MorePraiseforAndThereWasLightbyJacquesLusseyran

“Mostbeautiful.”—OliverSacks,authorofMusicophilia

“Astonishing, life changing, andmagical,And ThereWas Light is one ofmyfavoritebooksofalltime,andoneIfrequentlygiveasagift.Atruestorywiththepowertochangewhatyouthinkispossible.”

—MarcLesser,authorofLessandKnowYourself,ForgetYourself

“JacquesLusseyran’sextraordinarymemoir isagiftof light thatbrightensourdarkestdays.Blindedwhenhewaseight,helearnedtoseewithhisinnersenses,reading theworld around him better than thosewho see onlywith their eyes,neverlosinghisloveoflife,alwaysexpandinghiscapacityforfriendshipandhiscertainty that there is a saving power. That a blind teenager could become amoving spirit and key organizer in the FrenchResistance—knowingwho totrust by the soundof avoice and thepressureof ahand—andcouldhelp tofound one of France’s leading newspapers, on clandestine presses,makes youwanttostandupandcheer.HisaccountofhowhesurvivedBuchenwaldisoneof thegreatnarrativesofhumancourage,givingusheart for thechallenges inourownlives.Thisisessentialreading,aboveallforitseloquentmessagethatweonlytrulyfindjoy,andlight,within.”

—RobertMoss,authorofTheSecretHistoryofDreamingandTheBoyWhoDiedandCameBack

“SomeyearsagoIaskedtheeminenthistorianofreligionHustonSmithwhathebelievedtobethegreatestspiritual teachingofall.Withouthesitation,hesaid,‘Followthelight,whereveritmaylead.’IfJacquesLusseyranhadbeenaskedasimilar question, I suspect his answer would have been startlingly similar,thoughasablindleaderoftheFrenchResistanceduringtheNazioccupation,hewouldhaveinsistedthat the lightdoesnotcomefromwithoutbutcomesfromwithin. This incandescentmemoir is gracedwith both, for light radiates from

everypage,andglowswithintheheartofthereaderwhodarestobravetheheartofdarknessthatLusseyranilluminates.”

—PhilCousineau,authorofTheArtofPilgrimageandeditorofTheHero’sJourney:JosephCampbellonHisLifeandWork

“Hope iswhat pours over youon every page of JacquesLusseyran’smemoir.It’sunavoidable.It’stheDNAofthebook.”

—JesseKornbluth,www.headbutler.com

“LikeLusseyran’slight,thisinspiringbookdrawsthereaderintotheexperiencebeyondtheordinary,aworldilluminatedandquickenedbyaspiritofwholenessandhumannessthatisajoytoreadandremember.”

—NoeticSciencesReview

“AndThereWasLightisoneofthemostextraordinarybooksIhaveeverread.Itiswhybooksarepublishedatall.Lusseyran’sinnerexperienceofblindnessisatestamenttotheexistenceofaspiritualworld,aguideforallofus.”

—MarkNepo,authorofReducedtoJoyandSevenThousandWaystoListen

“And There Was Light is the little-known but thoroughly luminousautobiography of Jacques Lusseyran, a blind man who discovered the gift ofinnersightafterlosinghisvisioninachildhoodaccident—andthenputhisgiftto use in the struggle against Nazism. Lusseyran allows us to glimpse bothheavenandhellonEarththroughtheeyesofamanwhohaslivedthroughboth.His description of what it is like to ‘see’ as a blind man is fascinating andinspiring; his account of Buchenwald,where hewas condemned to the livinghell of the ‘Invalids’ Barracks,’ is one of the most anguishing fragments ofHolocausttestimonythatIhaveeverencountered.”

—JonathanKirsch,LosAngelesTimes

“Amagical book, the kind that becomes a classic….How do you explain theincrediblesuspenseofthisbook?Youknowhelives—he’sgoneontowriteitdownafterall.Sowhyisyourbreathcaught inyour throatandwhycan’tyouputthisbookdowneventhesecondorthirdtimethroughit?”

—BaltimoreSun

ALSOBYJACQUESLUSSEYRAN

AgainstthePollutionoftheI:SelectedWritingsofJacquesLusseyran

Copyright©1963byJacquesLusseyran

FirstpublishedbyLittle,BrownandCompanyin1963SecondeditionpublishedbyParabolaBooksin1987ThirdeditionpublishedbyMorningLightPressin2006

Allrightsreserved.Thisbookmaynotbereproducedinwholeor inpart,storedinaretrievalsystem,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans—electronic,mechanical,orother—withoutwrittenpermissionfromthepublisher,exceptbyareviewer,whomayquotebriefpassagesinareview.

TextdesignbyTonaPearceMyers

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataLusseyran,Jacques.[Etlalumièrefut.English]Andtherewaslight:theextraordinarymemoirofablindherooftheFrenchresistanceinWorldWarII/Jacques Lusseyran ; translated from the French by ElizabethR. Cameron.—Fourth edition, FirstNewWorldLibraryedition.

pagescmTranslationof:Etlalumièrefut.ISBN978-1-60868-269-0 (pbk. : alk. paper)— ISBN978-1-60868-270-6 (ebook)1.WorldWar, 1939–1945—Undergroundmovements—France.2.WorldWar,1939–1945—Prisonersandprisons,German.3.Lusseyran,Jacques.4.WorldWar,1939–1945—Personalnarratives,French.5.Prisonersofwar—France—Biography.6.Prisonersofwar—Germany—Biography. 7.Guerrillas—France—Biography. 8.Blind—France—Biography.I.Cameron,ElizabethR.(ElizabethRipley),1907–translator.II.Title.D802.F8L7732014940.53'44092—dc23[B] 2013042898

FirstNewWorldLibraryprinting,March2014ISBN978-1-60868-269-0PrintedinCanadaon100%postconsumer-wasterecycledpaper

NewWorldLibraryisproudtobeaGoldCertifiedEnvironmentallyResponsiblePublisher.PublishercertificationawardedbyGreenPressInitiative.www.greenpressinitiative.org

10987654321

ForGeorgeandVirginiaMcMillan

CONTENTS

1.ClearWaterofChildhood2.RevelationofLight3.TheCureforBlindness4.RunningMatesandTeachers5.MyFriendJean6.TheVisualBlind7.TheTroubledEarth8.MyCountry,MyWar9.TheFacelessDisaster

10.ThePlungeintoCourage11.TheBrotherhoodofResistance12.OurOwnDefenseofFrance13.BetrayalandArrest14.TheRoadtoBuchenwald15.TheLivingandtheDead16.MyNewWorld

EpilogueAbouttheAuthor

WHEN YOU SAID TO ME: “Tellme the story of your life,” Iwas not eager tobegin.Butwhenyouadded,“WhatIcaremostaboutislearningyourreasonsforlovinglife,”thenIbecameeager,forthatwasarealsubject.All the more since I have maintained this love of life through everything:

throughinfirmity,theterrorsofwar,andeveninNaziprisons.Neverdiditfailme,notinmisfortunenoringoodtimes,whichmayseemmucheasierbutisnot.Now, it is no longer a child who is going to tell this story and that is

regrettable.Itisaman.Worseyet,itistheuniversityprofessorIhavebecome.Iwillhavetoguardmyselfverycarefullyfromtryingtoexpoundanddemonstrate— those two illusions. Iwillhave to return to the simplicityof a childand inaddition reach back to France, leaving in thought this America where I livereassured and protected, to find again the Paris which held for me so manyfrighteningexperiencesandsomanyhappyones.

[1]

CLEARWATEROFCHILDHOOD

ASIREMEMBERIT,mystoryalwaysstartsoutlikeafairytale,notanunusualone,but still a fairy tale.Onceupona time inParis,between twoworldwars,therelivedahappylittleboy.Iwasthatlittleboy,andtodaywhenIlookbackathimfromthemidpointoflifewhichIhavereached,Imarvel,ahappychildhoodissorare.Besides,itissolittlethefashionthesedaysthatonecanhardlybelievein it.All the same, if thewaterofmychildhood runsclear, I amnot about tomuddyitup.Thatwouldbetheworstkindoffoolishness.I was born in 1924, on September 19 at noon, in the heart of Paris in

Montmartre,betweenthePlaceBlancheandtheMoulinRouge.Iwasborninamodestnineteenth-centuryhouse,inaroomlookingoutoveracourtyard.Myparentswereideal.Myfather,agraduateofaschoolforadvancedphysics

andchemistryandachemicalengineerbyprofession,wasboth intelligentandkind.Mymother,whohadstudiedphysicsandbiologyherself,wascompletelydevotedandunderstanding.Bothofthemweregenerousandattentive.Butwhysay these things? As a small boy I was not aware of them. The small boyattributednospecialqualitiestohisparents.Hedidnoteventhinkaboutthem.Therewasnoneed, forhisparents lovedhimandhe loved them. Itwasagiftfromheaven.My parents were protection, confidence, warmth. When I think of my

childhoodIstillfeelthesenseofwarmthaboveme,behindandaroundme,thatmarvelous senseof livingnotyetonone’sown,but leaningbodyandsoulonotherswhoacceptthecharge.Myparentscarriedmealongandthat,Iamsure,isthereasonwhythroughall

mychildhoodInevertouchedground.Icouldgoawayandcomeback.Objectshad no weight and I never became entangled in the web of things. I passedbetweendangersandfearsaslightpassesthroughamirror.Thatwasthejoyofmychildhood,themagicarmorwhich,onceputon,protectsforalifetime.

Myfamilybelonged to“thepetitebourgeoisie” inFrance in thosedays.Welivedinsmallapartmentsbuttheyalwaysseemedtomelarge.TheoneIknowbestwasontheLeftBankoftheSeine,nearthegreatgardenoftheChampdeMars,betweentheEiffelTower,withitsfourpawsspreadapart,andtheEcoleMilitaire,abuildingwhichwasonlyanametomeandwhoseshapeIhavequiteforgotten.My parents were heaven. I didn’t say this tomyself so precisely, and they

neversaidittome,butitwasobvious.Iknewveryearly,Iamquitesureofit,thatthroughthemanotherBeingconcernedhimselfwithmeandevenaddressedhimselftome.ThisOtherIdidnotevencallGod.MyparentsspoketomeaboutGod,butonlylater.Ihadnonameforhim.Hewasjustthereanditwasbetterso. Behind my parents there was someone, and my father and mother weresimplythepeopleresponsibleforpassingalongthegift.Myreligionbeganlikethis,whichIthinkexplainswhyIhaveneverknowndoubt.Thisconfessionmaybe somethingof a surprise, but I set storeby it because itwillmake somanyotherthingsclear,myrecklessness,forinstance.Iwasalwaysrunning;thewholeofmychildhoodwasspentrunning.OnlyI

wasnotrunningtocatchholdofsomething.Thatisanotionforgrownupsandnotthenotionofachild.Iwasrunningtomeeteverythingthatwasvisible,andeverything that I could not yet see. I traveled from assurance to assurance, asthoughIwererunningaraceinrelays.I see myself on my fourth birthday as clearly as a picture hanging in the

middle of the wall of my room. I was running along the sidewalk toward atriangle of light formed by the intersection of three streets, Rue EdmondValentin,RueSédillot,andRueDupont-des-Logeswherewelived.AtriangleofsunlightopenedoutlikeabitofseashoretowardtheSquareRapp.Iwasbeingprojected toward this pool of light, drawn up by it, andwavingmy arms andlegs,criedouttomyself:“IamfouryearsoldandIamJacques.”Call it the birth of personality if you like, but be sure that it was not

accompaniedbyanyfeelingofpanic. Itwassimply that thebeamofuniversalhappinesshadfallenuponmelikeaboltfromtheblue.Ihadmyshareofmiseryand grief as all children do. But truthfully I don’t remember them. Theyvanishedfrommymemoryjustlikethepresenceofphysicalpain.Assoonasitleavesthebody,itleavesthespirit.Theviolent,theridiculous,theshadyandtheuncertain,alltheseIknewlater

on.ButIcannotplaceanyof themin theearliestyearsofmylife.Andthat iswhatImeantjustnowwhenIspokeoftheclearwaterofmychildhood.

[2]

REVELATIONOFLIGHT

FORSEVENYEARSIJUMPED,Iran,IcoveredthepathsoftheChampdeMars.IscouredthesidewalksofthenarrowParisstreetswherethehouseswerecrowdedinto the fragrant thoroughfares.For inFrance eachhousehas its characteristicsmell.Grownupshardlynoticethis,butchildrenknowitwell,andcanrecognizethebuildingsbytheirodors.Thereisthesmellofthecreamery,thesmellofthepastryshop,theconfectioner’s,theshoemaker’s,thedruggist’s,andthesmellofthe shopbelonging to themanwhohas such abeautiful name inFrance, “themerchantofcolors.”ThesebuildingsIknewbysniffingtheairlikeasmalldog.I felt sure thatnothingwasunfriendly, that thebranches Iused to swingon

wouldholdfirm,andthatthepaths,nomatterhowwinding,wouldtakemetoaplacewhereIwouldnotbeafraid;thatallpaths,eventually,wouldleadmebacktomyfamily.Youmightsay that Ihadnostory,except themost importantofall,thestoryoflife.Still,therewaslight,andlightcastaspelloverme.IsawiteverywhereIwent

andwatcheditbythehour.Noneoftheroomsinourthree-roomapartmenthasremained clear inmymemory.But the balconywas different, because on thebalcony there was light. Impetuous as I was, I used to lean patiently on therailingandwatchthelightflowingoverthesurfaceofthehousesinfrontofmeandthroughthetunnelofthestreettorightandleft.This lightwas not like the flow ofwater, but somethingmore fleeting and

numberless, for its source was everywhere. I liked seeing that the light camefrom nowhere in particular, but was an element just like air. We never askourselveswhereaircomesfrom,foritisthereandwearealive.Withthesunitisthesamething.Therewasnousemyseeingthesunhighupintheskyinitsplaceinspaceat

noon, since I was always searching for it elsewhere. I looked for it in theflickeringofitsbeams,intheechowhich,asarule,weattributeonlytosound,

butwhichbelongs to light in thesamemeasure.Radiancemultiplied, reflecteditselffromonewindowtothenext, fromafragmentofwall tocloudabove.Itenteredintome,becamepartofme.Iwaseatingsun.Thisfascinationdidnotstopwhennightfell.WhenIcameinfromoutdoors

intheevening,whensupperwasover,Ifoundthefascinationagaininthedark.Darkness, forme,was still light,but inanew formandanewrhythm. Itwaslightataslowerpace.Inotherwords,nothingintheworld,notevenwhatIsawinsidemyselfwithclosedeyelids,wasoutsidethisgreatmiracleoflight.WheneverIranacrosstheChampdeMarsIwasstillchasinglight.Iwasjust

abouttojumpintoit,withmyfeettogether,attheendofthepath;tocatchholdofitasyoucatchabutterflyoverthepond;toliedownwithitinthegrassoronthe sand. Nothing else in nature, not even the sounds to which I listened soattentively,wasasprecioustomeaslight.WhenIwasaboutfourorfiveyearsold,Isuddenlydiscoveredthatyoucan

hold light inyourhands.Todo this youonlyneed to take colored crayonsorblocksandplaywith them.Ibegantospendhoursdoingallkindsofcoloring,withoutmuchformIamsure,butIkeptdivingin,asyouplungeintoafountain.Myeyesarestillfilledwiththosecolors.TheytoldmelaterthatevenatthisearlyageIhadpoorsight.MyopiaIthink

itwas,aconditionwhichpositivepeoplewouldthinkquiteadequatetoexplainmyobsession.ButasayoungchildIwasnotawarethatIdidnotseeverywell.Iwasnotconcernedabout it,becauseIwashappy tomakefriendswith lightasthoughitweretheessenceofthewholeworld.Colors,shapes,evenobjects,theheaviestofthem,allhadthesamevibration.

Andtoday,everytimeIassumetheattitudeoftenderattention,Ifindthesamevibrationonceagain.Inthosedays,whenpeopleaskedmewhatwasmyfavoritecolor, I always answered “Green.”But I only learned later that greenwas thecolorofhope.

IAMCERTAINTHATCHILDREN alwaysknowmore than theyareable to tell, andthatmakesthebigdifferencebetweenthemandadults,who,atbest,knowonlyafractionofwhattheysay.Thereasonissimplythatchildrenknoweverythingwiththeirwholebeings,whileweknowitonlywithourheads.Whenachildisthreatenedbysicknessor trouble,heknows it rightaway,stopshisgamesandtakesrefugewithhismother.Injustthisway,whenIwassevenyearsold,Irealizedthatfatehadablowin

storeforme.IthappenedintheEasterholidaysinJuvardeil,alittlevillageintheAnjouwheremymaternalgrandparentslived.WewereabouttogobacktoParisandthebuggywasalreadyatthedoortotakeustothestation.Inthosedays,to

travel from Juvardeil to the railroad station at Etriché-Chateauneuf, sevenkilometers away,weused ahorse andbuggy.Thegrocer’s truckwas the firstautomobileIreallyknewinthevillage,andthatwasnotuntilthreeorfouryearslater.Thatdayinthecountry,asthebuggywaswaitingandjinglingitsbells,Ihad

stayedbehindinthegarden,bythecornerofthebarn,aloneandintears.Theseare not the kind of tears they tell you about later, for I still feel them deeplywheneverIthinkofthem.IwascryingbecauseIwaslookingatthegardenforthelasttime.Ihadjustlearnedthebadnews.Icouldn’tsayhow,buttherewasabsolutely

no doubt. Sunlight on the paths, the two great box trees, the grape arbor, therows of tomatoes, cucumbers and beans, all the familiar sights which hadpeopledmyeyes,Iwasseeingforthelasttime.AndIwasawareofit.Thiswasmuchmore than childish sorrow and when mymother, after looking for me,finallyfoundmeandaskedwhatthetroublewas,Icouldonlysay:“Iamnevergoingtoseethegardenagain.”Threeweekslateritcameabout.OnthethirdofMay,Iwasatschoolasusual,theelementaryschoolinthepart

ofPariswheremyparents livedonRueCler.At teno’clockI jumpedupwithmyclassmateswhowererunningforthedoortotheplaygroundoutside.Inthescuffle,anolderboywhowasinahurrycameupfromthebackoftheroomandran intomeaccidentally frombehind. Ihadn’t seenhimcomingand takenoffguardlostmybalanceandfell.AsIfell,Istruckoneofthesharpcornersoftheteacher’sdesk.I was wearing glasses because they had discovered I was nearsighted. The

glassesweremadeofshatterproofglass,anditwasjustthisprecautionthatwasmyundoing.Thelensesdidnotbreak,buttheblowwassoviolentthatonearmofthespectacleswentdeepintothetissueoftherighteyeandtoreitaway.Ilostconsciousnessbutcametoimmediatelyafterbeingcarriedtotheschool

playground.Thefirst thingthatoccurred tome,I remembervividly,was,“Myeyes,wherearemyeyes?”Icouldhearfrightenedpeoplearoundmetalkinginpanic aboutmy eyes.But evenwithout the voices and the pain I should haveknownwhereIhadbeenhit.Theybandagedmeupandtookmehomewithfeverragingthroughmybody.

There everything blacked out formore than twenty-four hours. I learned laterthatthedistinguishedspecialistmyfamilycalledatoncehaddeclaredtherighteyewas lost andmust be removed.As soon as they could theywould do thenecessarysurgery.Asforthelefteye,therewaslittledoubtthatittoowasgonesincetheblowhadbeensohardastocausesympatheticophthalmia.Atanyrate,theretinaofthelefteyehadbeenbadlytorn.

Thenextmorningtheyoperatedandwithsuccess.Ihadbecomecompletelyandpermanentlyblind.

EVERYDAYSINCETHENIhavethankedheavenformakingmeblindwhileIwasstillachildnotquiteeightyearsold.Iblessmylotforpracticalreasonsfirstofall.Thehabitsofaboyofeightare

notyetformed,eitherinbodyorinmind.Hisbodyisinfinitelysupple,capableofmakingjustthemovementthesituationcallsforandnoother;readytosettlewith lifeas it is, ready tosayyes to it.And thegreatestphysicalmiraclescanfollowfromthisacceptance.I am deeplymoved when I think of all the people whom blindness strikes

when they are fully grown,whether it is caused by accident or injury inwar.Oftentheyhaveahardlot,certainlyoneharderthanmine.At all events, I have other reasons, not material, for thanking fortune.

Grownup people forget that children never complain against circumstances,unlessofcoursegrownupsaresofoolishastosuggestittothem.Foraneight-year-old,what“is”isalwaysbest.Heknowsnothingofbitternessoranger.Hemayhaveasenseofinjustice,butonlyifinjusticecomesfrompeople.ForhimeventsarealwayssignsfromGod.ThesesimplethingsIknow,andIknowthatsincethedayIwentblindIhave

neverbeenunhappy.Asforcourage,whichadultsmakesomuchof,childrendonotseeitaswedo.Forachildcourageisthemostnaturalthingintheworld,thething to do, through life, at each moment. A child does not think about thefuture, and so is protected from a thousand follies and nearly every fear. Hereliesonthecourseofevents,andthatreliancebringshimhappinesswitheverystep.

FROMNOWON I shall findobstacles inmyway,veryseriousones,as I tellmystory:first,obstaclesoflanguage,becauseinwhatIhavetosayaboutblindness,littleknownandalmostalwayssurprising,Ishallruntheriskofsoundingeithertriteorextravagant;then,obstaclesofmemory.Iwentblindattheageofeight,and am still blind, and what I experienced then I still experience every day.Withoutwanting to, I am bound to confuse dates and even periods. But suchbarriers aremore literary than real.Facts are facts, and I onlyneed to relyontheireloquence.I recoveredwith a speed that can only be explained bymy extreme youth.

BlindedonMay3,bytheendofthemonthIwaswalkingagain,clingingtothehand of my father or mother, of course, but still walking and without anydifficulty.InJune,IbeganlearningtoreadinBraille.InJuly,Iwasonabeach

ontheAtlantic,hangingbythetrapeze,bytheringsandslidingdowntheslides.Iwaspartofacrowdofchildrenwhoranandshouted.Iwasbuildingcastlesinthesand.ButIshallcomebacktothis later,forat thetimeothermattersweremoreimportant.Itwasagreatsurprisetometofindmyselfblind,andbeingblindwasnotat

allasIimaginedit.Norwasitasthepeoplearoundmeseemedtothinkit.Theytoldmethattobeblindmeantnottosee.YethowwasItobelievethemwhenIsaw?Notatonce,Iadmit.Notinthedaysimmediatelyaftertheoperation.Foratthat timeIstillwantedtousemyeyes.Ifollowedtheirusualpath.I lookedinthedirectionwhere Iwas in thehabit of seeingbefore the accident, and therewasanguish,alack,somethinglikeavoidwhichfilledmewithwhatgrownupscalldespair.Finally,oneday,anditwasnotlongincoming,IrealizedthatIwaslooking

inthewrongway.Itwasassimpleasthat.Iwasmakingsomethingverylikethemistakepeoplemakewhochange theirglasseswithoutadjusting themselves. Iwaslookingtoofaroff,andtoomuchonthesurfaceofthings.Thiswasmuchmore thanasimplediscovery, itwasa revelation. Icanstill

seemyself in theChampdeMars,wheremyfatherhadtakenmeforawalkafew days after the accident. Of course I knew the garden well, its ponds, itsrailings,itsironchairs.Ievenknewsomeofthetreesinperson,andnaturallyIwanted to see them again. But I couldn’t. I threw myself forward into thesubstancewhichwasspace,butwhichIdidnotrecognizebecauseitnolongerheldanythingfamiliartome.Atthispointsomeinstinct—Iwasalmostabouttosayahandlaidonme—

mademe change course. I began to lookmore closely, not at things but at aworldclosertomyself,lookingfromaninnerplacetoonefurtherwithin,insteadofclingingtothemovementofsighttowardtheworldoutside.Immediately, the substance of the universe drew together, redefined and

peopled itselfanew.Iwasawareofa radianceemanatingfromaplaceIknewnothingabout,aplacewhichmightaswellhavebeenoutsidemeaswithin.Butradiancewasthere,or,toputitmoreprecisely,light.Itwasafact,forlightwasthere.I felt indescribable relief, and happiness so great it almostmademe laugh.

Confidenceandgratitudecameas ifaprayerhadbeenanswered. I foundlightandjoyatthesamemoment,andIcansaywithouthesitationthatfromthattimeonlightandjoyhaveneverbeenseparatedinmyexperience.Ihavehadthemorlostthemtogether.IsawlightandwentonseeingitthoughIwasblind.Isaidso,butformany

yearsIthinkIdidnotsayitveryloud.UntilIwasnearlyfourteenIremember

calling the experience,whichkept renewing itself insideme, “my secret,” andspeaking of it only to my most intimate friends. I don’t know whether theybelievedmebuttheylistenedtomefortheywerefriends.AndwhatItoldthemhadagreatervaluethanbeingmerelytrue,ithadthevalueofbeingbeautiful,adream,anenchantment,almostlikemagic.The amazing thingwas that thiswas notmagic forme at all, but reality. I

couldnomorehavedenieditthanpeoplewitheyescandenythattheysee.Iwasnot lightmyself, Iknew that,but Ibathed in it asanelementwhichblindnesshadsuddenlybroughtmuchcloser.Icouldfeellightrising,spreading,restingonobjects,givingthemform,thenleavingthem.Withdrawing or diminishing is what I mean, for the opposite of light was

neverpresent.Sightedpeoplealwaystalkaboutthenightofblindness,andthatseemstothemquitenatural.Butthereisnosuchnight,forateverywakinghourandeveninmydreamsIlivedinastreamoflight.Withoutmyeyeslightwasmuchmorestablethanithadbeenwiththem.AsI

remember it, therewereno longer thesamedifferencesbetween things lightedbrightly, less brightly or not at all. I saw the whole world in light, existingthroughitandbecauseofit.Colors, all the colors of the rainbow, also survived. Forme, the childwho

loved to draw andpaint, colorsmade a celebration so unexpected that I spenthoursplayingwiththem,andallthemoreeasilynowtheyweremoredocilethantheyusedtobe.Light threw its color on things and on people. My father and mother, the

peopleImetorranintointhestreet,allhadtheircharacteristiccolorwhichIhadneverseenbeforeIwentblind.Yetnowthisspecialattributeimpresseditselfonmeaspartof themasdefinitelyasany impressioncreatedbya face.Still, thecolorswereonlyagame,whilelightwasmywholereasonforliving.Iletitriseinmelikewaterinawell,andIrejoiced.I did not understand what was happening to me, for it was so completely

contrarytowhatIheardpeoplesay.Ididn’tunderstandit,butnomatter,sinceIwas living it. Formany years I did not try to find outwhy these thingsweregoingon.Ionlytriedtodosomuchlater,andthisisnotthetimetodescribeit.

ALIGHTSOCONTINUOUSandsointensewassofarbeyondmycomprehensionthatsometimes I doubted it. Suppose it was not real, that I had only imagined it.Perhapsitwouldbeenoughtoimaginetheopposite,orjustsomethingdifferent,tomakeitgoaway.SoIthoughtoftestingitoutandevenofresistingit.At night in bed, when I was all by myself, I shut my eyes. I lowered my

eyelidsasImighthavedonewhentheycoveredmyphysicaleyes.Itoldmyself

thatbehindthesecurtainsIwouldnolongerseelight.Butlightwasstill there,andmore serene than ever, looking like a lake at eveningwhen thewind hasdropped.ThenIgatheredupallmyenergyandwillpowerandtriedtostoptheflowoflight,asImighthavetriedtostopbreathing.What happened was a disturbance, something like a whirlpool. But the

whirlpoolwasstillfloodedwithlight.AtalleventsIcouldn’tkeepthisupverylong,perhapsonlyfortwoorthreeseconds.WhenthiswasgoingonIfeltasortofanguish,asthoughIweredoingsomethingforbidden,somethingagainstlife.ItwasexactlyasifIneededlighttolive—neededitasmuchasair.Therewasnowayoutofit.Iwastheprisoneroflight.Iwascondemnedtosee.As Iwrite these lines, Ihave just tried theexperiment again,with the same

result,exceptthatwiththeyearstheoriginalsourceoflighthasgrownstronger.At eight I came out of this experiment reassured,with the sense that Iwas

beingreborn.SinceitwasnotIwhowasmakingthelight,sinceitcametomefromoutside,itwouldneverleaveme.Iwasonlyapassageway,avestibuleforthisbrightness.Theseeingeyewasinme.Still, there were times when the light faded, almost to the point of

disappearing.IthappenedeverytimeIwasafraid.If, instead of letting myself be carried along by confidence and throwing

myselfintothings,Ihesitated,calculated,thoughtaboutthewall,thehalf-opendoor,thekeyinthelock;ifIsaidtomyselfthatallthesethingswerehostileandabouttostrikeorscratch,thenwithoutexceptionIhitorwoundedmyself.Theonly easyway tomovearound thehouse, thegardenor thebeachwasbynotthinkingabout itatall,or thinkingas littleaspossible.ThenImovedbetweenobstacles the way they say bats do. What the loss of my eyes had notaccomplishedwasbroughtaboutbyfear.Itmademeblind.Anger and impatience had the same effect, throwing everything into

confusion.TheminutebeforeIknewjustwhereeverythingintheroomwas,butifIgotangry,thingsgotangrierthanI.Theywentandhidinthemostunlikelycorners,mixedthemselvesup,turnedturtle,mutteredlikecrazymenandlookedwild.Asforme,Inolongerknewwheretoputhandorfoot.Everythinghurtme.ThismechanismworkedsowellthatIbecamecautious.WhenIwasplayingwithmysmallcompanions,ifIsuddenlygrewanxiousto

win,tobefirstatallcosts,thenallatonceIcouldseenothing.LiterallyIwentintofogorsmoke.Icouldnolongeraffordtobejealousorunfriendly,because,assoonasIwas,

abandagecamedownovermyeyes, and Iwasboundhandand foot andcastaside.Allatonceablackholeopened,andIwashelplessinsideit.ButwhenIwashappyandserene,approachedpeoplewithconfidenceandthoughtwellof

them, Iwas rewardedwith light.So is it surprising that I loved friendshipandharmonywhenIwasveryyoung?Armedwith sucha tool,why should I needamoral code?Forme this tool

tooktheplaceofredandgreenlights.Ialwaysknewwheretheroadwasopenandwhereitwasclosed.Ihadonlytolookatthebrightsignalwhichtaughtmehowtolive.Itwasthesamewithlove,butletusseehow.Thesummeraftertheaccident

myparentstookmetotheseashore.ThereImetalittlegirlmyownage.IthinkshewascalledNicole.Shecameintomyworldlikeagreatredstar,orperhapsmorelikearipecherry.TheonlythingIknewforsurewasthatshewasbrightandred.I thoughther lovely,andherbeautywassogentle that Icouldno longergo

homeatnightandsleepawayfromher,becausepartofmylightleftmewhenIdid.TogetitallbackIhadtofindheragain.Itwasjustasifshewerebringingmelightinherhands,herhair,herbarefeetonthesand,andinthesoundofhervoice.How natural that people who are red should have red shadows.When she

cametositdownbymebetweentwopoolsofsaltwaterunderthewarmthofthesun,Isawrosyreflectionsonthecanvasoftheawnings.Theseaitself,theblueofthesea, tookonapurpletone.Ifollowedherbytheredwakewhichtrailedbehindherwherevershewent.Now, if people should say that red is the color of passion, I should answer

quitesimplythatIfoundthatoutwhenIwasonlyeightyearsold.

