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 elongated1 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 homely2 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, shameful3 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 chamber4. 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 meander5 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, shrugged6, 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 skull7. The card players laid down their cards, reached into the ashtrays8, picked up the butts9, 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 outrage10. At that moment, the man half hobbled, half hopped11 over and began fumbling12 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 rumble13 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 shutter14 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 anticipation15 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 dreading16 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 simultaneously17 to understand Hanna’s crime and to condemn18 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 condemned19. 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 condemnation20. 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。
收听单词发音 |
1
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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meander
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| n.河流的曲折，漫步，迂回旅行；v.缓慢而弯曲地流动，漫谈 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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ashtrays
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| 烟灰缸( ashtray的名词复数 ) | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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