I tried to understand it, I had the feeling I was failing to condemn it as it must be condemned. When I condemned it as it must be condemned, there was no room for understanding. But even as I wanted to understand Hanna, failing to understand her meant betraying her all over again. I could not resolve this. I wanted to pose myself both tasks—understanding and condemnation. But it was impossible to do both.
The next day was another beautiful summer day. Hitchhiking was easy, and I got back in a few hours. I walked through the city as though I had been away for a long time; the streets and buildings and people looked strange to me. But that didn’t mean the other world of the concentration camps felt any closer. My impressions of Struthof joined my few already existing images of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, and froze along with them.
　　我不久前又去了那儿一次。那是一个晴朗又寒冷的冬日。过了舍尔麦克，森林披上了银装，大地被皑皑白雪覆盖。集中营是一块狭长的场地，地处下斜的山坡梯地上，在耀眼的阳光照射下一片白茫茫。从那儿可眺望到远处的福戈森山谷。二层或三层的监视塔上面的和一层的木板房上面的被漆成蓝灰色的木头与皑皑白雪形成了一个和谐的对照。当然了，那里少不了有用铁丝网围成的大门，门上面挂着"斯特鲁特侯夫一纳茨瓦勒集中营"的牌子，也有围绕集中营四周的双层铁丝网。在残留下来的木板房之间，原来都是木板房，一间挨着一间地排列着，非常稠密，可现在，地面被皑皑白雪覆盖着，什么也辨认不出来。它看起来像是为孩子们准备的滑雪橇的斜坡。好像孩子们正在带有舒适方格窗户的、可爱的木板房里度寒假，好像他们随时都会被喊进去吃蛋糕和热巧克力。
　　集中营没开放。我只好在周围的雪地里走来走去，鞋都湿透了。我可以看清楚集中营的全貌。这使我想起，我第一次参观它时是怎样从已经被拆除的木板房的墙基与墙基间的台阶上走下来的。这也使我想起了当时在一间木板房里展出的火化炉及另外的曾用做单人牢房的木板房。也使我回忆起，当时我是怎样徒劳地想象过一个关满囚犯的集中营是什么样子，囚犯和警卫队都是什么样子，具体地想象过痛苦是什么滋味。我的确努力想象过，我曾望着一间木板房，闭上眼睛，思想从一个房间走到另一个房间。我仔细地测量了一间木板房，从测量中算出它占用情况并想象它的拥挤程度。我听说，木板房之间的台阶同时也是集合点名的地点，点名时，从下面向上面的集中营尽头望去，看到的是一排排的后背。但是，我的这一切想象都是徒劳的。我有一种可怜的、羞耻的失败感。在回去的路上，在远离山坡的地方，在一家饭店的对面，我发现了一间被用做毒气室的小房子。它被粉刷成白色，门窗用石头围砌起来。它看上去像个粮仓，或者像个仓库，或是用人住的陋室。这个房子也不开放。我记不得了是否我当时进过里面。我没有下车，坐在车里让发动机开着，看了一会儿就开走了。
　　在回家的路上，起初我对在阿尔萨斯地区的村子里绕来绕去地去找一家饭店吃午饭有所顾忌。但是，我的顾忌并不是产生于一种真正的感受，而是产生于一种思考，一种参观一所集中营之后人们所具有的思考。我自己意识到了这点，我耸耸肩。我在福戈森的山坡旁的村子里找到了一家名为"到小花园"的饭店。从我的座位上可以看到那个平原。在那里，汉娜叫过我"小家伙"。
　　我第一次参观集中营时在里面转来转去，一直转到它关门为止。之后我坐在了位于集中营上方的纪念碑下，俯瞰下面的集中营。我的心里空虚极了，就好像我不是在外部世界，而是在内心世界寻找着直觉，而我内心又空空如也。
　　随后，天黑了下来。我无可奈何地等了一个小时，才搭上一辆小型敞篷货车，坐在了放货物的位子上，去了下一座村子。我只好放弃了当天搭车赶回家去的希望，在村子里找了一家便宜的客栈住了下来，并在其餐厅里吃了一块薄薄的煎猪排，配菜是炸薯条和豌豆。
　　我的邻桌有四个男人吵吵嚷嚷地在打牌。这时，门开了，一位矮小的老人走了进来，没有和任何人打招呼。他穿着一条短裤，拖着一条木制假腿。他在吧台要了啤酒，把背和他的大秃头对着我的邻桌。玩牌的人放下牌，把手伸向烟灰缸抓起烟头向他扔去，并击中了他。坐在吧台的那个老头用手在后脑勺扑打着，好像要防止苍蝇落上似的。店主给他端上了啤酒，没人开口说话。
　　我忍不住跳了起来冲向了邻桌："住手！"我气得手直打哆嗦。这时候，那个老头一瘸一拐地蹦了过来，笨拙地用手摆弄着他的腿，突然那条木制假腿就握在他的双手中了。他用假腿"啪"的一声敲在桌子上，上面的杯子和烟灰缸都滚动着摔到空椅子上。与此同时，他那没牙的嘴发出了尖笑，其他人也和他一起狂笑，但那是一种耍酒风的狂笑，"住手！"他们一边笑一边指着我说，"住手户
　　那天夜里，房子周围狂风呼啸。我并没有感到冷，窗前的狂风怒吼、树木的嘎嘎作响以及偶尔传来的商店的关门声都没有大到让我睡不着觉的程度，但是，我心里感到越来越不安，直到我的整个身体也开始颤抖起来。我害怕，不过，不是怕发生什么坏事。我的害怕只是一种身体状态。我躺在那儿，听着狂风的呼啸。当风势减弱、风声变小时，我才感到轻松些。但是，我又害怕风势再起，我不知道第二天能否爬得起来，能否赶得回去，不知道我将如何继续我的学业，如何成家立业，生儿育女。
　　我想对汉娜的罪行既给予理解，同时也予以谴责，但是，这样做太可怕了。当我努力去理解时，我就会有一种感觉，即我觉得本来属于该谴责的罪行变得不再那么该谴责了。当我像该谴责的那样去谴责时，就没有理解的余地了。但是，在谴责她的同时我还是想理解她，不理解她就意味着对她的再次背叛。我现在还没到不行的时候。两者我都想要：理解和谴责。但是，两者都行不通。
　　第二天又是个阳光明媚的夏日。搭车很容易，我在几个小时内就到了家。我徒步穿过城里，好像我离开了很长时间，街道、房屋和那里的人都令我感到陌生。但是，我对陌生的集中营世界却没有因此而更熟悉。我在斯特鲁特俱夫所得到的印象与我头脑中固有的奥斯威辛、比肯瑙和贝尔根一贝尔森的极少的情景交织混合在一起，也与它们僵化在一起。
Part 2 Chapter 16
I DID GO to the presiding judge after all. I couldn’t make myself visit Hanna. But neither could I endure doing nothing.
Why didn’t I manage to speak to Hanna? She had left me, deceived me, was not the person I had taken her for or imagined her to be. And who had I been for her? The little reader she used, the little bedmate with whom she’d had her fun? Would she have sent me to the gas chamber if she hadn’t been able to leave me, but wanted to get rid of me?
Why did I find it unendurable to do nothing? I told myself I had to prevent a miscarriage of justice. I had to make sure justice was done, despite Hanna’s lifelong lie, justice both for and against Hanna, so to speak. But I wasn’t really concerned with justice. I couldn’t leave Hanna the way she was, or wanted to be. I had to meddle with her, have some kind of influence and effect on her, if not directly then indirectly.
The judge knew about our seminar group and was happy to invite me to come and talk after a session in court. I knocked, was invited in, greeted, and offered the chair in front of his desk. He was sitting in his shirtsleeves behind it. His robe hung over the back and arms of his chair; he had sat down in the robe and then slipped out of it. He seemed relaxed, a man who had finished his day’s work and was content. Without the irritated expression he hid behind during the trial, he had a nice, intelligent, harmless civil servant’s face.
He made general easy chitchat, asking me about this and that: what our seminar group thought of the trial, what our professor intended to do with the trial record, which semester we were in, which semester I was in, why I was studying law and when I planned to take my exams. He told me I must be sure to register for the exams on time.
I answered all his questions. Then I listened while he talked about his studies and his exams. He had done everything the right way. He had taken the right classes and seminars at the right time and had passed his final exams with the right degree of success. He liked being a lawyer and a judge, and if he had to do it all again he would do it the same way.
The window was open. In the parking lot, doors were being slammed and engines turned on. I listened to the cars until their noise was swallowed up in the roar of the traffic. Then children came to play and yell in the emptied parking lot. Sometimes a word came through quite clearly: a name, an insult, a call.
The judge stood up and said goodbye. He told me I could come again if I had any other questions, or if I wanted advice on my studies. And he would like to know our seminar group’s evaluation and analysis of the trial.
I walked through the empty parking lot. One of the bigger boys told me how I could walk to the railroad station. Our car pool had driven back right after the session, and I had to take the train. It was a slow rush-hour train that stopped at every station; people got on and off. I sat at the window, surrounded by ever-changing passengers, conversations, smells. Outside, houses passed by, and roads, cars, trees, distant mountains, castles, and quarries. I took it all in and felt nothing. I was no longer upset at having been left, deceived, and used by Hanna. I no longer had to meddle with her. I felt the numbness with which I had followed the horrors of the trial settling over the emotions and thoughts
　　我到底还是去找了审判长。去找汉娜我做不到，但是，袖手旁观什么都不做，我也做不到。
　　与汉娜谈一谈为什么我做不到呢？她离我而去，她欺骗了我，她不是那个我了解的汉娜，或令我为之想入非非的汉娜，而我对她来说又是何许人呢？一个被她利用的小朗读者？一个陪她睡觉，使她获得床第之欢的小家伙？如果无法离开我，但又想摆脱我时，她也会把我送进毒气室吗？
　　那么，为什么我连袖手旁观也做不到呢？我心想，我一定要阻止一场错误的判决。我一定要主持公道，一种不计较汉娜的生活谎言的绝对公道，它或许对汉娜有利，也可能对她不利，但是，对我来说，这的确不是公道不公道的问题。我不能让汉娜想怎样就怎样，想怎么说就怎么说。我必须要对她施加影响，如果不能直接地，就间接地。
　　审判长知道我们这个小组，愿意在下次开庭后与我谈一次。我敲了敲门，然后被请了进去。他问候我之后请我坐在写字台前面的一把椅子上。他只穿了个衬衫，坐在写字台的后面。他的法官长袍挂在椅背和椅子的扶手上。他朝长袍坐下去，然后又让长袍滑落在地上。他看上去很轻松，像一个完成了当天的工作并对此感到很满意的人。脸上没有在法庭审理期间那种烦躁易怒的表情，取而代之的是一副和蔼可亲、充满智慧、心地善良的政府官员的面部表情，原来他在法庭上用假面具把自己掩饰了起来。他无拘无束地与我聊天，向我问这问那，譬如，我们这个小组对法庭审理程序是怎样想的，我们的教授对法庭备忘录将如何处理，我们是几年级的学生，我上了几个学期了，我为什么要学法律，我想何时参加考试等等。还说，报名参加考试无论如何不应该太晚。
　　我回答了所有的问题。之后我听他给我讲述了他的学习和考试的情况。他把一切都做得很好，他及时地以优异的成绩修满了各科学分，最后又及时地参加了毕业考试。他喜欢做法学家和法官，如果让他重新做一遍的话，他仍旧会如此去做。
　　窗户敞开着，我听得见停车场上的关门声和一辆车发动马达的声音。我听着那辆车开出去，直到它的声音被喧嚣的交通淹没为止。之后，我听得见孩子们在空旷的停车场上的玩耍吵闹声，时而非常清楚地听得见一个名字、一句骂人话或一声喊叫。
　　审判长站起来与我告别，他说如果我还有什么问题尽管再来找他，如果需要学业上的咨询也可找他。还说我们小组对审判程序的分析评估结果应该让他知道。
　　我向空旷的停车场走去，请一个稍大一点的男孩告诉我去火车站的路怎么走。我们一起乘车的那伙人在休庭之后马上就赶了回去，我只好坐火车回去。这是一辆慢行的班车，每站都停，人们上上下下。我靠窗坐着，被其他旅客的谈笑声和他们身上所发出的气味所环绕。外面的一座座房子、一条条街道、一辆辆汽车、一棵棵树木从窗外掠过，远处看得见山脉、城堡和采石场。我能看见一切，但对什么都毫无感觉。我不再为汉娜的弃我而去、为她对我的欺骗和利用感到伤心，我不必再对她施加什么影响了。在参加法庭的审理的过程中，对那些骇人听闻的事情我感到麻木木仁。现在我注意到，这种麻木不仁在过去的几周里对我的感觉和思想产生了影响。如果说我完全解脱了的话，那么未免有些言过其词了，但是我认为这样做是对的，这样才有可能让我重新回到我的日常生活中去，并在这种生活中继续生活下去。
Part 2 Chapter 17
T HE VERDICT was handed down at the end of June. Hanna was sentenced to life. The others received terms in jail.
The courtroom was as full as it had been at the beginning of the trial. People from the justice system, students from my university and the local one, a class of schoolchildren, domestic and foreign journalists, and the people who always find their way into courtrooms. It was loud. At first, no one noticed when the defendants were brought in. But then the spectators fell silent. The first to stop talking were those sitting up front near the defendants. They nudged their neighbors and turned around to those sitting behind them. “Look,” they whispered, and those who looked fell silent too and nudged their neighbors and turned to those sitting behind them and whispered, “Look!” Until eventually the whole courtroom was silent.
I don’t know if Hanna knew how she looked, or maybe she wanted to look like that. She was wearing a black suit and a white blouse, and the cut of the suit and the tie that went with the blouse made her look as if she were in uniform. I have never seen the uniform of the women who worked for the SS. But I believed, and the spectators all believed, that before us we were seeing that uniform, and the woman who had worked for the SS in it, and all the crimes Hanna was accused of doing.
The spectators began to whisper again. Many were audibly outraged. They felt that Hanna was ridiculing the trial, the verdict, and themselves, they who had come to hear the verdict read out. They became more vociferous, and some of them began calling out what they thought of Hanna. But then the court entered the courtroom and after an irritated glance at Hanna, the judge announced the verdict. Hanna listened standing up, straight-backed, and absolutely motionless. She sat down during the reading of the reasons for the verdict. I did not take my eyes off her head and neck.