HOWCOULD IHAVE LIVED all that timewithout realizing that everything in theworldhasavoiceandspeaks?Notjustthethingsthataresupposedtospeak,buttheothers,likethegate,thewallsofthehouses,theshadeoftrees,thesandandthesilence.Still, even beforemy accident, I loved sound, but now it seems clear that I

didn’t listen to it. After I went blind, I could never make a motion withoutstartinganavalancheofnoise.IfIwentintomyroomatnight,theroomwhereIusedtohearnothing,thesmallplasterstatueonthemantelpiecemadeafractionofaturn.Ihearditsfrictionintheair,aslightasoundasthesoundofawavinghand.WheneverItookastep,thefloorcriedorsang—Icouldhearitmakingboththesesounds—anditssongwaspassedalongfromoneboardtothenext,allthewaytothewindow,togivemethemeasureoftheroom.If I spoke out suddenly, the windowpanes, which seemed so solid in their

puttyframes,begantoshake,verylightlyofcoursebutdistinctly.Thisnoisewasonahigherpitchthantheothers,cooler,asifitwerealreadyincontactwiththe

outsideair.Everypieceoffurniturecreaked,once,twice,tentimes,andmadeatrailofsoundslikegesturesasminutespassed.Thebed,thewardrobe,thechairswerestretching,yawningandcatchingtheirbreath.When a draft pushed against the door, it creaked out “draft.”When a hand

pushed it, it creaked in a human way. For me there was no mistaking thedifference.Icouldhearthesmallestrecessioninthewallfromadistance,foritchanged the whole room. Because this nook, that alcove were there, thewardrobesangahollowersong.Itwasasthoughthesoundsofearlierdayswereonlyhalfreal, toofaraway

fromme,andheardthroughafog.Perhapsmyeyesusedtomakethefog,butatalleventsmyaccidenthadthrownmyheadagainstthehummingheartofthings,andtheheartneverstoppedbeating.You always think of sounds beginning and ending abruptly. But now I

realizedthatnothingcouldbemorefalse.Nowmyearsheardthesoundsalmostbeforetheywerethere, touchingmewiththetipsof theirfingersanddirectingmetowardthem.OftenIseemedtohearpeoplespeakbeforetheybegantalking.Sounds had the same individuality as light. They were neither inside nor

outside,theywerepassingthroughme.Theygavememybearingsinspaceandputmeintouchwiththings.Itwasnotlikesignalsthattheyfunctioned,butlikereplies.I remember well when I first arrived at the beach two months after the

accident.Itwasevening,andtherewasnothingtherebuttheseaanditsvoice,precisebeyond thepower to imagine it. It formedamasswhichwassoheavyandso limpid that Icouldhave leanedagainst it likeawall. It spoke tome inseveral layersallatonce.Thewaveswerearrangedinsteps,andtogether theymadeonemusic,thoughwhattheysaidwasdifferentineachvoice.Therewasraspinginthebassandbubblinginthetopregister.Ididn’tneedtobetoldaboutthethingsthateyescouldsee.Atoneendtherewasthewalloftheseaandthewindrustlingoverthesand.

At theother therewas the retainingwall,as fullofechoesasa talkingmirror.Whatthewavessaidtheysaidtwiceover.Peopleoftensaythatblindnesssharpenshearing,butIdon’tthinkthisisso.

Myearswerehearingnobetter,butIwasmakingbetteruseofthem.Sightisamiraculous instrument offering us all the riches of physical life. But we getnothinginthisworldwithoutpayingforit,andinreturnforallthebenefitsthatsight brings we are forced to give up others whose existence we don’t evensuspect.ThesewerethegiftsIreceivedinsuchabundance.Ineededtohearandhearagain.Imultipliedsoundstomyheart’scontent.I

rang bells. I touchedwalls withmy fingers, explored the resonance of doors,

furnitureandthetrunksoftrees.Isanginemptyrooms,Ithrewpebblesfaroffonthebeachjusttohearthemwhistlethroughtheairandthenfall.Ievenmademy small companions repeatwords to giveme plenty of time towalk aroundthem.Butmostsurprisingofallwasthediscoverythatsoundsnevercamefromone

point in space, and never retreated into themselves. There was the sound, itsecho,andanothersound intowhich the first soundmeltedand towhich ithadgivenbirth,altogetheranendlessprocessionofsounds.Sometimes the resonance, thehumofvoicesallaroundme,grewso intense

thatIgotdizzyandputmyhandsovermyears,asImighthavedonebyclosingmyeyestoprotectmyselfagainst toomuchlight.That iswhyIcouldn’tstandracket,uselessnoisesormusicthatwentonandon.Asoundwedon’tlistentoisablowtobodyandspirit,becausesoundisnotsomethinghappeningoutsideus,but a real presence passing through us and lingering unless we have heard itfully.Iwaswellprotectedfromthesemiseriesbyparentswhoweremusicians,and

who talkedaroundour family table insteadof turningon the radio.Butall themorereasonformetosayhowimportant it is todefendblindchildrenagainstshouting,backgroundmusicandallsuchhideousassaults.Forablindperson,aviolentandfutilenoisehasthesameeffectasthebeamofasearchlighttooclosetotheeyesofsomeonewhocansee.Ithurts.Butwhentheworldsoundsclearandonpitch,itismoreharmoniousthanpoetshaveeverknownit,orthantheywilleverbeabletosay.Every Sunday morning, an old beggar used to play three tunes on his

accordion in the courtyard of our apartment house. This poor sour music,punctuatedatintervalsbythemetallicscrapingofrailsfromthestreetcarsontheavenue nearby— these in the silence of a lazy morning created a thousanddimensionsinspace;notjustthesteepdropintothecourtandtheparadeofthestreetsontheground,butasmanypathsfromhousetohouseandcourttoroofasIcouldholdwithmyattention.WithsoundInevercametoanend,forthiswasanotherkindofinfinity.

ATFIRSTMYHANDSREFUSEDTOOBEY.Whentheylookedforaglassonthetable,theymissedit.Theyfumbledaroundthedoorknobs,mixedupblackandwhitekeysatthepiano,flutteredintheairastheycamenearthings.Itwasalmostasiftheyhadbeenuprooted,cutofffromme,andforatimethismademeafraid.Fortunately,beforelongIrealizedthatinsteadofbecominguselesstheywere

learningtobewise.Theyonlyneededtimetoaccustomthemselvestofreedom.Ihad thought theywere refusing to obey, but it was all because theywere not

gettingorders,whentheeyeswerenolongertheretocommandthem.Butmorethanthatitwasaquestionofrhythm.Oureyesrunoverthesurfaces

of things.All theyrequireareafewscatteredpoints,sincetheycanbridgethegapinaflash.They“halfsee”muchmorethantheysee,andtheyneverweigh.Theyaresatisfiedwithappearances,andforthemtheworldglowsandslidesby,butlackssubstance.All I neededwas to leavemy hands to their own devices. I had nothing to

teachthem,andbesides,sincetheybeganworkingindependently, theyseemedto foresee everything. Unlike eyes, they were in earnest, and from whateverdirectiontheyapproachedanobjecttheycoveredit,testeditsresistance,leanedagainst the mass of it and recorded every irregularity in its surface. Theymeasureditforheightandthickness,takinginasmanydimensionsaspossible.But most of all, having learned that they had fingers, they used them in anentirelynewway.When I had eyes,my fingers used to be stiff, half dead at the ends ofmy

hands,goodonlyforpickingupthings.Butnoweachoneofthemstartedoutonitsown.Theyexploredthingsseparately,changedlevelsand, independentlyofeachother,madethemselvesheavyorlight.Movementofthefingerswasterriblyimportant,andhadtobeuninterrupted

becauseobjectsdonotstandatagivenpoint,fixedthere,confinedinoneform.They are alive, even the stones.What is more they vibrate and tremble. Myfingersfeltthepulsationdistinctly,andiftheyfailedtoanswerwithapulsationof their own, the fingers immediately became helpless and lost their sense oftouch.Butwhen theywent toward things, in sympatheticvibrationwith them,theyrecognizedthemrightaway.Yet therewas something stillmore important thanmovement, and thatwas

pressure.IfIputmyhandonthetablewithoutpressingit,Iknewthetablewasthere,butknewnothingaboutit.Tofindout,myfingershadtobeardown,andtheamazingthingisthatthepressurewasansweredbythetableatonce.BeingblindIthoughtIshouldhavetogoouttomeetthings,butIfoundthattheycametomeetmeinstead.Ihaveneverhadtogomorethanhalfway,andtheuniversebecametheaccompliceofallmywishes.If my fingers pressed the roundness of an apple, each one with a different

weight,verysoonIcouldnottellwhetheritwastheappleormyfingerswhichwereheavy.Ididn’tevenknowwhetherIwastouchingitoritwastouchingme.AsIbecamepartoftheapple,theapplebecamepartofme.AndthatwashowIcametounderstandtheexistenceofthings.Assoonasmyhandscame to life theyputme inaworldwhereeverything

wasanexchangeofpressures.Thesepressuresgatheredtogetherinshapes,and

each one of the shapes hadmeaning.As a child I spent hours leaning againstobjectsandlettingthemleanagainstme.Anyblindpersoncantellyouthatthisgesture,thisexchange,giveshimasatisfactiontoodeepforwords.Touchingthetomatoesinthegarden,andreallytouchingthem,touchingthe

wallsofthehouse,thematerialsofthecurtainsoraclodofearthissurelyseeingthemasfullyaseyescansee.Butitismorethanseeingthem,itistuninginonthem and allowing the current they hold to connect with one’s own, likeelectricity.Toputitdifferently,thismeansanendoflivinginfrontofthingsandabeginningof livingwith them.Nevermind if thewordsounds shocking, forthisislove.Youcannotkeepyourhandsfromlovingwhat theyhavereallyfelt,moving

continually,bearingdownandfinallydetachingthemselves,thelastperhapsthemostsignificantmotionofall.Littlebylittle,myhandsdiscoveredthatobjectswere not rigidly boundwithin amold. It was form they first came in contactwith, form like a kernel. But around this kernel objects branched out in alldirections.Icouldnottouchthepeartreeinthegardenjustbyfollowingthetrunkwith

my fingers, then thebranches, then the leaves,oneat a time.Thatwasonly abeginning,forintheair,betweentheleaves,thepeartreestillcontinued,andIhad to move my hands from branch to branch to feel the currents runningbetweenthem.At Juvardeil, in the holidays,whenmy small peasant friends sawmedoing

thesemagicdancesaroundthetreesandtouchingtheinvisible,theysaidIwaslike the medicine man, the man with an old secret who heals the sick bymesmerism,sometimesatadistance,andbymethodsnotrecognizedbymedicalscience.Ofcourse,myyoungfriendswerewrong,buttheyhadagoodexcuse,and today I know more than one professional psychologist who, for all hisscientificknowledge,cannotaccountfortheseincongruousmotions.Withsmellitwasthesameasitwaswithtouch—liketouchanobviouspart

ofthelovingsubstanceoftheuniverse.Ibegantoguesswhatanimalsmustfeelwhentheysnifftheair.Likesoundandshape,smellwasmoredistinctivethanIusedtothinkitwas.Therewerephysicalsmellsandmoralones,butofthelatter,soimportantforlivinginsociety,Ishallspeaklateron.Before Iwas tenyearsold Iknewwithabsolutecertainty thateverything in

theworldwasasignofsomethingelse,readytotakeitsplaceifitshouldfallbytheway.And this continuingmiracleofhealing Iheardexpressed fully in theLord’sPrayerIrepeatedatnightbeforegoingtosleep.Iwasnotafraid.SomepeoplewouldsayIhadfaith,andhowshouldInothaveitinthepresenceofthemarvel which kept renewing itself? Inside me every sound, every scent, and

everyshapewasforeverchangingintolight,andlightitselfchangingintocolortomakeakaleidoscopeofmyblindness.

I HAD ENTERED A NEW WORLD, there was no doubt about it, but I was not itsprisoner.AllthethingsIexperienced,howeverremarkableandhoweverremotefromtheeverydayadventuresofachildmyage,Ididnotexperienceinaninnervoid, a closed chamber belonging tome and no one else. They took place inParisduringthesummerandfallof1932,inthesmallapartmentneartheChampdeMars, and on a beach on theAtlantic, betweenmy father andmother and,towardtheendoftheyear,anewlittlebrotherwhohadbeenborn.What Imean to say is that all these discoveries of sound, light, smell, and

visibleandinvisibleshapesestablishedthemselvesserenelyandsolidlybetweenthe dining-room table and the window on the court, the bric-a-brac on themantelpieceand thekitchen sink, right in themidstof the lifeofotherpeopleandwithoutbeingputoutofcountenancebythem.Theseperceptionswerenotphantomswhich camebringingdisorder and fear intomy real life.Theywererealitiesand,tome,thesimplestofthemall.But it is timetomakeitclear that,alongwithmanymarvelous things,great

dangers lie in wait for a blind child. I am not speaking of physical dangers,whichcanwellbecircumvented,norofanydangerwhichblindnessitselfbringsabout. I am speaking of dangerswhich come from the inexperience of peoplewhostillhavetheireyes.IfIhavebeensofortunatemyself—andIinsistthatIhave—itisbecauseIhavealwaysbeenprotectedfromperilsofthatsort.YouknowIhadgoodparents,notjustparentswhowishedmewell,butones

whoseheartsandintelligencewereopentospiritualthings,forwhomtheworldwasnotcomposedexclusivelyofobjectsthatwereuseful,andusefulalwaysinthe same fashion; for whom, above all, it was not necessarily a curse to bedifferentfromotherpeople.Finally,minewereparentswillingtoadmitthattheirwayoflookingatthings,theusualway,wasperhapsnottheonlypossibleone,andtolikemywayandencourageit.That iswhy I tell parentswhose children have gone blind to take comfort.

Blindnessisanobstacle,butonlybecomesamiseryiffollyisadded.Itellthemtobereassuredandnevertosetthemselvesagainstwhattheirsmallboyorgirlisfinding out. They should never say: “You can’t know that because you can’tsee”;andasinfrequentlyaspossible,“Don’tdothat,itisdangerous.”Forablindchildthereisathreatgreaterthanallthewoundsandbumps,thescratchesandmostoftheblows,andthatisthedangerofisolation.WhenIwasfifteenIspentlongafternoonswithablindboymyownage,one

whowentblind,Ishouldadd,incircumstancesverylikemyown.TodayIhave

few memories as painful. This boy terrified me. He was the living image ofeverything thatmight have happened tome if I had not been fortunate,morefortunate than he. For he was really blind. He had seen nothing since hisaccident.His facultieswerenormal;he couldhave seenaswell as I.But theyhadkepthimfromdoingso.Toprotecthim,astheyputit,theyhadcuthimofffromeverything,andmadefunofallhisattemptstoexplainwhathefelt.Ingriefand revenge, he had thrown himself into a brutal solitude. Even his body layprostrate in thedepthsofanarmchair.TomyhorrorIsawthathedidnot likeme.Tragedieslikethisarecommonerthanpeoplethink,andallthemoreterrible

because they are avoidable in every case. To avoid them, I repeat that it isenoughforsightedpeoplenottoimaginethattheirwayofknowingtheworldistheonlyone.At the ageof eight everything favoredmy return to theworld.They letme

movearound,theyansweredallthequestionsIasked,theywereinterestedinallmydiscoveries,eventhestrangest.Forexample,howshouldIexplainthewayobjects approachedmewhen Iwas the onewalking in their direction?Was Ibreathing them in or hearing them? Possibly, though that was often hard toprove.DidIseethem?Itseemednot.Andyet,asIcamecloser,theirmasswasmodified,oftentothepointofdefiningrealcontours,assumingarealshapeinspace,acquiringdistinctivecolor,justasithappenswherethereissight.AsIwalkedalongacountryroadborderedbytrees,Icouldpointtoeachone

ofthetreesbytheroad,eveniftheywerenotspacedatregularintervals.Iknewwhetherthetreeswerestraightandtall,carryingtheirbranchesasabodycarriesitshead,orgatheredintothicketsandpartlycoveringthegroundaroundthem.Thiskindofexercisesoontiredmeout,Imustadmit,butitsucceeded.And

the fatiguedidnotcome from the trees, from theirnumberor shape,but frommyself.ToseethemlikethisIhadtoholdmyselfinastatesofarremovedfromoldhabits that Icouldnotkeep itupforvery long. Ihad to let the treescometoward me, and not allow the slightest inclination to move toward them, thesmallestwishtoknowthem,tocomebetweenthemandme.Icouldnotaffordtobecuriousorimpatientorproudofmyaccomplishment.Afterall,suchastateisonlywhatonecommonlycalls“attention,”butIcan

testify thatwhencarried to thispoint it isnoteasy.Thesameexperiment triedwithtreesalongtheroadIcouldpracticeonanyobjectswhichreachedaheightandbreadthatleastasgreatasmyown:telegraphpoles,hedges,thearchesofabridge,wallsalongthestreet,thedoorsandwindowsinthesewalls,theplaceswheretheyweresetbackorslopedaway.Aswiththesenseoftouch,whatcametomefromobjectswaspressure,but

pressureofakindsonewtome thatat first Ididn’t thinkofcalling itby thatname.When Ibecame reallyattentiveanddidnotopposemyownpressure tomysurroundings,thentreesandrockscametomeandprintedtheirshapeuponmelikefingersleavingtheirimpressioninwax.This tendency of objects to project themselves beyond their physical limits

producedsensationsasdefiniteassightorhearing.Ionlyneededafewyearstogrow accustomed to them, to tame them somewhat. Like all blind people,whether theyknowitornot, theseare thesensesIusewhenIwalkbymyselfeither outdoors or through a house. Later I read that they call this sense “thesenseofobstacles,”andthatsomekindsofanimals,bats,forinstance,arehighlyendowedwithit.Accordingtomanytraditionsoftheoccult,manhasathirdeye,aninnereye,

generallycalled“theeyeofSiva,”locatedinthemiddleofhisforehead,aneyewhichhecanbringtolifeincertainconditionsbycertainexercises.Finally,theresearchesundertakenbytheFrenchwriterandmemberoftheAcademy,JulesRomains, have demonstrated the existence of visual perception outside theretina,situated incertainnervouscentersof theskin,particularly in thehands,theforehead, thenapeof theneckand thechest. Ihear thatmorerecently thiskindofresearchhasbeencarriedonwithsuccessbyphysiologists,especiallyintheU.S.S.R.Butwhateverthenatureofthephenomenon,Iexperienceditfromchildhood,

and its effects seem to me much more important than its cause. Theindispensablecondition foraccuratelypointingout treesalong the roadwas toacceptthetreesandnottrytoputmyselfintheirplace.All of us,whetherwe are blind or not, are terribly greedy.Wewant things

onlyforourselves.Evenwithoutrealizingit,wewanttheuniversetobelikeusand give us all the room in it. But a blind child learns very quickly that thiscannotbe.Hehastolearnit,foreverytimeheforgetsthatheisnotaloneintheworldhestrikesagainstanobject,hurtshimselfandiscalledtoorder.Buteachtimeheremembersheisrewarded,foreverythingcomeshisway.

[3]

THECUREFORBLINDNESS

THERESPONSIBILITYMYPARENTSFACEDwassoheavyandsouncertainthattheyhad to gamble on it. Should they keep me with them or put me in a specialboardingschool,theNationalInstituteforBlindChildreninParis?Thissolutionseemedthewisestbyfar,perhapstheonlywiseone,andtheycameveryclosetochoosingit.Buttheyendedbymakingtheotherchoice,bettingonthelongshot,andforthisIshallneverstopbeinggratefultothem.But don’t mistake me. I never had and still have no reason to think that

schoolsfortheblindareabadthing.Inanycasetherearesome(andtheParisInstitute is among them) where the teachers are intelligent and completelydevoted.ManysuchschoolsinFrance,theUnitedStates,EnglandandGermanyhaveadoptedthefreestandfrankestmethodsofup-to-datepedagogy,andhaveentirelyabandonedboththestiflingprejudiceofthenineteenthcenturyandtheoldpolicyofpatronage.Ihavemetmanyformerstudentsoftheseschools,andIamawarethatmany

of them have grown into well-rounded men and women with nothing butgratitudefortheirexperienceaschildren.Butunfortunatelytheproblemisnotsosimple, or rather it is different. The only way to be completely cured ofblindness,and Imeansocially, isnever to treat it asadifference,a reason forseparation,aninfirmity,buttoconsideritatemporaryimpediment,apeculiarityofcourse,butonewhichwillbeovercometodayoratthelatesttomorrow.Thecure is to immerseoneselfagainandwithoutdelay ina life that isas realanddifficultas the livesofothers.And that is justwhata special school,even themostgenerousandintelligentofthem,doesnotallow.Eveniftheschoolhastheingenuityandtheunderstandingnottoblockthiscourseforever,atleastitslowsitup.Inmakingsuchajudgment,Iruntheriskofdisturbingmanypeopleandmany

families.Thatiscertainlynotmyintention,forIknowthereareparentsofblind

childrenwhosecircumstances,throughpovertyorwork,makeitimpossibleforthemtokeeptheirchildathome.MostofallIamthinkingofparentswhohavenot been blessed with a thorough education, who find themselves painfullyconfusedandcompletelydisarmedwhenfacedwiththismonsterofstrangeness,ablindperson.Ithinkofthemaboveallfortheyareperhapsmostnumerousandinthemostseriouspredicament.Insuchcasesthechildshouldgoawayandbeentrustedtoexperts,menand

womenwho knowwhat to do, and do itwithout any fear or sense of shame.Therecanbenogreatermiseryforablindchildthantheembarrassmentofhisparents,theirsenseofinferioritywhentheyimagineorsaythattheirchildisnot“normal.” Anything is better than this kind of stupidity, and I repeat that thespecialschoolisnotanevil,butatmostalesserbenefit.AsfarasIwasconcernedtheproblemwasresolvedwithinafewdays:Iwas

to stay at home.Both intellectually andmorallymy parentswere equipped towatchoverme.Onmybehalf,atleastforthefirstfewyears,theywerereadytoface all the difficulties I was unable to cope with because of my age andsituation.Theyunderstoodthattheresourcesofblindnesshadtobeexploredtothelimit,andthatImustbethrownbackintotheworldimmediately.First, as soon as the school year began, I had to go back to my sighted

companions in the neighborhood public school, the schoolwheremy accidenthadhappenedinMay.Todothis,byOctoberIhadtolearntoreadandwriteinBraille.Whentheymadeitcleartomethatthiswasamust,Iplungedintothetaskwithakindofsilententhusiasm.AttheendofsixweeksIhadturnedthecorner.Thedotsonthelongwidesheetofpaper,whichhadatfirstpassedundermyfingerslikegrainsofsand,arrangedthemselvesincolumns,becamefixedingroups,andonebyoneeachofthemtookonmeaning.ToteachmetoreadinBraillemymotherhadchosenthemostappealingbook

shecouldfind:TheJungleBook.Hermethodworkedbeautifully,becauseitwasnotBraillecharactersIwasdiscovering,buttheadventuresofMowgli,whichIfound fascinating. I am sure this way of doing things goes far to explain thespeedwithwhichIlearned.Besides, my parents had immediately ordered a portable Braille typewriter

fromSwitzerland,tosparemethedisillusioningandalmostalwaysfutilelaborofwritingonatablet.Latertheytaughtmetouseone,butIuseditveryrarely.Iwas embarrassed by this grooved steel slate to which one attaches a sheet ofpaperwithametalgridofitsown.Idislikedhandlingthethickpunch,andthebusinessofslowlyand laboriouslyperforating thedotswhichmadeeach letterinsidetherectanglesonthegrill.ThiswasthekindofgropingwhichremindedmethatIwasblind,andmyideasalwaysoutranmymovements.

But my typewriter was a toy. It had the smell of newness, and I liked itstapping sound and the six roundkeyswhich controlled six punches thatmadeletters,wordsandsentencesriseuplikepicturesinafilm.Withthetypewriteritwas like going out exploring. I was writing and, being mechanized, had theplayfulsatisfactionofwritingfasterthanmyfriendswhocouldsee.BythefirstofOctoberIwasready,buttheschoolwasnotreadyforme.Later

on, the lawsand institutionsof societyplayedmeanumberofbad tricks, andevenatthistimetheywereresistingme.Actuallythiswasnotsurprising,foritwas not long since blind people had been relegated to the fringes of society,pitied,reducedtoplayingtheharmoniuminsmallchapels,recaningchairs,eventobecomingbeggars.In1932inFrancetherewerenolawswhichforbadepublicschoolstoadmit

blind children to their classes—no laws, butmany entrenched prejudices. Inotherwords,ittookallmyfamily’sconfidence,alltheirconvictionthatIcouldovercomeeverydifficulty,addedtothekindnessandgenerosityofthegoodmanwhoheadedtheschool,togetmeadmitted.Iwasadmittedonprobation.What disturbedpeoplewas their belief that a blind personmust be in other

people’sway, thathemustunderstand, readandwrite lessquickly,seeneitherthesumsnorthedrawingsontheblackboard,northemapsonthewalls.Inshorthewouldbelikedirtinthemachinery.Theyhadreasontobeuneasy,butitwasuptomenottobethatgrainofdirt—uptome,myfamilyandespeciallymymother.Whatamothercandoforablindchildcanbeexplainedinafewwords:give

him birth a second time. That is whatmymother did forme, and it was hercourage,notmine,thatwascalledout.Myonlyjobwastoturnmyselfovertoher,believewhatshebelievedandusehereyeseverytimeImissedmyown.She learned Braille with me, and watched over my homework for several

years. Inotherwords, shedid all theworkof aprivate andhighly specializedtutor.Buttocompetencesheaddedlove,anditiswellknownthatthatkindofloveremovesobstaclesmoreeffectivelythanallthesciences.AttheendofthefirstschoolyearIwasawardedthefirstprizeinmyclass,a

smallhonor,ofcourse,butonewhichcountedforherandformeasthemodestsignofvictoryovermaterialthings.Therestwasgoingtobeeasy.Youwillexcusemeforthinkingmymotherexceptional.ButIdon’tbelieveit

willweakenmytributetohertosaythatthereareathousandotherwomenwiththecapacityforthesamegiftandthesameintelligencetowardablindchild.Toachieveittheyonlyneedtoknowthatadjustmentispossibleforthechildand,more than adjustment, keeping in stepwith the lives of other people. To gainconfidence,theyonlyneedtohearpeoplespeakoftenoftherichesofblindness.

AndthatiswhyIamwillingtotellmystory,byfortuneahappyone.ThereisnothingIwantmorethannotbeinganexception.

MYMEMORIES OF THAT FIRST YEAR of school are of a shipwithmyself on theforecastle. I must explain that since the accident imagination had become apassionwithme.Iwasreally livingtwiceover:once incontactwith thesmallobjectsandthesmalleventsofmyeverydaylife,andthenasecondtimeintheworld of fantasy. The second life was made of the same stuff, but bigger,brightlycolored, turned intopicturesand inharmonywith thewholeuniverse.There there was a stream of light and joy. I had found where it flowed andstayedclosetoit,walkingbesideitsbanks.Doorshadopenedinsidemeleadingintoaplaceofrefuge,acave,andeverythingthathappenedtomeenteredthere,echoedandwasreflectedathousandtimesoverbeforeitwasextinguished.Astomyvisionoftheship,itcametomequitesimplyfromatableandchair.

To do the same work as my classmates in school I needed more room. Mytypewriterwasbiggerthanapencil,andtheBraillebooksIusedtookupnearlytentimesasmuchspaceasordinarybooks.Thestandardclassroomdeskswerenot big enough forme, somy parents had brought to school a large table ofunfinishedwoodwithamplepigeonholes.This table stoodbeside theplatformwheretheteacher’sdeskwas,andasaresultitwasslightlyinfrontofthefirstrowofpupils’desks.ThatiswhereIgotthehappyillusionoftheship.AllyearIheard the crew behind me working, giving the password, swearing, shufflingalongthedeckwiththeirfeet,andobeyingthecaptain’sordersaswellastheycould.Ourteacherthatyearwasaslow-moving,gentlemanwhohadaneventemper

exceptforrareoutburstsofangeratthestupidones.FromtheseoutburstsIfeltsecure,andset toworksystematically to learn thefoundationsofarithmetic. Itwas impossibleorverydifficultwithaBraille typewriter toarrangefiguresonthepaper in theorder theyneeded foraddition, subtraction,multiplicationanddivision.Sotheygavemeavulcaniteslatewithcube-shapedholesandasetofsteelcubes.Braillecharacterswerewritteninreliefonthesixfacesofthecubes.BecausethegraphicsofwritinginBraille,madeupofdots,aresimplerthanthewritingofsightedpeople,nomore thansixfaceswereneededtomakethe tenbasicfigures.Thesix,rotatedataninety-degreeangle,becamethefour,andthefourinitsturnthezero,thezeroeightandsobacktothesix.WiththehelpofthisdeviceIlearnedtocountasfastastheothers,andtheysoongotusedtothesoftmetallicclick—likethesoundofmarbles—whichtheyheardmemaking.But within a few months I found I could dispense with the cubes and the

holes.Tomakethemindwork,onlythemindisneeded.Ibegantovisualizeall

the processes in my head, except, of course, the ones which extended to anembarrassingnumberofdata.Havingagoodmemory,Ibecameextremelyadeptatmentalarithmetic,andthatinturnhelpeddevelopmymemory.Itistruethatblindnessconsiderablyincreasestheabilitytomemorize,andit

hastosincetheeyesarenolongertheretoreinsureandverify—anactivity,bytheway,towhichtheyaretoooftenlimitedandwhichconsumesalargepartoftheir energy. I remembered well, but above all I visualized. It was anenchantmenttowatchtheappearanceofallthenamesandfiguresonthescreeninsideme,andthentoseethescreenunfoldinglikeanendlessrolloffilm.Thisscreenwasnotlikeablackboard,rectangularorsquare,whichsoquickly

reachestheedgeofitsframeandhastogivewaytoauselesspieceofwalloradoorwhichloses itsmeaningassoonas it isclosed.MyscreenwasalwaysasbigasIneededittobe.Becauseitwasnowhereinspaceitwaseverywhereatthesametime,andtomanageitIonlyhadtocallout“Attention.”Thechalkontheinnerscreendidnotturntopowderlikeotherchalk.Itwasstrongerandmoresupple, being made of the substance called “spirit.” Let us not quibble overwords.Callitmatteroressence.Inanycaseitisarealityclosertousthanwordscan tell, a reality to be touched, manipulated and shaped. And when suchtreasures are unveiled how can a child fail to be consoled for the loss of hissight?OfcourseIrecognizedthatmysightedcompanionswerequickandprecisein

many gestures over which I hesitated. But as soon as it was a question ofintangibles,itwastheirturntohesitatelongerthanI.Theyhadtoturntheswitchtodarken theoutsideworld and light up theworldof themind.ThiswasonemoveIalmostneverhadtomake.Names, figures and objects in general did not appear onmy screenwithout

shape,nor just inblackandwhite,but inall thecolorsof the rainbow.Still, Ineverrememberconsciouslyencouragingthisphenomenon.Nothingenteredmymind without being bathed in a certain amount of light. To be more precise,everything from living creatures to ideas appeared to be carved out of theprimordiallight.Inafewmonthsmypersonalworldhadturnedintoapainter’sstudio.Iwasnotthemasteroftheseapparitions.Thenumberfivewasalwaysblack,

theletterLlightgreen,andkindlyfeelingasoftblue.TherewasnothingIcoulddo about it, and when I tried to change the color of a sign, the sign at oncecloudedover and then disappeared.A strange power, imagination! It certainlyfunctionedinmebutalsoinspiteofme.Thatsameyear,geographywasrevealedtomethroughreliefmapsofthefive

continents and the principal countries—mapsmagnificently published at the

endofthenineteenthcenturynearMulhouse,inwhatthenwasGermanAlsace.Naturally, thebroadoutlinesof theworldbecamefixedatonceontheinner

screen,andIonlyneededtocorrectthemandcompletethemasIlearned.Igotmybearingswithouttrouble.Apictureofthephysicalworld,itscoursesanditsbarriers, settled in, and that is why, from childhood, my sighted companionspreferred turning tomewhenwewerewalking aroundParis and had lost ourway.ThenI referred to the innerscreenandalmostalwaysfound thesolution.Today,whenIamridinginacar,Iamoftenfirsttotellthedriverwhatroutetotake.Ihardlyneedsaythatthefeatsofcarrierpigeonsfaroutdistancemyowncapacity,butstill,whattheydoseemstomequitenatural.Iknowmanyblindpeoplewhoareabletoreopenwithinthemselvesavenues

whichhavebeen closed to them in theworldoutside.Otherwisehowcanoneaccount for the fact that they can travel alone around a city they don’t knowwell,andmoreoftenwithoutlosingtheirwaythanpeoplewhosee?Afterall,isn’tittruethattherealitiesoftheinnerlifeseemlikemarvelsonly

becausewelivesofarawayfromthem?