The entire verdict took several hours to read. When the trial was over and the defendants were being led away, I waited to see whether Hanna would look at me. I was sitting in the same place I always sat. But she looked straight ahead and through everything. A proud, wounded, lost, and infinitely tired look. A look that wished to see nothing and no one.
　　六月底，宣布了审判结果。汉娜被判处终身监禁，其他人被判处有期徒刑。
　　法院大厅里像审判之初一样座无虚席，其中有司法部门的工作人员、我所在大学及当地大学的学生们、一组中学生、国内外的记者和那些平时总是在场的人。大厅里喧嚣不止。当被告被传叫送来时，起初没有人注意她们，但是随后大厅就变得鸦雀无声了。首先是在被告前就座的听众安静了下来。他们碰碰左右的邻居，然后转过身来对坐在后面的人低声地说道："注意看片于是后面的人开始向前看，并安静下来。他们再碰碰左右邻居，然后转向他们身后的男人低声说："注意看！。这样，审判大厅终于变得鸦雀无声了。
　　我不知道是否汉娜自己也清楚她看上去是什么样子，也许她愿意看上去就是这个样子。她穿了一套黑色套装，配一件白衬衫。那套装的式样和衬衫的领带使她看上去就好像穿了一套制服。我从未见过为纳粹党卫军工作的女人们所穿的制服，但是我认为——所有其他的听众也都这样认为，我们眼前的这个制服就是纳粹党卫军的女式制服，这个女人就是穿着这样的制服为纳粹党卫军工作的，汉娜的所作所为就是她被控告的原因。
　　听众又开始小声嘀咕起来。很多人发出的愤怒的声音都可以听得到。他们认为审判过程、判决还有那些为听宣读判决结果而来的人都被汉娜嘲弄了。他们的声音越来越大，少数人向汉娜又喊又叫，清楚地说出他们认为汉娜是什么东西，直到审判人员步人大厅，审判长愤怒地看着汉娜宣布判决结果时人们才安静下来。汉娜笔直地站着，一动不动地听着。当宣读判决原因时，她坐了下来。我的目光一直没有离开汉娜的头和后颈。
　　宣判持续了好几个小时。当宣判结束后被告被带走时，我在等着，看汉娜是否会看我一眼。我坐在老位子上。但是，她目不斜视，看穿了一切。那是一种高傲的、受到伤害的、绝望的、无限疲惫的目光，一种任何人、任何东西都不想看的目光。
Part 3 Chapter 1
I SPENT THE summer after the trial in the reading room of the university library. I arrived as the reading room opened and left when it closed. On weekends I studied at home. I studied so uninterruptedly, so obsessively, that the feelings and thoughts that had been deadened by the trial remained deadened. I avoided contacts. I moved away from home and rented a room. I brushed off the few acquaintances who spoke to me in the reading room or on my occasional visits to the movies.
The winter semester I was much the same way. Nonetheless, I was asked if I would like to spend the Christmas vacation with a group of students at a ski lodge. Surprised, I accepted.
I wasn’t a good skier, but I liked to ski and was fast and kept up with the good ones. Sometimes when I was on slopes that were beyond my ability, I risked falls and broken bones. I did this consciously. The other risk I was taking, and to which I succumbed, was one to which I was oblivious.
I was never cold. While the others skied in sweaters and jackets, I skied in a shirt. The others shook their heads and teased me about it, but I didn’t take their worries seriously. I simply didn’t feel cold. When I began to cough, I blamed it on the Austrian cigarettes. When I started to feel feverish, I enjoyed it. I felt weak and light at the same time, and all my senses were pleasingly muffled, cottony, padded. I floated.
Then I came down with a high fever and was taken to the hospital. By the time I left, the numbness was gone. All the questions and fears, accusations and self-accusations, all the horror and pain that had erupted during the trial and been immediately deadened were back, and back for good. I don’t know what the doctors diagnose when someone isn’t freezing even though he should be freezing. My own diagnosis is that the numbness had to overwhelm my body before it would let go of me, before I could let go of it.
When I had finished my studies and began my training, it was the summer of the student upheavals. I was interested in history and sociology, and while clerking with a judge I was still in the university often enough to know what was going on. Knowing what was going on did not mean taking part—university and university reforms were no more interesting to me than the Vietcong and the Americans. As for the third and real theme of the student movement, coming to grips with the Nazi past, I felt so removed from the other students that I had no desire to agitate and demonstrate with them.
Sometimes I think that dealing with the Nazi past was not the reason for the generational conflict that drove the student movement, but merely the form it took. Parental expectations, from which every generation must free itself, were nullified by the fact that these parents had failed to measure up during the Third Reich, or after it ended. How could those who had committed Nazi crimes or watched them happen or looked away while they were happening or tolerated the criminals among them after 1945 or even accepted them—how could they have anything to say to their children? But on the other hand, the Nazi past was an issue even for children who couldn’t accuse their parents of anything, or didn’t want to. For them, coming to grips with the Nazi past was not merely the form taken by a generational conflict, it was the issue itself.
Whatever validity the concept of collective guilt may or may not have, morally and legally—for my generation of students it was a lived reality. It did not just apply to what had happened in the Third Reich. The fact that Jewish gravestones were being defaced with swastikas, that so many old Nazis had made careers in the courts, the administration, and the universities, that the Federal Republic did not recognize the State of Israel for many years, that emigration and resistance were handed down as traditions less often than a life of conformity—all this filled us with shame, even when we could point at the guilty parties. Pointing at the guilty parties did not free us from shame, but at least it overcame the suffering we went through on account of it. It converted the passive suffering of shame into energy, activity, aggression. And coming to grips with our parents’ guilt took a great deal of energy.
I had no one to point at. Certainly not my parents, because I had nothing to accuse them of. The zeal for letting in the daylight, with which, as a member of the concentration camps seminar, I had condemned my father to shame, had passed, and it embarrassed me. But what other people in my social environment had done, and their guilt, were in any case a lot less bad than what Hanna had done. I had to point at Hanna. But the finger I pointed at her turned back to me. I had loved her. Not only had I loved her, I had chosen her. I tried to tell myself that I had known nothing of what she had done when I chose her. I tried to talk myself into the state of innocence in which children love their parents. But love of our parents is the only love for which we are not responsible.
And perhaps we are responsible even for the love we feel for our parents. I envied other students back then who had dissociated themselves from their parents and thus from the entire generation of perpetrators, voyeurs, and the willfully blind, accommodators and accepters, thereby overcoming perhaps not their shame, but at least their suffering because of the shame. But what gave rise to the swaggering self-righteousness I so often encountered among these students? How could one feel guilt and shame, and at the same time parade one’s self-righteousness? Was their dissociation of themselves from their parents mere rhetoric: sounds and noise that were supposed to drown out the fact that their love for their parents made them irrevocably complicit in their crimes?
These thoughts did not come until later, and even later they brought no comfort. How could it be a comfort that the pain I went through because of my love for Hanna was, in a way, the fate of my generation, a German fate, and that it was only more difficult for me to evade, more difficult for me to manage than for others. All the same, it would have been good for me back then to be able to feel I was part of my generation.
　　审判过后的那个夏天我是在大学图书馆阅览室度过的。阅览室一开门我就来，关门时我才走。周末我在家里学习。我是如此一心只读书，不闻窗外事，以至于审判给我的感觉和思想造成的麻木一直没有恢复正常。我避免与人接触，我从家里搬了出来，在外边租了一间房。仅有的几位熟人，也不过是在阅览室或偶尔在电影院相识的点头之交，现在我也不与他们点头了。
　　在冬季学期里，我的行为举止几乎没有什么改变。尽管如此，还是有人问我是否愿意和一些学生在圣诞节期间一起去滑雪。奇怪的是我竟然答应了。
　　我滑雪滑得并不好，但我喜欢滑，而且喜欢滑得很快，愿意和那些滑得特别好的人一起滑。我的下坡技术实际上还不过硬，但有时我还是冒摔交和骨折的危险从山上往下滑。然而，我冒的另一种风险——后来这个风险兑现了，我却全然不知。
　　我从未觉得冷。当其他人穿着毛衣和夹克衫滑雪时，我和穿着衬衫滑，其他人对此摇头不已，并对我进行劝告。但是，我对他们深怀忧虑的劝告不当回事，因为我没有觉得冷。当我开始咳嗽时，我把它归罪于奥地利香烟。当我开始发烧时，我反倒感觉那是一种享受。我感到虚弱，同时感觉轻飘飘的。我的感觉变得迟钝起来，但却感觉良好：惬意、充实。我好像在腾云驾雾。
　　随后，我因发高烧被送进了医院。出院时，我的麻木不仁消失不见了。一切问题、恐惧、控告、自责，所有在法庭审理期间出现而后又麻木了的惊恐和痛苦又出现了，并在我心里停留下来。我不知道当一个人该感觉冷却又感觉不出冷时，医生会对此做出什么样的诊断。我的自我诊断是：麻木不仁在它摆脱我之前或在我能摆脱它之前制服了我的肉体。
　　当我在夏季结束了学业并开始作为候补官员工作时，学生运动开始了。我对历史和社会学感兴趣，而且作为候补官员我还有足够的时间呆在大学里去经历所发生的一切。经历并不意味着参与，高校和高校改革对我来说归根结底就像越南的游击队和美国人一样无所谓。至于学生运动的第三个主题——实际上也是最基本的主题，即如何对待纳粹历史的问题，我感到自己与其他学生之间存在着非常大的距离，以至于我不愿意和他们一起宣传鼓动和一起游行。
　　有时我想，就纳粹历史进行辩论并不是学生运动的理由，而是两代人之间的冲突的表达方式，这种冲突显然是这场学生运动的推动力量。父辈在第三帝国，或者至少在第三帝国结束以后没有做他们应该做的事，这让年轻一辈感到失望。每一代年轻人都要从对父辈的这种失望中解脱出来。那些或犯下了纳粹罪行，或对纳粹罪行袖手旁观，或对之视而不见，或在一九四五年之后容忍和接受罪犯的父辈该对他们的孩子们说什么呢！但是另一方面，纳粹历史对那些无法或不愿意谴责父辈的孩子也是一个值得讨论的问题。对他们来说，就纳粹历史进行的这场辩论并不是两代人之间的冲突的外部表现形式，而是问题的症结所在。
　　不论集体犯罪在道德和法律方面应承担什么责任，对我们这一代学生来说它都是一个确凿事实。不仅仅在第三帝国所发生的事是这样的事实，就是后来发生的事，诸如犹太人的墓碑被涂上纳粹标志；许多老纳粹分子在法院，在管理部门或在大学里步步高升；联邦德国不承认以色列国；流亡和抵抗的故事流传开来的少，而由于适应变化了的情况而活命的故事居多……所有这些都使我们感到羞耻，尽管我们有权对负有责任的人进行指责。虽然对负有责任的人指责并不能使我们摆脱羞耻之心，但它却能消除由此产生的痛苦，它可以把由羞耻引起的被动痛苦转换为力量、积极性和进攻行为。正因为如此，与负有罪责的父辈较量起来显得劲头十足。
　　我不能对任何人进行指责。我不能指责我父母，因为我对他们没有什么可指责的。当年参加集中营研讨班时所具有的那种为澄清事实而指责自己父亲的热情，对我来说已成为过去，并令我难堪。我周围的其他人的所作所为，即他们所犯的罪行，与汉娜的所作所为比起来都算不了什么了。实际上，我必须指责汉娜，但是，指责汉娜的结果是搬起石头砸自己的脚。我爱过她，我不仅爱过她，我还选择了她。我极力这样自我安慰：当我选择汉娜时，我对她过去的所作所为一无所知。我努力使我自己认为自己无罪，说自己当时所处的状态与孩子爱父母的状态没有两样。但是，对父母的爱是谁一不需要人们承担责任的爱。
　　也许人们甚至也要为爱父母承担责任。当时，我很羡慕那些与他们的父母，同时与整个一代罪犯——旁观者、逃避者、容忍着和接受者划清界限的同学，因为，他们至少可以解除由耻辱产生的痛苦，如果不能解除耻辱本身的话，但是，我经常在他们身上见到的那种自我炫耀式的自负是从何而来的呢？怎样能够在感到有罪和耻辱的同时又自负他自我炫耀呢？难道与父母划清界限仅仅是一种雄辩和吵吵嚷嚷吗？难道想通过这种吵吵嚷嚷宣告：出于爱父母之心而纠缠其罪责的运动已经开始且无法挽回？
　　这些都是我后来的想法，即使到后来这对我也并不是一种安慰。它怎么能是一种安慰？我爱汉娜的痛苦在一定程度上是我们这代人的命运，是德国人的命运。我比其他人更难摆脱这种命运，比其他人更不容易战胜这种命运。尽管如此，如果当时我能把自己融入同代人之中的话，那会对当时的我深有益处的。
Part 3 Chapter 2
I MARRIED WHILE I was still clerking. Gertrud and I had met at the ski lodge, and when the others left at the end of vacation, she stayed behind until I was released from the hospital and she could take me home. She was also studying law; we studied together, passed our exams together, and began our clerking together. We got married when Gertrud got pregnant.
I did not tell her about Hanna. Who, I thought, wants to know about the other’s earlier relationships, if he or she is not the fulfillment of their promise? Gertrud was smart, efficient, and loyal, and if our life had involved running a farm with lots of farmhands and maids, lots of children, lots of work, and no time for each other, it would have been fulfilling and happy. But our life was a three-room apartment in a modern building on the edge of the city, our daughter Julia and Gertrud’s and my work as legal clerks. I could never stop comparing the way it was with Gertrud and the way it had been with Hanna; again and again, Gertrud and I would hold each other, and I would feel that something was wrong, that she was wrong, that she moved wrong and felt wrong, smelled wrong and tasted wrong. I thought I would get over it. I hoped it would go away. I wanted to be free of Hanna. But I never got over the feeling that something was wrong.
We got divorced when Julia was five. Neither of us could keep things going; we parted without bitterness and retained our loyalty to each other. It tormented me that we were denying Julia the sense of warmth and safety she obviously craved. When Gertrud and I were open and warm with each other, Julia swam in it like a fish in water. She was in her element. When she sensed tension between us, she ran from one to the other to assure us that we were good and she loved us. She longed for a little brother and probably would have been happy with more siblings. For a long time, she didn’t understand what divorce meant; when I came to visit, she wanted me to stay, and when she came to visit me, she wanted Gertrud to come too. When it was time to go, and she watched me from the window, and I had to get into the car under her sad gaze, it broke my heart. And I had the feeling that what we were denying her was not only her wish, but her right. We had cheated her of her rights by getting divorced, and the fact that we did it together didn’t halve the guilt.
I tried to approach my later relationships better, and to get into them more deeply. I admitted to myself that a woman had to move and feel a bit like Hanna, smell and taste a bit like her for things to be good between us. I told them about Hanna. And I told them more about myself than I had told Gertrud; they had to be able to make sense of whatever they might find disconcerting in my behavior and moods. But the women didn’t want to hear that much. I remember Helen, an American literary critic who stroked my back silently and soothingly as I talked, and continued to stroke me just as silently and soothingly after I’d stopped speaking. Gesina, a psychoanalyst, thought I needed to work through my relationship with my mother. Did it not strike me that my mother hardly appeared in my story at all? Hilke, a dentist, kept asking about the time before we met, but immediately forgot whatever I told her. So I stopped talking about it. There’s no need to talk, because the truth of what one says lies in what one does.
　　当我还是候补官员时我就结了婚。葛特茹德和我是在滑雪棚中认识的。在假期结束时，其他人都回去后，她仍旧留了下来，一直呆到我出院，然后把我送了回去。她也是学法律的，我们一起学习，一起通过考试并一起成为候补官员。当她怀孕时，我们结了婚。
　　我没有向她提起汉娜的事。我想，如果不是有义务，谁愿意听我来讲我以前与另外一个人的关系呢？葛特茹德聪明、勤奋、忠实。如果我们的生活是经营一座农庄，雇用许多男女奴工，生许多孩子，有许多活要干，没有时间给对方的话，那么我们的生活会充实幸福的。但是，一个三口之家，女儿朱丽雅和两个候补官员，即葛特茹德和我，住在市郊的一处新建楼房的三居室里，这就是我们的生活。与葛特茹德在一起时，我一直无法停止把她和我的共同生活与我和汉娜的共同生活进行比较。每当我们拥抱在一起时，我总有一种不对劲的感觉、有一种她不对劲的感觉，她接触和抚摸的地方不对，她的气味不对，滋味也不对。我想，这种感觉会消失的，我希望这种感觉会消失，我想摆脱汉娜，但是，这种不对劲的感觉从未消失过。
　　当朱丽雅五岁时，我们离了婚，因为我们两人都无法再忍受下去了。我们没有痛苦地离了婚，此后也忠诚地保持联系。令我痛苦的是我们不能给予朱丽雅安全感，她很明显地希望有这种安全感。当我和葛特茹德亲密无间、彼此之间都有好感时，朱丽雅在我们中间感到如鱼得水一样自由自在。当她注意到我们之间的紧张气氛时，就从我们的一方跑到另一方，向我们保证我们都很可爱，她爱我们。她希望有个小弟弟，也高兴能有很多兄弟姐妹。很长时间内，她没有明白离婚是怎么一回事。当我去看她时，她要我留下来。当她来看我时，要和葛特茹德一起来。每当我离开她时，她都趴着窗户往外看，当我在她伤心目光的注视下上车时，我感到心已碎。我有一种感觉，我们没有给予她的不仅仅是她的一种愿望，而是她拥有这种愿望的权利。当我们离婚时，我们就骗取了她的权利，我们共同做了这件事，但我们的罪责并没有因此减半。
　　我试图再建立一个较好的婚姻关系。我承认，我要找的女人必须要有点像汉娜，像她那样接触和抚摸，其气味和滋味都必须有点像汉娜的，只有这样，我们的共同生活才不会有不对劲的感觉。而且，我跟她们讲我和汉娜的事。我也在其他女人面前比在葛特茹德面前更多地讲述了我自己。她们应该按照自己的想法解释我在举止言谈中表现出来的令她们感到惊异的东西。但是，那些女人不想听得太多。我记得海伦，一位研究美国文学的学者，当我讲述时，她默默无声抚摸我的后背，安慰我；我停止讲述时，她同样默默无声地继续抚摸我，安慰我。葛西娜是位精神分析学家，她认为，我必须清理我与母亲的关系。她问过我是否注意到我的母亲在我的故事中几乎没有出现过？希尔克是位牙医，她翻来覆去地问我以前的事情，但是，随后就忘了我给她讲的一切。这样一来，我就又什么都不讲了，因为人们所讲的，不过是人们自己所做的，既然是事实，那就不一定非讲木可。
Part 3 Chapter 3
A S I WAS taking my second state exam, the professor who had given the concentration camps seminar died. Gertrud came across the obituary in the newspaper. The funeral was at the mountain cemetery. Did I want to go?
I didn’t. The burial was on a Thursday afternoon, and on both Thursday and Friday morning I had to take written exams. Also, the professor and I had never been particularly close. And I didn’t like funerals. And I didn’t want to be reminded of the trial.
But it was already too late. The memory had been awakened, and when I came out of the exam on Thursday, it was as if I had an appointment with the past that I couldn’t miss. I did something I never did otherwise: I took the streetcar. This in itself was an encounter with the past, like returning to a place that once was familiar but has changed its appearance. When Hanna worked for the streetcar company, there were long streetcars made up of two or three carriages, platforms at the front and back, running boards along the platforms that you could jump onto when the streetcar had pulled away from the stop, and a cord running through the cars that the conductor rang to signal departure. In summer there were streetcars with open platforms. The conductor sold, punched, and inspected tickets, called out the stations, signaled departures, kept an eye on the children who pushed their way onto the platforms, fought with passengers who jumped off and on, and denied further entry if the car was full. There were cheerful, witty, serious, grouchy, and coarse conductors, and the temperament or mood of the conductor often defined the atmosphere in the car. How stupid of me that after the failed surprise on the ride to Schwetzingen, I had been afraid to waylay Hanna and see what she was like as a conductor.
I got onto the conductor-less streetcar and rode to the mountain cemetery. It was a cold autumn day with a cloudless, hazy sky and a yellow sun that no longer gave off any heat, the kind you can look at directly without hurting your eyes. I had to search awhile before finding the grave where the funeral ceremony was being held. I walked beneath tall, bare trees, between old gravestones. Occasionally I met a cemetery gardener or an old woman with a watering can and gardening shears. It was absolutely still, and from a distance I could hear the hymn being sung at the professor’s grave.
I stopped a little way off and studied the small group of mourners. Some of them were clearly eccentrics and misfits. In the eulogies for the professor, there were hints that he himself had withdrawn from the pressures of society and thus lost contact with it, remaining a loner and thereby becoming something of an oddball himself.
I recognized a former member of the concentration camps seminar. He had taken his exams before me, had become a practicing attorney, and then opened a pub; he was dressed in a long red coat. He came to speak to me when everything was over and I was making my way to the cemetery gate. “We were in the same seminar—don’t you remember?”
“I do.” We shook hands.
“I was always at the trial on Wednesdays, and sometimes I gave you a lift.” He laughed. “You were there every day, every day and every week. Can you say why, now?” He looked at me, good-natured and ready to pounce, and I remembered that I had noticed this look even in the seminar.
“I was very interested in the trial.”
“You were very interested in the trial?” He laughed again. “The trial, or the defendant you were always staring at? The only one who was reasonably good-looking. We all used to wonder what was going on between you and her, but none of us dared ask. We were so terribly sensitive and considerate back then. Do you remember . . .” He recalled another member of the seminar, who stuttered or lisped and held forth incessantly, most of it nonsense, and to whom we listened as though his words were gold. He went on to talk about other members of the seminar, what they were like back then and what they were doing now. He talked and talked. But I knew he would get back to me eventually and ask: “So—what was going on between you and the defendant?” And I didn’t know what to answer, how to betray, confess, parry.
Then we were at the entrance to the cemetery, and he asked. A streetcar was just pulling away from the stop and I called out, “Bye,” and ran off as though I could jump onto the running board, ran alongside the streetcar beating the flat of my hand against the door, and something happened that I wouldn’t have believed possible, hadn’t even hoped for. The streetcar stopped, the door opened, and I got on.
　　当我参加第二次国家考试时，那位组织集中营问题研讨班的教授去世了。葛特茹德是在报纸的死亡讣告版上偶然看到这个消息的。葬礼在山地陵园举行。她问我是否想去参加。
　　我不想去。葬礼在星期四的下午举行，而我星期四和星期五上午都有考试。再者，那位教授和我之间的关系也不是特别近。我不喜欢参加葬礼。我不想再忆起那次审判。
　　但是，这已为时过晚，记忆已经被唤醒了。当我星期四考试归来时，就好像我必须去赴一个不允许错过的约会，一个与过去的约会。
　　我是乘坐有轨电车去的，平时我是不坐有轨电车的。这已经是与过去的一种接触了，就好像又回到了一个熟悉的地方，一个改变了面貌的地方。当汉娜在有轨电车公司上班时，有两节或三节车厢的有轨电车，车厢的两端有平台，平台旁边有踏板，如果电车已经启动，人们仍旧可以跳到踏板上，还有一条环绕整个车厢的绳子，售票员拉这根绳可以发出开车的信号。夏天的时候，有轨电车敞着平台开，售票员买票，给票打眼，查票，报站，发开车信号，照顾拥挤在平台上的孩子，训斥那些跳上跳下的乘客，当车满员时阻止再上人。有的售票员滑稽有趣，有的严肃，总绷着脸，有的粗鲁。他们的性格和心情如何往往左右着车厢里的气氛。我多么愚蠢，在那次乘车去施魏青根给汉娜一个惊喜的愿望落空之后，我就害怕把她当做售票员来等候，来经历。
　　我登上了一辆没有售票员的有轨电车去了山地陵园。那是一个较冷的秋日，天高云淡，太阳也不再温暖了，用眼睛望着它也不会被刺痛了。我用了好一会儿时间才找到了将在那里举行葬礼的墓地。我穿梭在高大无叶的树木与已有年头的墓碑之间，偶尔会遇见一位陵园的园工或一位手持浇花壶和修技剪刀的上了年纪的妇女。陵园非常安静，我从远处就听到了在那位教授的墓碑旁所唱的赞美诗。
　　我站在一边仔细地观察这小小的参加葬礼的人群。其中的一些人看上去明显地孤僻怪异。从介绍教授生平事迹和著作的悼词中可以听得出来，他自己逃避了社会的约束，从而脱离了与社会的联系，他一直保持着自己的独立性，变得孤僻起来。
　　我认出了当年参加研讨班的一位同学，他参加国家考试比我早，先当上了律师，后来又成了一家小酒店的老板。他是穿着一件红色的长大衣来的。葬礼结束后，当我往回向陵园的大门走去时，他走过来与我打招呼："我们一起参加了研讨班，你不记得了吗？"
　　"记得。"我们握了手。
　　"我总是在周三去法庭，有时我开车带你去，"他笑着说，"你每天都在场，每天，每周都在。现在你说说为什么？"他同情地、期待地望着我。这使我想起，他的这种目光在研讨班时我就注意到了。
　　"我对法庭审理特别感兴趣。"
　　"你对法庭审理特别感兴趣？"他又笑了，"是对法庭还是对那位你总是目不转睛地盯着的被告人？就是看上去还蛮不错的那位？我们大家心里都在嘀咕，你与她是什么关系，但是没人敢问你。我们当时非常富有同情心，善解人意。你还记得……"他提起了另外一位参加研讨班的同学，这位同学口吃，说话咬舌头，话很多且不着边际，我们还得洗耳恭听，好像他的话句句是金石之言。他开始谈起其他参加研讨班的同学，讲他们当时如何，现在又做什么。他滔滔不绝地讲个没完，但是，我知道他最终还会再问我："怎么样，你现在和那位被告的情况如何？"我不知道我该如何回答，如何否认，如何承认和如何回避。
　　这时候我们到了陵园的大门口，他真的问了我这个问题。车站刚好有一辆有轨电车在徐徐开动。我说了声"再见"，撒腿就跑，好像我能跳到踏板上一样，我挨着车身边跑边用手拍打着车门。我根本不敢相信，也没抱任何希望的事发生了：那辆车又停了下来，门开了，我上了车。
Part 3 Chapter 4
A FTER MY state exam, I had to decide on a profession within the law. I gave myself a little time; Gertrud, who immediately began working in the judiciary, had her hands full, and we were happy that I could remain at home and take care of Julia. Once Gertrud had got over all the difficulties of getting started and Julia was in kindergarten, I had to make a decision.
I had a hard time of it. I didn’t see myself in any of the roles I had seen lawyers play at Hanna’s trial. Prosecution seemed to me as grotesque a simplification as defense, and judging was the most grotesque oversimplification of all. Nor could I see myself as an administrative official; I had worked at a local government office during my training, and found its rooms, corridors, smells, and employees gray, sterile, and dreary.
That did not leave many legal careers, and I don’t know what I would have done if a professor of legal history had not offered me a research job. Gertrud said it was an evasion, an escape from the challenges and responsibilities of life, and she was right. I escaped and was relieved that I could do so. After all, it wasn’t forever, I told both her and myself; I was young enough to enter any solid branch of the legal profession after a few years of legal history. But it was forever; the first escape was followed by a second, when I moved from the university to a research institution, seeking and finding a niche in which I could pursue my interest in legal history, in which I needed no one and disturbed no one.
Now escape involves not just running away, but arriving somewhere. And the past I arrived in as a legal historian was no less alive than the present. It is also not true, as outsiders might assume, that one can merely observe the richness of life in the past, whereas one can participate in the present. Doing history means building bridges between the past and the present, observing both banks of the river, taking an active part on both sides. One of my areas of research was law in the Third Reich, and here it is particularly obvious how the past and present come together in a single reality. Here, escape is not a preoccupation with the past, but a determined focus on the present and the future that is blind to the legacy of the past which brands us and with which we must live.
In saying this, I do not mean to conceal how gratifying it was to plunge into different stretches of the past that were not so urgently connected to the present. I felt it for the first time when I was working on the legal codes and drafts of the Enlightenment. They were based on the belief that a good order is intrinsic to the world, and that therefore the world can be brought into good order. To see how legal provisions were created paragraph by paragraph out of this belief as solemn guardians of this good order, and worked into laws that strove for beauty and by their very beauty for truth, made me happy. For a long time I believed that there was progress in the history of law, a development towards greater beauty and truth, rationality and humanity, despite terrible setbacks and retreats. Once it became clear to me that this belief was a chimera, I began playing with a different image of the course of legal history. In this one it still has a purpose, but the goal it finally attains, after countless disruptions, confusions, and delusions, is the beginning, its own original starting point, which once reached must be set off from again.
I reread the Odyssey at that time, which I had first read in school and remembered as the story of a homecoming. But it is not the story of a homecoming. How could the Greeks, who knew that one never enters the same river twice, believe in homecoming? Odysseus does not return home to stay, but to set off again. The Odyssey is the story of motion both purposeful and purposeless, successful and futile. What else is the history of law?