BEFORELONGISHALLBEWRITINGaboutthefriendswhoinhabitedmychildhood,tellinghowIlivedwiththemandwhatmiseriestheysparedme.Butthisisnotyet the place for friendship. It is the place for the particular distress called“waiting.” Whether deliberately or not, blindness is not well received in theworld of peoplewho see. It is so little known and often so dreaded. For thatreasonblindnessalwaysstartsoutwithisolation.Ihaveknownsolitude,knownitwithallitsdemons.Butit isonlyfairtosaythatalongwithitsevilspiritsithassomethataregood.In the summer of 1933, a year after my accident, my parents took me to

Juvardeil for the holidays as usual. Juvardeilwas then and still is, despite theinvasionoftheautomobile,oneofthosesmallFrenchvillagesoffthemainroad,asmelancholyandmeditativeas theAngelus,hidden in themidstofhawthornhedgesandshrubsashighaswalls,andallspreadoutalongtheriver.The river is the Sarthe, slow and deep and silent, in the middle of wide

meadowswhich itcoverswithwaterat thefloodseason,boundedallalong itscoursebyanever-endingsheathofbristlingpoplars.Thestream is likeanoldladywhohasgrownsmilinganddiscreetwithage,whotolerateslifearoundherwithouttakingpartinit.Juvardeil is a very old village, already mentioned in the ninth-century

chroniclesunderthenameofGavardolium,whichwasundoubtedlythenameoftheinhabitantsofthatsmallprovince.Anotheretymology,suspectperhaps,butsopoeticthatIpreferittoalltheothers,attributesthenametotheLatinwords

juvareoculis,joyoftheeyes.Ofalltheplacesintheworld,JuvardeilisstilltheoneIlovebest.At the age of nine I had a freedom there which Paris could not give me.

Nothing in Juvardeilwas unfriendly. The boat-builder’s saw announced that Ihad left the river behind me. The blacksmith’s hammer cut the straight linebetween the river and the church in half. The sound of lowing toldme I hadarrivedat thegateof thegreatmeadowwhere thecowsgathered towatch thepeoplepassingby.Icouldgofrommygrandmother’shousetomygreat-aunt’sbymyself,withacaneinmyhand,withoutmeetinganythingmoreformidablethanthesnails.Thatyear thepublic school in thevillage,desertedduring theholidays,was

turned over to me. In other words, they left the doors open. The wide court,enclosedbywallsas it iseverywhere inFrance,andplantedwith linden trees,one of the classrooms and a storeroom belonged tome.When I think of it, Irealize this storeroom must have been just a room that was no longer used,possiblyanoldlaundry,atthefarendofthecourt,butshelteredevenfromthepeoplewho came inby themaindoor, and raised above the court by threeorfourstepsatmost.Butinthosedaysmyideaofthisroomwithaslopingceilingwasquitedifferent.Itwasprecious,secret,highup,andaltogetherfantastic.Youcan imaginewhatabigemptyroomwouldmean toablindchild,with

wallswhichwere dilapidated but flat andwith no beams to strike against, nohookstocatchon,andopenallacrossonesidetotherustlingofthewindintheleaves.Aslightoverhanggaveeverysoundtheresonanceofanarch.Therewasfreshstrawandsawdustonthefloor,andapileofsmalllogsinonecorner,someof them round, some forked and some triangular— fabulous for all kinds ofbuildinggames.Ispentendlesshoursinthestoreroomthatsummer.Iwasalmostalwaysalone

there,butthissolitudewasdenselypopulatedwithallkindsofshapesandwiththe inventions of a personage I had never known before:myself. Iwas on anisland,andoneatatimeIrelivedtheadventuresofRobinsonCrusoebeforehemetFriday.Iarrangedthelogsallacrosstheroomlikeaforest,likerocks,andIwentoffonvoyages.Sometimes,wrappedintheragsofhistorytheyhadgivenme at school, Imade the logs into armies.And in that case, obviously, IwasNapoleon.ThereisnouseaskingwhetherIbelievedinmyimaginarypersonage.Ihad

nothoughtofbelievingornotbelieving.Iwasinthestatethatallchildrenreachsoonerorlaterwhen,thankheaven,thereisnomorepastorfuture,nodreamorreality, but only themselves riding on life at a gallop. But in my storeroom,solitudewasaddedtodivineimagination,aplacewhere,foronce,Ihadnoone

andnothingtocontendwith,sincetheroomwasquiteemptyexceptforthelogs.Inside my body I had thousands of gestures which had been shut up there

throughtheyearinParis,alltheonesIhadhadtomakewithcarefulcalculationsince I was blind, the thousand indiscretions and adventures my body wasburstingwith.ItwassolongsinceIhadwantedtowhirlaround,topaddlewithmyarms, throwmyfeet in frontofme, falldown,getupagain,makeanuglyfaceorabeatificsmile,takedangerousobjectsinmyhandandnothearpeoplesayingIshouldhandlethemcarefully;andfinallytoexperimentwithspaceinalldirections.Iwantedtotryitoutinheightanddepth,inzigzags,towalkthroughitstraight,orstaggerthroughitlikeadrunk.AndafterafewminutesIreallyfeltdrunk.Iwishastoreroomlikeminecouldbegiventoallblindchildren,whetherin

theatticorinthebowelsofthehouse.Butanywayitshouldbeafreefieldfromwhichallthesharpcorners,thebumps,thetables,chairs,stools,washtubs,nailsand wires have been removed, especially those terrible wires; a place sweptclean of danger, as clean as emptiness,where all one’swishes can come truefromoneinstanttothenext.WiththelogsImadeplansforbattlesinthesawdust.Iwasdoingitbecauseof

Napoleonand inhishonor, andmore for loveofhim than for loveofbattles,sinceIwasnotparticularlyaggressive.Besides,therewasneveranyrealbattleexcept in words. The teacher I would one day become was already givinglectures.HowImadethestoreroomresoundwithmyvoice!Insteadofconqueringmy

enemies, which was too quick and seemed too crude, I applied myself toconvincingthem.Iexplainedinloudtonesthattheywerewrong,oratleastthatI wanted them to be. And since games like this are better when they last, Imanageditsothatmyenemiesshouldnotbepersuadedbymyfirstharangue.What blindness had to do with my games in the storeroom is not easily

explained.As amatter of fact, the gameswere quite ordinary, apart from theintoxication theymademe feel, a feelingmuchmore intense than pleasure. Itwasasifarenthadbeentorninthefabricofmylife,arentthroughwhichIsawendless possibilities, all surprising and all crowding upon each other as Iapproached.Imyselfwasintact,discoveringitwasenoughtothinkofthingstobringthemintobeing,enoughtowant themtolift thebanagainst them.Only,beingblind,Ihadtowantthemmoreintenselythanotherpeople.Lifedidnotfallonmyfaceascoolasrainorintomyhandsasroundasfruit,

butwasawaverisinginsideme.Icouldholditthereandcalmitdownorallowittoburstoutintotheworldoutside.Andwhatifmystoreroomasanine-year-oldmeansnothingtootherpeople?FormeitforetoldthethingsIshoulddolater

on,andspokealanguageIunderstoodbecauseitwasneitheritsownnorentirelymine.Whatitbroughtmewashappiness.Blindnessworkslikedope,afactwehavetoreckonwith.Idon’tbelievethere

is a blind man alive who has not felt the danger of intoxication. Like drugs,blindness heightens certain sensations, giving sudden and often disturbingsharpness to the senses of hearing and touch. But,most of all, like a drug, itdevelopsinnerasagainstouterexperience,andsometimestoexcess.Atsuchtimestheworldunfoldingbeforeablindpersonisperilous,becauseit

is more consoling than words, and has the kind of beauty found only in thepoemsorpicturesofartistswithhallucinations—artistslikePoe,VanGoghandRimbaud.I have known this bewitched world, and have often withdrawn there and

wrappedmyselfinitsdreams.Ihavedelightedinitsluster,itsmaternalwarmth,itslicenseanditsillusionoflife.But,thankheaven,Ididnotremainthere.Forthat is visceral life shut in upon itself, not truly the life of the spirit but itscaricature.Thereisnorealinnerlifeforamanorachildunlesshisrelationtorealthingsinsideandoutsidehimselfisatrueone.Livingentirelyturnedinononeselfisliketryingtoplayonaviolinwithslackenedstrings.LikealmostallblindpeopleIhavehadthistemptation.Butbygoodfortune

the temptationwasoffset by another, that of contendingwith things, or ratherloving them as they are, investigating the contours of objects and space, andmixingwithpeople.Thefactthatthereweremenintheworldwasmorevitaltomethananythingelse.Whateverputsablindchildintouchwithphysicalrealityisgood,especiallyif

ithastodowithhismovementsandhismuscles.IamnotagoodexampleofthisbecauseIneverlearnedtoswim,andthatwasamistake.Ineverconqueredmydislikeforcold,forwaterandallthesoftobstacleswhichaboundontheedgesofstreams.Butallthemorereasonforwantingblindpeopletoknowhowtoswim.And this shouldbe increasingly easynow that the swimmingpool is almost apart of the furnishings of the house.Fortunately,waterwas the only thing forwhichIfeltthiskindofdistaste.Thefirst thingmyparentsputinmygrandfather’sgardenatJuvardeilwasa

junglegym,and I seem tohavespentyearshanging from the ropes, the rings,climbing the rope ladder, turning somersaults on the trapeze. This was myfavoritespot in theholidays, theplacewhereI threwmydreamsoverboardbythehandful,andgotridofmyvapors.WhenIpulledmyselfupbythearmsonthe parallel bars, I changed course andmovedwith allmyweight towards airandsun.Thegymwasmuchmorethanexercise.Itwasamarriagewithspace.Besides,

Iwasneverafraidofit.FromthemomentwhenItookafirmholdonabarorarope I recaptured the freedom which others get from their eyes. The trapezeswungasIpushedit,butinalimitedrangewhereIhadonlymyselftoreckonwith. I felt more alive at some distance from the ground than level with it. Iseemedtogrowmoreknowing,andallsortsofshadowsweresweptaway.Ihadkeenersensesoftouch,hearingandsight.Isawtheroundedtopofthehundred-year-oldboxtreerightundermytoeseverytimetheswing,goingallout,mademe touch it. I saw the sky open up beyond the gardenwalls and drop steeplydowntotheriver.Icouldseeinalldirectionssitting,standing,curledup,hangingbymyknees

with my head down. It always ended with the marvelous sense of no longerbeingananimalstandinguplikeaman,butacircularbeing.Fromthe junglegymIventuredup into the trees,especially theapple trees,

which were low with many branches. My grandfather owned and tended anorchardontheedgeofthevillage.Iwouldgothereearlyinthemorningwithabook, climb up into one of the apple trees, sit down in the fork between twobranches, and begin to read. But every ten minutes I would stop reading toexplorehigherupinthetree.What about running? I couldn’t do without it, yet running by myself was

impossible.Ihadtofindateammatemyownage,andthiswaseasy.Peoplearewrongin thinking thatmostchildrenarenotobliging,anddon’t likeclutteringuptheirgameswithsomeonewhomadultscallaninvalid.Iassureyouthatforchildren there are no invalids. The bright boys hate the stupid ones, and theenterprisingrunfromthecowards.Itisassimpleasthat.Neithereyesnorlegshaveanythingtodowithit.NoboyinJuvardeileverrefusedmehishandorarm,orgaveitgrudgingly.

Sometimestheyevenbickeredtoseewhichoneshouldhavetherighttoholdmeby the shoulder and runwithme as fast as our legs could carry us, like gooddriverswhogetthemostoutoftheircars.Icertainlycoveredmuchmoregroundin races thanmost childrenwho see. Iwas guidedback and forth through therowsofvegetablesinthevillagegardens.Jumpingfromonelumpofearthtothenext, I crossed every newly plowed field, on forbidden ground. I climbedhundreds of hedges, scratched myself on the brambles, and landed in muddyditcheswithwateruptomythighs.Itriedeveryrascal’strick.Naturally, I was always harnessed to another boy, but the team ran so

smoothlythatforhoursneithercartnordriverknewwhichwasinthelead.ThatishowIcametoknowthecountrysidearoundJuvardeilaswellasany

peasantchild,andinSeptemberItookpartintheceremonywhichbelongstotheendofsummer—apple-picking.OrperhapsIshouldcallitpickingup,sinceit

meant finding fallen apples in the thick grass and filling the great willowhamperswiththem.Iwasmoreateasethanever,sinceIonlyhadtocrawl,huntthroughalltheholeswithmyhandsandtouchthingsnearby.Intheprocessmyfingersworkedlikesearchlights.AndinSeptemberthegroundwasripe,heavy,rottingandhadthepungenceofaliqueur.Thereweretheapplesandthehayricks.InthecountryinFrancehayispiled

up in the meadow before it is taken into the barns, and that makes for themaddestandmostfragrantdaysofthewholeyear.Forthoseenormousblocksofhay which they call the veilles in Anjou stand up in the fields like volcanicislands or disheveled pyramids. The peasants don’t like people to climb thesecliffs,forittakesonlytendeterminedurchinstopullthewholestructuredownin anhour.But theurchins, and Iwasnot the least of them,havemanyotherthingstothinkaboutthanthemanwhoownsthehay.Usually, a rope holds the rick together, making it into a solid block in the

middleofthefield.Bytakingholdoftheropeyoucanclimbtothetop,andthenanorgyofcommotionbegins—trampling,diving,shaking,withscratchesandcaresses,allinawhirlwindofaromaticdust.Idon’tthinkthegameforeshadowsanythinginreallife.Ifitdoesitcanonlybethefirstoutburstoflove.

THERE ISNOTA SINGLEONE ofmyvividmemorieswhich isnotboundupwithanotherhumanbeing.Butwhycomplainofthat?Inthenatureofthecaseablindman cannot carry anything through all byhimself.The time always comes, inworkorplay,whenheneedsthehand,shoulder,eyesorvoiceofanotherperson.Since there is no getting away from it, the question arises: Is the condition ahappyoranunhappyone?I hear blind people say this kind of dependence is their greatest affliction,

turningthemintopoorrelationsorhangers-on.Someofthemevenlookonthisdependenceasaddedpunishment,quiteunjust,andcall itacurse. I think theyare wrong in two ways. They are wrong for their own sakes because theytormentthemselveswithoutcause.Theyarewrongastheyfacelife,sincetheyaretheoneswhomakeamisfortuneofdependence.But can these sad blind point to a single individual anywherewho has not

been dependent, even with his eyes, not waiting for someone else, norsubservienttobetterorstrongermenoronesfaraway;notboundinonewayoranother to every living creature?Whatever the bond, be it hate, love, desire,power,weaknessorblindness—itispartofus,andloveisthesimplestwaytocopewithit.I have always enjoyed having someone nearme. Naturally, there are times

whenitisirritating,butonthewholeIcanthankmyblindnessforhavingforced

meintobodilycontactwithmyfellowmen,andformakingthisanexchangeofstrengthandjoymoreoftenthanoneoftorment.ThetormentIhaveexperiencedhasalmostalwaysbeeninsolitude.I cannot countmy childhood friends. They still crowd aroundme, but I no

longerknowjustwhotheyare.Theyhaveleftsomuchofthemselvesinme,andIsomuchofmyselfinthem.WhomshallIseeinthisplayofmirrors?Of course, there are the dead. I belonged to a generation decimated a few

years later in theSecondWorldWar.That iswhysomanyof thepeopleIamgoingtowriteaboutarenolongerliving.ButIdon’tbelieveweshouldmournthem.Theywouldnothavewantedthat,havingdiedbecausetheylovedlifetoomuch.MyfirstfriendwasatJuvardeil,andhisnamewasLeopold.WhenIfirstknew

himhewasalwaysalittletoobigforhisage,notverysteadyonhislonglegsasheflewinbigwobblyjumpsoverthestonyroads,makinganoisewithhisclogs.Iwasalwaysafraidhewasgoingtofalldown.Hisfather,afinecabinetmaker,diedwhen hewas still very small. Hismother ran the dry-goods store in thevillage. Leopold was a little deaf, or so everyone said because he made theteacher repeathisquestions inclass.Only Iknewhewasmuch lessdeaf thanpeople thought, for the things thatmadesenseorwerebeautifulheheardrightoff.Hehadawayofthrowinghisheadbacksuddenlyasiftosay:“Youdon’tneedtotalksoloud,Iheardyouperfectly.”He was a sort of peasant poet. People in the village snubbed him a little

becausehewashardofhearing,butmostlybecausetheysensedthathewasoutofplace.Andhewasoutofplaceinthevillage,perhapsevenintheworld.HeandIbecamegreatpalsbecauseeachofushadthesamescenesgoingon

inourheads.Icouldtellhimaboutlight,aboutsounds,thevoiceoftreesandtheweightof shadows.Theydidn’t surprisehimand, in return,hehadadifferentstory to tellmeeveryday. Italmostalwayshadsomething todowithflowers.Hesaidthatflowersweremadetosaveus.Buttosaveusfromwhat?AsIsaidbefore,Leopoldwasapoetandaromantic.InthecountryaroundJuvardeilweusedtovisitthehauntedcrossroadswhere

therewasacrucifixoraforkedtree,orwhereghostshadbeenseenonceuponatime,accordingtofolklorewhichwasasoldastheSartheitself.Wedidn’ttaketheghostsseriously,butweenjoyedtheirmystery.ThatlastyeartheonlythingLeopold liked was chrysanthemums. He planted them all over the place, andwhentheywerenottobeseenheimaginedthemanddescribedthem.ButmorethanthatLeopoldneverhadanycoarsethoughts.Heneverboasted

abouttossingupthegirls’skirtsorwatchingthembehindthehedges.Whenhespoke to themhewas awkward and respectful, soof course theymade funof

him.Hedidn’tcarebecausewhathelikedaboutgirlsweretheirwarmheartsandtheirsweetness.Indeed,hewasoutofplaceinthevillage.Onewinterdaywhenhewassixteen(IwasinParisandonlyheardaboutit)

Leopold died of a terrifying disease of the lungs. They told me he put up atremendousfight.Thatseemslikely,forhehadreallynothadenoughoflife.Hewasmyfirstfriend—oneofthedimmestandoneofthedearest.Butwhenoneis blind it is amazing howmany people of this sort one meets. Perhaps it isbecause they have the courage to reveal themselves to peoplewho cannot seethem.InJuvardeiltherewasalsopromiscuity,especiallyoutinthecountryonrainy

dayswhenpeople escaped to thebarns from thegarden and fields turned intoponds.Countryboyshavenomodestyandnoimmodesty.Withthemonelearnsabout lifemuch faster than in the city, where civilized people play hide-and-seek.Besides,tomyknowledgenomoralpreachmenthasevergotthebetterofthis

kind of natural physical contact between boys and boys and girls. At least itleadstotherealizationthatweareallonefleshandhavethesamefoolishdesiresandthesamelimitations; that therearenodifferencesbetweenusexcept thosewhichcomefromheartandspirit. Inotherwords,wecouldallbe thrownintothesamebasketandtossedlikeasaladwithoutlosingmuchofourdignity.And,forthatmatter,whatcouldablindchildlearnabouttheworldandother

peopleunlesslikethemhehadtherighttotouchandmeddlewiththemwithoutbeingpunished?Ifsomesightedpeopleareshockedbythisnotion,theyshouldstopandthinkwhattheireyesdoontheslyandoftenunconsciously,evenwhentheyarefullygrown.Besidethebrokenboards,theladders,thefirewoodandthepilesofhayinthe

barn there stood the “Little Republic.” That was the name of a cart whicheveryone knew. It belonged to my great-grandfather in 1870 when the ThirdRepublicwasproclaimed.Andsince thisparticularancestor,hardheadedashewas, had repudiated all the clerical and reactionary opinions of the rest of thefamily and shouted “Long live Gambetta, long live the Republic!” his two-wheeledcartwasasymboloftheevent,perpetuatingtheRevolution.Itstoodthereinthemiddleofthebarn,sotemptingwithitsshaftsstandingup

intheairlikearms.Inprinciplewehadnorighttotouchit,sinceitwasbeingpreservedformoreseriouswork.Butdisorderhasdemandsofitsown,andwesneaked off with the Little Republic. Sometimes there were two of us, andsometimesten,holdingonto theshaftsandpushing.WhentheLittleRepublicwasempty,itsoundedlikeastreamrushingoverthepebbles.Itdancedupanddown, fell into all the ruts and threatened to fall to pieces. Our fear of not

bringingithomeinonepiecemultipliedourpleasuretentimesover.Butwhen theLittleRepublicwas loaded it reallygave tongue. Inside itwe

heaped up apples,wood shavings,weeds picked up along theway or piles ofpebbles left on the roadside by the roadmender.Myplaymates putme to thetest.TheyweredrivingthecartwhileI,betweenthem,followedalong.Butfromtime to time they took the wrong turn deliberately. They started the LittleRepubliconashortcutorheadeditstraightforawall.Theysaidtheydidit tofind out howmuch I could see.Theyhardly ever got anywhere, for theLittleRepublic, in front ofme, toldme right away that itwas off its course, on thegrass,havingmadea ridiculous turn, thrownoutof lineas itcouldbeonlybymalicious design.Then I called out, protested, and stopped the cart.The boyswereallglad,becausetheyhadseenthatIwasoneofthem.IknowtheLittleRepublicwasstalwart,butIdon’tknowwhetheritsurvived.

Anyway I still think of it often and with tenderness. Perhaps as a goodrepublican,itknewthemottooftheRepublic.ItcertainlytaughtmeFraternity,alsoLibertyandEquality,andthefactthatifIreallywantedtoIcouldgoalongwiththeothers,forbetterorworse.

[4]

RUNNINGMATESANDTEACHERS

INPARIS,BLINDNESSWASHARDERTOBEAR.Thestreetwasalabyrinthofnoises.Eachsound,repeatedmanytimesbythewallsofthehouses,theawningsofthestores, thegrillsover the sewers, thedensemassof the trucks, the scaffoldingand the lampposts, created false images. I could no longer rely onmy senses.People did not stay on the sidewalks.They cut theirway through the crowds,with shoulders slumped forward and vacant eyes. Like all cities, Paris was aschoolforselfishness.IntheChampdeMars,inthegardenIknewasalittlechild,Iheardmothers

whispering to their sons: “Don’t playwith him.Can’t you see he is blind?” Ican’t count the number of times I have heard sentences like these.Theywentthroughmelikeanelectricshock.Ihavenointentionofputtingstupidityandmaliceontrial.Theywerejudged

alongtimeago.ButIshouldliketosaythatthosesulky,ill-temperedmothers,sickenedbyfear,endedbydoingmeaservice.Theymaynothaveknownhowto defend their children, but at least they succeeded in defending me againstthem.Theparentsofablindchildhavelittleneedtoworryaboutthekindofpeople

he chooses for friends. Thoughtless children, who are badly brought up, takegood care not to get involvedwith a blind person. They prefer theirmothers’skirts,andtakenochances.Until Iwas fifteen,whenadult lifebeganwith its unavoidable exchanges, I

wasinapositiontoassociateonlywithgoodchildren,weakonesorstrongones,butgoodchildren,preparedifnottogiveatleasttolendwhattheyhad.Intheneighborhoodschooltheyhadtofindaguideforme,aboywillingto

comeformeatmytable,takemedownstairsassoonasthebellrang,andevenstaywithmeduringrecess.AboycalledBaconvolunteeredhisservices.Whatagoodfellow!Anoutcastforallthat,forhewasalwaysatthebottomofhisclass.

Nomatterhowmuchhetried,andhedidtryhardandpatiently,hecouldneverfind a single boy less bright than he was. As I remember it, the head of theschoolwasscornfulandmadefunofhiminthepresenceoftheothers.ButasfarasIwasconcernedtheonlyeffectofthisinjusticewastoendearhim.ThewretchedBaconhadamotherwhowasafamouscharacterintheChamp

deMars.All day long shedroveher troopof small donkeys, and the childrenwhocametothegardencouldrideonthemforafewpennies.BecauseIwasthefriendandalmosttheonlyfriendofherboy,thefatladywiththebassvoiceletmerideherdonkeysfornothing.Inplaceof aquickmindBaconhad aheart of gold.He spent so little time

thinkingabouthimself thathe thoughtofothers instead,andknewmoreaboutthemthanthebrighteststudentsintheclass.Itoldhimstorieswhichenthralledhim,probablybecausetheothersnevertoldhimany.HelovedmesomuchthatI thinkhewouldhavegone throughhellfireformysake.Hewas thefirstofalongseriesoffriendswhomheavenhasthrowninmyway,simpleandcrudeifyouwill,butinwhommyblindnessarousedanirresistiblefeelingoftenderness.Thisallianceisasoldas theearth.In thetalesofnursesandinpopularsongs,thereisalwaysthenever-endingbrotherhoodofidiotsandblindpeople.Andlettherebenomistake,Isaythiswithoutmaliceorcontempt.Still,manyyearswentbybeforeBaconhadasuccessor,forinthemeantimeI

hadgatheredaroundmeboysofquiteadifferentkind.Childrenaremuchmorereadytochangetheirenvironmentthanadults.Theyhaven’thadtimetobesmugabout the one they already know. To tell the truth, what embarrasses anddepresses them is the fact that grownups, and their parentsmost of all, neverchange,believingthis,criticizingthat,callingthetabletableandmoneymoney,repeatingthesamephrasesandalwaysforgettingtheheartofthematter:thattheworldisdouble,triple,countlessandforevernew.Myrealfriendsalwaysbelongedtothatspecialraceofchildren,theseekers,

thetirelessones,theonestheywillcallenthusiastsasyoungmen.Whenpeoplemade friends with me, something rather astonishing happened to them. Theywereno longer satisfiedwith thekindof truth theywereaccustomed to.Theyhadtotakeonsomeofmywaysoflookingatthings,wayswhichwerealmostalwaysnew to them. Itwasnothourswe spent comparingourworlds, amongcompanions, but days.We took a real inventory, and I remember our surpriseand our satisfaction every time we found out that there was a connection, abridgebetweenthesetwoworlds.Itwassoeasyforustobecomeidentifiedwitheachother.Atouragewordsmadenotroublebecausetheywereusedwithsuchabandon,tobesurethateverythinggotsaid.MyrealfriendsdidnotappearuntilafterIbegangoingtothelycée.Butthere

wasnot oneof them, even in the first year,whowasnot drawn tomeby thedifference between us. Thatwas even the casewith Jean, and I shall soon betalkingabouthim.ForthedreamersIhadabagfullofdreams,somanyweforgottimeandeven

rain, and camehome coveredwithmud.For the braggarts I savedup a lot ofthings toboast about. Ifyouhavean imagination it is there tobeused, sowewouldfightduelsformorethananhour,withtallstoriesforswords.The gentle ones were sorry for me to begin with (they thought I must be

unhappy since I couldn’t see), but when they knewme better they no longerpitiedme.Bythattimeitwastoolatetogoaway,foralreadywewerepals.Forthe tough ones, the ones determined to show their strength, I was the idealprotégé.Ineededtheirprotectionbutdidnotaskforit.Theycamearoundinahurry.I can still see one of them, Jean-Pierre, in my first year at the lycée. But

mostlyIrememberhiscoarsewoolsweaterandhisbigshoulderswhichseemedtomesuperhuman.Jean-PierrehadtakenitintohisheadtoseethatImadegood.Before,betweenandafterclasseshe ledmearoundtheschoolor, Imightsay,wavedmelikeaflag.Hemadealltheboysinvitemetojointheirgames,andtheones who refused never tried it again. He taught me to run right behind himholdingontohisneck.Hesaidthatwasthebestway.With Jean-Pierre ahead of me, there were no more dangers. If something

unexpectedcameup,hetookitallonhimself.Healmostthankedmeforlettinghimhurthimself.Everyday,heshowedmeoffinthegym,theinfirmaryandthekitchen.Andlastofallwehadtomakeourregularvisit totheconcierge,whowasloudinsupportofJean-Pierre.To the people who think I am seeing my childhood through rose-colored

glasses,Isaythatisonlybecauseoftheirprejudiceagainstchildhood.Ofcoursetherearebadchildren,andIhavebeenexposedtothem.SometimesIhavelostafewfeathersandcomebackwoundedinmyself-esteem.ButmoreoftenthannotthereweretheJean-Pierres.IsupposethatnorealpoethaseverhadthemaneoftherealPegasusinhishands.Still,attheageoften,whenIwasholdingontothe neck of Jean-Pierre, I was just such a poet. And I promise you I neverdoubtedit.

IT IS OFTEN HARD to persuade individuals, but it is impossible to persuadeorganizations,andthebestthingtodoistoacceptthefact.Whathopeistherethataschool,acommittee,anadministrationordepartment,agroupentrenchedinroutine,willlookwithfavoronexceptions?Ifyouareblindyouareboundtobe an exception, because you are not just like other people, and because you

belongtoaminority,thoughfortunatelyasmallone.IhadachancetoobservethisagainwhenIwasreadytoenterthelycéeatthe

age of ten. I was admitted, but in the same way as two years earlier in theelementary school, on probation. They agreed to keepme if at the end of sixmonths or a year I had demonstrated that I would not throw the train off thetrack.InOctober1934,IwasinmyfirstyearattheLycéeMontaigne,abuildingoppositetheLuxembourgGardens.OnceIhadpassedbeyondtheadministrationand the door of the school, happily I had only individual men and notcommitteestodealwith.OfthemanyteachersIknew,firstatMontaigneandthenatLouis-le-Grand,

not one ever opposed my being there, and many encouraged it beyond thedictates of conscience in their profession. If I mention the teacher of naturalhistorywho,exasperatedbytheclickingofmytypewriter,helditunderrunningwater togetbackatme,Ishouldaddthathehadtobeplacedinaninstitutionthreemonthslaterbecauseofmentalillness.InsevenyearsatthelycéeIneverreallyhadany injustice tobear. Itwouldbe fairer to say that Iwasput in therankswithalltherest,accepted,encouraged,evenhonored.From this timeon the storyofmy life is so likeotherpeople’s that it often

becomesconfusedwith them.Andsince thestudiesofayoungParisian in thesecondquarterofthetwentiethcenturyholdnomysteries,forthefirsttimeIfindIhavetochoose.Mychosensubjectisblindness,andwhatcanbeaccomplishedwithit.AlltheotherdetailsIshallpassby.Iwasboredatthelycée,boredalmostallthetime,andthatwascertainlynot

becauseofmycompanionsormyteachers,butinspiteofthem.TheboredomIamtalkingaboutwasnottheimpatienceofachildwhowantstoplayinsteadofworking (even though, naturally, I liked to play) nor thewindiness of amindwhichlistensforfiveminutes,goeswoolgathering,andthenlistensagain.Thisprocess upsets conscientious children to the point of nausea, and throws thosewhoarelesstenseintototalmentalsleep.Irarelyfellasleepinclass,atleastnomoreoftenthanmyneighbors.Ihadastrongintellectualcuriosity.MathematicsI did find dull, but Latin, Greek and German interested me, and literature,history, geography and thenatural sciencesmademe feel as if Iwere visitingmagic gardens. Lessons and homework, instead of tiring me, delighted me. Idrankfromthespringsofknowledgeasfromafountain.ButallthesameIwasboredatschool.Assoonastheclassroomdoorclosed,thesmelloftheroomwenttomyhead.

Itwasnotthatmyclassmatesweredirty,buteachofthemhadabody,andfortybodiesshutupinasmallspaceweretoomany.Itwaslikestandingattheedgeofastagnantmarsh.Butwhyshoulditbeso?

IHAVEALREADYSAID that forblindpeople there issucha thingasmoralodor,andIthinkthatwasthecaseatschool.Agroupofhumanbeingswhostayinoneroombycompulsion—orbecauseofsocialobligationwhichcomestothesamething—beginstosmell.Thatisliterallythecase,andwithchildrenithappenseven faster. Just think howmuch suppressed anger, humiliated independence,frustrated vagrancy and impotent curiosity can be accumulated by forty boysbetweentheagesoftenandfourteen!Sothatwas thesourceof theunpleasantodorandthesmokewhich,forme,

was like a physical presence in class.What I saw therewas confusion, colorswerefadedandevendirty.Theblackboardwasblack, thefloorwasblack, thetableswereblackandsowerethebooks.Eventheteacher,intermsoflight,wasnomorethangray.Tobeotherwisehehadtoberemarkable,notonlyforwhatheknew(learninginthosedaysgavemelittlelight)butremarkableasapersonaswell.Boredom bound and gagged all my senses. Even sounds in class lost their

volumeandtheirdepthandwentlifeless.Everybitofmypassionforlivingwasneededtostandthetest.AtbottomImusthavelackeddiscipline,notmakingupmymindtorebel,butstillanincorrigibleindividualist.Thatwascertainlypartofmymakeup,butthentootherewasblindnessanditsspecialworld,towhichschoolwasdoingviolence.Ihadtowaityears,atleastuntiladolescence,toquietthescandalwhichstartedinsidemyheadatschool.IdoubtwhetherIhavemadepeacewithitevennow.I couldn’t understandwhy the teachers never talked about the life goingon

inside them or inside us. They talked in great detail about the origin ofmountains,theassassinationofJuliusCaesar,thepropertiesoftriangles,thewaybeetles reproduce and how often, and the combustion of carbon dioxide.Sometimestheyeventalkedaboutmen,butonlyaspersonages.Therewerethepersonages of ancient history, those of the Renaissance and of Molière’scomedies, or a personage stranger than all the others, the one they called“individual”or “citizen,”ofwhom Ineverhad the slightest conception.Therewasneveranytalkofrealpeopleliketheteacherorourselves.Asforthesubjectofallsubjects,thefactthattheworldisnotjustoutsideus

butalsowithin,thiswasentirelylacking.Iunderstoodthattheteachercouldnotordidnotwishtotalkaboutwhatwasgoingoninsidehim.Thatwashisaffair,andafterallIwasnotanxiousmyselftotalkaboutwhatwentoninme.Buttheinner life was so much more than a personal thing. There were a thousanddesiresandgoalsmycompanionssharedwithme,andIknewit.Toaccumulateknowledgewasgoodandbeautiful,but thereasonformen toacquire itwouldhavebeenmoremeaningful,andnoonespokeofthat.

I could not help thinking that in thewhole business someonewas cheatingsomewhere. I felt I had to defendmyself, and I did so bymobilizing all theimagesofmyinnerworld,alltheonesboundupwithlivingcreaturesorlivingthings.Sittingonmydarkchair in frontofmysickening table,under thegraydownpourof learning, I setmyself toweavingakindof cocoon.Still,while Iwas a good boy Iwas sly, andmanaged it so that no onewould guess Iwashostile. This interior world of mine was so important to me that I wasdeterminedtoprotectitfromshipwreck,andtorescueitIneverstoppedmakingconcessions to the public, to books, to my parents and teachers. I owe mybrillianceasastudenttothisrescueoperation.InordertobeleftinpeaceIundertooktolearneverythingtheywantedmeto,

Latin,entomology,geometryandthehistoryoftheChaldeans.IlearnedtotypeonanordinarytypewritersoIcouldhandmyhomeworkdirectlytotheteachersliketheothers.EverydayIcarriedmyBrailletypewritertoschool,andputitona felt cushion to deaden the sound, and then I took my notes. I listened,responded,listened,butwasneverinitheartandsoul.AsaboyIwascutintwo.Iwasthereandelsewhere,alwaysgoingandcomingbetweentheimportantandthemeaningless.Nowthattheexperienceisbehindme—theboredomthickasoil,themoral

curvaturewhichlastedforyears—IcanseethatIowethemsomething,asthesignthatsomevitalspiritinmerefusedtoturnitsbackonchildhood,andwouldneveradmitthattruthwasready-made.Therewasnogoingbackonit.IwouldneverrelinquishthesenseofwonderIfeltwhenIwentblind.Eveniftherewerenotabookintheworldtorecordit,Ishouldstillfeelit.

WHATEVERTHEDRAWBACKS,itwasinschoolthatImetmyfirstallies:thepoetsand the gods. I found them in the dust of books and before me they openedavenueswhichwerebroadandbright.Theyseemedtobesmilingonmeandtoldmethatallwasnotlost.Itismorethanlikelythathumanisticstudieswilldisappearbeforelong.Butin

1935inalycéeinParistheywerestillsolidlyentrenched.Ourworkwasdividedinto two approximately equal parts: the world of today and the world ofyesterday, the dreams of the ancients and the dreams ofmodernman. I can’tbelievethatwasabadthing.Atleastwewerenot indangeroffallingintotheabsurdity, so commonnowadays, of confusing the era ofSputniks andPolarisrocketswiththeeraofGenesis.For hours on endwewere compelled to consortwith personages or, if you

prefer,withsupernaturalbeings,withJupiterandVenus,andwiththemermaidsand the elves; and then again with Jupiter, Prometheus, Vulcan, Apollo— a

wasteof time in termsofbookkeeping,a realbloodlettingof learningand, forpracticalpurposes,entirelyfoolish.Foolishitmayhavebeen,butwhocanproveit?AsfarasIamconcernedIcanassureyouthatitwasahappyfolly.At all events, from1934 to1939my taskas a studentwas togather in and

makeaharmonioushouseholdofpeoplebelongingtocategoriesasdifferentasNewtonandMinerva,FranklinD.Roosevelt,LéonBlum,AdolfHitler,HerculesandNeptune.Theremarkablethingwasthatthisoddmixturesomehowresultedinalittlemorelight.Imyselfcouldseemoreclearlyandknewmoreaboutmyself, for insideme

alsotheuniverseexistednotjust intwodimensionsbutinthree.Itrevolvedinthepresentbutalsointhepast,revealingitselfinthevisibleandtheinvisible,inthingswecanweighandinotherswecannotweigh;inthingswhichbearanamewhichonecanstudy in theirelementsorcreate,andnot less in theprocessofchange.Therewasavastagitationinsidemyhead,acontinuousfermentation, likea

numberofliquidspouredintothesamevesselandshakenup,butstilllyingoneontopofanotherinneatlyseparatedlayers.ItwasAdolfHitlerwhofelltothebottomandApollowhorosetothetop.Everything I learned from Greek mythology, and through its long line of

inheritancefromHomertoGiraudouxbywayofRacine,seemedclear.Yetthiswas the kind of evidence I had the hardest time explaining, especiallywhen Ihad towritea theme.TheGreekgodspleasedmeandwereeven important tome.Theirwayofbehavingwasalmostalwayslikeaburlesque,andshocking.IrememberthatwhenIwastwelve,theinfidelitiesofJupitertoJunonearlymademehatehim.Icompletelydisapprovedofhimbutstill,behindthoseintimaciesof thebedchamberandall the inanequarrels, thegods tookonsubstance.Andwhat they conveyed coincided almost exactly with what I was experiencingmyself. Minerva, for instance, was wisdom, Venus beauty, Apollo light andJupiterlightning,force,radiance,protection.Formypart,Iknewverywellthatthese things existed, were notmerely puppets orwords, not just occasions ofmisunderstandingintheLatin.The way adults said “this is beautiful,” “that is reasonable” annoyed me,

because I could see that, for them, “this” and “that” counted far more than“beautiful”or“reasonable.”Theywereconcernedonlywiththingstheyneededright away, with things they used. I was not anxious to make use of things,anywaynotyet.Ijustwantedtolookatthem.IlikedApollobetterthanalltherest.Ihaddefinitereasonsformypreference,

becauseApollowastheonlyonethebookstalkedaboutforwhomlightwasasimportantasitwasforme.Besides,theparticularresponsibilityofthisgreatgod

was thepartof light I knew tobeessential—namely its source.Hewas lessconcernedwiththewaylightstrikesagainstobjectsallovertheplanet(thiswasgood enough for the science of optics) thanwith its birth and rebirth, and themystery which made it flow through everything inexhaustibly. Later on Iunderstood thatApollowasnot theonlyonenor even thebest, that Jesushadconsidered light essential, and that it was one of the vital elements in theChristianmystique.ButwhenIwaseleven,Apollowastheonewhospoketomemostclearly.And then therewere the poets, those unbelievable people so different from

othermen,whotoldanyonewhowouldlistenthatawishismoreimportantthanafortune,andthatadreamcanweighmorethanironorsteel.Whatnervetheyhad, those poets, but how right theywere! Everything, they said, comes frominsideus,passesthroughthingsoutsideandthengoesbackin.Andthattothemisthemeaningoflife,feeling,understanding,love.Most of the time the poets were obscure— too much so for my taste—

because of the wretched language they used, language which rose and fellendlessly,heldyoususpendedto thepointwhere,at theendofafewminutes,youcouldnolongerhearthem;alanguagewhichshimmered,boundedfromoneendoftheuniversetotheother,calledattentiontosomething,thenimmediatelyreplaced it by its opposite. Sometimes I suspected the poets of only addingfruitlesscomplexitiestotheirlives.Butallthesametheyknewagreatdeal.Speakingof complexity, threeor fouryears later itwasmy turn tobeat the

record.WhenIwasabout fifteenIwrotepoemsasstormyandobscureasanyyoucanimagine.Idescribedgardensandfantasticgrottoes.Imadeallthewordsin thedictionaryknock their heads together, all the stars in the firmament runintoeachother,asIfeelsureeverymanworthhissaltmusthavedoneatsometimeinhislife.But the strange thing is that today, when I have become much more

reasonable and more prudent, I often feel an unconquerable desire for thedisorder of an earlier day as I have described it. Granted it was a mass ofconfusion,butatbottomluminousandcontainingmoregermsoflifewithinthespaceofasingleminutethanthereareinmyhappierdaysinthepresent.At the lycée, when a friend, one of the “practical ones,” asked one of us

“visionaries”what a certainverse inVirgilorVictorHugomeant,wehad theanswer ready-made. “Itmeanswhat itmeans, and somethingmore!Can’t yousee?” Most of the time he did not see, but he had something with which toconsolehimself.Hecouldalwaystreatusasfools.

AVERYSHORTTIMEafterIwentblindIforgotthefacesofmymotherandfather

andthefacesofmostofthepeopleIloved.FromtimetotimeIrememberedaface,but itwasalwaysthatofapersonIdidnotcareabout.Whydidmemoryworkthatway?Itwasalmostasifaffectionwerenotcompatiblewithit.Could itbe thataffection,or love,putsussoclose topeople thatweareno

longer able to evoke their image? Perhapswe never see thosewe love, nevercompletely, justbecausewe love them. In theabsenceof their faces Ihad thevoicesofmyparentseverpresentinmyears,andsincetheaccidenttheshapeofpeople and their appearance still concernedme, but in a differentway.All atonceIstoppedcaringwhetherpeopleweredarkorfair,withblueeyesorgreen.I felt that sighted people spent too much time observing these empty things.Every cliché of colloquial talk, “he inspires confidence,” “he is well broughtup,”seemedtomesuperficial,thefrothbutnotthedrinkitself.Formypart Ihadan ideaofpeople, an image,butnot the sameas theone

seenbytheworldatlarge.OftenIsawtheminawaydiametricallyopposedtothatofothers.ThefurtiveboyIsawasshy,theonetheycalledlazyasstrugglingalldaylonginimaginationwithanardorwhichwastheoppositeoflaziness.Totell the truth, my opinions of people had become so different that I oftendistrustedthem.IendedbyfeelingthatIwastheonewhowasstrange.Frankly,hair,eyes,mouth,thenecktie,theringsonfingersmatteredverylittle

tome.Inolongereventhoughtaboutthem.Peoplenolongerseemedtopossessthem. Sometimes in my mind men and women appeared without heads orfingers. Then again the lady in the armchair suddenly rose before me in herbracelet,turnedintothebraceletitself.Therewerepeoplewhoseteethseemedtofill their whole faces, and others so harmonious they seemed to be made ofmusic.But inrealitynoneof thesesights ismadetobedescribed.Theyaresomobile,somuchalivethattheydefywords.Peoplewerenotatallas theyweresaid tobe,andnever thesameformore

thantwominutesatastretch.Somewere,ofcourse,butthatwasabadsign,asign that theydidnotwant tounderstandorbealive, that theyweresomehowcaught in theglueof some indecentpassion.Thatkindof thing I could see inthemrightaway,because,nothavingtheirfacesbeforemyeyes,Icaughtthemoff guard. People are not accustomed to this, for they only dress up for thosewhoarelookingatthem.Iheardmyparents’voicesagainstmyearorinsidemyheart,whereyouwill,

but very close. And all the other voices followed the same course. It iscomparativelyeasytoprotectourselvesfromafacewedislike;sufficienttokeepitatadistance,toleaveitintheworldoutside.Butonlytrythesamethingwithvoices,youwillnevermanageit!Thehumanvoice forces itsway intous. It is really insideourselves thatwe

hear it. To hear it properly wemust allow it to vibrate in our heads and ourchests,inourthroatsasif,forthemoment,itreallybelongedtous.Thatissurelythereasonwhyvoicesneverdeceiveus.I no longer saw faces, and knew in all probability I should go through life

without seeing them.Sometimes I shouldhave liked to touch themwhen theyseemedtomebeautiful.Butsocietyiscarefultobansuchgestures.Asaruleitforbidsanymovewhichmightbringhumanbeingsclosertoeachother.Indoingso,societybelievesitisactingforthebest,defendingusagainsttheassaultsofimmodestyandviolence.Perhapswithgoodreasonformenareoftenbeasts.Buthow could a blind child recognize the danger? For him such bans wereimpossibletoexplain.Nevertheless,Imadethemostofvoices,inadomainwhichsocietyhasnever

intrudedupon.Itisstrangethatwhenlawsmenmakearesoticklishinmattersconcerning the body, they never set limits to nakedness or contact by voice.Evidently they leaveoutof account the fact that thevoicecango further thanhandsoreyesinlicitorillicittouch.Furthermore,amanwhospeaksdoesnotrealizethatheisbetrayinghimself.

Whenpeople addressedme, ablind child, theywerenotonguard.Theywerepersuaded that I heard thewords theywere saying, and understoodwhat theymeant. They never suspected that I could read their voices like a book. Forexample,theteacherofmathematicscameintotheclassroom,clappedhishandsandboldlybeganhislecture.Hewaslucidthatday,asheusuallywas,perhapsmore interesting thanever, a little too interesting.Hisvoice, insteadof fallingintoplaceattheendofthesentence,asitshouldhave,goingatoneortwodownthescale,hungintheair,abitsharp.Itwasasthoughtheteacherwantedtohidesomething that day, put a good face on it before an unknown audience, provethathewasnotgivingin,thathewouldcarryontotheendbecausehehadto.Meanwhile, accustomed to the cadenceof his sentences falling as regularly asthe beat of a metronome, I listened attentively, and was distressed on hisaccount. I wanted to help, but that seemed foolish for I had no reason forthinking him unhappy. All the same he was unhappy, bitterly unhappy. Theterrible “intelligence”of gossip toldus aweek later that hiswife had just lefthim.I ended by reading somany things into voiceswithoutwanting to,without

even thinking about it, that voices concerned me more than the words theyspoke. Sometimes, forminutes at a time in class, I heard nothing, neither theteacher’squestionsnor theanswersofmycomrades. Iwas toomuchabsorbedby the images that their voiceswere parading throughmy head.All themoresincetheseimageshalfthetimecontradicted,andflagrantly,theappearanceof

things. For instance, the student named Pacot had just been given 100 by theteacher of history. I was astonished, because Pacot’s voice had informedme,beyondtheshadowofadoubt, thathehadunderstoodnothing.Hehadrecitedthelesson,butonlywithhislips.Hisvoicesoundedlikeanemptyrattle,withnosubstanceinthesound.What voices taught me they taught me almost at once. There were some

physical factorswhich threwmeoff—boyswhobreathedbadly,who shouldhave been operated on for tonsils or adenoids, and whose voices remainedblanketedincloud.Somecouldnevermusteranythingbutaridiculousfalsettowhichmadeyouthinkatfirst theywerecowards.Thentherewerethenervousones, the timid, who only used their voices at the wrong moment, and madethemselvesassmallaspossibleunder themumbling.But if Iwasdeceivedbythem,itwasneverforlong.A beautiful voice (and beautiful means a great deal in this context, for it

means that the man who has such a voice is beautiful himself) remains sothroughcoughingandstammering.Anuglyvoice,onthecontrary,canbecomesoft, scented,humming, singing like the flute.But tonopurpose. It staysuglyjustthesame.How should I explain to other people that all my feelings toward them,

feelingsofsympathyorantipathy,cametomefromtheirvoices?Itriedtotellafewpeopleitwasso,thattheycoulddonothingaboutitandneithercouldI.ButsoonIhadtostopbecauseitwasclearthattheideawasfrighteningtothem.Sotherewasamoralmusic.Ourappetites,ourhumors,oursecretvices,even

our best-guarded thoughts were translated into the sounds of our voices, intotones, inflections or rhythms.Three or four notes too close to each other in asentence announced anger, even if nothingmade it visible to the eye. As forhypocrites, theywere recognizable immediately.Theirvoiceswere tense,withsmall abrupt intervalsbetween sounds, as though the speakerweredeterminednevertolethisvoicegoitsownway.Later people spoke to me of a new science, the science of voices or

phonology, stimulated by developments in radio and methods of indirectpersuasionused inadvertising.Would sucha sciencebepossible?Surely.Butdesirable? I am afraid not, for if the time should ever comewhen greedy andunscrupulousmenmasteredtheartofthehumanvoice,knewhowtodecipheritandmodulateitatwill,allthatisleftoflibertywouldbelost.Suchmenwouldhave their handon thehidden tiller.Theywouldbe like a latter-dayOrpheus,charming the beasts and making the stones come to life. But remember thatOrpheushadtherighttohissecretonlyaslongasherefrainedfromabusingit.

[5]

MYFRIENDJEAN

FORSOMETIMEsinceIhavebeentalkingtoyou,IhavenotbeenaloneforJeanhas joinedus.Youcouldnothaveknownit,buthe is there ineverythingIdoandsay.IfIwerenotafraidofbeingneedlesslyobscure,forthenineyearsofmylifewhichlieaheadIshouldneversay“I”but“we.”Inmy first year at the lycée, in almost allmy classes Jean sat at the table

behindme.Hechosethisplacehimself.Hedidn’twanttoleaveme,buthehadnottoldmeso.Formypart,Ialwayswantedtoturnaroundandhearhisvoicecloser by— itwas awise voice, brighter than all the others, and itmademehappy.Wewerenotyet intimates,anddidn’tdaresuggest it toeachother.Toward

theendoftheschoolyear,hismothercametoaskmineifhecouldcomehomewithmeeveryevening,toreadmethebooksIneededandworkwithme.Toourdelight it came about right away. But who could have guessed then that thisgrowing friendshipwould end in tragedy?Neither he nor I, I assure you.Wewerechildrenandknewonlythatwelovedeachother.Jeanwasthesonofanarchitect,ahappymanandagoodonewhowastodie

of a heart attack four years later. His mother had been a painter. She wasimaginativeandgentleandunbelievablyrespectfulofotherpeople.AttheageofelevenJeanwasmoreinnocentthananyofmycompanions.He

knewnothingabout life,andat the timedidn’twantme to teachhimabout it.Withhimitwaspartlymodestyandpartly thesense that thingscomeabout intheirowntime.Hekepttellingmethathecouldwait.In everything hewas slower than Iwas. Sometimes hismovementswere a

littleheavy;heeitherboredownorfondled.Whenheshookyourhand,heshookit too hard and too long. It almost hurt. He had the voice of an angeliccountertenor.Tillhewas fourteen, itmadehimveryanxious, forhewonderedwhetherhewasevergoingtospeaklikeaman.Thenintwoweeksinthespring

of1938hisvoicefellthreeoctaves,andturnedintoanobleandprotectivebass.To protect: the word expresses all the desires of which Jean was capable.

Lateron,whenwehadbothlearnedaboutintrospection,hetoldmehowgladhewas tobeweak,since thatwouldalwayskeephimfromabusingotherpeople.But was he really weak? As far as the teachers were concerned, he was.Although he was very intelligent, the rhythm of his mind was slow and hisspeechgrave.Theyaccusedhimofbeingtoophlegmatic.Hisfacealwaysworeaslightlysurprisedexpressionwhichstupidpeoplemistookforirony.Jeanenteredlifebyalldoorsatthesametime:throughstudies, imagination,

affectionandasortofcommunionwhichcanonlybecomparedtothespiritualintimacy ofmarriage— suchmarriage as one rarely sees.Hewas serious, hewasgrave.Otherwordsarereallyneededtoexpressit,wordslikenobilityandmajesty, if only you could strip themof their stiffness and solemnity.Hewasmoreserious than I, lessopen toall the folliesof instinct, and in these things,towardme,heactedasabrake.Wewerebothhard-workingboys,forbookshadcaughtusintheirtrap.The

best present I ever gave Jean (or so he said) was a copy of Pelleas andMelisandebyMaeterlinck.Weworkedandwedreamed.Forourtwobodieswehadonlyonehead.Hisbodygrewmuchfasterthanmine,sothateveryyearhishandhadtodrop

farther to my shoulder. He held me by the shoulder only, and heaven is mywitnessthatheheldmetight!Atsixteen,hewaseightinchestallerthanI,agreatstrappingfellow,butthinandmoreandmoreserious.Wehadbeentogetheratthelycéefromthebeginning.Thatwasthefirstofthe

sevenyearswhenwewereneverseparatedformorethanforty-eighthours.Andafterthesevencametwomore,twostormyyears.Butitistoosoontotalkaboutthat.Fornineyearstherewasnotanideaoranemotionwhichwedidnotshare.Andyetwewereasdifferentascouldbe.Welistenedtothesameteachers,readthesamebooks,hadthesamefriends,

madethesametrips,awaitedthesamepleasuresatthesamehour,walkedatthesamepace, and,believeme,ashegrew taller, thatwashard forme.Wewerecrazytogether,sadatthesamemoment.Whenoneofusdidn’tknowsomethingitwasbecausetheotheralsowasunawareofit.Wewereonetothepointwherewecouldcommunicatebytelepathy.Yetforallthat,wewerestilltwo,joyfullyandfreelytwo,somuchsothateachofuslivedtwiceeveryday.What bound us together was not just friendship, it was a religion. The

apartmenthousewhereIlivedwashalfwaybetweenthelycéeandJean’shouse.TwiceadayJeanmadethetriponfoot,pickedmeupanddroppedmeoffonhisway.Iwaitedforhimdownstairsinthevestibuleofthebuilding.Ilovedwaiting

forhim.Whenhewasalittlelate,Icouldfeeltheendsofmyfingerstingle,mythroattighten,notwithuneasiness—butwithjoy.Allofasuddenhewasthereinfrontofme,straightasadie,dependableasyourwordofhonor.Forasecondor two he never said anything.Neither did I.We needed silence to find eachotheroncemore.Whenwewere sixteenwe solemnlydecided thatwewouldnever exchange

any of those trite phrases, none of those horrible expressions like “How areyou?”“Prettywell.Andyourself?”whichmakethenoiseoffriendshipandthencollapselikebubblesaminute later.Wehadswornto telleachother the truth,nothingbutthetruth,andifwecouldn’t,tobesilent.Justimaginetwoboys,onetall,theotherofmediumheight,stridingalongpathsinoneoftheforestsintheIle-de-France (Rambouillet, St-Germain,Chantilly), smiling at each other nowand then but not talking for hours on end. There you have Jean and me, atfifteen,onedaywhenwewerenotsureofourselves,notsureweshouldnothurteachotherifwespoke.Howdemandingwewereinthosedays!Bothofusweresocertainthatbeing

honorableandrespectfulgivesgreaterdelightthanallthepleasuresintheworld.Jeanwasbornknowingitandhadtaughtittome.AndIwasnotabadpupil.Wealsoknewhow to chatter. InSeptember1940,oneSunday, I remember

fourteenhoursof talk,without interruptionandwithnowitness.Butwhenwetalkedon thatway itwas to searchout and find eachother.Thiswasnot justmaking sentences, it was exploring. Hours before our heads had stoppedrecordingwordsandwehadbeenspeakingthroughintentionsandmovementsofthespirit,communicatingthroughlivesopenasabook.Jean picked me up every day to go to the lycée, whether it was raining,

blowingorsnowing.WhenweweretogetherIdon’trememberfeelingthatwewerehotorcold,atleastnotenoughforustonoticeit.PhysicallyIwasneverill,but Jean sometimeswas.For reasonswhichmedicinenever explained, he hadterribleandfrequentheadaches.Thenhegotdizzyandhadtoliedownallday.Or, if he ventured out, his hands shook and his voice sounded smothered. Ialwaysknewhewasunwellbeforehetoldmeso,butInevertalkedtohimaboutit.Hehadmademepromisenot to.As soonas theattackwasover,hisvoicesangagain.Thefirstthinghedidwastoaskmetotellhimwhathadhappenedintheworldwhilehewasoutofit.Intheend,peoplebecamesoaccustomedtoseeingustogetherthattheycould

hardlydistinguishbetweenus.SometimesJeansaidtomeandIsaidtohimthatthatwasapityandweshouldsomedayhavetoseparate.Butforusthisideawaslikethinkingaboutdeath,andwerejecteditimmediately.Jeanlovedmybeingblind,becausehethoughtthatifIweren’tourfriendship

wouldneverhavebeensocomplete.Besides,wewereconstantly lendingeachother our eyes.Oneday itwashewho saw, the next itwas I.Of that toowemadeanadventure.Soasyousee,Jeanisherewithus.SofarIhavenotbeenabletoshowhim

veryclearlyandIamnotsureIcandobetter.ButIshallcarryhimalongwithmeuptothetimewhenheandIwerebothnineteen.Intheendyouwillsurelyknowhimwell.

HAVEITOLDYOU—Iprobablyhaven’tyet—thatJeanandImadeapactfromthe start, declaring that both of us had the right tomake friends aswe liked,independently?Thiswas not done to conserveour liberty (since for us libertyonly seemed to beginwith sharing allwe had), but to protect the freedom ofothers.Anyonecouldconfide inJeanandnot inme,orviceversa.Sometimespeoplearesoqueer.Themeasurewas awiseone as it turnedout.Till 1938most ofmy friends

would not have tolerated Jean. They would have mistaken his innocence forsilliness,andmadelifemiserableforhim.Iknewtherewasnodoubtaboutthis,and kept these people at a distance.Now and then I felt ashamed of it, but ittakestimeforshametoaffectouractions.Iwasstillatthemercyofmypassionforviolentgames.Istillneededtorun,

eitherontheChampdeMarsoratJuvardeil.AfterschooleveryafternoonIhadtorunaroundtheLuxembourghuggingthefences—itcametoabouttwoandahalfbreathlessmiles.Ihadtocutacrossthegrassinspiteofthesignswhichsaidnotto,orratherbecauseofthem.Runningandshoutingwespreadpanicamongthebabycarriagesandtheyoungmothers,whoseemedveryoldtous in thosedays and deserving of such treatment. We made the dust fly up in clouds,sniffing the acetylene of the merry-go-round, tearing through the crowds,alarmingthepeoplepassingby,raidingarecordshopontheBoulMichtohearthe latest songsofMauriceChevalier andTinoRossi—all theseexperimentsweregardedastheheightofboldness.AndfortheseexploitsyoucanunderstandthatJeanwasnotthemanIneeded.Ineededboysreadyforanything,readyifneedbeeventofakeinnocenceto

theirfamiliesorinschool.In all this, Iwas far away from Jean, in a no-man’s-land, an uneasy terrain

suspended between childhood and adolescence. Like all the rest of mycompanions,Iwasfullofclownishignoranceandprecociousknowledge.Ibegantosuspectthatmanhasabody,andthatitissometimesanuisance.He

wants to enjoy it, but is not always allowed to. In the world of pleasure onecomes upon innumerable rites, most of which are hidden. My pals in the

Luxembourgwere not like the ones at Juvardeil.When they looked at girls itwasalwaysonthesly.Theythoughtaboutthembutnevertouchedthemandinthelongrunthiswasabadthing.Inthisrespecttheyseemedtobelivingunderthe eyeof somenamelesspolice.Picturemagazines, themovies and the radioturnedtheirheads,andtheirheadsturnedinavacuum.That’s why we made those frequent visits to the part of the Luxembourg

whereloverswereinthehabitofmeetingatnight.Wewantedtosurprisetheminthemidstofthemystery,butweweredisappointedeverytime,fortherewasnomystery.Hereand therewesawanarmaroundawaist,akiss that lastedalittlelongerthanwassensible.Butitwasjustlikethemoviesandnomore.Wecame home unsatisfied, and discussed feverishly the bits of life that we hadpickedup.Iwasn’thappyawayfromJean,especiallyawayfromthatpurityofhis.But

howwasItoresist,especiallywhenalltheseboys,whoweretryingsohardtoforget their childhood, neededme?They toldme so. Several of them had theideathat,beingblind,Imustbeanexpertinmattersoffeelings(that’swhattheycalled themovements of their bodies, and itwould be ungracious to reproachthem,sincemostadultsdoexactlythesamething).Besides,ablindpersonwasawitnessbeyondtheirdreams!Sincehecouldnotseethegirls,itwasnecessarytoexplainthemtohim.Thentoo,therewasnodangerofhiscontradictingwhathewastold.I took part in all these games, though not contentwith them, until the time

whenJeansetmefree.Whenhewastherethegoodsideofmeblossomed.Soon,I couldn’t even understand how only a few hours earlier I could have beeninterestedinthingsthatheldsolittleoftheideal,solittlehope.TheboysintheLuxembourgbecameugly tome, no longer childrenbut not yetmen.Alreadytherewassomethingunhealthyinthem.Idon’tknowwhatitwas,butJean,forhispart,kepthispride.Healso talked tomeaboutgirls, but in the samemanner ashewouldhave

talkedaboutthestars:theyweremadetostayfarawayandtoshinewithasmallflickeringlightforalongtime.Theynevertouchedground,andmustneitherbeknocked against nor taken hold of, since theywere the essence of gentleness.Oneshouldnoteventhinkaboutthemalltheway,sincetheywereasimportantasthefuture.Thiskindoftalkdidmegood.Itheldsomuchpromise,andIknewthatJean,

inhimselfalone,wasmorerightthanalltheothersputtogether.IknewthisbecauseevenifallmyescapadesattheLuxembourgnevercarried

metothepointofspeakingtoagirl,stillIdidmeetsomeathome,thesistersofmycompanionsorchildhoodfriends.Jean,whoinhisinnocencecouldforesee

everything,kepttellingmeIshouldtakeadvantageoftheirbeingthere,forsoonthis would no longer be possible. He was quite right, for these were the lasthoursofthatwonderfulease.Ifeltcomfortablewithgirls.Theywerebetterlistenersthanboys.Ifonlythey

didn’tpretend!Butatthetimethesuspicionneveroccurredtome.WheneverItold a story, invented a make-believe scenario, or changed a book to fit mydreams (andwhen the girlswere there Iwas inexhaustible) theywere alwayswilling to follow. Unlike boys, they never quibbled over ridiculous points ofaccuracy.TheyfeltsomuchathomeintheimaginationthatwiththemIcoulddreamtwiceashard.Theyalwaysgavebackanecho,andthemoreunrealmyinventions,thehappierthegirls.Theymanagedtodramatizetheimpossible.FromtimetotimeIwasobligedtoremindmyselfthattheyweregirlshiding

somethingessential fromme, and thatmademeuneasy.But as a rule Ididn’tthinkaboutit.Ilivedwiththemoutsidetherealworld,andbenefitedfromthisliberty.Thenthedaycame—anditwasdifficult—whentheystoppedcomingtosee

me.Theyhadturnedinto jeunesfilles,andJeanandIhada longwaytogotorecapturethem.Between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, both the bad boys and the pretty

girlshadleftus.Itwasthetimeforholidayssharedbetweenthetwoofus;forthose interminableandoftenpointlessconfidences; for theworldyoudiscoverwithitsevernewlife,aworldremindingyouthatyouarenotyetfullyalive;thetime for thoughtswhich arebornbuthaveno time togrowbeforeothers taketheirplace;thetimeforthepurejoyoflivingwhich,forwantofabetterword,wecalledlove.