　　做完候补官员之后，我必须要选择一门职业，但我没有马上做出选择。葛特茹德马上就当上了法官。她手头上要做的事堆积如山，而我能呆在家里照看朱丽雅，这令我们感到高兴。当葛特茹德克服了最初的困难、朱丽雅又入了幼儿园后，我的决定就迫在眉睫了。
　　我很难做出决定。在对汉娜的法庭审判中我所看到的种种法律角色，看不出有适合我的。对我来说，诉讼与辩护同样都被滑稽地简单化了，而判决又是所有简单化中最滑稽的。我认为，我也不适合在管理部门做政府官员。我作为候补官员在州政府工作过，我发现它的办公室、走廊、气味和公务员都很苍白、无味、单调。
　　这样一来可供选择的法律职业也就所剩无几了。我真不知道我会做什么，如果不是一位法学史教授给我提供了在他手下工作的机会的话。葛特茹德说，我的选择是一种逃避，是对生活的挑战和责任的逃避。她说得有道理，我是逃避了，逃避使我感到轻松。我的这个选择不是永久性的，我对她，也对自己这样说。我还年轻，教几年法学史之后，仍旧能找到各种实惠的法律职业，但是，这却成了我的永久性的选择。随着第一次逃避而来的是第二次逃避，也就是说，我从大学换到一家研究机构，我在那儿寻找并发现了一个我可以从事我喜欢的法学史研究的避风港。在那儿，我不需要任何人，也不打搅任何人。
　　结果我不但没有逃避掉，反而与过去更接近了。作为法学史家，我所接触的过去，其生动性并不逊色于现实生活。局外人可能会认为，人们对过去只能观察，而对现实才能参与，但事实并非如此。从事历史研究意味着在过去与现实之间架起桥梁，在历史与现实两方面进行观察，活跃于二者之间。我所研究的领域之一是第三帝国法，在这里，过去与现实如何在现实生活中难解难分，特别显而易见。在这里，人们逃避的不是过去，而正是现实和将来，人们没有把注意力坚定地集中在现实和将来上。人们对历史遗产茫然无知，不知我们深深地打上了历史的烙印，我们生活在历史中。
　　我沉浸在历史中时能够得到一种满足感。虽然它对现实并没有什么意义，我还是不想隐瞒它。我第一次产生这种满足感是在我研究启蒙教育法和启蒙教育法律草案的时候。之所以要制定这些法律是因为人们相信，从此以后世界有了好秩序，从此世界会变得更好。看到从这种信念中制定出维护良好秩序的条文，看到这些条文又变成了美好的法律，而它们又将以自身的美来证明它们的真，我感到幸福。很久以来我就坚信，尽管出现了可怕的倒退和挫折，但法律会越来越进步，会变得越来越美，越来越真，越来越理智，越来越人道。自从我发现我的这种信念不过是幻想而已后，我的法律演进现变得完全另一样。这个演进虽有目的地，但它经过种种震动、困惑和失去理智后到达的这个目的地，正是通向另一个目的地的起点，但在尚未到达这个新目的地时，又不得不重新开始。
　　我当时又重读了《奥德赛》。我在中学时就读过这本书，在我的记忆中，它讲的是一个返乡者的故事。但是，它讲的并不是一个返乡者的故事。相信一个人不可能再次过同一条河的希腊人怎么能相信返乡之事呢？奥德修斯回来不是为了留下，而是为了重新出发。《奥德赛》是一部运动史，这个运动是有目的的，同时又无目的，是成功的，同时又是徒劳的。法律的历史与此有什么区别呢？
Part 3 Chapter 5
I BEGAN WITH the Odyssey. I read it after Gertrud and I had separated. There were many nights when I couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours; I would lie awake, and when I switched on the light and picked up a book, my eyes closed, and when I put the book down and turned off the light, I was wide awake again. So I read aloud, and my eyes didn’t close. And because in all my confused half-waking thoughts that swirled in tormenting circles of memories and dreams around my marriage and my daughter and my life, it was always Hanna who predominated, I read to Hanna. I read to Hanna on tape.
It was several months before I sent off the tapes. At first I didn’t want to send just bits of it, so I waited until I had recorded all of the Odyssey. Then I began to wonder if Hanna would find the Odyssey sufficiently interesting, so I recorded what I read next after the Odyssey, stories by Schnitzler and Chekhov. Then I put off calling the court that had convicted Hanna to find out where she was serving her sentence. Finally I had everything together, Hanna’s address in a prison near the city where she had been tried and convicted, a cassette player, and the cassettes, numbered from Chekhov to Schnitzler to Homer. And so finally I sent off the package with the machine and the tapes.
Recently I found the notebook in which I entered what I recorded for Hanna over the years. The first twelve titles were obviously all entered at the same time; at first I probably just read, and then realized that if I didn’t keep notes I would not remember what I had already recorded. Next to the subsequent titles there is sometimes a date, sometimes none, but even without dates I know that I sent Hanna the first package in the eighth year of her imprisonment, and the last in the eighteenth. In the eighteenth, her plea for clemency was granted.
In general I read to Hanna the things I wanted to read myself at any given moment. With the Odyssey, I found at first that it was hard to take in as much when I read aloud as when I read silently to myself. But that changed. The disadvantage of reading aloud remained the fact that it took longer. But books read aloud also stayed long in my memory. Even today, I can remember things in them absolutely clearly.
But I also read books I already knew and loved. So Hanna got to hear a great deal of Keller and Fontane, Heine and M?rike. For a long time I didn’t dare to read poetry, but eventually I really enjoyed it, and I learned many of the poems I read by heart. I can still say them today.
Taken together, the titles in the notebook testify to a great and fundamental confidence in bourgeois culture. I do not ever remember asking myself whether I should go beyond Kafka, Frisch, Johnson, Bachmann, and Lenz, and read experimental literature, literature in which I did not recognize the story or like any of the characters. To me it was obvious that experimental literature was experimenting with the reader, and Hanna didn’t need that and neither did I.
When I began writing myself, I read these pieces aloud to her as well. I waited until I had dictated my handwritten text, and revised the typewritten version, and had the feeling that now it was finished. When I read it aloud, I could tell if the feeling was right or not. And if not, I could revise it and record a new version over the old. But I didn’t like doing that. I wanted to have my reading be the culmination. Hanna became the court before which once again I concentrated all my energies, all my creativity, all my critical imagination. After that, I could send the manuscript to the publisher.
I never made a personal remark on the tapes, never asked after Hanna, never told her anything about myself. I read out the title, the name of the author, and the text. When the text was finished, I waited a moment, closed the book, and pressed the Stop button.
　　我是从《奥德赛》开始的。我和葛特茹德分手后，我重读了它。许多夜里我只能睡上几小时，我躺在那儿睡不着。当我打开灯拿起一本书看时，眼睛就睁不开了；而当我把书放到一边、关上灯时，我却又睡不着。这样我就大声朗读，大声朗读时，我就不再打盹。当我的大脑处于杂乱无章的回忆和梦幻中时，当痛苦在我脑中盘旋时，当我在似睡非睡的状态中对我的婚姻，对我的女儿和我的生活进行反思时，汉娜总是在左右着我，我干脆就为汉娜朗读，为汉娜在录音机上朗读。
　　当我把我录制的录音带寄出去时，几个月的时间已经过去了。起初，我不想寄片段，我在等着把全部的《奥德赛》录完。之后，我又怀疑汉娜是否对《奥德赛》有足够的兴趣。于是，在录完《奥德赛》之后，我又给她录了施尼茨勒和契河夫的短篇小说。然后，我硬着头皮给审判汉娜的法庭打了电话，打听出了汉娜在什么地方服刑。最后，我把一切都准备好了：汉娜服刑监狱的地址——它离审判和判处汉娜的城市不远，一台录音机和按照契河天——施尼茨勒——荷马这个顺序录制的录音带。最后，我把录音机和录音带一同打进邮包，寄给了汉娜了
　　最近，我找到了一个本子，上面记有那些年我为汉娜录过的东西。最早的十二个篇目很显然是同时做的记录。起初，我大概只是往下读，后来才注意到没有记录就记不住已经读过什么了。在后来的篇目中，有时注明了日期，有时没有注明，但是，即使是没有日期，我也知道第一次给汉娜寄录音带是她服刑的第八年，最后一次是第十八年。在第十八年的时候，她的赦免申请被批准。
　　我继续为汉娜朗读，读我自己也正想看的书。在录制《奥德赛》时我注意到，大声朗读不像自己轻声阅读那样容易让我集中精力，后来有所好转。朗读的缺点是它持续的时间较长，但是，正因为如此它才使朗读者把内容深深地铭刻在脑子里。至今我对一些内容仍记忆犹新。
　　我也朗读我已经熟悉和喜爱的作品。这样汉娜能听到很多凯勒、冯塔纳、海涅和默里克的作品。很长时间里，我不敢朗读诗歌，但是后来，我却乐此不疲。我可以背诵一系列我所朗读过的诗歌，时至今日仍能朗朗上口。
　　那个记录本所记载的书目，证明了受过教育的市民阶层的原始信赖。我也不记得了，是否我曾经想过不必局限于卡夫卡、弗里施、约翰逊、巴克曼和伦茨而读一些实验文学作品，也就是我既弄不清故事讲的是什么也不喜欢其中的任何人物的文学作品。我认为，实验文学自然是要拿读者做实验，汉娜和我都不需要这个。
　　当我自己开始写作时，我也把我写的东西拿来为她朗读。我要等我的手稿口授之后，打字稿也修改过以后，而且有了一种完全做好了的感觉之后才朗读。在朗读时，我能发现我的感觉正确与否。如果不正确，我可以重新再来，把！目的去掉，重新录制。但是．我不喜欢这样做，我想用朗读来划个圆满句号。我把我的一切力量。一切创造力和富于批判的想象力再次为汉娜调动起来。这之后，我才把手稿寄给出版社。
　　在录音中，我没做个人的评论，没有问起过汉娜的情况，没有讲述过我自己的情况。我只朗读书名、作者名和书的内容。当内容结束对，我稍等一会儿，合上书，按下录音机的停止键。
Part 3 Chapter 6
I N THE FOURTH year of our word-driven, wordless contact, a note arrived. “Kid, the last story was especially nice. Thank you. Hanna.”
It was lined paper, torn out of a notebook, and cut smooth. The message was right up at the top, and filled three lines. It was written in blue smudged ballpoint pen. Hanna had been pressing hard on the pen; the letters went through to the other side. She had also written the address with a great deal of pressure; the imprint was legible on the bottom and top halves of the paper, which was folded in the middle.
At first glance, one might have taken it for a child’s handwriting. But what is clumsy and awkward in children’s handwriting was forceful here. You could see the resistance Hanna had had to overcome to make the lines into letters and the letters into words. A child’s hand will wander off this way and that, and has to be kept on track. Hanna’s hand didn’t want to go anywhere and had to be forced. The lines that formed the letters started again each time on the upstroke, the downstroke, and before the curves and loops. And each letter was a victory over a fresh struggle, and had a new slant or slope, and often the wrong height or width.
I read the note and was filled with joy and jubilation. “She can write, she can write!” In these years I had read everything I could lay my hands on to do with illiteracy. I knew about the helplessness in everyday activities, finding one’s way or finding an address or choosing a meal in a restaurant, about how illiterates anxiously stick to prescribed patterns and familiar routines, about how much energy it takes to conceal one’s inability to read and write, energy lost to actual living. Illiteracy is dependence. By finding the courage to learn to read and write, Hanna had advanced from dependence to independence, a step towards liberation.
Then I looked at Hanna’s handwriting and saw how much energy and struggle the writing had cost her. I was proud of her. At the same time, I was sorry for her, sorry for her delayed and failed life, sorry for the delays and failures of life in general. I thought that if the right time gets missed, if one has refused or been refused something for too long, it’s too late, even if it is finally tackled with energy and received with joy. Or is there no such thing as “too late”? Is there only “late,” and is “late” always better than “never”? I don’t know.
After the first note came a steady stream of others. They were always only a few lines, a thank you, a wish to hear more of a particular author or to hear no more, a comment on an author or a poem or a story or a character in a novel, an observation about prison. “The forsythia is already in flower in the yard” or “I like the fact that there have been so many storms this summer” or “From my window I can see the birds flocking to fly south”—often it was Hanna’s note that first made me pay attention to the forsythia, the summer storms, or the flocks of birds. Her remarks about literature often landed astonishingly on the mark. “Schnitzler barks, Stefan Zweig is a dead dog” or “Keller needs a woman” or “Goethe’s poems are like tiny paintings in beautiful frames” or “Lenz must write on a typewriter.” Because she knew nothing about the authors, she assumed they were contemporaries, unless something indicated this was obviously impossible. I was astonished at how much older literature can actually be read as if it were contemporary; to anyone ignorant of history, it would be easy to see ways of life in earlier times simply as ways of life in foreign countries.
I never wrote to Hanna. But I kept reading to her. When I spent a year in America, I sent cassettes from there. When I was on vacation or was particularly busy, it might take longer for me to finish the next cassette; I never established a definite rhythm, but sent cassettes sometimes every week or two weeks, and sometimes only every three or four weeks. I didn’t worry that Hanna might not need my cassettes now that she had learned to read by herself. She could read as well. Reading aloud was my way of speaking to her, with her.
I kept all her notes. The handwriting changed. At first she forced the letters into the same slant and the right height and width. Once she had managed that, she became lighter and more confident. Her handwriting never became fluid, but it acquired something of the severe beauty that characterizes the writing of old people who have written little in their lives.