WEHADBEENCLIMBINGinshaleandbrushalongthesideofahillabovetheSeineValley.Allofasudden,havingjustnoticedthatthelandscapehadmadeafinaldiponmyright,IsaidtoJean:“Justlook!Thistimewe’reontop.You’llseethewholebendoftheriver,unlessthesungetsinyoureyes!”Jeanwasstartled,openedhiseyeswideandcried:“You’reright.”Thislittlescenewasoftenrepeatedbetweenus,inathousandforms.Andifit

surprisesyou,thatisonlybecauseyouforgethowharditisforpeoplewhohavesomething—eyes,luckorhappiness—torealizeitandmakeuseofit.Whenwe came in fromourwalks, Jeanwould say to his family, “It’s fantastic howmanythingshemademeseetoday!”Ishouldadd,butperhapsyouhavealreadyguessed it, thatJeanspenthours

dreaming.Hewascontinuallydivingdownintohisinnerworld.HebelievedmewhenItoldhimthatthisworld,ifnotricherthantheother,wascertainlyasrich,

andalmostcompletelyunexplored.Ihadpointedouttohimwaystoapproachit,forIknewtheroutewell.AndnowhecameveryclosetogoingfurtheralongitthanI.Still,thoughhehadlearnedtogodownintohimself,hewasclumsywhenit

came toclimbingupagain.Theascent isalways themostdifficultpartof thisjourney.Ihadbeenmakingthereturntripregularlyforfiveorsixyears,andformeitwasroutine.I explained to Jean that itwas a preconceived ideawhichmade theprocess

hardforhim—anidea,bytheway,whichalmosteveryoneshares—thattherearetwoworlds,onewithout, theotherwithin.Ikepthavingtoexplainalloveragain,because Jeanwanted tobelievemebutcouldn’t.Thepreconceived ideaalwaysstoodintheway.Wetalkedaboutthisatleastonceaweekintheframeofmindofpeoplegoing

to Mass on Sunday. After all, it was a religious subject. The reality — theonenessoftheworld—leftmeinthelurch,incapableofexplainingit,becauseitseemedobvious.Icouldonlyrepeat:“Thereisonlyoneworld.Thingsoutsideonlyexist ifyougo tomeet themwitheverythingyoucarry inyourself.As tothethingsinside,youwillneverseethemwellunlessyouallowthoseoutsidetoenterin.”Topass from the inner light to the lightof the sunwasnot theworkof the

senses.Aclicksufficed,aslightchangeinpointofview,liketurningone’sheadahundredthpartofthecircle.Itwasenoughintheendtobelieve.Therestcamebyitself.To convince Jean (which mattered terribly to me) I assembled all my

arguments.Ifhewantedtobecompletelyhappy,theremustbeonlyoneworld,forthiswastheindispensablecondition.Thisjoywaswellknowntome.ItwastheGraceofmystateofbeing.WhenI

read in thegospels that theWordwasmadeFlesh, I toldmyself that thiswasindeedtrue.AtthesametimeIwasawarethatIhaddonenothingtodeserveit.Ithadsimplybeengiventome,andIprayedGodthatJean,too,shouldreceiveit.Ifthereisadifferencebetweenaboyoffifteenyearsandamanofforty,Iam

afraid,alas,thatitistotheadvantageoftheformer.Theboydoeseverythingbyattention.Themannolongerdoesanythingexceptbyhabit.Jeanknewhowtopayattention,tothepointwherenothingcoulddistracthim,neithernightfall,normy endless chattering, not even hunger. Fifteen years old! The agewhen youdaretosayanything,whenyoualwaysfindsomeonetolisten.I,too,knewhowtolistentoJean.Whenoneofuswastryingtodrawanideaoutofhishead,orawholescenewhichstubbornlyrefusedtotakeshape,theotherfoundthatentirely

natural.Hewaitedandalreadyunderstood.Try tellingagrownupperson thatyoudon’t see thingsashedoes!Beware!

Youwill annoyhimandprobablyeven shockhim.And ifyouembarkon thedescription of your differences, you have a fifty-fifty chance of making anenemy.ButJeanandIwereabletobeareverythingcomingfromeachother.Wewereonthewatchforeventhesmallestnovelty.ForawholehourhewouldtellmeabouttheeffectthatSchubert’smusichad

onhim,andhowdifferentwastheeffectofBeethoven’s.Formypart,Iwouldunroll forhimthe filmofhistory. I simplydon’tknowhowitallcame tome.But every time someone mentioned an event (whether it was in the reign ofTiberiusorintheFirstWorldWar),theeventimmediatelyprojecteditselfinitsplaceonthescreen,whichwasakindofinnercanvas.Thiscanvascouldopenoutorfoldup—likethealtarpiecesartistspaintedintheMiddleAges—andcoulddothisasoftenasIwanted.IfIneededthecenturyofAugustus,IfixeditonthecanvasandlefthiddentheRomanRepublicontheleft,andtherestoftheemperorsandtheirdeclineontheright.I couldwidenor narrowmy field of vision atwill. Periodswhennotmuch

happened — like the sixth and seventh centuries between the prophecy ofMohammed and the crowning of Charlemagne — I saw in shades of gray.Crowded periods, like the ones which began with the American and FrenchRevolutions,Icouldcutupintoasmanypicturesastheyneeded.Inthisway,Ihardlyneed to say it, the studyofhistorybecameagame forme.Andwhatavividgame!Inthesepictures,largeorsmall,itwasnotfiguresorlinesofprintIsaw,but

thegreatpeopleandplacesofhistory,inallthedetailwhichIhadlearnedaboutthem:JoanofArcatReims,JoanofArcat thestake, theplagueinMarseilles,Gutenberg and his first Bible, Santa Sofia sacked by the Turks, ChristopherColumbusonhiscaravel.Jeanhadtherighttoallthesedetails,ahundredtimesover,andnevertiredof

them.Comparingmyworldwithhis,hefoundthathisheldfewerpicturesandnot nearly as many colors. This made him almost angry: “When it comes tothat,”heusedtosay,“whichoneofustwoisblind?”ThatiswhywhenIaskedhimtosee,hewaswillingandreallylooked.Then,immediately,Imadeuseofhiseyes.Andwhenmyturncametosay,“Ihaveseentheforest,Iseethesunsetting,”hebelievedme.Still, it was necessary to keep these secrets to ourselves, for theywere not

reallycommonplaceenough tobe spreadabroad.And,when Jeanwasgone, Ihad towaityearsbefore Igotback thecourage toconfide inanyone. It isnotalwayseasytobedifferent.

[6]

THEVISUALBLIND

THEFIRSTCONCERTHALLIeverentered,whenIwaseightyearsold,meantmoretomeinitselfaloneinthespaceofaminutethanallthefabledkingdoms.ThefirstmusicianIheardthere,rightinfrontofmeonlyafewstepsfrommyseatintheorchestra,wasanotherchild,YehudiMenuhin.EverySaturdayfromOctobertoMayforsixyears,myfathercametogetme

whenschoolwasout,calledataxiandtookmetooneoftheconcertsgivenbyoneof the large symphonyorchestras inParis. PaulParay,FelixWeingartner,CharlesMunch,ArturoToscanini,BrunoWalterbecamesofamiliartomethatIknew,withoutanyonehavingtotellme,whowasonthepodiumthatday.TheorchestrafollowedMunch’spaceorToscanini’s,andwhocouldmistakethem?Going into the hall was the first step in a love story. The tuning of the

instrumentswasmyengagement.AfterthatIthrewmyselfintothemusicjustasonetumblesintohappiness.Theworldofviolinsandflutes,ofhornsandcellos,offugues,scherzosand

gavottes, obeyed laws which were so beautiful and so clear that all musicseemedtospeakofGod.Mybodywasnotlistening,itwaspraying.Myspiritnolonger had bounds, and if tears came tomy eyes, I did not feel them runningdown because they were outside me. I wept with gratitude every time theorchestrabegantosing.Aworldofsoundsforablindman,whatsuddengrace!Nomore need to get one’s bearings. Nomore need towait. The innerworldmadeconcrete.IlovedMozartsomuch,IlovedBeethovensomuchthatintheendtheymade

me what I am. They molded my emotions and guided my thoughts. Is thereanythinginmewhichIdidnot,oneday,receivefromthem?Idoubtit.Today,musicformehangsfromagoldennailcalledBach.Butit isnotmy

tasteswhichhavechangedbutmyrelationships.AsachildIlivedwithMozart,Beethoven,Schumann,Berlioz,WagnerandDvořák,becausetheyweretheones

I met every week. Before becoming the word of a man, even if the man isMozart, all music is music. A kind of geometry, but one of inner space.Sentences,butfreedfrommeaning.Withoutanydoubt,ofallthethingsmanhasmade,musicistheleasthuman.WhenIhearditIwasallthere,withmytroublesandmyjoys,yetitwasnotmyselfexactly.ItwasbetterthanI,biggerandmoresure.Forablindpersonmusic isnourishment,asbeautyisfor thosewhosee.He

needs to receive it, to have it administered at intervals like food.Otherwise avoidiscreatedinsidehimandcauseshimpain.Myfatherwas in thehabitofwalkinghomefromtheconcert,makingmea

presentofsomeof themostbeautifulhoursofmychildhood.Howcanpeoplecallmusic a pleasure? Pleasure satisfied impoverishes and saddens, butmusicbuildsasitisheard.Holdingmyfatherbythearm,Iwasfilledwithsoundsandguidedbythem.Myfatherwhistled,hummedamelody.Hetalkedtomeabouttheconcert.Hetalkedtomeaboutallthethingsthatlife,someday,wouldofferme.Heno longerneeded toexplain them.Intelligence,courage, frankness, theconditions of happiness and love, all thesewere inHandel, in Schubert, fullystated,asreadableasthesunhighintheskyatnoon.Ifonlyfatherswouldsharewiththeirsons,asminedid,somethingbeyondthemselves,lifewouldbebetterforit!However—thoughwhowouldbelieveit—Iwasnotamusician,notreally.I

learnedtoplaythecello.ForeightyearsIpracticedscalesanddidexercises.Iplayedsomesimplepiecesrespectably.OnceIbelongedtoatrioandmanagednot to destroy it altogether. But music was not my language. I excelled inlisteningtoit,butIwouldneverbeabletospeakit.Musicwasmadeforblindpeople,butsomeblindpeoplearenotmadeformusic.Iwasamongthem;Iwasoneofthevisualblind.I did not become a musician, and the reason was a strange one. I had no

soonermadeasoundontheAstring,onDorGorC,thanInolongerheardit.Ilooked at it. Tones, chords, melodies, rhythms, each was immediatelytransformed into pictures, curves, lines, shapes, landscapes, and most of allcolors.WheneverImadetheAstringsoundbyitselfwiththebow,suchaburstof light appeared before my eyes and lasted so long that often I had to stopplaying.Atconcerts,forme,theorchestrawaslikeapainter.Itfloodedmewithallthe

colorsoftherainbow.Iftheviolincameinbyitself,Iwassuddenlyfilledwithgoldandfire,andwithredsobrightthatIcouldnotrememberhavingseenitonanyobject.Whenitwastheoboe’sturn,acleargreenranallthroughme,socoolthatIseemedtofeelthebreathofnight.Ivisitedthelandofmusic.Irestedmy

eyes on every one of its scenes. I loved it till it caughtmy breath.But I sawmusic too much to be able to speak its language.My own language was thelanguageofshapes.Strange chemistry, the chemistry which changed a symphony into moral

purpose, an adagio into a poem, a concerto into a walk, attaching words topictures and pictures to words, daubing the world with colors, and finallymakingthehumanvoiceintothemostbeautifulofallinstruments!WithJean,whowasmoreofamusicianthanI,Ihadlongargumentsonthis

subject. All of them endedwith an exciting discovery, and it was always thesame one: that there is nothing in the world which cannot be replaced withsomethingelse; that soundsandcolorsarebeingexchangedendlessly, like theairwebreatheandthelifeitgivesus; thatnothingiseverisolatedorlost; thateverything comes fromGod and returns toGod along all the roadways of theworld; and that the most beautiful music is still only a path. Yet there areenchanted paths, and those which bear the names of Vivaldi, Beethoven andRavelwentfurther,Iknew,thananyroadsonearth.In 1937, at the age of thirteen, I went on a journey that holds a peculiarly

uniqueplace inmylife.MyparentsandI traveledtoDornach,aSwissvillagenot far from Basel. There, at the top of a hill, rose a singular building: theGoetheanum.RudolfSteinerhadhaditbuilt[beforehisdeathin1925],inordertohaveaplacefortheworkingandmeetingtogetherofallthosewhofollowedhisteachings.Hehimselfhadspokenthere.Andhespoke;hedidnotprophesy.Inawonderfullysimple,completelysobermethodofspeaking,heshowedthatspiritualworldsdoexist.Deliberatelyandwithoutpathosheaffirmedwithquietforcethatitisthespiritualworldsthatdetermineourphysicalone.Heexplainedwhatthesespiritualworldsconsistof,whywegenerallyknownothingofthem,and the reasons for our ignorance and its significance. But now the time hadcome, he said, openly to reveal these secrets, even though they had beenwithhelduptonowbyasmallnumberofinitiates.BybirthRudolfSteinerwasanAustrianandintheGermanlanguageheheld

hundredsandhundredsoflecturesinwhichheseemednevertoinventbutratherto describe spontaneously what was before his eyes at the very moment.Dornach, in its wreath of surrounding hills, still cherished the marks of hisearthlypath,profoundyetnotaustere,respectfulyetnotidolizing.MyfatherhadformanyyearsbeenactiveandinfluentialintheFrenchsection

of the Anthroposophical Society. He devoted all his free time to a regularlecturingschedule.Tome,too,hespokeagreatdealaboutSteinerandhiswork.Gradually I began to understand more and more, and a quiet and unforcedvenerationfilledmymindandthought.Theteachingsofthisastonishingman—

at least, those that impressed me at the time — struck me with a feelingunknownuntil then:namely,a feelingofcertainty,a feeling that the teachingswereself-evident.Thecycleofsuccessivereincarnations, inparticular,gave tomy consciousness complete tranquility. I can still experience it today. For inaccord with this new insight, any indignation about earthly injustice andunmerited suffering iswiped away.Themisfortune thatmeets us can only bemeasuredbyourownresponsibility;ouranxietyanddespairarenowrevealedasaresultofourignorance.Wemustpayforourpastmistakesandanswerforourpresentfaults,butweshallbeabletoatonefortheminafuturelife.Only our outward, visible history seems absurd and arbitrary. Our inner

destiny knows only equilibrium and compensation. To some extent we aremastersofourownpersonalfate,nolonger—assomanyreligionswouldteach— condemned to exist, to be born, to die, but guilty only when given overentirely to matter and forgetful of our essential Self. And thus eternity is nolongersoinexplicablyprojectedintothefuturebutratherencompassesour lifeon all sides, this life of ourswhich is both trivial and at the samemoment sosignificant.I used to listen to these teachings, one after the other, but without ever

summoninginmyselfthewilltoacceptthem.Iwasnotfosteringabelief.Iwasmerelywillingtoseewhatwasshowntome.Lifeitselfwoulddecidemychoice.I spent twoweeks inDornachandpaid careful attention to everything.One

event,however,absorbedmyinterestmorethananythingelse.Iwasallowedtoattendaeurythmyperformance.OnanordinarytheaterstageintheGoetheanummenandwomenweredancing,or rather, theyseemed todance.Foreurythmywas not stylized choreography, but an art, a new art, just as complete andoriginal an art as poetry or music. Steiner had created its foundations andestablisheditsfirst laws.Onecansaythateurythmywouldreconcilewordandmotion,would let amovement of the body correspond to each spoken sound,would make the sense of poetry or prose visual, pictorial. There was,accordingly, a eurythmic alphabet based on the inner spiritualmeaning of thesounds of speech, and a freely applied grammar to hold them together.Sometimes the eurythmists developed their art in connection with music,sometimeswitharecitedpoem.On that eveningpoemsbyGoethe and also several bySteinerhimselfwere

recited. They touched me deeply, for without quite understanding them (theywere spoken inGerman) I could guess theirmeaningwithout any effort. Thespeakersbroughtthewordstolifeinthesamewaythatonemakesagesturewiththehandorthearmorwiththewholebody.TheGermanlanguageseemedimmediatelytomeofanextraordinary,musical

beauty;mostofall,itseemedimbuedwithamiraculousanduniqueflexibility.Itneversoundedfinite,neverclosedordead.Itbroughtsoundsintouninterruptedmotion,richinvention.It letthemriseorsinkinanuninterruptedflow,alwaysfollowingcertaincurvesthatwereimpossibletopredict.Thoughoftenroughandsometimesheavyor,atleast,ponderous,itstrucktheairwithsolemndrumbeats.But it neverwas satisfiedwith itself; it seemed always to be in search of andfollowingitsmovingforms.Itsgracebeguiledme.Yes,Isay:itsgrace—certainlynotthatbrilliantand

proportionedgraceoftheFrenchlanguage,butmoreardent,morewilled.Iheardhowthevowelsor thewarmdiphthongs—ü[“au”as in“how”],ä[“ai”as in“light”],ö[“eu”asin“oil”]—followingaslow,verydeterminedrhythm,softenthepiano-liketonesofthest,pf,cht;howatothertimestheyputtheirfeetonthegroundandemphasizetheirstrengthintheendings-gor-t:Wirkung,aufgebaut.German became for me the language of a musician-architect, to whom thespeech sounds have given building-stones and the impulse ofwill patiently toerecthisspeechedifice.ThroughallthisIwasfilledwithanenthusiasmwhichwastolastforalmost

tenyearswithoutdiminishing—andwhichtodaycanstillseizemeateverynewopportunity: I simply had a passion for the German language. Soon therefollowed a passion for Germany as well, and for everything it conceals ofmenaceandoftreasure.Ifoundmyselfconfrontedwithamystery.

FROM1937TO1944AWHOLEPARTOFMYLIFEwasunfulfilled.EverydayforeightyearsIwouldhearthecallofGermany.Ifeltmyselfirresistiblydrawntotheeast. It seemed to me as if every day were the eve of a possible departure.Germanygavemethejoyoflife,itbroughtallmypossibilitiesandcapabilitiesontoahigherlevel.*When I was fourteen I was a small edition of the Tower of Babel. Latin

words, German words, French and Greek words led a riotous life inside myhead. Every night I went to sleepwithmy ears ringing. That’swhat happenswhenyouaretooconscientiousasastudent,withtoomuchmemory,whenyouhaveabentforliterature,whenyoureadmorethanisgoodforyou,andwhenwordshavegrownasrealtoyouaspeople.LuckilyIhadfoundawayofprotectingmyself.Ihaddiscovered,contraryto

whatallthebookstaught,thatthelessseriouslyyoutookwords,themoresensetheymade.Theproperway to lookat themwas fromadistance, in themass.The more numerous they were, the more chance they had of taking onsignificance.I used to stop reading all of a sudden, lift my head above the waves of

languageandkeepmyearsopen.Icaughtwordsonthefly,anditwasn’thardfor there were always words floating around me in the room. I trained myheadlights on each one of them for a second, and then quickly replaced themwith others. The associations, themarriages that resulted often seemed tomeadmirable. But I didn’t take note of them for this would have spoiled mypleasure.Mygreatestpleasurewasinhearingwordssound,inwatchingthemmakeall

those comical attempts to convince me that they had meaning. Besides, theywerenotabstractfiguresmovingaroundintheworldofthemind.Eachofthemhadavoice,avoicethatfluttered,butonemyearcouldheardistinctly.OnThursdays,IfeltlikeatruantwhenIwentofftotheComédieFrançaise.

But can you imagine a more serious form of diversion? I was going to hearPolyeucteandBritannicus,Tartuffe,Athalie,Zaïre!For once, Jeanwas not withme, since he always had some schoolwork to

finish.Iturnedtomorefrivolousboys,lessconscientious,allofwhom,moreorless recently, had fallen in love with an actress. I catered to their passion bymaking it their responsibility to accompany me. From the top gallery theylooked down on the object of their desire, caught by the cruelty of a Trojanprince or absorbed in taking poison. Iwas intoxicated by thisweekly dose ofclassicalalexandrines.Sincetheseatsfarthestfromthestageweretheonlyoneswecouldafford—

especiallyifwewantedtoallowourselvestheluxuryofaneskimopiebetweentheacts—weusuallyhadtroublehearingthelines.Onlythetragiccriesrosetotheplacewherewewere.Theblankspotswehadtofillinwithourimagination,butthatkeptusforeverawakeandentranced.Wandering through themarblebustsof all theFrenchplaywrights since the

Renaissance, along the solemn galleries of the theater, we made all kinds ofassumptions about episodes in the play we had not heard. And withoutexception,theywenttoourheads.Forhoursaftertheshowwasover,mybrainswayedrightandlefttotherhythmofthealexandrines,astheysaytheseadoesthroughtheattractionofthemoon.Uptherein“thegods”Iheardpoorlybecauseofdistanceandalsobecausethe

theaterfans—theywereasthickasfliesthosedays—couldnotrefrainfromrecitingMarivaux’sproseor theverseofRacinealongwith theactors in loudandpassionatetones.Andfinally,Iheardbadlybecausemyblindnesskeptmefromseeingwhatwashappening.Butatthesametimemypowersofinventionflourished.Anudge frommycompanionswas enough tomakemeunderstand that the

traitor, theexecutioneror the loverhadcomeonstage.Fragmentsof sentences

whispered in my ear set the scene, described the action: “She is fallingdown….He is dying….There is an armchair on the right….He is lifting hishat….”ThatwasallIasked,Ididn’tneedanythingmore.In the intermission,mybuddies,whohad seen the hat or the dagger, asked

me, in themost seriousway, formyopinionof theproduction. Itwas a habitwith them. I gavemy opinion and corrected their judgment. They never for amomentthoughtmeridiculous.ItwastruethatIhadseentheplay.Ihadchosenthepositionofthecolumns

foreveryvestibuleintheRomanpalace.IhadseentothemakeupofAgrippinaandNerowiththegreatestcare.Ihadchangedthelightingfromoneacttothenext.Whyshouldn’tIsayso?From time to time, I came upon an unbeliever, but his doubts did not

embarrassmeforverylong.“Afterall,”Isaidtohim,“whenyoureadanovel,youdon’tseethecharacters.Youdon’tseetheplaces.Yetyoudoseethem,orelseitisabadnovel.”Alreadymyfriend’sresistancesoftened.WhatIlikedinthetheaterwasthat,likemusic,itopeneddoorstolifewhichI

had not seen. In real life I had never met the Misanthrope, or Phèdre, but Irealizedthatthesepeoplewerenotunreal,nomoreandnolessthanmyparentsormyteachers.TheastonishingthinginseeingPhèdreortheMisanthropewastheirtransparency.Thesecharactershidnothing.Forme,everythinghappenedatthetheaterasitdidwithvoices.Appearances

meltedasfastassnowunderthesun.Afterall,forsometimeIhadbeeninthehabit of recognizing the cruelty in the languid voice of a societywoman, thesilliness in the rhetoric of a professor stuffed with learning, and a hundredsimilar kinds of ugliness. Theatrical peoplemust be likeme, endowedwith adoubleear.Naturally,someincomprehensiblethingsremained.Adultery,lustforpower,

premeditatedmurder, infidelity and incest,which abounded in theplays at theComédieFrançaise,leftmebefuddled.Whenever,miraculously,mycompanionandIhadenoughmoneyleftovertopayforaglassofbeeraftertheshow,thesegreatproblemstookonanairofconspiracyaroundthetableatthebistro.Atthetime we thought the world was an uneasy affair, doubtless still moreextraordinarythanallofRacineandallofShakespeare.Weweresoanxioustoseeforourselvesthatwewenthomeontherun.In those days the Comédie Française was somewhat contemptuous of

Shakespeare.ItisamazingthattheloveofShakespearehasalwaysbeensubjecttoeclipseinFrance,asifFrenchmen,fromtimetotime,wereunhappytomeetsuchagreatmanawayfromhome.Still,oneeveningontheradio,Icameuponaproduction ofHamlet. I remember clearly that I understood nothing but was

fascinated.This play was as convincing as Racine, with mist added, fog everywhere,

between the lines, between the scenes, characters of whom you never knewexactly where they were or what they should be called. Were they mad orrational,ambitiousorgood?Theambiguityof theEnglishseemed tomemoretruethanallthedefinitionsoftheFrench.In Shakespeare I had at last discovered a spirit as complex as life itself. I

begantoreadthewholeofitintranslation.DramatizingShakespeareinmyheadwasajoy.Andhowmuchhelphegave!Hepouredoutuponyoualltheshadeand all the sun, the songs of birds and the groans of ghosts. He never saidanythingthatwasabstract.WithhimyounolongerhadtoimagineRomeoandJuliet.YoutouchedthemandeventhoughtyouyourselfwereRomeo.Nomoreneedforthesmalloreventhebroadboundsoftheintelligence.The

suitable and the unsuitable, the probable and the improbablemingled, as theyshould and as they do in real life. Shakespeare was greater than the others,becausehehadwhatIhadlookedforvainlyeverywhereintheFrenchtheater:thedivine excess.Puck,Mercutio,Prospero,HenryVIII,LadyMacbeth,KingLearandOpheliatrippedovereachotherinmyhead.Theyendedbyobsessingme.Therewasonlyonethingleftformetodotogetfreeofthem:toputmyselftowork.In two years I composed ten Shakespearean tragedies. Granted not one of

themreachedthestageofbeingwrittendown.Iwasnotatallconcernedwiththewritten text. Iwasnot composing, Iwascreating!BetweenaLatin translationand a problem in geometry, I took refuge in fantasy and in the theater.Wallsspottedwithbloodandhauntedcastlesmovedinprocession.ItmustbesaidthattheFrenchsideofmynaturewasnotlongincomingback

at a gallop. At the end of the Shakespearean drama,my heroes, who thoughtdyinginbuncheswaspremature,nottosayprimitive,turnedtoreasoning.Theymade very long speeches to each other, and these in the end appeased them.They calculated with passion, but what they calculated was compromise,reconciliation.Inshort,tobringbackthedead—throughanexchangearrangedforingood

time— topreventHector’sbodybeingdragged in shamearound thewallsofTroy, seemed tome a noble poetic function.And I decided that this functionwouldbemine.

TOGOTOTHELYCÉE,JeanandIhadachoicebetweentwodifferentroutes.Wecould take theRued’Assas andcross theLuxembourgon thediagonal tillwecametotheBoulevardSt-Michel,orwecouldgodirectlytothegardensofthe

Observatoire,andcutstraightacrosstheLuxembourg.Thesamedistanceineachcase,thesameencounters,buttwoclimatesandonesodifferentfromtheother.IfwetooktheRued’Assas,silencefelluponus.Wecouldnotspeak.Words

hungsuspendedinourheads,till theygaveusafeelingofimpatienceorgrief.On theotherhand,goingby theObservatoire,wehadsomuch to say thatwehad to restrain each other. I should never have been able to communicatemyimpressionstootherpeople,fortheywouldhavelaughedinmyface.ButwithJean,Ididn’tevenneedtodescribethem.HewaslivingthematthesametimeasI.To us, no two places in the world were ever alike. No sidewalk was

unimportant, no wall blind, no crossroad nameless, no tree replaceable byanother, nothingwithout its own individuality. Ours the observation, ours thefamiliarity,andweclungtoitasifitweretreasure.Atlast,onesummerourparentsplannedavacationforustogether.Thetwoof

us were going to spend a month in the mountains. The place was the HautVivarais, in the foothills of theMassif Central to the east, at the exact pointwhereitplungesdownontwolevels,roundedoffbutasclearlydefinedassteps,toward the valley of theRhône. Itwas a land of pastures scentedwith lemonbalmandmarjoram,lowbushesbluewithbilberries,pineforestshummingwithfliesandbees,valleysslopingsteeplywithgrass-andmoss-coveredsideswheretherocksseldombrokethroughthesoil.I had discovered the mountains a few years earlier, but then Jean was not

there.ThejoytheybroughtmeIhadkeptsecret.ThistimeIcoulddescribethemindetailandsingabout themaloud.ForJeanwasnot theone to think it silly!Wesetoutinthemorningandcamebackatnight,workinghardontheway.Ourlegscouldnotcarryusanyfarther,andyetwestilllongedtostayupthereintheair.In order to guideme better, Jean had invented a code. The pressure of his

handonmyrightshouldermeant:“Slopeontheright.Shifttheweightofyourbody to the left,”andviceversa.Pressure in themiddleofmybacksaid:“Nodanger ina straight line in frontofyou.Wecanwalk faster.”Pressureonmybackbutontheleftsidewasawarning:“Slowup!Rightturnahead.”Andwhenthe weight of his hand became heavier, it was because the turn ahead was ahairpinbend.Foreveryobstacle therewasa sign:a stone toclimbover, abrook to jump

across,branchestoavoidbyloweringyourhead.Jeandeclaredthatinlessthananhourhehadperfected themethod, that forme itwas as if I had foundmyeyes,thatforhimitwassosimplethathehardlyhadtothinkaboutit.As amatter of fact, his system of radarworked sowell that going down a

narrow path, along the edge of a precipice and on rolling stones, created atension hardly greater thanwalking along theChamps-Elysées for an aperitif.Physicalproblemscouldalwaysbesolved.Thatwasthelessonofradar.“Inanycase,” said Jean,“Ihave to lookwhere Iamgoing,and tellingyouabout it isonlyamatterofmechanics.”Togetourbearings,weusedtheplanofthesundial.WhenJeanwantedtotell

me about the rosy mists which bathed the peak of Mont Chaix around sixo’clockintheevening,orshowmewheretheycamefromorwheretheyweregoing,heonlyneeded to say: “Aminuteago, they stoodat threeo’clock.ButwhileIamspeakingtheyaremovingtowardtwo.”Tounderstand,itwasenoughto state, once and for all, that noon would be right in front of my face fromwhere we stood. Since in the physical world everything is point of view orconvention,therewasonlyonethingtodotomasterit:inventanequalnumberofconventionsandpointsofviewforourselves,andputthemtouse.Whenwewereclimbinghillsorgoingdownthroughthevalleys,everything

tookcareofitself.InolongeraskedanythingofJeanexcept,fromtimetotime,topointoutalandmark:thetreewiththesplittrunk,therockwiththehorns,theroofonthehouseyoucouldnotsee,thestilethegoathadjustcrossed.Ididtherest.Jean was absentminded as youmay remember, but never about things that

werepressing.Thenhefelthisresponsibility,andnevermadeamistake.Butasfor looking at the landscape continuously, itwas toomuch for him.Forme itwasgood,andthatwasmyjobontheteam.Evenatthecostofinterruptingtheconversation,itwasuptometopointout

every change in the view to Jean. If, at the turn in the road, the forest grewthicker, giving us the chance to catch the light along a darker channel; if themeadowslopedstraightdowntothestream,thenclimbedupagainontheothersideat thesameangle,suggestingblackandbluereflectionsat thebase,Iwassupposedtodescribeit.I reported the stages along theway. I pointed out the villages: “Satillieu is

downthere,behind thathill.Whenthe treesarenotsohighyouwillseeSaintVictor.”Altogether thismade somepretty strangedialogue.Theonewho sawwasinthelead.Theblindonedescribed.Theseeingonespokeofthingsnearby,theblindoneofthosefaraway.Andneithermademistakes.Themountainsformeweretheblessedplaceofperceptionatadistance.Was

itthebuzzingofinsectswhichencircledtheforestforme?Wasitthebouncingandsilentechoofstoneswhichdefinedthepeakinfrontofme?Wasittheacridsmell, suddenly rising fromheavyplant vapors,which toldme about the rockglisteningwithcoolwater?ThesewerequestionsInolongeraskedmyself.

Everything talked, that was sure. There was no tree with exactly the samethicknessasthetreenearit,etchedortwistedinthesamefashion.Theperfumeofwildminthadtwowaysofdiffusingitselfasitgrewonarichmeadoworapebbly field. The light crowned the rises in the land or filled the depressions,following their contours faithfully. To know them one had only to follow thelight.Landscapescomposed,changedformefromonesecondtothenextand,when

the airwas cool,when thewind did not capmy head, did so in amanner soprecise that I seemed to be seeing them through a magnifying glass.What asurprise,then,whenIpointedouttoJean,withoutanerror,twochainsofpeaksinseries.Westoppedatthispoint,butfoundnothingtosayaboutit.Itwaslikethat—whetherornotpeoplebelieveit,andwhetherornottheyreaditinbooks.Onthemountainpathsandeverywhereelse,JeanandIran intoahardfact—the fact that limits do not exist. If there are any, they are never the ones theytaughtus.Peoplearoundusseemedsatisfiedwhentheysaidthatalamemanwalkswith

a limp, that a blind man does not see, that a child is not old enough tounderstand,thatlifeendswithdeath.Forthetwoofus,inoursummerofgreenfields, twilightanddawncontinually revolving,noneof thesestatementsstooditsground.Wehadfriendshiponourside.Wehadignoranceandbliss,andwelookedat

everythingthroughthesechannels.Theytaughtusallweknew.Theblindmanhimselfsaw,andthesightedoneclosebehindhimknewit.Lifewasgood,verygood.