　　当我们的这种时而喋喋不休，时而无话可说的交流进行到第四个年头的时候，她寄来了一份问候："小家伙，上一个故事特别好。谢谢。汉娜。"
　　纸是带横线的，是从写字本上撕下来并剪得整齐的一页。问候写在最上边，占了三行，是用蓝色的圆珠笔写的。汉娜写的字用力很重，都印透到纸的背面了。地址也是用力写的。这个从中间折叠起来的纸条，上下都可看出字印。
　　第一眼看上去人们可能会认为这是一个孩子的字体，但是孩子的字体尽管不熟练，不流畅，却不这么用力。为了把直线变成字母，再把字母变成文字，汉娜要克服种种阻力。孩子的手可以挪来挪去，随着字体而变化。汉娜的手不知向什么方向移动，但又必须移动。写一个字母要下好几次笔，上划下一次笔，下划下一次笔，弧线下一次笔，延长线再下一次笔。每个字母都要付出新的努力，结果还是里出外进，高低不一。
　　我读着她的问候，心里充满了欢喜："她会写字了！她会写字了！"那些年里，能找到的有关文盲的文章我都读过了。我知道他们在日常生活中，如在找路，找地址或在饭店点菜时多么需要帮助，在按照约定俗成的规矩和传统的习惯做法行事时多么提心吊胆，在掩饰自己不具备读写能力时多么煞费苦心，他们因此而不能正常生活。文盲等于不成熟。汉娜鼓起勇气去学习读写，这标志着她已经从未成年向成年迈出了一步，脱离蒙昧的一步。
　　然后，我仔细观察汉娜的字，我看到了她为此付出了多少劳动，我为她感到自豪。与此同时，我又为她感到伤心，为来迟和错过的生活而感到伤心，为生活的迟来和错过而感到伤心。我在想，如果一个人错过了最佳的时间，如果一个人长期拒绝某事，如果一个人过久地被某事所拒绝，即使最终他开始花力气去做并乐此不疲，那么也为时太晚了。或许不存在"太晚"的问题，而只存在"晚不晚"的问题？而且，无论如何"晚"要比"从未"好？我搞不清。
　　在接到第一封问候信之后，我就不断地收到她的来信。总是寥寥几行字，或一份谢意，或一份祝福，或想更多地听同一位作者，或不想听了，或对一位作者、一首诗、一个故事、一本小说中的人物评论几句，或在监狱里看到一件什么事。"院子里的连翘已经开花了"，或者"我希望今年夏天雷雨天多点"，或者"从窗内向外眺望，我看到鸟儿是怎样地聚集在一起飞向南方的"。常常是汉娜的描述让我注意到连翘、夏日的雷雨或聚集在一起的鸟儿。她对文学的评论经常准确很令人惊讶不已："施尼茨勒在吠叫，斯特凡茨韦格是条死狗"，或者'凯勒需要一个女人"，或者"歌德的诗就像镶嵌在漂亮框架里的一幅小画"，或者"伦茨一定是用打字机写作的"。由于她对作者们的情况一无所知，所以，只要他们不是明显地不属于同代人，她都把他们视为同代人，她的评论也都是以此为前提做出的。实际上有多少早期文学作品读起来像现代作品呢？我对此感到困惑。不了解历史的人反而更能看清历史，旁观者清嘛。
　　我从未给汉娜回过信，但是我一直在为她朗读。我曾在美国逗留了一年，这期间我就从美国寄录音带给她。当我去度假或者特别忙的时候，录好下一盒录音带的时间可能就要长些。我给她寄录音带没有固定的周期，或一周一次，或两周一次，有时也可能隔三周或四周之后才寄。现在汉娜学会了阅读，也可能不再需要我的录音带了，那我也就不那么着急了。尽管如此，她可能仍然喜欢我给她阅读。朗读是我与她交谈的一种方式。
　　我把她所有的信都保存了起来。她的字体也有所改变，起初，她努力把字母写得工整，但却很不自如，后来就轻松自信多了，但是，她的字从未达到熟练的程度，却达到了某种严谨美，看上去像是一生中很少写字的老年人所写的字。
Part 3 Chapter 7
A T THE TIME I never thought about the fact that Hanna would be released one day. The exchange of notes and cassettes was so normal and familiar, and Hanna was both close and removed in such an easy way, that I could have continued the situation indefinitely. That was comfortable and selfish, I know.
Then came the letter from the prison warden.
For years you and Frau Schmitz have corresponded with each other. This is the only contact Frau Schmitz has with the outside world, and so I am turning to you, although I do not know how close your relationship is, and whether you are a relative or a friend.
Next year Frau Schmitz will again make an appeal for clemency, and I expect the parole board to grant the appeal. She will then be released quite shortly—after eighteen years in prison. Of course we can find or try to find her an apartment and a job; a job will be difficult at her age, even though she is in excellent health and has shown great skill in our sewing shop. But rather than us taking care of her, it would be better for relatives or friends to do so, to have the released prisoner live nearby, and keep her company and give her support. You cannot imagine how lonely and helpless one can be on the outside after eighteen years in prison.
Frau Schmitz can take care of herself quite well, and manages on her own. It would be enough if you could find her a small apartment and a job, visit her, and invite her to your house occasionally during the first weeks and months and make sure she knows about the programs offered by the local congregation, adult education, family support groups, and so on.
It is not easy, after eighteen years, to go into the city for the first time, go shopping, deal with the authorities, go to a restaurant. Doing it with someone else helps.
I have noticed that you do not visit Frau Schmitz. If you did, I would not have written to you, but would have asked to talk to you during one of your visits. Now it seems as if you will have to visit her before she is released. Please come and see me at that opportunity.
The letter closed with sincere greetings which I did not think referred to me, but to the fact that the warden was sincere about the issue. I had heard of her; her institution was considered extraordinary, and her opinion on questions of penal reform carried weight. I liked her letter.
But I did not like what was coming my way. Of course I would have to see about a job and an apartment, and I did. Friends who neither used nor rented out the apartment attached to their house agreed to let it to Hanna at a low rent. The Greek tailor who occasionally altered my clothes was willing to employ Hanna; his sister, who ran the tailoring business with him, wanted to return to Greece. And long before Hanna could have used them, I looked into the social services and educational programs run by churches and secular organizations. But I put off the visit to Hanna.
Precisely because she was both close and removed in such an easy way, I didn’t want to visit her. I had the feeling she could only be what she was to me at an actual distance. I was afraid that the small, light, safe world of notes and cassettes was too artificial and too vulnerable to withstand actual closeness. How could we meet face to face without everything that had happened between us coming to the surface?
So the year passed without me going to the prison. For a long time I heard nothing from the warden; a letter in which I described the housing and job situation for Hanna went unanswered. She was probably expecting to talk to me when I visited Hanna. She had no way to know that I was not only putting off this visit, but avoiding it. Finally, however, the decision came down to pardon and release Hanna, and the warden called me. Could I come now? Hanna was getting out in a week.
　　当时，我从未想过汉娜有一天会出狱。问候信和录音带的交流是如此正常和亲密，汉娜对我如此自如，使我感到她既近在咫尺又远在天边，我完全可能让这种状态持续下去。我知道，这很舒适，很自私。
　　然而，女监狱长寄来了一封信：
　　几年以来，史密芝女士与您一直有书 信往来，这是史密芝女士与外界的谁一联系。这样，我只好求助于您，尽管我不知道您与她关系的密切程度，不知您是她的亲属，还是朋友。
　　明年史密芝女士将再次提出赦免申请，我认为，赦免委员会将会批准她的申请。在被监禁了十八年之后，她不久将要被释放。当然了，我们可以为她找房子和工作，也就是说，我们可以尽量为她找房子和工作。依她的年龄来看找工作将会比较困难，尽管她的身体仍旧很健康，尽管她在我们的缝纫厂里表现得非常出色，但是，如果亲属或朋友来操心这件事，在她出狱之后把她安排在他们附近，陪伴她，让她有个依靠，这要比我们来做好得多。您无法想象，一个人被监禁了十八年，出去之后会是多么孤独无助。
　　史密芝女士自理能力非常强。如果您能为她找到一个住处和一份工作，头几周或头几个月能常去看看她，能邀请邀请她，能让她了解教会、业余大学及家庭教育机构提供的各种机会，这就足够了。此外，十八年之后第一次进城购物，与政府部门约谈，或找一家饭店吃饭都不那么容易，有人陪伴就容易多了。
　　我注意到您没有探望过更密芝女士。
　　如果您这样做了，我也就不必给您写信了，而会是借您探望她的机会与您商谈此事。现在没有别的办法，只好请您在她出狱之前来探望她。烦请您借次机会来我这儿一起。
　　那封信以最衷心的问候结束。那问候并未让我感到那是对我的衷心问候，而是让我感到这件事是女监狱长的一桩心事。我已经听说过她，她的机构被认为是极不寻常的，她的意见在监禁法改革问题上举足轻重。我喜欢她的信。
　　但是，我不喜欢我所面临的事情。当然了，我必须要为她找房子，找工作，而且我也付诸行动了。一些朋友愿意把房子里既未使用也尚未出租的小住宅廉价出租给汉娜。我偶尔到一家希腊裁缝那里修改衣服，这位裁缝想雇用汉娜。和他一起经营这家裁缝店的是他的妹妹，她搬回希腊去了。早在汉娜出狱以前，我就开始关心教会和世俗机构所提供的社会福利和教育机会。但是，探望汉娜我却一拖再拖。
　　正因为汉娜对我如此自如，使我感到她既近在咫尺又远在天边，我才不想去探望她。我有一种感觉，她将说她与我像过去一样只能保持一种实际距离。我怕她说，那微不足道的、隐匿的问候和录音带太做作和太伤害人了，她必须因而承受近在咫尺之苦。我们怎么还能再次面对面地接触而对这期间我们之间发生的一切不感到恶心呢？
　　时间就这样过去了，我几乎就要挨到不必去监狱了。我好久没有从女监狱长那儿听到什么消息了。我曾经写过一封信，信中谈到为汉娜找房子和找工作这些汉娜将要面临的问题，但是，我没有得到答复。她大概指望借我探望汉娜之际与我谈一次。她哪里会知道，我不仅把这次探望拖延了下去，而且想逃避它。但是，赦免汉娜的决定终于批下来了，汉娜即将出狱。女监狱长给我打电话，问我现在是否能过去一下。她说，一周之内汉娜就要出来了。
Part 3 Chapter 8
I WENT THE next Sunday. It was my first visit to a prison. I was searched at the entrance, and a number of doors were unlocked and locked along the way. But the building was new and bright, and in the inner area the doors were open, allowing the women to move about freely. At the end of a corridor a door opened to the outside, onto a little lawn with lots of people and trees and benches. I looked around, searching. The guard who had brought me pointed to a nearby bench in the shade of a chestnut tree.
Hanna? The woman on the bench was Hanna? Gray hair, a face with deep furrows on brow and cheeks and around the mouth, and a heavy body. She was wearing a light blue dress that was too tight and stretched across her breasts, stomach, and thighs. Her hands lay in her lap holding a book. She wasn’t reading it. Over the top of her half-glasses, she was watching a woman throwing bread crumbs to a couple of sparrows. Then she realized that she was being watched, and turned her face to me.
I saw the expectation in her face, saw it light up with joy when she recognized me, watched her eyes scan my face as I approached, saw them seek, inquire, then look uncertain and hurt, and saw the light go out of her face. When I reached her, she smiled a friendly, weary smile. “You’ve grown up, kid.” I sat down beside her and she took my hand.
In the past, I had particularly loved her smell. She always smelled fresh, freshly washed or of fresh laundry or fresh sweat or freshly loved. Sometimes she used perfume, I don’t know which one, and its smell, too, was more fresh than anything else. Under these fresh smells was another, heavy, dark, sharp smell. Often I would sniff at her like a curious animal, starting with her throat and shoulders, which smelled freshly washed, soaking up the fresh smell of sweat between her breasts mixed in her armpits with the other smell, then finding this heavy dark smell almost pure around her waist and stomach and between her legs with a fruity tinge that excited me; I would also sniff at her legs and feet—her thighs, where the heavy smell disappeared, the hollows of her knees again with that light, fresh smell of sweat, and her feet, which smelled of soap or leather or tiredness. Her back and arms had no special smell; they smelled of nothing and yet they smelled of her, and the palms of her hands smelled of the day and of work—the ink of the tickets, the metal of the ticket puncher, onions or fish or frying fat, soapsuds or the heat of the iron. When they are freshly washed, hands betray none of this. But soap only covers the smells, and after a time they return, faint, blending into a single scent of the day and work, a scent of work and day’s end, of evening, of coming home and being at home.
I sat next to Hanna and smelled an old woman. I don’t know what makes up this smell, which I recognize from grandmothers and elderly aunts, and which hangs in the rooms and halls of old-age homes like a curse. Hanna was too young for it.
I moved closer. I had seen that I had disappointed her before, and I wanted to do better, make up for it.
“I’m glad you’re getting out.”
“You are?”
“Yes, and I’m glad you’ll be nearby.” I told her about the apartment and the job I had found for her, about the cultural and social programs available in that part of the city, about the public library. “Do you read a lot?”
“A little. Being read to is nicer.” She looked at me. “That’s over now, isn’t it?”
“Why should it be over?” But I couldn’t see myself talking into cassettes for her or meeting her to read aloud. “I was so glad and so proud of you when you learned to read. And what nice letters you wrote me!” That was true; I had admired her and been glad, because she was reading and she wrote to me. But I could feel how little my admiration and happiness were worth compared to what learning to read and write must have cost Hanna, how meager they must have been if they could not even get me to answer her, visit her, talk to her. I had granted Hanna a small niche, certainly an important niche, one from which I gained something and for which I did something, but not a place in my life.
But why should I have given her a place in my life? I reacted indignantly against my own bad conscience at the thought that I had reduced her to a niche. “Didn’t you ever think about the things that were discussed at the trial, before the trial? I mean, didn’t you ever think about them when we were together, when I was reading to you?”
“Does that bother you very much?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. “I always had the feeling that no one understood me anyway, that no one knew who I was and what made me do this or that. And you know, when no one understands you, then no one can call you to account. Not even the court could call me to account. But the dead can. They understand. They don’t even have to have been there, but if they were, they understand even better. Here in prison they were with me a lot. They came every night, whether I wanted them or not. Before the trial I could still chase them away when they wanted to come.”
She waited to see if I had anything to say, but I couldn’t think of anything. At first, I wanted to say that I wasn’t able to chase anything away. But it wasn’t true. You can chase someone away by setting them in a niche.
“Are you married?”
“I was. Gertrud and I have been divorced for many years and our daughter is at boarding school; I hope she won’t stay there for the last years of school, and will move in with me.” Now I waited to see if she would say or ask anything. But she was silent. “I’ll pick you up next week, all right?”
“All right.”
“Quietly, or can there be a little noise and hoopla?”
“Quietly.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up quietly, with no music or champagne.”
I stood up, and she stood up. We looked at each other. The bell had rung twice, and the other women had already gone inside. Once again her eyes scanned my face. I took her in my arms, but she didn’t feel right.
“Take care, kid.”
“You too.”
So we said goodbye, even before we had to separate inside.
　　在接下来的周日，我去了她那儿，那是我第一次探监。在大门口我受到了检查，在往里面走的时候，许多道门被打开又关上。但是，建筑是新的，很敞亮。在里面，房门都敞开着，女囚犯们可以自由地来来往往。在走廊的尽头有一扇大门通向外面——一块生机盎然的，长有树木，布置有长椅的小草坪。我四处张望寻找。那位给我带路的女看守指了指附近一棵栗子树阴下的一条长凳子。
　　汉娜？坐在凳子上的那个女人是汉娜吗？满头白发，满脸深深的皱纹，一副笨重的身躯。她身穿一件胸部、腰部及大腿处都绷得特别紧的浅蓝色的连衣裙，两手放在膝盖上，手里拿着一本书。她并没有看那本书，而正透过老花镜的边线在看另一位女人用面包屑一点一点地给麻雀喂食。后来，她意识到有人在注视她，她把脸转向了我。
　　当她认出我时，我看出了她期望的神情，看出她满脸喜悦的光彩。当我走近她时，她用询问的、不自信的、委屈的目光上下打量着我。我看到，她脸上的光彩逐渐消失了。当我走到她身边时，她对我友好地。疲惫地笑了笑："小家伙，你长大了。"我坐在她身边，她把我的手握在了她的手里。
　　以前，我特别喜欢她身上的气味。她闻上去总是那么清新，像刚洗过澡或刚洗过的衣服，像刚刚出过汗或刚刚做过爱。有时候，她也用香水，可我不知道是哪一种。就是她的香水闻上去也比所有其他的香水清新。在这种清新的气味下，还有另外一种气味，一种很浓重的说不清楚的酸涩味。我经常就像一只好奇的动物一样在她身上闻来闻去，从脖子和肩膀开始，闻那刚刚洗过的清新味，在她的两个乳房之间闻那清新的汗味，那汗味在腋窝处又和其他气味掺杂在一起，在腰部和腹部那种浓重的，说不上来的味道几乎是纯正的，在大腿之间还有一种令我兴奋的水果香味。我也在她的腿上和脚上闻来嗅去，到了小腿时，那种浓重味道就消失了，膝盖窝又稍微有点新出的汗味，脚上闻上去是香皂味或皮鞋味或身作疲惫不堪后的味道。后背和胳臂没有什么特别的味道，闻不出什么味道来，或者说闻上去还是她本身的味道。手上是白天工作的味道：车票的印刷墨、钳子的铁、洋葱、鱼，或者油腻、肥皂水或熨衣服的蒸气。如果她洗过了，手上起初什么味道也闻不出来。但是，只是香皂把各种味道覆盖住了罢了。过了一会儿，各种不明显的味道就又融会在一起卷土重来了：上班的，下班的，白天的，晚上的，回家的，在家的。
　　我坐在汉娜的身边，闻到的是一位老年妇女的味道。我不知道这味道是怎么形成的，这种味道我从祖母和老姨妈们那儿闻到过，或在养老院里——在那里，房间和走廊到处都是这种味道。不过，这种味道对汉娜来说未免太早了点。
　　我又往她身边靠近了些。我注意到，刚才我让她失望了。现在我想补救一下，做得更好些。
　　"你就要出来了，我很高兴。"
　　"是吗？"
　　"是的。你将住在我的附近，我感到高兴。'我告诉了她我已给她找到了房子和工作，给她讲了那个城区所具有的文化和社会生活，给她讲市图书馆的情况。"你看书看得多吗？"
　　"还可以，能听到朗读更好，"她看着我说，"现在结束了，对吧？"
　　"为什么该结束了呢？"但是，我看上去就像既没有给她录过音，又没有与她见过面和为她朗读过似的。"你学会了读书，我的确很高兴，而且很佩服你，你给我写的信多好啊！"事实的确如此。、她学会了读写，她给我写信，我对此非常高兴，也非常佩服她，但是，我也感觉到，与汉娜在读写上所付出的努力相比，我的钦佩和欣慰是多么少，少得多么可怜。她的努力竟然没能促使我哪怕给她回一封信，去探望她一次，与她聊聊。我为汉娜营造了一个小小的生存环境，一个小小的空间，它给予我一些东西，我也可以为它做些事情，但是，它在我的生活中却没有占有哪怕是一席之地。
　　但是，我为什么要在我的生活中为她留有一席之地呢？为什么让汉娜生活在这个小空间里会让我感到问心有愧？我对自己产生这种自愧心感到气愤。"在法庭审理之前，你难道从未考虑过那些在法庭上讨论的问题吗？我是说，当我们在一起时，当我给你朗读时，你从未想过这些问题吗？"
　　"你对此耿耿于怀？"但是，她并未等我回答就接着说，"我一直有种感觉，感到没有人理解我，没有人知道我是谁，我做过什么。你知道吗，如果没有人理解你，那么也就没有人有权力要求你做出解释说明，即使是法庭也无权要求我做解释说明。但是，那些死去的人却可以这样做，他们理解我，为此他们不必非得在场，但是，如果他们在的话，他们就更能理解我。在这监狱里，他们和我在一起的时候特别多，他们每天夜里都来，不管我是否想让他们来。在法庭审判之前，在他们想要来的时候，我还能把他们赶走。"
　　她在等着，看我是否想就此说点什么，但是，我却不知说什么为好。起初，我想说，我无法赶走任何东西。然而，那不符合事实，因为当一个人为另一个人营造一个小小生存环境时，他实际上就是赶他走。
　　"你结婚了吗？"
　　"我结过婚。葛特茹德和我已经离婚多年了。我们的女儿住在寄宿学校，我希望她在最后的这几年不要住在那儿了，最好搬到我这儿来往。"现在轮到我等着了，看她是否想就此说点什么，或问些什么。但是，她沉默不语。"我下周来接你，好吗？"
　　"好。
　　"是悄悄地，还是热闹一点地？"
　　"悄悄地。"
　　"好吧，我就悄悄地来接你，不放音乐，不喝香槟酒。"
　　我站了起来，她也站了起来。我们相互凝视着。已经响过两次铃了，其他女囚犯都已经进了屋。她的目光又在上下打量我的脸，我拥抱了她，但她换上去有些不对劲。
　　"小家伙，好自为之。"
　　"你也应如此。"
　　就这样，我们在不得不分手之前就告别了。
Part 3 Chapter 9
T HE FOLLOWING week was particularly busy. I don’t remember whether I was under actual pressure to finish the lecture I was working on, or only under self-inflicted pressure to work and succeed.
The idea I had had when I began working on the lecture was no good. When I began to revise it, where I expected to find meaning and consistency, I encountered one non sequitur after another. Instead of accepting this, I kept searching, harassed, obsessed, anxious, as though reality itself could fail along with my concept of it, and I was ready to twist or exaggerate or play down my own findings. I got into a state of strange disquiet; I could go to sleep if I went to bed late, but a few hours later I would be wide awake, until I decided to get up and continue reading or writing.
I also did what needed to be done to prepare for Hanna’s release. I furnished her apartment with furniture from IKEA and some old pieces, advised the Greek tailor that Hanna would be coming in, and brought my information about social services and educational programs up to date. I bought groceries, put books on the bookshelves, and hung pictures. I had a gardener come to tidy up the little garden surrounding the terrace outside the living room. I did all this with unnatural haste and doggedness; it was all too much for me.
But it was just enough to prevent me from thinking about my visit to Hanna. Only occasionally, when I was driving my car, or when I was in Hanna’s apartment, did thoughts of it get the upper hand and trigger memories. I saw her on the bench, her eyes fixed on me, saw her at the swimming pool, her face turned to me, and again had the feeling that I had betrayed her and owed her something. And again I rebelled against this feeling; I accused her, and found it both shabby and too easy, the way she had wriggled out of her guilt. Allowing no one but the dead to demand an accounting, reducing guilt and atonement to insomnia and bad feelings—where did that leave the living? But what I meant was not the living, it was me. Did I not have my own accounting to demand of her? What about me?
On the afternoon before I was due to pick her up, I called the prison. First I spoke to the warden.
“I’m a bit nervous. You know, normally people aren’t released after such long sentences before spending a few hours or days outside. Frau Schmitz refused this. It won’t be easy for her.”
Then I spoke to Hanna.
“Think about what we should do tomorrow. Whether you want to go straight home, or whether we might go to the woods or the river.”
“I’ll think about it. You’re still a big planner, aren’t you?”
That annoyed me. It annoyed me the way it did when girlfriends told me I wasn’t spontaneous enough, that I operated too much through my head and not enough through my heart.
She could tell by my silence that I was annoyed, and laughed. “Don’t be cross, kid. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I had met Hanna again on the benches as an old woman. She had looked like an old woman and smelled like an old woman. I hadn’t noticed her voice at all. Her voice had stayed young.
　　接下来的那一周特别忙碌，我已记不得了这是由于我要做一篇报告而时间压力特大．还是由于工作压力，或者成就压力的缘故。
　　写那份报告的最初想法一点没用上。在开始修改报告时我发现，那些我原以为有普遍意义和从中可能归纳出规律的地方全都一个接一个地变成了偶然的案例。我不甘心接受这样的结果，我忙乱地、顽固地、不安地继续寻找着答案，好像我的现实现本身就荒谬。我已做好把检查结果进行歪曲、夸张或者大事化小、小事化了的准备。我陷入了一种特别的坐卧不安的状态，如果我很晚上床睡觉的话，尽管能入睡，但是过不了多久就又彻底地醒了，我只好再次起来继续阅读或者写作。
　　我也为汉娜的出狱做了一些准备。我为汉娜的房间里布置了宜家公司的家具，还配备了几件旧家具，把汉娜的情况告诉了那位希腊裁缝，带回了有关社会和教育活动方面的最新信息，买好了储备食品，在书架上摆好了图书，在墙上挂好了画。我还请了一位园艺工，清理了那个围抱客厅平台的小花园。我做这些时，也显得特别地忙乱和固执，这一切令我如负重负。
　　但是，这足以让我忙得没有时间去回想那次对汉娜的探望。只是有的时候，当我开车时，或疲惫地坐在写字台前时，或躺在床上睡不着时，或者在为汉娜准备的屋里时，记忆才会一泻千里，不可阻挡。我会看到她坐在长椅上，目光注视着我，看见她在游泳池里，脸向我这边张望着。那种背叛了她和愧对她的感觉就会再次涌上心头。但是，我又生气自己有这种感觉，并开始指责她，发现她悄悄地逃避了她应该承担的责任，这未免有点太便宜了。如果只有死人才有权要求她做出解释说明，如果可以把罪责用睡眠不好和做噩梦来搪塞了事的话，那么活人往哪儿摆？但是，我所指的活人不是指活下来的人，而是指我自己。我难道也没有权利要求她做说明解释吗？我算老几？
　　下午，在我去接她之前，我给监狱打了电话。我先和女监狱长讲了话。
　　"我有点紧张。您知道，在通常情况下，一个人经过了这么多年的监禁之后，在没有尝试过在外界先呆上几个小时或几天以前，是不会让他出狱的。史密兰女士拒绝这样做。明天对她来说并非轻松。
　　我的电话被转到了汉娜那里。
　　"你考虑一下，我们明天都做什么，是想马上就回你的家，还是我们一起去森林或去河边？"
　　"我会考虑的。你仍旧是个伟大的计划家，对吗广
　　这令我生气。我感到生气，因为这与其他女友偶尔对我的态度没有两样，这等于说我不够灵活，不能随机应变，大脑起的作用过多，而肚子没派上用场。
　　她注意到了我沉默不语是生气了，于是笑着说："小家伙，别生气，我没有什么恶意。"
　　我在长凳上又看到的汉娜已经是位老妇人了，她看上去、闻上去都像一位老妇人了，但是，我完全没有注意她的声音，她的声音听上去仍旧十分年轻。
Part 3 Chapter 10
N EXT MORNING, Hanna was dead. She had hanged herself at daybreak.
When I arrived, I was taken to the warden. I saw her for the first time—a small, thin woman with dark blond hair and glasses. She seemed insignificant until she began to speak, with force and warmth and a severe gaze and energetic use of both hands and arms. She asked me about my telephone conversation of the night before and the meeting the previous week. Had I picked up any signals, had it made me fear for her? I said no. Indeed, I had had no suspicions or fears that I had ignored.
“How did you get to know each other?”
“We lived in the same neighborhood.”
She looked at me searchingly, and I saw that I would have to say more.
“We lived in the same neighborhood and we got to know each other and became friends. When I was a young student, I was at the trial that convicted her.”
“Why did you send Frau Schmitz cassettes?”
I was silent.
“You knew that she was illiterate, didn’t you? How did you know?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t see what business the story of Hanna and me was of hers. Tears were filling my chest and throat, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to speak. I didn’t want to cry in front of her.
She must have seen how I was feeling. “Come with me, I’ll show you Frau Schmitz’s cell.” She went ahead, but kept turning around to tell me things or explain them to me. Here is where there had been a terrorist attack, here was the sewing shop where Hanna had worked, this is where Hanna once held a sit-down strike until cuts in library funding were reinstated, this was the way to the library. She stopped in front of the cell. “Frau Schmitz didn’t pack. You’ll see her cell the way she lived in it.”
Bed, closet, table, chair, a shelf on the wall over the table, a sink and toilet in the corner behind the door. Glass bricks instead of window glass. The table was bare. The shelf held books, an alarm clock, a stuffed bear, two mugs, instant coffee, tea tins, the cassette machine, and on two lower shelves, the cassettes I had made.
“They aren’t all here.”
The warden had followed my glance. “Frau Schmitz always lent some tapes to the aid society for blind prisoners.”
I went over to the bookshelf. Primo Levi, Elie Wiesel, Tadeusz Borowski, Jean Améry—the literature of the victims, next to the autobiography of Rudolf Hess, Hannah Arendt’s report on Eichmann in Jerusalem, and scholarly literature on the camps.
“Did Hanna read these?”
“Well, at least she ordered them with care. Several years ago I had to get her a general concentrationcamp bibliography, and then one or two years ago she asked me to suggest some books on women in the camps, both prisoners and guards; I wrote to the Institute for Contemporary History, and they sent a specialized bibliography. As soon as Frau Schmitz learned to read, she began to read about the concentration camps.”