*Theprecedingelevenparagraphswerenot included in theoriginalAmericanpublicationofAndThereWas Light. They were translated from the original French edition separately and published, with theauthor’spermission,intheJournalofAnthroposophy,no.8,1968.

[7]

THETROUBLEDEARTH

ONMARCH12,1938,IturnedthebuttonsoftheradiotomakethesmalltourofEuropeImadeeverynight.WhatwasthatnoiseIheardallofasuddenonRadioVienna?Wavesofshoutinghammeredagainsttheloudspeaker,amassofhumanityin

delirium.“DeutschlandüberAlles,”the“HorstWesselLied,”musicandvoicesaimed at you point-blank like loaded pistols. “Anschluss! Heil Hitler.Anschluss.”Germany has just fallen onAustria.Austria is nomore.German,thislanguageIlove,hasbeendisfiguredtothepointwhereInolongerrecognizethewords.Mythirteen-year-oldimaginationwantstostanduptotheshock,butitistoogreat,comingallatonce.Historyhurlsitselfonme,wearingthefaceofthemurderers.Theyhadspokentomeofsuffering,andmademuchofit.Alongwithlove,it

was theonlysubject in thebooks.Besides, loveandsuffering inbooksalmostalways came together. Iwonderwhy! Inmy own life therewas no suffering.Immediatelyaftermyaccident,Ihadfeltalotofpain.Butitdidnotlast long,and then it was an accident. Everyone knows there are things which areinevitable.Onemorningatthelycéeduringrecess,Iwaspresentwhentheboywiththe

shrill voice threw himself on one ofmy companions, claws out to scratch hiseyes.Luckily the other boy dodged and ran away crying. Iwas horrified.Buteveryoneintheendconcludedthattheaggressorwascrazy.Thatatleastwasanexplanation.Oneeveningaboutmidnight—itwasFebruary6,1934—myfathercame

homefromtheneighborhoodoftheEtoileandtoldus,withtensioninhisvoicewhichwas unfamiliar tome, that demonstrators on the Champs-Elysées weretearingup themetal railingsaround theflowerbeds,and throwing themin thefacesofthepolice;thatabuswasburningonthePlacedelaConcorde.Ididnot

reallyunderstand.Itsoundedlikeatragedyoranovel.Itresembledthehistorybooks—onlyalittlehotter.Itdidn’tseemreal.I had never seen a person die.Of course allmen died, but onlywhenGod

called them back to Himself. It was not a thing to be angry about. On thecontrary.InMarch1938,IknewenoughGermantofollowthenewsbroadcastsonthe

Naziradio.ButIwasdeterminedtolearnthelanguagethoroughly—tobesure,tofeelwhatthesemenwantedofus.Europewasrockingtowardtheeast,towardBerlin, Hamburg, Nuremberg andMunich, and I was going to rockwith it. Icouldnotovercomethefeeling.Where thiswouldendIhadnoideabutIwasmakingmypreparations.ForthenextfiveyearsIstudiedGermanfortwohourseveryday.BetweenAnschlussandtheCapitulationofMunichImadesomuchprogress

that I could read Heine’s Book of Songs, Schiller’s William Tell and theautobiographyofGoethe.Eachoneof these books baffledme. I could see noconnection between them, their harmonious and humane language, theirthoughts so exalted one could not always follow them to the end, and thearmoreddivisions,theSAandSS,thoseassembliesofhateintheSportspalastinBerlin,onthefairgroundsinNuremberg;Jewsinsultedandarrested—theysaideven tortured— all these people fleeing from Germany, because a free mancouldnolongerlivethere.Waranddeath.War!Therereallyweremenwholovedit.AlreadyIknewthatforsure.Asfor

death,thereweremenwhowerekillingforpleasure.Sohistorywasalltrue,alltheslaveries,all thepunishments,all thebattles,all themassacres.And itwasabouttostartalloveragaininourtime.Itwasonlyamatterofweeksormonths.Inthesummerof1938,iftherewerestillpoliticiansinEuropewhodoubtedit,they should have consulted the thirteen-year-old schoolboy, for there was nohesitationleftinhim.Everynighton theradioIhungon thestatementsbyDaladier,Chamberlain

and Ribbentrop. In September in the weeks beforeMunich, there was not anintervieworaspeechthatImissed.IfIhappenedontheBBC,myignoranceofEnglish causedme real regret. Iwaited patiently for two hours until theBBCgaveoutthesamenewsinFrenchorinGerman.Iwasnotafraid,notyet.OfthatatleastIamsure.Ipassedthroughaseriesof

interesting states of mind: curiosity about trouble, need to understand,fascination with mystery, the poetry of the future and the unexpected— theunexpectedmostofall.Becauseofmy fatherwehadGerman friends.Havingmade several trips to

Germany in his profession as an engineer, my father had established

connections. But, above all, devoting his leisure time to philosophical andspiritualstudies,hehadmaderealfriendshipsinGermanywithsomeremarkablemen:oneaprofessorofmathematics,anotheraformerministerinBavaria.Andnow thesepeaceablemen,who seemed tome to resembleHeine,Goethe, andBeethoven,wereinflight.Ilearnedtheywereallthreatenedwithimprisonment,perhapswithdeath.AtthebeginningofAugust1938,myfathermadeplanswhichthrewmeinto

themidstofadventure.HetookmewithhimtospendthreedaysinStuttgart.Onthe slopes of the Uhlandshöhe, above the city, we visited the director of aGermanschoolwhowasafriendofmyfather’s.Iwasstruckbytheman’scalm,hismoderationandhissadness.HetoldusthatallGermanswhowantedpeace,orpreferred it towar,were already sufferingorpreparing for sufferingahead.He spoke little and in a low voice. Still, hemade it clear that everythingwecould imaginewas lesshorrible than the reality.For itwasnotonlyGermany,butFrance,England, thewholeworld,whichwason thepointofbursting intoflame. For his part, hewould have to leave his country before the end of theyear.Heknewitbutcouldnotdecidetoactonit.WhenwegotbacktoParis,naturallyIplayedtheprophettomycompanions.

Almostwithoutexceptiontheyfailedtounderstand.Intheirfamiliestheyheardnothingoutoftheordinary.Therehadalwaysbeenincidents,andalwayswouldbe. Three years before there had been colonialwar in Ethiopia and threats ofblockadefromtheWesternpowers,butnothingcameofit.AtthisverymomenttherewascivilwarinSpain.Ithadallbeeninthenewspapers.Butoneoftherulesofbourgeoiscomfort—comfortinthefamily—wasthat

newspaperswerereadbutnotbelieved.Thepresslied,nowmore,nowless,butcontinually.Itwasbesttothinkaboutitaslittleaspossible.Frommypointofview,thisrefusaltofacerealitywasthestupidestthingIhadmetinmythirteenyears.Formycompanionsandtheirparents,Iwasashamed.IfIhadonlyknownhow,Iwouldhavemadethemunderstand.Mostgrownupsseemedtobeeitherimbecilesorcowards.Theyneverstopped

tellinguschildrenthatwemustpreparefor life, inotherwordsfor thekindoflifetheywereleading,becauseitwastheonlygoodandrightone,ofthattheywerecertain.No,thankyou.ToliveinthefumesofpoisongasontheroadsinAbyssinia,atGuernica,ontheEbrofront,inVienna,atNuremberg,inMunich,theSudetenlandandthenPrague.Whataprospect!Iwasnolongerachild.Mybodytoldmeso.ButallthethingsIhadhelddear

whenIwassmallIlovedstill.WhatattractedmeandterrifiedmeontheGermanradiowasthefactthatitwasintheprocessofdestroyingmychildhood.Outerdarkness.Hereitwas.Aplaceworsethananymelodrama,wheremen

must shout at the topof their voices tobeheard,where they talkhonorwhentheywanttodishonor,andfatherlandwhentheywanttopillage.In such a school I should have learned to hate the Boches. But no more,

thanksbe toGod.My familydissuadedme.Booksandsymphonies toldme itmustnotbeso.IwentoncallingthemGermans,andwithrespect.Someofmycompanionsdeclaredthemselvespatriots.NotI.Ihadnodesire

tobelikethem,fortheywereallbraggarts,andnotonemadetheslightestefforttounderstandwhatwasgoingon.Besides,insidetheiranti-Germanfamilies,itwasamazinghowindulgenttheyweretowardHitlerandhiscrimes.Withoutadmittingittomyself,IhadalreadyimaginedtheNaziseverywhere.

Fromnowontheworldwaslikeagiantkettleheatedbyrancorandviolence.Iwas still dreamingat the endof1938,but for the first time thedreamdidnotcomeofitself.Youhadtowatchoverit,tokeepthegateoftheKingdomopenbehindyou.Thegreatunityhadbeencutintwo,withloveononesideandhateontheother;fearonewayandjoyanother.Therewasnodoubteverythingwasgoingtobehard,alittleharderfromday

today.Butafterall, even if lifewasnotgood, it still lookedas though itwasgoingtobeexciting.

THEYOUNGGIRLJEANMETONSUNDAYforthesecondtimewascalledFrançoise.Whyshouldhehaveconcealedhernameaftertheirfirstmeeting?Thegirlwasofnoconsequence tomesince Ihadnevermether.Besides, I

should probably never see her. She was the daughter of some rather distantfriendsofJean’s family.Still,everythinghadbeengoingatcrosspurposes formesinceshecameintothepicture.Jeanhadastrangewayof talkingabouther.Hesaidshehad theeyesofan

angel,hazelbrown.Hesaidagainandagainthatshehadaslimwaistandshoesyoucouldn’t takeyoureyesoff.Hekeptcomingbacktoherfigure,hershoes,thefabricofherdress,andtoamolehesaidwasjustatthehairlineonthebackofherneck.Whenhementionedthesethingshespokeinawhisperwhichgotonmynerves. Iwanted to tellhimhewasridiculous,butIdidn’tdareforfearofinterruptinghimsohewouldnotgivemeanymoredetails.IwonderedwhetherFrançoisewould interestme.Was that possible? I was not as happy as I hadbeen.Nodoubtaboutit,Ihadworries.ThatMondaymorning,thedayafterhissecondmeetingwiththegirl,because

hecouldnolongercontainhimself,JeanhadtoldmehernamewasFrançoise.Onhiswaytomyhouse,hehadrunintoherbychanceontheplatformofthebus. It was so crowded he had had to stand pressed up against her for fiveminutes.Shewassmallerthanhe,andtoanswerhim,tolookathim,shehadto

lift her eyes.Sohehadagood lookat her eyes, andat once theybecame thecenterofhisworld.IlistenedtoJeanandwasmiserable,trulymiserable.Therewasalumpinmy

throat,andJeandidnotseemtobeawareofit.Hetalkedonallbyhimself.Inawaythatwasluckyfor, ifhehadaskedmeaquestion,Icouldn’thaveopenedmymouth.Butwhy?TherewasnothingnovelaboutagirlnamedFrançoisewithhazeleyes.Myanguishlastedfordays,growingbiggerandmoreandmoreformless.By

thistimeFrançoisehadnothingtodowithit.ShemightaswellhavebeencalledMoniqueor Jeanne,orhaveblond insteadofdarkhair likeJean’sFrançoise. Ishouldhavesufferedjustthesame.Theonly thing todowas to tell Jeanabout itwithoutwaiting any longer. I

wouldfindnootherdoctor,forJeanstill lovedmeandwoulddosomethingtohelp.Onlythistime,insteadofdeclaringmyselffranklyasusual,Isawmyselfmakingendlesspreparations.Iwascalculatingtheattack.Iwasafraidofmyself.Frankly, I was frightened, and that was my trouble. As soon as the idea

occurred tome, I launched intoconfessionboldly. I tookJeanfora three-hourwalk near the Porte d’Italie, because I knew that this neighborhoodwould bedeserteduntilthefactoriesletout.FirstIbeggedhispardonforallthewrongIhadnotyetdonehim(butwhich,

inallprobability,Iwasalreadydoing).ImadeitcleartohimthatFrançoisewasonlyapretext.BecauseofherIhadrememberedthatIwasblind.OrratherIhadrealizedforthefirsttimethatthiswasso.Iwouldneverbeabletoseethegirls’hair,theireyesortheirfigures.Asfortheirdressesandtheirshoes,IknewverywelltheywereimportantbutwhatcouldIdoaboutit?ItfrightenedmetoknowthatIshouldalwaysbekeptawayfromthesemarvels.AndgirlsasaruleweresointentonyourlookingatthemthatperhapsforthemImightneverexist.WhileIwas talking,Ihadalreadybeguntosay tomyself that Iwaswrong,

thatthereweregirlsofadifferentkind.ButJeanwasterriblyembarrassedwhenI had finished speaking. I had never seen him in such a state. He couldn’texpress himself, and was fiddling with my shoulder as though he wished hecouldmakehishandtalkinhisplace.The incident had no sequence. In the first place Jean did not see Françoise

again,orhardlyever.Inthesecondplacehetreatedmewithakindnesswhichbrokemyheartmorethanonce.Nodoubtaboutit,thedangermustberealifpitywasthetreatmentIdeserved.Without realizing it, I had just faced one of the toughest obstacles a blind

personeverhastomeet,andfromhereonIhadtogofromonefalltoanotherfortwoyears,untilIregainedmycommonsense.

Iusedtostandatthewindowinmyroomlisteningtothenoisesinthecourtbelow.I touched,Iheard,butIno longerperceivedasIhad.Aveilhadcomedown.Iwasblind.Then I closed the window and shut myself up. I told myself stories of

boundaries that could never be crossed. I ridiculedmy childhood dreams.Myheart was full and my hands were empty, without arms in a world whereeverything ismade to be seen,where there is no place to go unless one goestherebyoneself.IfeltmyselfreducedtodoingthethinginwhichIexcelled,butwhich interested me least: shining in studies. My throat tightened with envywhen they toldme about the boyswhowere going out on their bicycleswithgirls.Iwouldstayathome.Thatwasinevitable.Fortunatelyjealousyandfoolishnessnevertookholdofmorethanhalfofme,

evenduringthosetwoyears.Andeventhenitwasthesmallerhalf.Aboveall,therewasJean,whowitheveryargument,withoverwhelmingpatience,triedtoprovethathehadnospecialadvantages:“Ifyouonlyknewhowfewthingswereallysee!Girlsdonotletusseeanything.”Then too, there was the voice speaking inside me. Whenever I had the

strengthnot tosilence it, Iheard itclearly,callingmea fool.Thevoicesaid Ihadfallenintoatrap,hadforgottenthetrueworld:theworldwithin,whichisthesourceofalltheothers.Imustrememberthatthisworld,insteadofdisappearing,would grow with the years, but only on one condition: that I believe in itunshakably.Thevoiceadded thatwhatyouhaveseenonedayasachildyouwillnever

stopseeing.Accordingtothevoice,greatthingslayaheadofme.Theeasygirls,theoneswhothinkofnothingbutthemselves,woulddropme.Buttherewouldbeothers, theoneswhoweregenuine.Andtheywouldbemoreworthhaving.Theywouldexpectmenottodoubtthem.Theywouldnotwantmetogiveupwhat I loved, for theywould love it too.Above all, theywould forbidme tocomparemypositionwiththatoftheaverageman.ThismuchIunderstood,thattomakecomparisonsistosuffer,andwithoutreasonsince,inanycase,notwothingsareevercomparable.All the same, I listened to the good voices in vain. I would have given so

muchtorecapturethepeacethatwasminewhenIwastwelve.SinceIhadbeenfifteen the universe had taken on a kind of dense coarseness. Peopleworked,talkedontheradioormadelovetogirls,asifeachoneofthemwereallaloneintheworld.Nowaynowtoshare,exceptpossiblywithJean.Butevenwithhimwouldit

lastforever?Thequestiontorturedhimasitdidme,tothepointwherewemadesolemnvowstoreassureeachotherinthesummerof1939.Eachofussworeto

telltheotherthewholetruth,everytime,whateveritmightbe,andsworethatnogirlwouldevercomebetweenus.Thepledgewasnosoonermadethanwefoundouttoouramazementthatwe

hadneveryettoldeachotherthewholetruth.Therewerecountlesssecretplacesin our consciences where we had never looked.We were so badly made, sotimid,soselfish,fickle,jealous,prudishandforgetful.Wehadtoadmitwewerenotdeep.Toputitsimplyeachofushadadoubleortriplebase,amechanismtodeceivehimselfanddeceiveotherpeople.Still,wehadtakenthepledge,andweweregoingtokeepwatchloyally.No

moremysteriesorprudishnessbetweenus.Wewouldspareeachothernothing.Wewouldgo the limitwithwords, and ifwordshurt, thenwewould consoleeachother.Life being what it was, with all those ministers and fathers of families

preparingtomakewar,withallthosegirlswholaughedfornogoodreason,andkeptgivinglooksyoucouldneverunderstand,surelyitwouldtaketwoofustomantheattack.

[8]

MYCOUNTRY,MYWAR

THEBUSDRIVER,afterstoppinginfrontofmetomakesure,saidwiththekindbanter that is typicalof thesouth:“So,youngfellow!Youcan’tsee.Well, forthefirsttimeyou’reinluck.Itcouldlastahundredyearsthiswar,withoutyourbeinginit.”Then he turned around briskly, sat down behind the wheel, and drumming

withhisfingersonthedashboard,begantosingamilitarytune.ButwhyshouldthemansayIwashappynottogotowar?ThatwasatTournonon theRhôneonSeptember2,1939,afewhoursafter

theordersforgeneralmobilizationhadbeenpostedoneverywallinFrance.Fora fewdays Jean and I had been stayingwithmygodmother in the little townwherethestreetssmelledofpeachesandonions.TheWorldWarhadstartedthenightbefore.Allthemenweregoingawaytowar,thebusdriveraswell.Hewastwenty-

fiveyearsold,andhadawifeandasmalldaughter.Hetoldusthewholestoryofhislife.Thiswasthelasttriphewasmakinginhisbus.Nextdayhewouldbeasoldier.From time to timehegrumbledor sighed,butmostlyhedidnot seemsad.HewaswaitingforthecustomerswhowouldbetakingthebustoLamastre.But today—he said so in a loudvoice— therewere no customers, and thatmadehimlaugh.“Noonewillcome,”hesaid,andthenrepeatedhimselfasiftogetthefullflavorofhisconclusion.Fiveo’clockstruck.Asitturnedout,JeanandIweretheonlytravelers.Then

ourdriverstartedup,singing.HeburnedupastripofthebighighwayalongtheRhôneat sixtymilesanhour; then,hardlyslowingdown, took the firstcurvesalong themountain road.He turned left,he turned right, andkeptblowinghishornlikeamadman.Hadhebeendrinkingtogetuphiscourage?Noteventhat.He was as fresh as paint. Only he was going off to war and was alreadydreamingaboutit.

Ever since the night before,when the radio announced thatNazi tanks hadgonedeepintoPoland,peoplewerenotthesameanymore.Icouldseeitclearly.Someofthewomenwept,someofthemheldbacktheirtears.Onthesquare

in frontof the townhall theoldmenwere reminiscingabout1914 to1918. Itwasnotexactlyheartening.Obviously,Frenchmenhadnoideaintheworldwhythey should have to fight now. TheDanzigCorridor, the treatieswith Polandmeantnothingtothem.By the timeourdriverhadclimbeddown fromhis seat, Jeanand Iwereas

stirredup as hewas.Andwhoknows, perhaps for the same reasons.Besides,everyonewasexcited.Wasitwithpainorpleasure?Itwouldhavebeenhardtotell.Buteverywhere

therewasasenseofadventure.Peoplewerenot takingthebus.Theywerenotgoingtobedattheusualhour.Theexpresstrainsblewtheirwhistlestwiceandstoppedatthesmallstations.Theradioplayedmilitarymusictillthemiddleofthenight.Peopleno longerwrote eachother letters.They telegraphed instead.TherewererumorsthatGöring’splaneshadalreadybombedParis;otherssaiditwasLondon.Everyonewasarguingandtryingtofindoutwhethertherewouldbepoisongas,germshells,ortrenchesasinthelastwar.Butonethingnoonetalkedaboutwasvictory.ThistimenoonewasonhiswaytoBerlin.Therealityofwarmadeitswayintomyconsciousnessdropbydrop,likethe

effectsofhardliquor.Oncethefirstintoxicationwasabsorbed,asinglequestiongrewtillitblottedoutalltheothers:“Isthewarourbusiness?”Wehadnotyetcometoadecision,eitherJeanorI.Butthatwasnotbecause

wedidn’tknowtheanswer.Onthecontrary,itwasbecauseweknewittoowell,and it seemed to us unreasonable, frankly childish. Since we were still onlyfifteen,wewerestillprotected,andtherestwasonlysmoke.Still,thesmokekeptgettingthickerandthicker,fromonedaytothenext.It

gatheredinfrontofus,inthepathofourfuture,likeacloud.Noneoftheshapesinthecloudstoodoutclearly,butintheend,wecouldreadthesigns:“Itwillbeyourwar, for both of you.”And even ifwewere shocked into discomfort, orworriedtillithurt,therewasnowayoutofit.Jeanfinallytoldmethatinhiscase,leavingallfantasyaside,thepremonition

wasnotnecessarilysilly.Thewarmight last twoyears,and if itdidhewouldenlist.Whynot?Orfour,likethelastwar,wheneventheyoungestclassesweremobilized.Butinmycaseitwasridiculous.Therecouldbenoforeboding.Iwascompletelyoutofit.Wisereasoning,butitsolvednothingforeitherJeanorme.Isawthatatonce

withajoyIcannotdescribe.Hedidn’tbelievewhathewassaying.HehadthesamevisionsofthefutureasI.Foolishornot,theywereasinsistentasprophecy.

Theydrewusonbytheirweight.Asfaraswewereconcernedtheyweremorelikeanappeal thana threat,akindofdizziness,amagneticforce. In theendIsaidtoJean,“Iamgoingtomakewar.Idon’tknowhow,butIshallmakeit.”September passed, so empty. There was hardly any fighting at the front.

Polandwasconqueredalready,butwhohaddelivered the finalblow?Nobodyknew.SuddenlyonSeptember17,Russiantroopshadinvadedherfromtheeast.InEuropenothingwasleftbutenemies.Agreatchange(orachangewhichseemedgreattous)happenedinourlives.

My father,mobilizedas anofficer in theEngineerCorps in apowder factory,wascalled toToulouse.Mymother,mybrotherand Iweregoing to joinhim.Jeanwasgoingtoo,for,notwantingtoleaveme,heconvincedhismotherthatshe should settle in Toulouse. For the first timewewere not going to live inParis.IremarkedtoJeanthatsomethingimpossiblewascomingabout.For awhile, our premonitionsweremasked by the life of another city, the

SouthofFrance,newvoices,adifferentsun.Still,forebodingskeptpouncingonusalloveragainatthemostunlikelymoments.Butwaswarsomethingwecaredabout—thatwecouldlike?Tohearpeopletalktheyallhatedit,butthatdidn’tkeepusfromnoticingthat

sincethefirstofSeptembermelancholyfacesweremuchlesscommonthantheyusedtobe.Whatwaswrittenonthesefaceswasperhapsnotgaiety,butinterest.Atleastnoonewasattheaccustomedplaceatthesamehour.Atnightthemendidn’t comehome to the samewomanand the samechildren rightnext to thesameneighbors.Therewasasenseof freedomeverywhere.Peopleweremorewilling tosay

what they thought.Even timehadgrownprecious.Youcounted it, said itwasgoing too fast or too slow, in short you were concerned about it, and it wasexciting.Thedeadwerenottroublingus,notyet.Therewereagoodmanyofthemat

the endof the year, onFinland’s icy lakes: thousandsof heroes fighting for afreedom which was unattainable and therefore more beautiful, if that werepossible, than our own.Butwho, in France, cared about Finland?Students ofgeographylikeus,whoconscientiouslyfollowedalltheadvancesandretreatsonthebigmap.Nooneelse,orhardlyanyone.Thewarseemedunreal.Somealreadywhisperedthatitwouldneverhappen,

thatitwasahugepoliticalproduction.Ididn’tagree.Warwouldcome,infullforce.Toknowit,IonlyneededtolistentotheGermanradioeverynight.Thereitwas, thedarkprophecy—Icouldno longerdoubt it thatwinter in1940. Itwasthere,mywar.Thecloud,themonster,wasintheNazimeetings.Thevoiceofthesecrowds

hadgone toofar,cutting itselfofffromtheworldofman.Itwouldhavetobesilenced,orImustdosomethingaboutit.Iwasupset,caughtbetweenpassionateangerand thesenseof theabsurd.Ablindboy, fifteenyearsold, facingHitlerandhispeople.Thatwassomethingtolaughabout.Still,itwasallIcoulddotokeepfromspreadingthenews.

HAVINGTASTEDHAPPINESStothepointofintoxicationatToulouse,Icangiveyouthispieceofadvice:ifyouarehappywhenyouareaboyorgirloffifteen,don’ttellanyone.Or,ifyoudo,chooseyourconfidant,andtakeoneyourownage.Ifyou really can’t containyourself, show thegrownups thatyouarehappy,

butdon’thopeforgreatthings.Almostalladultshaveashortmemory,andtheyalwaysthinkhappinessbeginsonlyateighteenorevenattwenty-one.Whateveryoudo,don’tevergivethemyourreasonsforbeinghappy.Themostliberalandloving familywould be disturbed right away, and think youwere out of yourmind.Bykeepingyour secretyouwill losenothing, for the secretonlymakeshappinessgrow.This policy really worked for Jean and me. All year long we concealed

ourselves.Themoreunlikelyourhidingplacesthebettertheywere.Someofourjoysweresointensethatwecouldn’tconfidethemtoeachotherinanyordinaryplace like the street.Yet in Toulouse the streetswere narrow,winding, badlypavedornotreallypavedatall.Thegutterswounddownthemiddleoftheroad.The smellof cats,ofmoldy stones, soapywater, food fried inoliveoil, garlicandhoneyassaultedyouateverystep.Yeteventhosepoeticstreetsdidnotserveourpurposes.Weneeded someugly spot, togivemore tang toourhappiness.Thewaitingroomoftherailroadstationwastheplacewechose.Orelsewe fled to thecountry forall-daywalks,withoutanydestinationon

principle. To know ahead of time where we were going would have been amistake.Wehadthegoodsensetoknowthat.Theimportant thingwastoloseourselves, in thedrydesertedhillssouthof thecity, in thefertilevalleyof theAriège, among the ruined houses of deserted villages, on land lying fallowaround those little hamlets with high-sounding names, Sayss-en-Gayss,Courtousour, La Crois-Falgarde. No matter where, but somehow losingourselves! Never thinking of finding the way, nothing in our heads buthappiness, walking zigzag or straight ahead till wewere tired out— this tooanotherkindofhappiness.Everydaywebecamefriendsagainasthoughitwerethefirsttime,andthis

too was essential. Friendship was a fragile state of mind or body, one thatvanished as soon as you made a habit of it. To renew it every day was anobligation and hardwork. Sometimeswe had to set friendship free,making it

garrulous and lenient; emptying out all our dreams, without choosing amongthemandwithoutscruple.Sometimesourcensorshipheldnopity.Jeanliterallydid not have the right to say one foolish thing, nor did I. We examinedeverything,thearticlesofagreementonebyone:loyalty,faithfulness,toleranceandsharing.Ofall theclausesthethorniestwastheoneaboutsharing.Wedidnotsucceedinstipulatinghowfaritshouldgo.Theoreticalatfirst,thisbecameapracticalmatterinMarch.Thentherewasacrisis.SincehehadcometoToulouseJeanhadlivedinasmallapartmentinahouse

withdarkstairwaysonanarrowstreet.Butthissomberhousewaslightedbythepresenceofayounggirl.Outof“virtue,”Jeansaid,hehadtriedatfirstnottoseeher.Butastimewentonhiseffortsfailedcompletely.Aliette,forthatwasthegirl’sname,wasreallyunavoidable.Shewaseighteen

years old. Shewas beautifulwithout giving it a thought. She didn’t touch theground, she flew. She didn’t walk down stairs, she glided down them like aflower tossed into the wind. She sang from morning to night, so much youwonderedhowshecouldmanagetolearnherlessons.Andyouwerenotlearningyours, because you were always trying to hear through the partition, becauseyouroneideawastobewithher,todrinkhersongfromhereyesandherlips,and then sneak home without being seen. Or if she wasn’t singing, that wassurelybecauseshewassadorperhapssick,andyouwantedtorunandhelpher.ConsolingAliettewouldbesuchamarvelousthing!Shesaidnothinganddidnothingthewaytherestoftheworlddidit.Jeantold

methatwithaconvictionthatIwasbeginningtoshare.Heaskedhimselfwhatwasthedifference.Sheusedordinarywords,butassoonastheywereoutofhermonth they tookona thousanddifferentmeanings.Youno longerhad time tolisten to them. The sun began to play on them as it does on the wings of abutterfly,andyourvisionbecameblurred.To make everything more complicated, for a week or two Jean had been

certainshewasinterestedinhim.Theproofwasshetalkedtohim,evenlethimtalktoher.Onthelandingtheyhadexchangedtipsonproblemsinmathematics.Shesaidmathematicsmeantnothingtoher.Finally,sheinvitedhimtoplaythepianoatherhouse,andwhileshewasbendingovertoturnthepages,Aliette’shairhadbrushedagainsthischeek.InawordJeanwas in love.But love,youunderstand, isaveryfeebleword

forit.ThefactwasmypoorJeanwasnolongerliving,hewasburstingwithlife.And this is wheremy story, inevitably, gets confused. For I toowas not justliving,Itoowasinlove.The discovery was terrifying. Everything became unsettled all at once:

friendship, its rights and its limits, the future, our studies, the serenity of our

lives,andlastofallourloveitself.Towhomdiditbelong,thislove?ToJeanortome?If therewasnothingbetweenAliette and Jeanbut apartition, that, after all,

wasonlyluck.Andthankstoanotherpieceofluck,IhadbeenthefirsttomeetAliette and the first to talk to her. From the point of view of history, I haddefiniterights.Icanjokealittle todaywhenI tellyouthisstory,butwewerecertainlynot

joking at the time.Wemade longer excursions into thehills than ever before,andfrombeginningtoendthesewalkswereasinglestorm.Weweren’tfighting,youmustn’tthinkthat.Weweren’tangry,weweremeditating.Theintensityandthesizeoftheproblemweresogreatthatalmostalwaysattheendofthehourweforgottheproblemitself.Therestofthetimethetwoofuswerealonewithourdoublegirl.Wekeptonlookingatthedoubleimagewecarriedaroundwithus,andafterthisnothingintheworldseemedtousdivided.Imustsay,toJean’sgloryandmineandAliette’s,thatnooneofthethreeof

useverwentaboutspoilingtheimage.Onthecontraryitgrewsogentleandsopure that no one bothered to compare it with its model. Still, the model wasthere,alive,moreandmorevibrant,moreandmorefamiliar.FromnowonweweremeetingAlietteeveryday,butalwaystogether,neverseparately.Wemetheronthesquaresinthetown,atthecornerofthelittlestreetsinthe

reddish shade of the brick houses. We waited for her after school. We hadconversationsunderthedamparcades.WhenIwenttoherhouse,sheandJeantookmebacktomine,wewentoutagaintohers,theywentbackwithme,andallthetimethesummernightspreadaroundusandcradledus.I am not very sure what we said all those hours. We counted the stars, I

remember that. Each one of us held Aliette by the arm, not with too muchpressure,forshewassacred.Welethervoicemaketheroundsofourheartsandourthoughts.Wemayhavemadehertalkforthejoyofit.Ithinkweendedbyforgettingher,ourAliette,whileshewasfriskingaroundbetweenus, laughingand light-hearted, because she was more beautiful than anything, becausenothingmeantanythinganymore.Tothedevilwithreality!Was this a girl dreamed about, or lived? Lived, for sure, sometimes to the

pointoftears,sogreatwasthepleasureshegave.Butlivedattheonemomentinlifewhenthingsdon’tneedtohavehappenedtobealive.Inthedistance,tothenorth,throwingaweirdlightonourhappiness,thewar

went on. It ended in catastrophe. In fiveweeks inMay and June, Francewasconquered.ThearmiesofHitlerwererushingsouthward,heavywithcalamity.Theyalonehadthepowertoseparateus.

ALIETTE,WHENSHELEFTUSthenightbefore,toldusitwouldbebetterforusnottoseeeachotheragain,atleastnotallthreetogetherandnotsooften.Wedidn’tknowwhyshesaidsoandshedidn’texplain.But suddenly, tenminutes later,the radio announced that German troops had entered Paris and that Paris hadyieldedwithoutresisting.Parisaprisoner!Aliettegoingaway!Whichshouldwethinkaboutfirst?Atlastinthemorningatthemainentrancetothelycée,thisnoticeappeared,

writtenbyhandinlargeclumsyletters(theycertainlyhadnothadtimetohaveitprinted):Becauseofwhathashappened,thewrittentestsforthefirstandsecondbachotsare postponed till a later date. From today on classes are suspendedthroughouttheToulouseschooldistrictuntilfurthernotice.Events!Aliette!Andagainevents!Ourheadswereabouttoburst.Jeanagreed

withme.Wemustnotcontinuetothinkofourselves.Withinaweekperhapsourcountrywouldnolongerexist.Atsuchatimetheinterestofthecommunityissomuchmoreimportantthantheconcernsoftheindividual.Thatiseasilysaid!Butemotionswerebeatinginonusfromeverysideatthe

samemoment.Eachwavewasmoreviolentthanthelast.Wedidn’tknowwheretoheadin.AsforFrance,wewereagreedthatthewarwaslost.OurEnglishallieswere

in flight, climbing into the boats at Dunkerque. You couldn’t blame them.French armies were fleeing too, to the south of the Loire according to thereports.In the last two weeks, three hundred thousand refugees had poured into

Toulouse: women, old people, children, evenmen. They came fromHolland,Belgium,Luxembourg,fromnorthernandeasternFrance,fromParis,NormandyandOrléans.Theyhadnoideawheretheyweregoing.Theywereheadingsouth,thatwasall.Toulousewasabigcity,sotheystoppedthere.They crowded into tents in the athletic fields along the Garonne. Two

thousandofthem,mostofthemwomenandbabies,spentthenightinthechapelofourlycée.Privatehousesinthecityweretakinginalltheycouldhold.Oftentheywereputtingupfive,eventen,inthesameroom.Thecityauthoritieswereuneasy.Suchaconcentrationofpeoplewasanideal

target for attack from the air. It was rumored that Toulouse was about to bebombed.Inthemiddleofthecity,itwaseasytobelieveyourselfinParisonedayinthe

Revolution. The crowd was all concentrated in a single mass, immense andpurposeless. The fact was that people did not seem either threatening orfrightened.Theygavetheimpressionofunderstandingnothing.Cars covered with mud, their fenders pierced by machine gun fire, were

standingdriverlessatanyangleagainst thecurb.Butwherewas thearmyandwherewere thegenerals?Wherewas thegovernment?Theysaid ithadfled toBordeaux.Terrifyingrumorsweregoingtherounds,confirmedbythepapersandonthe

radio.Planesweremachine-gunningcivilianswhowereinflightalongtheroads.OntheroadsinthenorththeplaneswereGerman,inthesouththeywereItalian.Amanpassingbysaid,“Thereisnotimeleftforcrying.Thistime,itistheend.”Whatwashe saying, thisman?Wewereoutraged.Anationdoesnot die likethat.NotFrance…Butby this time,wewere ina sidestreetwhichwas lessdisturbed,and the

memory of the night before came back to us. Aliette didn’t want to see usanymore!Could we possibly have offended her? Was she mistaken about our

intentions?Allofa sudden I said toJean:“Iknow. It’sbecauseshe is in lovewithoneofus.Itcan’tbeanythingelsebutthat.”Theideawasunbelievablysimple.WehadlovedAlietteformonthswithout

evenaskingourselveswhethershe lovedus,orevenwhethershewas thinkingaboutlovingus,orwhichoneofthetwoofusshewouldchoose.Becauseshewouldhavetochoose.Thattoowehadcompletelyforgotten.Wehadlostsightof the fact, deplorable but inescapable, that love is a personalmatter.Wehadbeen ridiculous, that’s all. And how angry she must be. Jean pulled himselftogether and said, “Don’t let’s think about her, shallwe?”But how couldwemanage to avoid thinking of everything at the same time when it was all soserious?Atnightwesleptwell(yousleepwhateverhappenswhenyouarefifteen),but

wehadhardlyopenedoureyesbeforethedoubletragedyhitusfullintheface:ourloveandourcountry.You must realize how well informed we were in spite of our youth.

Everythingthathappenedmeantsomethingtous.Weknewabouttheparties,thegovernments, political systems and alliances. We were well able to tell thedifferencebetweenarmisticeanddefeat.OnJune17atnoon,whenMarshalPétainspoketotheFrenchpeopleandsaid

that the army could no longer keep on fighting, that it was necessary tosurrender,thatallfurtherresistancewouldbewrongandthathe,theoldestandmost famous soldier in France, the victor of Verdun, had agreed to sign anarmisticewithHitlerandtheGermangenerals,thusofferingtoFrance“thegiftofhisownperson”—weweretherelisteninganddidnotbelievehim.Theideathat he could be a traitor never occurred to us.Butwewere sure that hewaswrong.ThecauseofFrancewasnotjustthecauseofherarmiesinthefield.

On the evening of June 18, when a young general, almost unknown andbearinganamesoundinglikethatofalegendaryhero,CharlesdeGaulle,madehisfirstappealfromLondonforFrenchmentoresist,tokeepthewargoinginalltheoverseas territorieswhereFrancewas still in apositionof command— inNorth Africa, West Africa, Equatorial Africa, and Indochina — and also inmetropolitan France, called on Frenchmen to resist with all the moral andphysicalarms theyhad left,wewere there too.But this timewebelieved,andouranswerwasyes.Not a shadowofdoubt remained.Wewere about tobecome the soldiersof

Free France. Butwhen?And how?What armswould Jean have?And— themore difficult question—what arms were there for me? I can say only onething. We knew nothing, and yet we already knew everything. We wereembarkingupontheseriousthingsoflifejustasawell-hammerednailbitesintowoodandtakeshold.Itwas not bravado. Itwas not even patriotism. For us, Francewas a rather

vague idea, and somehow belied by events. The things in our heads and ourheartswecalledfreedom:thefreedomtochooseourbeliefs,ourwayoflifeandlet others choose theirs, the freedom to refuse to do harm. But why shouldfreedomneedtobeexplained?Aliettetoowasfree.Shewascallingusagain.Shehadtherighttoseeusor

nottoseeus.Sheevenhadtherighttotelloneofustogoaway.Ifonlywehadbeenabletoaskherwhichofthetwoofussheloved!Wealmostdecidedtodoit.But,inthisaffair,whatwastobecomeoffriendship?Jeanretreatedbeforemyanguish.Idrewbackbeforehis.Ifwespoke,oneof

us would have to withdraw. Whatever the outcome, it was certain to causesuffering. Itwas at this point that Jean said something entirely confused in itsexpressionbutabsolutelycleartome.Iwasblindandforonce,hesaid,thathaditseffects.Mychancesoftalkingto

Aliette,ofbeingalonewithherwerenotonaparwithhis.Mychances in thematerialworld, Imean.But thatwasnotquite fair, for Jean still felt hehadamoralobligationtosupportme.HepromisedtodonothingtowinAliettethatI,formypart,wouldnotbeabletodotoo.Hewouldgoontalkingtoher(ifshestillwantedhimto),butattimesandplaceswhereItoocouldhavegonewithoutanyone’shelp.Hewould tellhereverythinghewanted to,withoneexception:hewouldn’t tellherhewas in love. Iwouldn’tdo thateither.LikeJean Iwasgoing to givemyword. Jean kept repeating, “Don’t say thank you. It’s a fairexchange.”Jean thought thatafteradefeat likeours, theremustbe terribleyearsahead.

Terribleforus,thatwassure.Hardchoiceswouldhavetobemade,anddangers

met.Noonecouldsaythatdeathmightnotbepartofit.“YouhavemoreimaginationthanIhave,”hesaid.“Ilovelifebutyouloveit

more.Ishallneedyourstrength.WithyouthereIshallneverbeataloss.”Wewereveryromantic,weren’twe?Yesandno.Forwekeptourpromises to thebitterend:thepromiseaboutthewarandtheoneaboutlove.Weseemedtobelaughingatourselvesjustabit.Ourenthusiasmwassogreatthatitcouldstandalittlehumor.Aliettewasallchangedsincethearmistice.Hadsheguessedourdecision—

secretthoughitwas—toloveherwithoutlettingherknow?Youmightsaythatshehad suddenlybegun to respectus.Women inwartimeneedmensobadly.Shewasgettingreadyfor thebachot too, justaswewere,andsincewedidn’tknowwhentheexaminationwouldbe,wehadagreedtoworkveryhardtoholdontoourpatience.Working very hard was a thing Aliette didn’t care for very much. She

admittedshecouldnotdoitalone.Sheaskedus,asaservice,tomakeherwork.Knights in the days of chivalry were never more exalted by their lady’sdemands.WetookAlietteoutintothewoodsandsatherdownatthefootofatreeina

clearingandmadehergooverhercoursesaswellaswecould.Jeanwasthespecialistinscience.TolureAliettehewastryingtodrawfrom

algebra, solid geometry and electricity everything that these subjects, sounsympathetictogirls,canoffantasyorbeauty.Myjob,Iadmit,wassimpler.TheadvantageIhadalmostembarrassedme.I

was supposed to teach German, history, and literature, that divine subject, inwhicheverythingwassomehowrelatedtolove.IhardlydaretoadmitthatAliettefailedherexamsthreeweekslater,andthat

JeanandIpassed.Forusitwasapersonaldefeat.Fortunately,Aliette,dryingafewtearsasshereadthelistthatwasposted,lookedprettierthanever.Andsheknewverywellthatweweremen,andthatmenweresupposedtobefirstinthiskindofcompetition.Thatwasonlynatural.SothebachotwasbehindusasIknewverywell.Themorningwetookthe

French composition Iwas so happy about a kissAliette had givenme, like alittlesister,onthecheek,tobringmeluck(shehadgivenonejustlikeittoJean)thatwhenIcameoutIhadnoideawhatIhadwritten.ForthiscompositionIgotthebestmarkIhadevergottenforoneinmysixyearsoflycéeattendance.When July came, a silence like mourning had fallen over France. The

Germanshad forcedus to cut our country in two, north and south.They tookover theNorthernZone themselves.And therewasnoonearounduswhohadthecouragetothinkwhatthatmeant.

As for theSouthernZone, theywere already calling it “the free zone.”Butthatseemedtousamockery.OnJuly10,aFrenchgovernmenthadbeensetupatVichyunderMarshalPétain.Itwasagovernment,butnotthegovernmentofFrance.Militarydefeathadopenedabreach intowhichall theenemiesof theThird

RepublicandofFrancecouldrush.Withinafewdayswordshadchangedtheirmeaning.Peoplenolonger talkedabout libertybutabouthonor, forhonorwasmore reassuring. No more talk of parliament or institutions! Now it was thefatherland.NomoretalkabouttheFrenchpeopleoritswishes.Nowitwasthefamily.Thefamilywassmallerandmoremanageable.My father, who was sincerely devoted to democratic principles, said that

Francewasgoingthroughoneofthoseonslaughtsofthespiritofreactionwhichhave been so common in her history but which seemed this time to bemoreformidablethaneverbefore.At the end of August trains were set up in convoys to repatriate all the

refugeesandall thosewhoneeded togoback to theirhomes in thenorth.Myparentshadnochoice.WewereheadedforParis.Jean’sfamilydecidedonthesamecourse.Ourhoursoflovewerenumbered.

[9]

THEFACELESSDISASTER

A GIGANTIC CONVENT with its parlors deserted, that was Paris at the end ofSeptember 1940. The year before you never heard the church bells except onSundaymorningwhen trafficwasmovingslowly.Nowyouheardnothingbutthebells.In our apartment on the Boulevard Port-Royal, at the far edge of the Latin

Quarter,alldaylongIheardthebellsofVal-de-Grâce,St-Jacques-du-Haut-Pasand,wheneverthewindwasinthewest,thoseofNotre-Dame-des-Champs.Ifitwasfromthenorth,therewerethebellsofSt-Etienne-du-Mont,fartherawayonthesquareinfrontofthePanthéon.Thebellsreachedmyroominalltheirforce,fortoreachittheyhadonlytocrossthosevastsoundlessstretches.ParisundertheOccupationlookedtomeasifshewerepraying.Sheseemed

tobecallingonsomeone,butherswasavoicelesscry.Still,Ihadbetterwakeup. These were nothing but dreams. Since I had returned I had really seennothing.WehadcomeintotheAusterlitzStationintheeveningonourwaybackfromToulouse.MyhearthadstayedbehindwithAliette.Wehadnotbeenabletofindataxi.Therewerenomoretaxis,andwehadhadtocarryoursuitcasesandwalkthetwomilestoourhouse.AlongthewholelengthoftheBoulevardsde l’Hôpital, St-Marcel and Port-Royal, we never met a single car. The fewpedestrianswe sawwerewalking in themiddle of the street,moving straightforward and very fast. Paris seemed much bigger and much quieter than Irememberedit.ExceptforthatIwasnotawareofanythingunusual.Butwherewasthedisaster?Nooneseemedtoknow.Therewerehardlyany

carsleftandnobuses,onlytrucks.Richpeopleorpoor,theyallhadtotaketheMétro.Thepriceofcigaretteswasabithigher.Sowerethepricesofbreadandmeat,butnotmuch.Allthiswasreallynothing,itwassurelynotcalamity.AndtheGermans,wherewerethey?Theykeptoutofsight,hidinginbarracksorinhotels. To keep from seeing them, all you had to dowas stay away from the

PlacedelaConcorde,theChamps-ElyséesandtheEtoile.Thereyoucouldsmellthem,smell theircigarettes,sweeter thanoursbecauseof theblendofOrientaltobaccotheyliked.InotherpartsofParisyouhardlyeversawthem.Ifyoudid,theywereriding

incarsandmakingthetiresscreamatthecornersofthedesertedstreets.Iftheyhappenedtogetout,youheardtheirshoesscraping,theirstepstiff,alwaysstiff,andloud.Theyhadthegraveandsatisfiedlookofpeoplewhoknewwheretheyaregoing.Butdidtheyreallyknow?Fromday todaywewerewaitingfor themto land inEngland.But thedate

kept on being postponed. I was watching for the agony in the street but notfindingit.Itmaybethat thecalamitiesofhistory,whentheyareasrealastheonewewere living, don’t proclaim themselves all at once. No doubt it takestime.Thenextday Iwouldsurelyhearcries, learn thatpeopleweresuffering.Parisasprisonerwouldpoundonthedoortobereleased.Butthenextdaycameandwasfilledwiththesamesilenceasthenightbefore.Thesilencecaughtyoubythethroat,madesadnesspressintoyourthoughts.

Thehouseshadgrowntootall,thestreetstoowide.Peoplewereseparatedfromeach other by spaces that were too big. Even the air which flowed down theemptystreetswasfurtiveandkeptitssecrets.No one knew what to think about. One thought about oneself. Perhaps

everybodywas thinking only of himself and of nothing else. I used to say toJean:“Thisisaqueerwar.Wearenevergoingtoseeourenemy,anditwon’tbeeasytohavecourage.”But courage to dowhat?Therewas not a single directionmarked for us to

follow.Therewasnothingtodobutstayathome,thinkofAliette,eachfromhisowncorner,thinkofherforhoursonendwitheveryounceofourstrength,andget only a battered picture in return, a little face as sad as our own, almostwithouteyesandwithoutvoice,aphotographthathadn’t turnedout.Herewasgriefthatgratedonyournerves,madeyoujumpup,wantingtofight,longingallatoncefortheonethingthatwasnotthere—Aliette,Aliettesofaroff,Aliettewho had gone away— but no, it was I who had left her—Aliette whom Ilongedtotakeinmyarmsandholdtight.Howstrange!InToulousethatwasnotwhatIhadwanted.Iwouldnothave

wanted to touchAliette. For, atmy touch, shewould only have vanished intothinair.Buteversinceherbodyhadbeenseparatedfrommine, itexistedasabody.WhatIwasembracingwasonlyshadow.Wenolongerhadourbelovedandwehadnotmetourenemy.Wewereheavy

andemptyatthesametime,andourfeverrose.Besides,weshouldneveragainknowwhatwashappeningtoAliette.Lettersexchangedbetweenthetwozones

were forbidden. The occupying authorities allowed only the cards called“interzones”— a piece of pasteboardwith forms printed on them to be filledout. “I am…” ran the formula, and you wrote “well,” “very well,” or “fairlywell.”“Ireceivedyourcardfrom…”andyoulookedatanothercardjustlikeitto find the date onwhich the people you lovedhadwritten thesemeaninglessphrasesthelasttime.TheFrenchareresourceful,theyalwaysfindawayofmakingrulesservetheir

own ends. We managed to slip in words loaded with meaning, loaded withmeaningatleastforus,forwhatcouldtheothersunderstandfromtheirsideofthewall?Peoplewerenot talkingmuchanymoreabout thewar, for theywerenotlearninganything.TheonlynewspapersthatwereappearingwereGermanorhad sold out to the German side. Radio Paris too was German and it wasforbiddento listen to theBBC.Of that therewasnodoubt, for itwas theonlypreciseorderthathadbeenissuedbytheGermanmilitarygovernmentuptothistime.Naturally,hundredsofthousandsofpeoplewerelisteninginallthesame.This

ishowitwent:“Londoncalling,FrenchmenspeakingtoFrenchmen.”HerewereGeneral de Gaulle, Jean Oberlé, Pierre Bourdan, Jean Marin, MauriceSchumann.Theywere the ones giving the news.Confidence rang out in theirvoices. But after hearing them we never spoke of it. We were afraid of ourneighbors.Acountryindisasterisswarmingwithtraitors.Weshouldneveragainknowwhatpeoplewerethinking.Therewouldbeno

wayofaskingthem,andinanycasetheywouldnothavereplied.Thereitwas— the real anguish of Paris— fivemillion human beings on guard, ready todefend themselvesor tohide,determinednot to talkwhateverhappened, todogoodandevilalike.Weshouldnolongerbeabletotellcowardicefromcourage,foreverywheretherewouldbesilence.The lycéeswere reopening.Webeganourphilosophyclasseson the firstof

October at Louis-le-Grand.Wewere preparing for our secondbachot.On thefirstdaywehadanewhistoryprofessor.Hewalkedrapidlyandseemedtoknowexactlywhathewanted.Allofusstoodup.Withasmallgestureofannoyancehetoldustositdown.“Gentlemen,”hesaid,“Iaskyoutolistentome,nottoobeyme.Thislandwillsurelyperishifeveryoneobeys.”Hewasyoung,worethick glasses and was short. He never stayed still, but kept moving aroundbetweenthebenches.Heputhishandononeboy’shead,orontheshoulderofanother.Hequestionedusbywordofmouthandfacetoface,aboutourageandourplans,theJunedefeatandthereasonsforit,aboutthecorrectbehaviorofthearmyofoccupation,aboutdeGaulle,HitlerandPétain.HeaskedusifweknewwhatRussiawas,andAmericaandJapan,orifweknewwhatpartsoftheworld

havecoal,steel,oilormanganese.Hetalkedfast.Ihadtopaytheclosestattentiontounderstandhim.Inanhour

hesaidmorethanIhadeverheardbeforeintwoweeks.Pariswasstilloccupied,but the occupation had a newmeaning, and so had the future.His voicewasflexible,warm,likethevoiceofacreaturefulloflife.Eachwordheldagesture.Ideasweregerminating inmyheadat such speed that Ino longerhad time tostopthemsoIcouldreallyseewhattheywere.Nevermind.IwouldrecapturethematnightwhenIwasalone.Butwhatwasheactuallysaying,thisteacherofours?Thatourclassheldatleastonetraitorandthatheknewit?Aboyreadytoinform the occupation authorities about things that might be said in school?Impossible. I must have heard wrong. But no, there was nomistake, and theteacher repeated it. Along my spine ran a hot wave. I felt as though I werecoming to life. So, after all, there was an evil to reject. And there would besomethinggoodtobedone.

BEINGBLINDSEEMEDTOGIVEMEnothingbutadvantages.Forinstance,aftertwoor threeweeksofhardadjustment, IcouldseeAlietteagain.Jean,forhispart,couldn’t see her yet and said to me, “I never manage to close my eyes tightenoughtoseeher.”Iwassparedthatparticularpain,therewasnodoubtaboutthat.Iwasnotonly

closer to the innerworld than Jean, but for nearly eight years I had identifiedmyselfcompletelywiththisworldwithin.Ihadhadnochoice.Theinvestmenthadsurelybeengood,andhereIwasdrawingtheinterest.OnlythevisibleAliettehadbeentakenawayfromme,heroutsideshell.Iwas

rebuildingherpresenceinsidemyself,andwithouteventhinkingaboutit.Ihadno idea how the operation was performed, but I had noticed that the less Iworked at it the more successful I was. Memories and emotions are fragilethings.Youshouldneverbeardownon them,ordrawon thembymainforce.You should barely touch them with the tips of your fingers, the tips of yourdreams.Thebestway tobring loveback to life, andhappinesswith it,was tocatch

holdofareminderoflove,catchitlightlyasitpassedby—nomatterwhetheritwas the hem of Aliette’s dress or the sound of her laughter— and then letmemorydotherest.ForitwasmemoryandnotIasapersonwhowashappyandinlove.Mywilldidnotcountandwasnothingbutanobstacleintheway.Itriedto hold it captive, but from time to time it got away fromme,wanting to seeAlietteandseehermoreclearly.Butthewillhasahorrorofhalf-measures,andassoonasittookover,Ihadtostartagainfromthebeginning.ButwhenIheldmywill in leash,not lettingitmove,mybelovedgirlfilled

thewholeroomwithherpresence.Aliettewasnolongeronmyrightormyleft,asshehadbeeninToulouse,dividedfrommenowmore,nowlessbyholdingmyarmorlettingitgo.Shewasaboveme,behindandwithin.Inolongerhadtopayanyattentiontosillylimitationsofdistanceorspace.Shestillhadafaceanditwasherprettiest,andshestillhadavoice.Butnow

thefaceandthevoiceembracedandacceptedme.Whentheyhadbeenwithmein the realworld, the dividedworld, I had not always been sure of joy in thesamemeasure.Myparentshad turned thebackof theirapartmentover tome—twosmall

roomsnexttoeachother,openingonacourtyardandcompletelyisolatedfromtherestofthehousedownalongcorridorwithabend.Thiswasmyowndomainwhere I had free rein. I changed the furniture around and planned order anddisordertosuitmywhims.Iwasnotalwaysalonethere.Peoplecametoseeme,andIwastheonewho

receivedthem.Afterdinner,whenIhadsaidgoodnighttotherestofthefamily,Ihadaplaceofretreat.Thetwolittleroomsbecameashrine.I sat up late at night. I had thrown myself furiously into the study of

philosophy. Iwanted to understand it all, and felt itwasurgent. I don’t knowexactlywhy,butitseemedtomethatsuchachancewouldnotcomeagain,thatIwasgoingtobesnatchedawaytomoreworldlyresponsibilities.Alltheideasofmenwhohaddedicatedthemselvestothoughtfoundtheirway

intomyheadforthefirsttime,fromPythagorastoBergson,fromPlatotoFreud.Iexamined themascloselyas Icould.Truly, thehumanspirit—orwhatevertherewasofitinme—wasnotagoodglasstolookthrough,foritdidnotholdsteady. This lapse in attention often worried me, but not overly, since thephilosophersthemselvesdidnotalwaysappeartohaveseenclearly.Asaruletheyhadchosenadirectionwhichthebestofthemhadbeenableto

followthroughanentirevolume,insomecasesforalifetime.ThiswastrueofPlatoandSpinoza.Butthechoiceinitselfandtheirobstinacyinpursuingitwerelimiting,andpreventedthemfromlookingaboutthem.Isawtheirthinkingastothesurfaceofasphere,butonlyatonepoint,thuslosingtouchwiththerealityoftheuniversewhichcouldbenothinglessthanthesphereasawhole.Inthisway,themoredeductiveandsystematicaphilosopherwas,thegreaterhisdefeatsasIsawthem.Poetsandmostartistssaidanddidmanyfoolish things,butat leasttheyreachedoutinalldirections,multiplyingrisksandopportunitiesatthesametime.Therewassomethinggoodintheirturmoil.I tormentedmyself thatautumnof1940. I thoughta lot,oratanyrategave

exercisetomythoughts.Itriedalltheavenues,oneafteranother,therealistandtheidealist,thematerialistandthespiritualist,theempiricalandtherational.All

the way from Heraclitus to William James, no one of them seemed to mewithoutfunction,butnonesatisfiedmecompletely.As for psychology — they were making us study its foundations and its

doctrinesforninehoursaweek—Ihadagrudgeagainstit.Forme,itwaswayoffthetrack.Eitherpsychologywasanalyzingthepropertiesofmindandspiritwithout taking into account that their very existencewas open to question; orelse, in a trice, it turned its back on mind and spirit alike. Outwardmanifestationsweretheonlyconcern.Manifestations and reflexes!But thesewere nothingbut effects.Howcould

theybetakenforthesumtotalofhumanlife?Perhapstheyweresigns,buttheirinterpretation could not help being insecure since it wasmade by individualswhodidnotknowthemselvesanybetterthanthosetheywerejudging.WhenIcameuponthemythofobjectivityincertainmodernthinkers,itmade

meangry.Sotherewasonlyoneworldforthesepeople,thesameforeveryone.Andalltheotherworldsweretobecountedasillusionsleftoverfromthepast.Orwhynotcallthembytheirname—hallucinations?Ihadlearnedtomycosthowwrongtheywere.FrommyownexperienceIknewverywellthatitwasenoughtotakefroma

manamemoryhere,anassociationthere,todeprivehimofhearingorsight,fortheworldtoundergoimmediatetransformation,andforanotherworld,entirelydifferentbutentirelycoherent,tobeborn.Anotherworld?Notreally.Thesameworldrather,butseenfromanotherangle,andcountedinentirelynewmeasures.Whenthishappened,allthehierarchiestheycalledobjectivewereturnedupsidedown,scatteredtothefourwinds,notevenliketheoriesbutlikewhims.The psychologists more than all the rest — there were a few exceptions,

Bergsonamongthem—seemedtomenottocomewithinmilesoftheheartofthematter, theinnerlife.Theytookitastheirsubjectbutdidnottalkaboutit.They were as embarrassed in its presence as a hen finding out that she hashatchedaduckling.Ofcourse,Iwasmoreuneasythantheywerewhenitcametotalkingaboutit,butnotwhenitcametolivingit.Iwasonlysixteenyearsold,andIfeltitwasuptothemtotellme.Yettheytoldmenothing.The philosophers put my brain to work, and my brain followed them

willingly.Thedisciplinetheyimposedonitstrengtheneditsmuscles.Mybrainused its powers better, and found itsway faster fromday to day, but it neverreachedport.Iheardquestionseverywhere,butanswersnever.Our philosophy teacher was very weak that year. The poor man had aged

badly. Fortunately, there were the books, and we discussed them amongourselveswithapassionwhichwasnewtome.

EXASPERATINGVAPORSSEEMEDTOBERISING fromoccupiedParis, lying thereassilent as the tomb. All the words that people held in because they werefrightenedwere turningtodefiance.Almostall theboysmyagewereworried.Thosewhoweren’twerefools,andwedroppedthem.Ouruneasinesswasmoreintense than the uneasiness of people fully grown. It did not consist in askingourselves who would win the war and when, whether there would be foodrationing—indeedtherewould,itwasalreadybeginning—whetherthemoredangerousenemywasNazismorBolshevism.Forourpart,wewantedtolearnhowtolive,andthatwasamuchmoreseriousmatter.Andwewantedtolearnfast, becausewe felt that thenext day itwould surelybe too late.Thereweresignsofdeathonlandandintheair,fromtheSpanishbordertothefrontiersofRussia.Notjustsignsbutbattlestothedeath.Thefeelinggrumbledinsideus,pressingtocomeoutintheopen.Unlesswe

wereuptomakingabetterlifethanthelifeofourelders,theorgyofstupidityand killingwould go on till the end of theworld.Let people be silent if theywereabletogoonlivingwithoutspeakingout.Wewereincapableofit.Asforthatfearoftheirs,itwasindecent,andmadeusfeelsick.Wehadnoforbearancetowardthephilosophers,ourteachersorourfamilies.Itwasbetterso,sinceweneededourstrengthtoprepareourselves.Studentswerevery serious thatwinter inParis.Someof themevenhad the

tragic look. And why not? On November 11, 1940, there had been ademonstration on theChamps-Elysées, inmemory of the 1918 victory,whichrefused to be snuffed out. Thatwas the first demonstration, the first and onlytime that theParisianshad saidno toGermany.The studentshaddone it, andnextmorningatdawnsometwentyofthemhadbeenshot.Mostpeoplewerestilllaughingandhavingagoodtime.Thebalanceoflifeis

notdestroyedatonceinoneseason.Buteachmorningwewokeuphavinglivedweeks,thoughwedidn’tknowhow,sincethedaybefore.In ahappy landchildrennever stopbeingchildren.But thosewho live in a

landofsufferingaremenevenbeforetheywanttobe,beforetheirbodiesallowit.They still have themouthof the ten-year-old ready to pull a long face, thebrightnessoftearsintheireyes,inkontheirfingers,theslangofschoolboys,andlittlegirlstheyhavenottouchedbotheringtheirheads.Yettheyarealreadymen,withazealforunderstandinganddoingwhichmustbeassuagedwithoutdelay.Theyhavea thousand timesasmanyquestionsas thereareanswers theworldover.I was like that, and so were my companions. We were gulping down our

studies forwantofmore solid food.But, at any rate,wewerenot taken inbywords,byscienceorphilosophy,bynewspapers,complacencyorfear.Wewere

afraidofnotliving,nodoubtaboutthat,ofnothavingtherightorthetimeforit,andafraidofpeople tellinguswemustdo it thiswaybutnot that.As if theyknew!Wewere inahurryandweweredetermined. Inspiteofeverythingweweregoingtogivelifeatry.Leavingmyhousethereweretwoofusastherealwayshadbeen.Butbythe

timewe got to the lycéewewere eight or ten or twelve. It never failed.Mycompanionsconvergedonusfromallthestreetsalongtheroute.Someofthemevenwent a longwayout of theirway to joinus.The concierge at the lycée,whowasmuchamusedatthesight,usedtostickhisheadoutofthewindowatthegateandcallout:“Well,well.Soit’stheLusseyranparade.”Inaway itwasmyparade, forunder thebroadguidinghandof Jean Iwas

always in themiddle. Sometimes the presence of the others became almost anuisance.Fromnowon,torecaptureouroldintimacy,JeanandIhadtoretreattomyapartment,tothetwolittlerooms,mymonkishcellintheBoulevardPort-Royal.Outside therewasalways thecrowd.“Youattract them,”wasJean’swayof

puttingit.“Theyneedyou.”I,whothoughtitwasIwhoneededthem.Afterall,perhaps it was a little of both. The mysteries of attraction have never beensolved.But Jeanwenton, “Don’t you realizeyouare theone they are alwayslookingat?Evenwhenitisdifficult,whentheyhavetolookovertheshoulderoftheboynexttothem?Theythinkyoudon’tseethem.Maybethat’swhytheydoit.”Our procession went down the Rue St-Jacques and then climbed up again,

sidebysidebutwithnoconfusion.SometimesIwonderedwhereallthisordercamefrom.Everyonetalkedinhisturn.Therewasatimeforjokingandatimetobeserious.Alltheboysweresolevelheaded,andwhentheywereexcitedtheyweresosecretiveaboutitthatitwasasiftheywereliningupinbattleformation.Whateverhappenedtherewasalwaysonesubjectthatwastaboo—school.Byunanimous vote the one who talked about that had to leave the procession.Seriousquestionshadpriority,andhowseriouswewere!Evenwhenweweretalkingaboutgirls.I walked in the middle and was happy, without knowing exactly why —

happytobewithmenwho,likeme,werenotwillingtoshuttheireyestolife.Icompletely forgotweweregoing to the lycée.Once Iwas in school I forgot Iwasinclass.Iwasalreadywalkinginthemidstofthefuture.YetIhadnoideawhatthefuturewouldbring.François,oneoftheboysintheparade,wasborninFrance,buthisfamilywas

Polishandpoor.Hisfatherhademigratedtwentyyearsbefore,andhadbecomeametalworkerinoneofthefactoriesinthenorthofFrance.