Above the bed hung many small pictures and slips of paper. I knelt on the bed and read. There were quotations, poems, little articles, even recipes that Hanna had written down or cut out like pictures from newspapers and magazines. “Spring lets its blue banner flutter through the air again,” “Cloud shadows fly across the fields”—the poems were all full of delight in nature, and yearning for it, and the pictures showed woods bright with spring, meadows spangled with flowers, autumn foliage and single trees, a pasture by a stream, a cherry tree with ripe red cherries, an autumnal chestnut flamed in yellow and orange. A newspaper photograph showed an older man and a younger man, both in dark suits, shaking hands. In the young one, bowing to the older one, I recognized myself. I was graduating from school, and was getting a prize from the principal at the ceremony. That was a long time after Hanna had left the city. Had Hanna, who could not read, subscribed to the local paper in which my photo appeared? In any case she must have gone to some trouble to find out about the photo and get a copy. And had she had it with her during the trial? I felt the tears again in my chest and throat.
“She learned to read with you. She borrowed the books you read on tape out of the library, and followed what she heard, word by word and sentence by sentence. The tape machine couldn’t handle all that constant switching on and off, and rewinding and fast-forwarding. It kept breaking down and having to be repaired, and because that required permission, I finally found out what Frau Schmitz was doing. She didn’t want to tell me at first; when she also began to write, and asked me for a writing manual, she didn’t try to hide it any longer. She was also just proud that she had succeeded, and wanted to share her happiness.”
As she spoke, I had continued to kneel, my eyes on the pictures and notes, fighting back tears. When I turned around and sat down on the bed, she said, “She so hoped you would write. You were the only one she got mail from, and when the mail was distributed and she said ‘No letter for me?’ she wasn’t talking about the packages the tapes came in. Why did you never write?”
I still said nothing. I could not have spoken; all I could have done was to stammer and weep.
She went to the shelf, picked up a tea tin, sat down next to me, and took a folded sheet of paper from her suit pocket. “She left a letter for me, a sort of will. I’ll read the part that concerns you.” She unfolded the sheet of paper. “There is still money in the lavender tea tin. Give it to Michael Berg; he should send it, along with the 7,000 marks in the bank, to the daughter who survived the fire in the church with her mother. She should decide what to do with it. And tell him I say hello to him.”
So she had not left any message for me. Did she intend to hurt me? Or punish me? Or was her soul so tired that she could only do and write what was absolutely necessary? “What was she like all those years?” I waited until I could go on. “And how was she these last few days?”
“For years and years she lived here the way you would live in a convent. As if she had moved here of her own accord and voluntarily subjected herself to our system, as if the rather monotonous work was a sort of meditation. She was greatly respected by the other women, to whom she was friendly but reserved. More than that, she had authority, she was asked for her advice when there were problems, and if she intervened in an argument, her decision was accepted. Then a few years ago she gave up. She had always taken care of herself personally, she was slender despite her strong build, and meticulously clean. But now she began to eat a lot and seldom washed; she got fat and smelled. She didn’t seem unhappy or dissatisfied. In fact it was as though the retreat to the convent was no longer enough, as though life in the convent was still too sociable and talkative, and she had to retreat even further, into a lonely cell safe from all eyes, where looks, clothing, and smell meant nothing. No, it would be wrong to say that she had given up. She redefined her place in a way that was right for her, but no longer impressed the other women.”
“And the last days?”
“She was the way she always was.”
“Can I see her?”
She nodded, but remained seated. “Can the world become so unbearable to someone after years of loneliness? Is it better to kill yourself than to return to the world from the convent, from the hermitage?” She turned to me. “Frau Schmitz didn’t write anything about why she was going to kill herself. And you won’t say what there was between you that might have led to Frau Schmitz’s killing herself at the end of the night before you were due to pick her up.” She folded the piece of paper, put it away, stood up, and smoothed her skirt. “Her death is a blow to me, you see, and at the moment I’m very angry, at Frau Schmitz, and at you. But let’s go.”
She led the way again, this time silently. Hanna lay in the infirmary in a small cubicle. We could just fit between the wall and the stretcher. The warden pulled back the sheet.
A cloth had been tied around Hanna’s head to hold up her chin until the onset of rigor mortis. Her face was neither particularly peaceful nor particularly agonized. It looked rigid and dead. As I looked and looked, the living face became visible in the dead, the young in the old. This is what must happen to old married couples, I thought: the young man is preserved in the old one for her, the beauty and grace of the young woman stay fresh in the old one for him. Why had I not seen this reflection a week ago?
I must not cry. After a time, when the warden looked at me questioningly, I nodded, and she spread the sheet over Hanna’s face again.
　　第二天早上，汉娜死了。她在黎明时分自缢了。
　　当我赶到时，我被带到了女监狱长那儿。我是第一次见到她，她又瘦又小，头发是深黄色的，戴着一副眼镜。在她没有开始说话之前看上去并不引人注目，但是，她说话却铿锵有力，热情洋溢，目光严厉，且精力充沛地挥舞着手臂。她问我昨天晚上的那次电话和一周前的那次会面。问我是否有预感和担忧，我做了否定的回答，我确实没有过预感和担忧，我没有隐瞒。
　　"你们是在哪认识的？"
　　"我们住得很近。"她审视地看着我，我意识到我必须多说些，"我们住得很近，后来就相互认识并成了朋友，作为一名年轻的学生我旁听了对她的法庭审判。"
　　"您为什么要给史密兰女士寄录音带？"
　　我沉默不语。
　　"您知道她是文盲，对吗？您是从哪儿知道的？"
　　我耸耸肩，看不出汉娜和我的故事与她有什么关系。我眼里含着泪水，喉头哽咽着，我害怕自己因此无法说话，我不想在她面前哭泣。
　　她看出了我所处的状态。"跟我来，我给您看一下史密芝女士的单人间。"她走在前面，不时地转过身来向我报告或解释一些事情。她告诉我哪里曾遭受过恐怖分子的袭击，哪里是汉娜曾工作过的缝纫室，哪里是汉娜曾静坐过的地方——直到削减图书馆资金的决定得到纠正为止，哪里可通向图书馆。在一个单人间的门前，她停了下来说："史密芝女士没有整理她的东西，您所看到的样子就是她在此生活时的样子。"
　　床、衣柜、桌子和椅子，桌子上面的墙上有一个书架，在门后的角落里是洗漱池和厕所，代替一扇窗户的是玻璃砖。桌子上什么东西都没有，书架上摆著书、一个闹钟、一个布熊、两个杯子、速溶咖啡、茶叶罐，还有录音机，在下面两层架子上摆放着我给她录制的录音带。
　　"这不是全部，"女监狱长追踪着我的目光说，"史密芝女士总是把一些录音带借给救援机构里的盲人刑事犯。"
　　我走近书架，普里莫•莱维、埃利•维厄琴尔、塔多西•波洛夫斯基、让•艾默里，除鲁道夫•赫斯的自传札记外，还有受害者文学、汉纳•阿伦特关于艾希曼在耶路撒冷的报道和关于集中营的科学文学。
　　"汉娜读过这些吗？"
　　"不管怎么样，她是经过深思熟虑之后才订这些书的。好多年以前，我就不得不为她弄一本关于集中营的一般书目，一年或两年以前她又请求我给她提供关于集中营里的女人、女囚犯和女看守这方面书的书名。我给现代史所写过信，并收到了相应的特别书目。自从史密兰女士学会认字之后，她马上就开始读有关集中营的书籍。"
　　床头挂了许多小图片和纸条。我跪到了床上去读，它们或是一段文章的摘录，或是一首诗，或是一则短讯，或是汉娜抄录的食谱，或者从报纸杂志上剪裁下来的小图片。"春天让它蓝色的飘带在空中再次飘扬"，"云影在田野上掠过"。所有的诗歌都充满了对大自然的喜爱和向往，小图片上展现的是春意盎然的森林、万紫千红的草坪、秋天的落叶、一棵树。溪水旁的草地、一棵坠满了熟透果实的红樱桃树、一棵秋天的浅黄和桔黄的闪闪发光的栗子树。有一张从报纸上剪下来的照片，上面有一位老先生和一位穿着深色西装的年轻人在握手。我认出了那位给老先生鞠躬的年轻人就是我，那时我刚刚中学毕业，那是我在毕业典礼上接受校长授予的一个奖品，那是汉娜离开那座城市很久之后的事情了。她一个目不识丁的人当时就预订了那份登有那张照片的地方报纸了吗？无论如何为了进一步获悉并获得那张照片，她一定费了不少周折。在法庭审理期间，她就有那张照片了吗？她把它带在身边了吗？我的喉咙又哽咽了。
　　"她是跟您学会了认字。她从图书馆借来您为她在录音带上朗读的书，然后逐字逐句地与她所听到的进行对照。那台录音机因不能长久地承受一会儿往前转，一会儿往后倒带，一会儿暂停，一会儿放音，所以总是坏，总要修理。因为修理需要审批，所以，我最终明白了史密芝所做的事情。她最初不愿意说，但是，当她也开始写并向我申请笔和纸时，她再也不能掩饰了。她学会了读写，她简直为此而自豪，她要与人分享她的喜悦。"
　　当她讲这些时，我仍旧跪在那儿，目光始终注视着那些图片和小字条，尽力把眼泪咽了下去。当我转过身来坐在床上时，她说："她是多么希望您给她写信。她从您那儿只是收到邮包，每当邮件被分完了的时候，她都问：'没有我的信？'她是指信而不是指装有录音带的邮包。您为什么从不给她写信呢？"
　　我又沉默不语了。我已无法说话，只能结结巴巴，只想哭。
　　她走到书架前，拿下一个茶罐坐在我身边，从她的化妆包里掏出一张叠好的纸说："她给我留下一封信，类似一份遗嘱。我把涉及到您的地方念给您听。"她打开了那张纸读到："在那个紫色的菜罐里还有钱，把它交给米夏尔•白格；他应该把这些钱还有存在银行里的七千马克交给那位在教堂大火中和她母亲一起幸存下来的女儿。她该决定怎样使用这笔钱。还有，请您转告他，我向他问好。"
　　她没有给我留下任何信息。她想让我伤心吗？他要惩罚我吗？或者她的身心太疲惫不堪了，以至于她只能写下所有有必要做的事情？"她这些年来过得怎么样？"我需要等一会儿，直到我能继续说话，"她最后的日子怎样？"
　　"许多年来，她在这儿的生活与修道院里的生活相差无几，就好像她是心甘情愿地隐退到这里，就好像她是心甘情愿地服从这里的规章制度，就好像这相当单调无聊的工作对她来说是一种反思。她总与其他女囚保持一定距离，她在她们中间享有很高威望。此外，她还是个权威，别人有问题时都要去向她讨主意和办法，争吵的双方都愿意听她的裁决。可是，几年前，她放弃了一切。在这之前，她一直注意保持体型，相对她强壮的身体来说仍旧很苗条，而且她干净得有点过分。后来，她开始暴饮暴食，很少洗澡。她变得臃肿起来，闻上去有种味道，但是，她看上去并非不幸福或者不满足。事实上，好像隐退到修道院的生活对她来说已经不够了，好像修道院本身的生活还太成群结队，还太多嘴多舌，好像她必须进一步隐退到修道院中一间孤独的小房间里去。在那里，没有人再会看到她，在那里，外貌、服装和体味不再具有任何意义了。不，说她自暴自弃是不妥的，她重新确定了她的地位，而且采取的是只作用于自己，不施及他人的方式。"
　　"那么她最后的日子呢？"
　　"她还是老样子。"
　　"我可以看看她吗？"
　　她点点头，却仍！日坐着，"在经历了多年孤独生活后，世界就变得如此让人难以忍受吗？一个人宁愿自杀也不愿意从修道院，从隐居处再一次回到现实世界中去吗？"她转过脸来对我说："史密芝没有写她为什么要自杀。您又不说你俩之间的往事，不说是什么导致史密芝女士在您要来接她出狱的那天黎明时分自杀了。"她把那张纸叠在一起装好，站了起来，把裙子弄平整。'"她的死对我是个打击，您知道，眼下我很生气，生史密芝女士的气，生您的气。但是，我们还是走吧。"
　　她还是走在前面，这一次，一言不发。汉娜躺在病房里的一间小屋子里。我们刚好能在墙和担架之间站下脚。女监狱长把那块布揭开了。
　　汉娜的头上绑着一块布，为了使下额在进入僵硬状态后仍能被抬起来。她的面部表情既不特别宁静，也不特别痛苦。它看上去就是僵硬的死人。当我久久地望着她时，那张死亡的面孔变活了，变成了它年轻时的样子。我在想，这种感觉在老夫老妻之间才会产生。对她来说，老头子仍旧保持了年轻时的样子，而对他来说，美丽妩媚的年轻妻子变老了。为什么在一周之前我没有看出这些呢？
　　我一定不要哭出来。过了一会儿，当女监狱长审视地望着我时，我点点头，她又把那块布盖在了汉娜的脸上。
Part 3 Chapter 11
I T WAS AUTUMN before I could carry out Hanna’s instructions. The daughter lived in New York, and I used a meeting in Boston as the occasion to bring her the money: a bank check plus the tea tin with the cash. I had written to her, introduced myself as a legal historian, and mentioned the trial. I told her I would be grateful for a chance to talk to her. She invited me to tea.
I took the train from Boston to New York. The woods were a triumphal parade of brown, yellow, orange, tawny red, and chestnut, and the flaming glowing scarlet of the maples. It made me think of the autumn pictures in Hanna’s cell. When the rhythm of the wheels and the rocking of the car tired me, I dreamed of Hanna and myself in a house in the autumn-blazed hills that were lining our route. Hanna was older than when I had met her and younger than when I had met her again, older than me, more attractive than in earlier years, more relaxed in her movements with age, more at home in her own body. I saw her getting out of the car and picking up shopping bags, saw her going through the garden into the house, saw her set down the bags and go upstairs ahead of me. My longing for Hanna became so strong that it hurt. I struggled against the longing, argued that it went against Hanna’s and my reality, the reality of our ages, the reality of our circumstances. How could Hanna, who spoke no English, live in America? And she couldn’t drive a car either.
I woke up and knew that Hanna was dead. I also knew that my desire had fixed on her without her being its object. It was the desire to come home.
The daughter lived in New York on a street near Central Park. The street was lined on both sides with old row houses of dark sandstone, with stoops of the same sandstone leading up to the front door on the first floor. This created an effect of severity—house after house with almost identical fa?ades, stoop after stoop, trees only recently planted at regular intervals along the sidewalk, with a few yellowing leaves on thin twigs.
The daughter served tea by large windows looking out on the vest-pocket backyard gardens, some green and colorful and some merely collections of trash. As soon as we had sat down, the tea had been poured, and the sugar added and stirred, she switched from the English in which she had welcomed me, to German. “What brings you here?” The question was neither friendly nor unfriendly; her tone was absolutely matter-of-fact. Everything about her was matter-of-fact: her manner, her gestures, her dress. Her face was oddly ageless, the way faces look after being lifted. But perhaps it had set because of her early sufferings; I tried and failed to remember her face as it had been during the trial.
I told her about Hanna’s death and her last wishes.
“Why me?”
“I suppose because you are the only survivor.”
“And how am I supposed to deal with it?”
“However you think fit.”
“And grant Frau Schmitz her absolution?”
At first I wanted to protest, but Hanna was indeed asking a great deal. Her years of imprisonment were not merely to be the required atonement: Hanna wanted to give them her own meaning, and she wanted this giving of meaning to be recognized. I said as much.
She shook her head. I didn’t know if this meant she was refusing to accept my interpretation or refusing to grant Hanna the recognition.
“Could you not recognize it without granting her absolution?”
She laughed. “You like her, don’t you? What was your relationship?”
I hesitated a moment. “I read aloud to her. It started when I was fifteen and continued while she was in prison.”
“How did you . . .”
“I sent her tapes. Frau Schmitz was illiterate almost all her life; she only learned to read and write in prison.”
“Why did you do all this?”
“When I was fifteen, we had a relationship.”
“You mean you slept together?”
“Yes.”
“That woman was truly brutal . . . did you ever get over the fact that you were only fifteen when she . . . No, you said yourself that you began reading to her again when she was in prison. Did you ever get married?”
I nodded.
“And the marriage was short and unhappy, and you never married again, and the child, if there is one, is in boarding school.”
“That’s true of thousands of people, it doesn’t take a Frau Schmitz.”
“Did you ever feel, when you had contact with her in those last years, that she knew what she had done to you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “In any case, she knew what she had done to people in the camp and on the march. She didn’t just tell me that, she dealt with it intensively during her last years in prison.” I told her what the warden had said.
She stood up and took long strides up and down the room. “How much money is it?”
I went to the coat closet, where I had left my bag, and returned with the check and the tea tin. “Here.”
She looked at the check and put it on the table. She opened the tin, emptied it, closed it again, and held it in her hand, her eyes riveted on it. “When I was a little girl, I had a tea tin for my treasures. Not like this, although these sorts of tea tins already existed, but one with Cyrillic letters, not one with a top you push in, but one you snap shut. I brought it with me to the camp, but then one day it was stolen from me.”
“What was in it?”
“What you’d expect. A piece of hair from our poodle. Tickets to the operas my father took me to, a ring I won somewhere or found in a package—the tin wasn’t stolen for what was in it. The tin itself, and what could be done with it, were worth a lot in the camp.” She put the tin down on top of the check. “Do you have a suggestion for what to do with the money? Using it for something to do with the Holocaust would really seem like an absolution to me, and that is something I neither wish nor care to grant.”
“For illiterates who want to learn to read and write. There must be nonprofit organizations, foundations, societies you could give the money to.”
“I’m sure there are.” She thought about it.
“Are there corresponding Jewish organizations?”
“You can depend on it, if there are organizations for something, then there are Jewish organizations for it. Illiteracy, it has to be admitted, is hardly a Jewish problem.” She pushed the check and the money back to me. “Let’s do it this way. You find out what kind of relevant Jewish organizations there are, here or in Germany, and you pay the money to the account of the organization that seems most plausible to you.” She laughed. “If the recognition is so important, you can do it in the name of Hanna Schmitz.” She picked up the tin again. “I’ll keep the tin.”
　　直到秋天，我才完成了汉娜的委托。那位女儿住在纽约，我参加了在波士顿举行的一个会议，利用这个机会把钱给她带去，一张银行存款的支票加上茶罐里的零钱。我给她写过信，自我介绍是法学史家并提到了那次法庭审判，说如果能和她谈谈我将木胜感激。她邀请我一起去喝茶。
　　我从波士顿乘火车去纽约。森林五光十色，有棕色、黄色、橘黄色、红棕色、棕红色，还有槭树光芒四射的红色。这使我想起了汉娜那间小屋里的秋天的图片。当车轮的转动和车厢的摇晃使我疲倦时，我梦见了汉娜和我坐在一间房子里，房子坐落在五光十色的、秋天的山丘上，我们的火车正穿过那座山丘。汉娜比我认识她时要老，比我再次见到她时要年轻，比我年纪大，比从前漂亮，正处在动作沉着稳重、身体仍很健壮的年龄段。我看见她从汽车里走出来，把购物袋抱在怀里，看见她穿过花园向房子这边走过来，看见她放下购物袋，朝我前面的楼梯走上来。我对汉娜的思念是如此地强烈，以至于这思念令我伤心痛苦。我尽力抗拒这种思念，抵制这种思念，这思念对汉娜和对我，对我们实际的年龄，对我们生活的环境完全不现实。不会讲英语的汉娜怎么能生活在美国呢？而且汉娜也不会开车。
　　我从梦中醒来，再次明白汉娜已经死了。我也知道那与她紧密相关的思念并不是对她的思念，那是一种对回家的向往。
　　那位女儿住在纽约一条离中央公园不远的小街道里，街道两旁环绕着一排排用深色沙石建造的老房子，通向一楼的台阶也用同样深色的沙石建成。这给人一种严格的感觉，房子挨着房子，房屋正面差不多都一个样，台阶挨着台阶，街道旁的树木也是不久前栽的，之间的距离都一样，很有规律，稀少的树枝上挂着稀稀落落的黄树叶。
　　那位女儿把茶桌摆在一扇大窗户前，从这里可以看到外面的四方形小花园，花园里有的地方郁郁葱葱，有的地方五颜六色，有的地方堆放着家用破烂。她给我斟上茶水，加上糖搅拌之后，马上就把问候我时所用的英语变成了德语。"是什么风把您吹到我这来了？"她不冷不热地问我。她的语气听上去非常地务实，她的一切看上去都务实，她的态度，她的手势和她的服饰。她的脸很特别，看不出有多大年纪。所有绷着的脸看上去就像她的脸那样。但是，也许是由于她早年的痛苦经历使其如此僵硬。我尽力回想她在法庭审理期间的面部表情，但怎么也想不起来。
　　我述说了汉娜的死和她的委托。
　　"为什么是我？"
　　"我猜想因为您是惟一的幸存者。"
　　"我该把它用在哪里？"
　　"您认为有意义的事情。"
　　"以此给予史密芝女士宽恕吗？"
　　起初，我想反驳，因为汉娜要达到的目的实际上远不止这些。多年的监禁生活不应该仅仅是一种赎罪。汉娜想要赋予赎罪本身一种意义，而且，汉娜想通过这种方式使它的意义得到承认。我把这层意思说给了她。
　　她摇摇头。我不知道她是否想拒绝我的解释，还是拒绝承认汉娜。
　　"不饶恕她您就不能承认她吗？"
　　她笑了。"您喜欢她，对吗？你们之间到底是什么关系？"
　　我迟疑了一会儿。"我是她的朗读者。这从我十五岁时就开始了，在她坐牢时也没有断。""您怎么…•"
　　"我给她寄录音带。史密芝女士几乎一生都是个文盲，她在监狱里才开始学习读写。"
　　"您为什么要做这些呢？"
　　"我十五岁的时候，我们就有过那种关系。"
　　"您是说，你们一起睡过觉吗？"
　　"是的。"
　　"一个多么残忍的女人。您一个十五岁的孩子就和她……您能承受得了吗？不，您自己说的，当她坐牢后，您又重新开始为她朗读。您曾经结过婚吗？"
　　我点点头。
　　"那么您的婚姻很短暂和不幸。您没有再结婚，您的孩子——如果您有孩子的话，在寄宿学校。"
　　"这种情况多的是，这与史密芝无关。"
　　"在您与她最近这些年的接触中，您是否有过这种感觉，就是说，她清楚她给您所带来的是什么吗？"
　　我耸耸肩。"无论如何她清楚地在集中营和在北迁的路途中给其他人带来了什么样的损失。她不仅仅是这样对我说的，而且，在监狱的最后几年里她还努力地去研究它。"我讲述了女监狱长对我讲述过的情况。
　　她站了起来，在房间里来回踱着大步："那么涉及到多少钱呢？"
　　我走到了我放包的衣帽架前，拿出支票和茶叶罐，走回来对她说："都在这里。''
　　她看了看支票，然后把它放在了桌子上，又把茶叶罐打开倒空了，然后又关上。她把茶叶罐捧在手里，目光死死地盯着它说："当我还是小姑娘的时候，我有个茶叶罐，用来装我的宝贝，不是这样的，尽管当时也已经有这样的了。它上面有用西里尔字母书写的文字，盖不是往里压的那种，而是扣在上面的。我把它带到了集中营，有一天它被人偷走了。"
　　"里面有什么东西？"
　　"有什么，有一绝我们家小狗的鬈毛，有父亲带我去看过的歌剧的门票，一枚在什么地方得到的或是在一个包里发现的戒指——之所以被盗并不是由于里面装的东西。那个茶叶罐本身和人们在集中营里能拿它做的事情却很有价值。"她把茶叶罐放在了支票上面，"关于怎样使用这笔钱您有什么建议吗？把它用于任何与大屠杀有关的事，这对我来说，的确就是我既不能又不想给予的一种饶恕。"
　　"给那些想学习读写的文盲，一定有这样的公益基金会和社团组织，可以把钱捐献给这些机构。"
　　"当然会有这样的机构。"她思考着。
　　""也有类似的犹太人协会和社团吗？"
　　"如果有什么社团，那么您可以相信，也就会有犹太社团。不过，文盲问题不是犹太问题。"
　　她把支票和钱推到我这边。
　　"我们这样做吧：您去打听一下都有什么相关的犹太组织，这里也好，在德国也好。然后，把钱寄到您最信任的有关组织的账号上去。您也可以，"她笑了，"如果得到承认非常重要的话，以史密芝女士的名义寄。"
　　她又把茶叶罐拿到手里："我留下这个茶叶罐。
Part 3 Chapter 12
A LL THIS happened ten years ago. In the first few years after Hanna’s death, I was tormented by the old questions of whether I had denied and betrayed her, whether I owed her something, whether I was guilty for having loved her. Sometimes I asked myself if I was responsible for her death. And sometimes I was in a rage at her and at what she had done to me. Until finally the rage faded and the questions ceased to matter. Whatever I had done or not done, whatever she had done or not to me—it was the path my life had taken.
Soon after her death, I decided to write the story of me and Hanna. Since then I’ve done it many times in my head, each time a little differently, each time with new images, and new strands of action and thought. Thus there are many different stories in addition to the one I have written. The guarantee that the written one is the right one lies in the fact that I wrote it and not the other versions. The written version wanted to be written, the many others did not.
At first I wanted to write our story in order to be free of it. But the memories wouldn’t come back for that. Then I realized our story was slipping away from me and I wanted to recapture it by writing, but that didn’t coax up the memories either. For the last few years I’ve left our story alone. I’ve made peace with it. And it came back, detail by detail and in such a fully rounded fashion, with its own direction and its own sense of completion, that it no longer makes me sad. What a sad story, I thought for so long. Not that I now think it was happy. But I think it is true, and thus the question of whether it is sad or happy has no meaning whatever.
At any rate, that’s what I think when I just happen to think about it. But if something hurts me, the hurts I suffered back then come back to me, and when I feel guilty, the feelings of guilt return; if I yearn for something today, or feel homesick, I feel the yearnings and homesickness from back then. The tectonic layers of our lives rest so tightly one on top of the other that we always come up against earlier events in later ones, not as matter that has been fully formed and pushed aside, but absolutely present and alive. I understand this. Nevertheless, I sometimes find it hard to bear. Maybe I did write our story to be free of it, even if I never can be.
As soon as I returned from New York, I donated Hanna’s money in her name to the Jewish League Against Illiteracy. I received a short, computer-generated letter in which the Jewish League thanked Ms. Hanna Schmitz for her donation. With the letter in my pocket, I drove to the cemetery, to Hanna’s grave. It was the first and only time I stood there.
　　转眼间，这一切都成了十年前的事情了。在汉娜死后最初的几年里，那些老问题一直在折磨困扰着我，诸如，我是否拒绝和背叛了她，我是否仍欠她什么，我是否有罪——因为我曾经爱过她，我是否必须要宣布与她脱离关系或者把她摆脱掉。有时候我扪心自问，我是否要对她的死负责，有时候我对她十分气愤，气愤她对我的伤害，直到那气愤变得软弱无力为止，那些问题变得不重要为止。我做过什么和没做过什么，她对我有过什么伤害——这些恰恰成了我的生活。
　　汉娜死后不久，我就下决心要把我和汉娜的故事写出来。从那时以来，我已经在脑子里把我们的故事写过多次了，每次总有点不一样，总是有新的形象、新的情节和新的构思。这样一来，除了我写出来的版本外还有许多其他版本。有保障的是写出来的版本是正确的版本，原因在于它是我写出来的，而其他版本我没有写出来。已经写出来的版本是它自己想被写出来，其他许多版本不想被写出来。
　　起初，我想把我们的故事写出来的目的是为了摆脱她，但是，我的记忆不是为这个目的而存在的。随后我注意到，我们的故事是怎样地从我的记忆中悄悄地消失。于是，我想通过写作把我的记忆寻找回来。但是，就是写作也没有把记忆诱发出来。几年来，我一直没有云触扪及我们的故事，我们相安无事。这样一来，它反而回来了，一个细节接着一个细节，以一种完整的、一致的和正确的方式回来了，使我对此不再伤心。一个多么让人伤心的故事：我过去常这样想。这并不是说我现在认为它是幸福的。但是，我认为它是属实的。在这个前提下，它是伤心的还是幸福的问题就不重要了。
　　当我想起它时，无论如何我总是想这些。当我觉得受到了伤害时，过去受到伤害的感觉就又重现出来；当我觉得我对某事应负责任时，就会想起当时的那种负罪感；如果我如今渴望得到什么，或怀念家乡，那么我就会感觉出当时的那种渴望和怀乡情。我们的生活一环套一环，后一环总是离不开前一环，已经过去的没有结束，而是活现在现实中。这些我懂。尽管如此，我有时对此还是感到难以承受。也许我把我们的故事写出来的目的还是为了摆脱它，尽管我无法达到这个目的。
　　从纽约一回来，我就把汉娜的钱以她的名义汇给了"犹太反盲联盟"。我收到了一封用电脑写的短信，在信中，"犹太反盲联盟"对汉娜•史密芝女士的捐赠表示了感谢。兜里揣着那封信，我开车去了汉娜的墓地。那是我第一次，也是唯一的一次站在她的墓前。