Françoiswasfullofardor.Initselfthatwouldnothavebeenenoughtosinglehimoutamongus,forthetemperatureofourgroupwashigh.Buthisardorwasdifferent,asweusedtosay,“intheSlavicmanner.”Emotionsflashedfromhistall thin body—perhaps a shade too thin— like a battery discharging.Theycaused him tomakemotions he could not control; to fold his arms across hischest,puthishandsonyourshoulderswhilehewas talking,alwaysona levelwith your face and in a voice thatwas inspired and rounder andwarmer thanother people’s;made him stop suddenly in themiddle of the street two stepsahead of the others and greedily hold us there crying, “Life is beautiful,” orsomethingverylikeit.FrançoiswascelebratinghisprivateMass.DidIsayhehadapassion?Thefactishehadallthepassions,butthegreatest

of them all was his passion for France. He loved his country, and seemed toknow it better than we did. Sometimes he called it France in the usual way.Sometimeshecalled itPoland.Forhim itcame to thesame thing,andformypartIthoughthewasright.Inthepresenceofourteacherswehadtopretendandwehatedit.Wehadto

look reasonable— how shall I put it— detached. Our fire had to be turneddownlow,exceptwiththemanwhowassodifferentfromtheothers,ourhistoryteacher.Hewantedustobeexactlyaswereallywere,funnyifwecouldn’thelpit,furiousifwewereangry.Thisremarkablecharacterwasasmuchaliveaftersix months as he was on the first day. His learning made us gasp. He madenumbersandfactspourdownonuslikehail.Everynowandthenherubbedhishandsinalivelyandhappyway,andlaughedasmallfriendlylaugh.Wewerebeginning toknowhimwell, and saw that thatmeant an ideahadoccurred tohim.Thesyllabusforhistorystoppedat1918,withthekindofnearsightedcaution

peoplethoughtsuitableforcoursesinschool.Butforhimthatwasnoobstacle,for hewould go aheadwithout any syllabus.Hewent on past all the barriers,evenafterthehourfortheendofschool.Ifheknewwewerenotscheduledforothercourseshekeptusanhour,eventwohourslonger.Smiling,heannounced:“Iamnotkeepingyou.Thosewhowant to leavemaydoso.It’sall rightwithme.”Naturally,weallstayed,consumedbythatunbelievablewhirlwindoffacts,information,newanglesonallthecountriesandalltheperiods;andbyhispleasforclarity, commonsense,energyandalertness.Allofus, that is, except two.Wehadnoticedthem,fortheywentoutrightonthehour.ItwasnotlongbeforewefoundoutthattheyhadenrolledinayouthmovementforcollaborationwithGermany.Assoonastheyhadclosedthedoorbehindthem,theteachersaid,“Nowwe

areamongfriends,letusgoon.”HefollowedthehistoryofGermanybeyondthe

defeat of 1918, through the Weimar Republic, Stresemann, the venerableHindenburg,inflation,strikes,miseryandthefailureoftheSocialDemocrats,allthewaydowntoHitler’sPutschand thebirthof theNazimonster,whichwasweighingdownuponusnowwithallitsstrength.HetoldusabouttheReichstagfireandthepeoplewhowerereallyresponsible

forit,aboutthecreation,in1933,ofaplaceuniqueinhistoryforthescientificorganizationofcruelty:Dachau,aconcentrationcamp,sixmilesfromMunichinBavaria.From his worn briefcase be pulled out incredible documents, whole pages

translated from Mein Kampf, the statements of Alfred Rosenberg, JosephGoebbels, Julius Streicher— all the teeming nightmares ofNational SocialistGermany.Hemadeitclear tous that thiswasracemurderandhowtheywentaboutit—notintheorybuthereandnowandinactualpractice,andnotsofaraway from us, in Poland and in Czechoslovakia. Though François was notJewish,Icouldhearhimgrumbleinprotest.Ourteacherhadnofear,andwhatadeliverancethatwas!Whateverchoicehe

hadmadeinthiswarofours,heknewthereasonforit.Andhewouldnottakeleaveofusuntilhehadtoldusthewholestory.Atlast,oneday,hemetusheadon.HeaskeduswhatFrancewas,whatitwasgoodfor,whatpartitwasplayingintheworld.Wehadtoanswer,forhisquestionswerenotjustrhetorical.Asmightbeexpected,Françoisspokemoreeloquentlythantherestofus.He

saidthatFrancehadjustbeenbeaten,butthatthatmeantnothing,onlythattherewasageneralinfectioninthebodyofEurope.Thisinfectionmustbecured,orelsetheworld,thewholeworld,wouldbepoisonedfromthesamesource.Andbesides,saidFrançois—hewasalmostonhisfeetbecausehecouldn’tkeephisseat—Francewasnotjustacountry,itwasawayoflife.Whilethiswasgoingon,ourteacherwasrubbinghishandswithmoreconvictionthanever.Tohim it seemedclear thatFrançoiswas right.Francehad tobe loved,but

withintelligence,andthatwasthehardpart.WemustrecognizethattheFrenchEmpire was wounded, perhaps dead, and times were changing fast with thebalanceofpowerturningonitsownaxis.TherewasnodenyingthatGermany,forallitsGestapoanditsWehrmacht,wasnotthewholeoftheproblembutonlyapartofit.Hewantedustolookbeyondfrontiersbecause,ashesaid,frontierswereonly

the bones of an old corset which was about to burst. His sentences wereinterrupted by the familiar laughter we had come to love so much. “Younggentlemen,”hesaid,“thisisnotawarofnations.Therewillbenomorewarsofthat sort. Get that into your heads! The world is one. That may beuncomfortable,butitisafact.Andeverynationalistisbehindthetimes,justan

oldstick-in-the-mud.”Fascinated,wefollowedhimacrossthefrontiers,eastwardtowardRussiaand

westwardtowardAmerica.Ashesawit,onlythosetwocountriescountednow,theU.S.S.R.andtheU.S.A.ThepowerofGermanywasofthemoment,nothingbutagiganticfrenzy.Itcouldnotlast.TheRussians and theAmericansmightnotbe anybetter thanotherpeople,

buttheywerecertainlymorealive,andintheendlifewasalwayswhatmattered.TheU.S.S.R.andtheU.S.werenotatwaryet,buttheywouldbe.Thatwasnotjustahopebuttheinevitablesequenceofevents.ThenforsixweekshedevotedhimselftoexplainingthebirthofBolshevism,

theruleofLenin,theruleofStalinandtheMoscowpurges.ForourbenefitheanalyzedtheconstitutionoftheU.S.S.R.,relyingupontheRussiantextswhichhehadhadtranslated.HemadeitplainthatforagoodthreeyearsRussianheavyindustry,concentratedintheregionsouthofMoscowandaroundthecitiesoftheUkraine like Kharkov and Dnepropetrovsk or in the Donbas, had beensystematically changed over to new cities to the east in the northern Urals,Magnitogorsk, Chelyabinsk, and even farther off in Siberia in the KuznetskBasin. Evenmore recently food industries as important as pastas and canninghadmovedinthesamedirection.Wasn’t it clearwhat thismeant?Didn’t it throwa new light on theNazi—

Soviet Pact of August 23, 1939? Could the U.S.S.R. really be the friend ofHitler?IftheBolsheviksweresincerethiswasimpossible,forinthatcasetheywere fighting for the freedom of man. If they were not sincere it was stillimpossible, for in that case they were secretly harboring the dream of worlddomination,andcouldnottoleratethedominationoftheNazisforanylengthoftime.TheU.S.S.R.weighedheavilyinthebalance.Wehadnorighttoletourselves

beputtosleepbytheillusionstheWesternpowershadentertainedonthatscoresince1917.Russiawasanationatonceveryoldandveryyoung.Itsstrengthlayinthehumilityandguilelessnessofitspeople,andtheimpatienceforwell-beingwhichhadpiledupovercenturiesunderdespoticrule.TheU.S.S.R.wasanunknownquantitybutAmericawasnolessso.“Asfor

them,”ourteacherusedtosaywhenhewastalkingaboutAmerica,“iftheyareonlyasskillfulastheyaregenerous,weshallallbesaved!”The portion of the future which lay on the other side of the Atlantic was

greaterthanEuropelikedtoadmit.Therewasavastcontinentthere,filledwithresources, teeming with people, growing in almost geometrical progression.Americarepresentedthegreatesttriumphofthespiritofadventurethatmanhadevermanaged to achieve.Excitement and egotismwere part of it, as they are

withallyoungnations,butAmericaalsohadoneof themostsolidreservesoftoleranceandconfidencetobefoundanywhereintheworld.Americanslovedtoinvent, tobuild, inotherwordstheylovedaction,andif

theycouldonlykeepthistasteintactforalongenoughtime,theywouldbecomeEurope’sfirsthope,perhapsheronlyhope,ghastlyasitmightbetoadmitit.We had a course of lectures on the 1929 crash, the depression, Franklin

DelanoRoosevelt’sfirsttermandhissecond.WeweretoldabouttheNewDeal,the rapid recovery of America from depression, the TVA, the plans forreforestationandthedevelopmentofelectricpowerintheRockies.Forthefirsttime in our lives, New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Detroit,Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, evenMinneapolis and Duluth, Toledo,Rochester, theMississippiandtheMissouri, theAppalachiansandLakeHuronbecamesomethingmorethanjustnames—remarkableplaceswhereeveryyearmillionsofpeoplethoughtofhundredsofnewwaystoharnesslife.I listened and I understood. The frontiers of France, my frontiers, were

breakingapartonallsides.Thewandofaschoolteacher,orbetterhischarmandhisability,wereturningasixteen-year-oldFrenchschoolboyintoacitizenoftheWest.InMarch1941,Iwascalledtotheblackboard,orrathertotherostrum,asmy

historyteacherputmetothetest.WithinamonthIhadhadtoreadsometwentybooks, some about Russia and others about the United States. Now I had tosummarize them for my classmates and make the synthesis, as we ratherpompouslycalledit.SinceitwasreallythefirsttimeIhadhadtotalkinpublic,Iwas overwhelmed by fears and weighted down by notes. The anguish stayedwithme,butthenotesdisappeared.Ihadsatdownintheteacher’sseattobeginmystatement.Myhandsmoved

backand forthover the topof thedeskbut invain.Thenoteswereno longerthere,andIfeltdizzy.ThenIheardthefamiliarrubbingofhandsandthesmallaffectionatelaugh.“Iamtheonewhotookyournotes,”theteachersaid.“Whensomeonetakesoffonatrip,heputshisluggageinthebaggagecar.”In the emergency I felt evendizzier.Then something cleared inmyhead. I

remembered the inner screen and discovered that I could readmy notes on itwithease.Theywereevenmorelegiblethanonpaper.HowcouldIhavegoneon for severalmonths forgetting the existence of thismarvelous tool?What afoolIhadmadeofmyself!Besides, all the time Iwas talkingmy voicewas growingmore assured. It

soundedalmostnatural.Asforthesilenceofmyclassmates,itwasagoodsignmeaningtheywishedmenoharm,andthatsomewouldevenhavelikedtohelpmeout.IwassureofitforIfeltthemleaningtowardme,FrançoisandJeanin

particular.At the end of an hour— they toldme it lasted an hour though I couldn’t

believemyears—Iheardmyselfdrawingtoacloseandtheteacherapplauding.Heneverapplauded,especiallynothisownstudents.WhatcouldIpossiblyhavesaid?I found out only a few seconds later from the others. It seemed I had said

something astonishing, specifically that the war had only just begun, that weshouldonlyknowwhereitwasleadingusaftertheUSSRandtheUSAwereinit,andthatthisdoubleinterventionwouldcertainlynotbelongincoming.DearGod!HowcouldIhavesaidsuchthings?Ihadnotpreparedthem,whatismoreIdidn’tevenknowthem—literallyhadnoideaofthem!ButIhadtoreconcilemyself to the fact thatmymindwas outrunningmy knowledge. In itself thismodestdiscoverygavemesomethingtodreamabout,andIdiddream.

[10]

THEPLUNGEINTOCOURAGE

WEISSBERGWASTHENAMEofthethinlittlemanwiththeshortbeardandwhitehair. He was always polite and always welcoming. As an old schoolmate ofJean’sfather,hehadadeepaffectionforJean,andaskednothingmoreofhimthanabriefvisitonceamonth.BeingabachelorhesaidhelovedJeanlikethesonhehadneverhadhimself.His lifehadbeendevoted topatient research inbiology. He had made some real discoveries in pharmacology, but was toomodest and too absentminded tomake capital of his own inventions. He hadalwaysbeenpoor.WhenJeancamebackfromthosevisitstoWeissberg,heblossomed.Theold

manhadmadehimseeandlovesomanythingsthatwerenewtohim.OneeveningatthebeginningofAprilJeanhadgoneofftowardtheAvenue

deClichyforhisregularvisit.Buttheconciergestoppedhimashewaspassingandtoldhimthat theoldgentlemanwholivedonthefifthfloorwasnolongerthere.Twodaysbefore,at fiveo’clock in themorning, theGermanpolicehadcomeforhim.“Threeofthemwerelookingforhim,”saidtheconcierge,“allofthemverypolite,especiallythetallestone,whospokeFrench.”Butastheyweretakingthepoormanaway,thetallone,obviouslyanofficer,hadturnedaroundandsaidtoher:“Don’tbeupset.ItisonlyaJew.”Somedaysafterthis,RadioParis,whichwasGerman,announcedthatFrench

terroristshadcutthetelephonelinesusedbytheGermanarmynearthecoastofBrittany.AsaresulttenFrenchhostageshadjustbeenshot.Thenoneday,asIwascomingoutofthelycéeatnoon,ayoungmanIdidn’t

knowtookholdofmyarmasIwasgoingby.Hedrewmeintothecorneroftheentrancehallandsaidtomeinananxiousvoice,“TheGestapoarrestedGérardthismorning.IthinkheisattheSanté.”TheSanté!ItwasthefirsttimethenameofthatParisprisonhadsoundedsocloseandsopersonalinmyears.Theyoungmanwenton:“IamGérard’soldestbrother.Iamindangermyself.Ourfather

joinedtheFreeFrenchForcesinLondonlastJune,asyouknow.TheymustbeholdingGérardasahostage.IthoughtIshouldtellyou,sinceyouwerehisbestfriend.”Threedayslater,Ifellill.IamnotsurewhetheritwasbecauseofWeissberg,

Gérardandthehostages.Theillnessitselfwascommonenough.Abadcaseofmeaslesdeclareditselfinafewhoursandbrokeoutinarashafterfourorfivedays.Whenitleftme,itsetatorrentofenergyfree.Ihesitatetosayso,butthatisreallywhatIthink.ThereisnodoubtthatIbelieveditatthetime.Inthefirsthoursoffeveritbecameobviousthatmysystemwaspurgingitselfofapoisonand spewing out foreign bodies.But the poisonwasmoral asmuch as itwasphysical,ofthatIamsure.WhenthefeverwasatitsheightIhadtheshivers.But,strangeasitmayseem,

myheadwasstillclearandIwatchedthebattlegoingon.Emotionsweredrivingmybodyandmymindeverywhichway.I threwmyself forwardwithfury,asthoughIweredrivingofftheenemy.SoonthenotionthatIwassicknolongermatteredtome.Thiswasnomicrobeorvirusmakingitswayin.Itwasresolve.Ittookmeoverfromheadtofootlikeaconqueredland.Icouldnotresistit,

forithadtakenthewheel.ItwasdrivingmetodefinitedestinationswhichIhadnotthoughtaboutbeforeitcame.Thisresolvegavemeorders,tellingmefirstofallthatImustsaynothingto

my family, at least not right away. I must have a meeting with two of mycomrades,withFrançois andGeorges by themselves.Even Jeanwould not bethere. Later I should have to get in touch with about ten more. The list wasalreadymadeup.Mynewresolutiondidn’ttellmewhattosaytothem.Andthatdidn’tmatter,

forwhenthetimecame,Ishouldknowwellenough.Myonlyhastewastogetmybodywellagain,toriskitinthegreatadventure.Whatafortunatecaseofmeasles thatwas!Inmeithadcatalyzedapackof

fearsanddesires, intentionsandirritationswhichhadheldmeclosedinatightfist forweeks,andwhichIshouldneverhavebeenable tobreakopenmyself.On the first day of convalescence I said to myself aloud in my room: “TheOccupationismysickness.”That was in April in our first Nazi spring. Youth, the Occupation,

convalescencewhirled around inmyblood.My temples throbbedwhen I saweveryone saying nothing and doing nothingwhilemy country laymotionless.Recently a newname had been going the rounds, a namewhich described allsuchpeople:lesattentistes,thewaitingones.Whatweretheywaitingfor?Fortheterrortoclampdown?Forittoconsume

ourjoyofliving,workingonuslikeanenormousmicrobe?—thiswouldsoon

be accomplished, for not much of the joy was left. Waiting for all theWeissbergs to be arrested ormissing? For France to bemade up of only twokinds ofmen, the hostages and those onwhose behalf they kill the hostages?ThatIdidnotwant.Ofcourse,onceagain“want”wasanemptyword.Nothingcouldconvinceme

thatall thepeoplewhowerewaitingweredoing itbecause they liked it.Theyweredoingitinspiteofthemselves.Andbesides,weretheyallreallywaiting?Howcouldyoutell?Inthosedaystherewasnocommunication.Inconversation,whenwordslikeNazis,Gestapo,tortureorshootingcameup,

thenallofasuddensomethingwasturnedoffinthepersonyouweretalkingto.IhadgrownsosensitivetothisphenomenonthatIthoughtIcouldalmosthearacharacteristicsound.Insuchcasesoneneverknewwhetherpeoplewereclosingtheireyes,theirfistsortheirmouths.Allthatwasleftofthemwasabundleofrejection. Thiswas especially true of the adults, but recently the sickness hadspreadeventomycontemporaries.There itwas, I hadgrasped it, the subject Imust discusswithFrançois and

Georges.Iwouldtalktothemaboutthereasonswhyeveryonewasholdinghistongue.Icouldprovetothemthatallthereasonswerepoor.Iwouldmakethemspeak,orIwouldspeakintheirplace.Ihadwordsinmyheadandwordsinmythroat.Butnothingwastobegained

bymakingthemintoanovelorintoverse.Thiswasnotatimeforspeeches.Ihadwordsenoughtofillmyarmsandhands.If Ididn’tknowyetpreciselywhat theOccupationwas, thatwasbecause it

wastooimportantand,afterall,almostinvisible.TheNazishadperfectedanewwayof inserting themselves into thebodyofEurope.Theyheld themselves inrigid order, at attentionquite correctly, at least inFrance.They stole fromus,lootedus,takinghome85percentoftheagriculturalandindustrialproductionofour country. But they didn’t talk about it, or hardly ever. They never madethreats.Theyweresatisfiedwithsigningrequisitions.Behind the army— everyone knew it, and those who were not sure were

afraid of it, which had an even greater effect— behind the army there wassomethinghidden.Thiswasnotawarlikeotherwars.Itwasnotviolencewhichlaybehindthiswarbutsomethingworse,anobsession:makeEuropeNazi,killeverythingun-German,orgrinditundertheGermanheel.Andthisobsessionwasnotjustmad.Noonesawthefoamingatthemouth.

Therewasadirectingbody,andthatwasthesecret.Alltheplanshadbeensetdown in advance. They were under cover, in desk drawers in offices fromNarviktoSt-Jean-de-Luz,andlatelyasfaroffastheislandofCrete.InParisthedrawers were in the Rue des Saussaies, the Rue Lauriston, and in all the

apartmenthousestheGestapohadoccupied.Bynow I felt I understood theGermans.Therewouldbenomassacres, for

one could count on the Nazis to be more adroit. Or, if there were any, theywouldhappenoneatatime,manbymananddisappearancebydisappearance.Oneday,perhapsafterseveralyearshadgoneby,itwouldbecomeclearthatnotasingleGérardwasleftinourFrance,notonefreeman,notoneWeissberg.Oncethemeasleswerecured,mydeterminationtospeakoutbecameasecond

malady.Thisonetoogavemetheshiversandprickedmytongue.ThepainIfeltwascertainlyreal.Then I said to Jean: “Why don’twe learn to dance?” I suspect the relation

between the rhumba, the fox-trot and my new fever for liberty will probablyescape even the attentive reader. Nevertheless there was a very simple bondbetween them. I was not yet ready, not entirely. The seething of my mind,transmittedtomybody,gavemeastrengthwhichIwouldbeatalosstocallbyname.Cosmicmightbethewordforit.Therewasinmesuchatrainofforcespreparingthemselvesfordeedsthatallroadshadtobeclearedatoncetoallowthemtopass.I learned all the basic dance steps in twoweeks, as fast as parched people

quenchtheirthirstinmidsummer.Icoveredthewholerangefromwaltztoswingandbecamearealfanofswing,notforaestheticreasonsasyoumayguess,butbecauseswingwasreallyadancetodriveoutdemons.Whenyouhadwhirledapackofgirlsatarm’slengthforfiveorsixhours,withalltheirperfumecomingbacktoyoubythehandful,youweredeadbeat.Butstillyouhaddrivenoffthedevils.Andtheyaremadetobeshaken,thesedevils,whethertheyarepoliticalorindividual.Besides, thedistinctionpeoplemadebetweentheproblemswhichconcerned

them personally and those that concerned them only generally, as they put it,seemedtoFrançois,toGeorges,toJeanandtomeabsolutelyrepulsive.Thelifeofthecountrywasourownaffair,therewasnoquestionwhateveraboutthat!Itwasafact,andonewhichburstforthinthefirsttalksIhadwitheachofthemattheendofApril.

ATTHEBEGINNINGOFMAY Ihadadoptedtheasceticwayof lifewhichbefitsasoldier of the ideal. Every day, including Sunday, I got up at half-past fourbeforeitwaslight.ThefirstthingIdidwastokneeldownandpray:“MyGod,givemethestrengthtokeepmypromises.SinceImadetheminagoodcause,they are yours to keep as well as mine. Now that twenty young men —tomorrow theremaybe a hundred—arewaiting formyorders, tellmewhatorderstogivethem.BymyselfIknowhowtodoalmostnothing,butifyouwill

it I am capable of almost everything. Most of all give me prudence. YourenthusiasmInolongerneed,forIamfilledwithit.”Then Iwashed quickly in coldwater, and lookedout of thewindowofmy

roomtolistentoParis.IwastakingParismoreseriouslythanIeverhadbefore,yet without getting my blood up, without feeling myself accountable for thewholecity.Butthreedaysbefore,inthiscitylyinghalfstupefiedandfrozenbythecurfeweverynightfrommidnighttofiveo’clock,Ihadbecomeoneoftheresponsible ones. There was nothing anyone could do about that, not even Imyself.Itwastheothers,mycomrades,whowanteditso.Andonlytheweekbefore,

when I had my first confidential talk with François and two hours later withGeorges,Iwasstillwonderingwhetherthestormofsentencespouringfrommylipswouldmeananythingtothem.Françoishadnearlycriedforjoyatthefirstwords. He had embraced me, a thing we never did among ourselves, andstammered: “Weall expected this fromyou.” Ihad tobitemy tongue tokeepfromsaying,“Fromme?Butwhyfromme?”Therestofthehourhadtobespentthrowingwateronthefire.Ihadbarely

saidtoFrançoisthatwenolongerhadtherighttostandtheOccupationwhenheburstoutwithawholecolumnofplans.Notcrazyones;on thecontrary, theyweredrawnuplikereportsontacticalmaneuvers.Clearlyhehadbeenthinkingof nothing else since the summer before. But these plans were so rash theywouldhaveputallourlivesinjeopardyinanhour.Iwasforcedtoadmitit,Ihadthoughtofeverythingbutthedanger.Andhere

wasFrançoisthrowingdangerstraightatme,likeaclenchedfistfullintheface:mydangerandhisandatthesametimethedangerofallthosetowhomIwasabouttospeak.IneededtimetoaccustommyselftotheharshfactthatfromnowonIshouldnotbespeakingawordwhichwasnotalsoanact.IwasinurgentneedofGod,andIpromisedmyselftoprayeveryday.Georges’s reaction turnedout tobequitedifferent fromFrançois’s.Georges

was a little man, full of boldness but also reserved. Besides, his lack ofintellectualgiftshadheldhimbackinhisstudies.Bynowhewastwenty,andbycontrast with François he understood only practical things. He had beenbadgeringmetogivehimmyplansindetail.ButwhatIhadwasonlyapurpose,andthatwasnotthesamethingashavingplans.IrecognizedinthesecircumstancesthatImustimproviseanorganizationon

thespot.AlreadyGeorgeswasasking,“Whatkindofpeopledoyouwanttogetintouchwith?Howmany?Whenwillyouneedmoneyandhowmuch?Whereareyougoingtoputtheheadquartersofyourmovement?Whatsortofdisciplineareyou thinkingofusing tokeep theactivitiesof themembersundercontrol?

WhenareyougoingtotellLondonaboutyourexistence?”Yourexistence!Yourmovement!TheywereallmovingfasterthanIwas.But

ifIwassurprisedtoseethepacetheyweresetting,Iwasevenmoresurprisedtoseemyown.ByafeatofacrobaticswhichIdidn’tbelieveIwascapableof,andwhichIhadcertainlyneverlearnedanywhere,IwasnotonlyfollowingFrançoisandGeorgesbutgoingaheadof them.Byvery little,butverydefinitely:byasentence,byahead.Forinstance,IheardmyselfsayingtoGeorgesthatwewouldnotknowhow

extensivethemovementwasuntilafteratwomonths’trialperiod;thatuntilthisperiodwasover,wemustnottreatthecomradeswehadbeenintouchwithasfull-grown men but as Boy Scouts. It seemed inevitable that among the firsttwenty some tenwould drop out, and that this kind of dropout could only bepermitted in the earliest stages before the organizationwas really established.Afterthattherewouldbemartiallawbecausewewouldbeintheunderground.Georgeshadcertainlyheardwhathewantedtohearbecauseattheendhehad

said,“Isweartoyou…”Thenhehesitatedbeforetakingtheplunge:“IsweartoyoubytheheadofmymotherthatIamwithyou.”ThenextdayIcalledonthreeotherschoolmatestocometomyroom.Ihad

mettwomoregoingbackandforthtothelycée.NowIwasfeelinguneasinessvergingondoubtasIrealizedthatIwasnotsayingthesamethingtoallofthem.Some Iwas encouraging.Others Iwas calming down.Without figuring it outexactly,but for reasonswhichseemedcompelling, itwasonly toGeorgesandFrançoisthatItoldthewholestory.ToJeanItoldonlyhalfofit.At the end of four or five days, about ten boys were gathered around and

pressingmetoact.Tomethismeantembarrassmentverylikepanic,makingmefeelapainfulstiffeningofthemusclesinthebackofmyneck.WhatactionwasIcapableof,blindasIwas?Yetitwasformeallofthemwerewaiting.Isoughtnoone’sadviceanddidnothavetimefor it. Ihadalreadysentout

invitations for a preliminarymeeting in the apartment of Jean’s family on thefollowingTuesday.Thetencomradeswewereincontactwithwouldbethereatfiveo’clockonthedot.Andtheywerethere,nottenofthembutfifty-two.WhenIheardthewaveof

voicesclimbingthenarrowstairsoftheapartmenthouse,Ihadthefoolishideathatsomeonehaddenouncedus.But tenminutes later,when the fifty-twoboyswere sittingon theirheels in

themiddleofthebigroomwiththestained-glasswindows,withalleyesturnedinmy direction,when suddenly they fell silent as I had never heardmen fallsilent,andwhenoneofthem,IthinkitwasGeorges,saidtome,“Thechipsaredown.It’suptoyoutospeak,”thenanunaccustomedradiancefilledmyhead,

andmyheartstoppedbeatingoutofrhythm.AllatonceIbegantounderstandeverythingIhadbeenseekingandnotfindingforthepastweeks.Theconsciencesofmycompanionsseemedto liewideopenbeforeme,and

allIneededwastoreadthem.Astomyownconscience, itnolongertroubledme.IhaddedicatedittoacausewhichmusthavethepoweroftruthsinceitwasteachingmetospeakallthosewordsIhadneverutteredbefore.Tothefifty-twoIsaidthattherewasnoturningbackfromtheircommitment.

Theywouldnotbeabletoclosethedoortheyhadopenedthatnight.Whatweweremaking,theyandItogether,wascalledaResistanceMovement.Thefactthattheoldestofuswasnotyettwenty-one,andthatIwasnotquiteseventeen,thoughitdidnotmakeallouroperationssimple,madesomeofthempossible.Solongaspeoplethoughtofusaskids,theywouldnotsuspectus,atleastnotrightaway. In the sixmonthsahead,wemustmake themostof thisprejudiceandthispieceofluck.Forthefirstsixmonths,forayearifneedbe,ourresistancewouldbepassive

whilewewerepreparingtheway.FirstwewouldproceedtosetupthecellsoftheMovement, one at a time. There would be no appeal from this rule. Themeetingofthefifty-twohadbeenmadness,notdeliberateofcourse,andperhapsnecessary,butitwouldbethelast.FromnowonthemembersoftheMovementmustnevermeetmorethanthreeatatime,exceptinseriousemergencies.In the preparatory stages, all childish dreamsmust be thrown awaywithout

pity, all those dreams of cloak-and-dagger, those dreams of conspiracy andguerrilla war. Until new orders were issued, there would be no arms in theMovement,notevenasinglehunter’sgun.Andtherewouldbenotalkofarms.Besides, in ordinary conversation, nothing that meant anything must be

discussed.Startingthatveryeveningwemustleadalifedividedrightdownthemiddle,ononesidethelifeofinnocentyoungpeople,openwiththeirfamilies,theirteachers,theclassmatestheydidn’tknowwellandwiththeirgirls;ontheother side theother life.Thosewhohad time foraffairscouldstillhave them,but theywould talk to theirgirlsabout loveandbedroomslippersandnothingmore. Familieswere themost dangerous; since by definition theymeantwell,theymightgetinourwayorgossip.

ITWASLESSTHANAWEEK since Ihadsaidall these things.Already thewheelswereturning,andIwasattheheadofaResistanceMovement.Inthecourtyardinfrontofme,whentheearlysuncastitsfirstmusicalrays,thedelectablearomaofsaltandsugarmixedtogethercameupfromthebakerynextdoor.Itsmelledassweetas italwayshad,before thedaysof theResistance.Itmadeyouwantpleasure, not seriousdeeds.Amongall thedangers thatbesetme, therewould

always be that one to reckonwith, the one that comes from the enjoyment ofeverydaythings.Ihadstrippedmyselfoftherighttodream.Atanyrate,nowmydreamscould

takeonlyonepath,andIshouldneverknowwhatlayattheendoftheroaduntilitwasuponme.Under pressure from Georges and François, and then from two others,

RaymondandClaude,wehadalreadyhadtoformaCentralCommitteefortheMovement.CentralCommittee!Itsoundedlikeafarce,almostasifwehadbeenplayingattinsoldiers.Allthesamethatwasn’ttrue.Theneedwasrealandwewereworkingatit.WhatIcouldnotdevisewasdevisedbytheotherfour.Youseetherecouldbe

no question of getting expert advice, not from politicians, officers,newspapermen, or even from our parents. And when fifty boys have to bepersuaded todosomething,orworse,beprevented fromdoing it, tacticsareamust.The first Central Committee had met the evening before near the Porte

d’Orléans on the south side of Paris, in one of those poor apartment houseswhichare likebeehives, andwhere there is constant comingandgoingon thestairs.Still,wearrivedanddepartedeachaccordingtoanitinerarydecidedoninadvance, and different from that of all the others. Only Georges and I werepaired.Iwouldhavetobetheexceptiontotherule.TheCentralCommittee, byunanimousvote,with a single abstention,mine,

hadcometoadecision.Forthefirstthreemonths,Iwouldbeinsolechargeofrecruiting. The Committee thought this risk was mine by right, as the moralinitiatorofthewholeaffair,andbecauseIwasblind.That was my job, my specialty. They claimed I had “the sense of human

beings.” Inmyfirstencounters Ihadmadenomistakes.Besides, Iwouldhearmore acutely and pay better attention. People would not easily deceiveme. Ishouldnotforgetnamesorplaces,addressesortelephonenumbers.EveryweekI would report on the outlook without resorting to scraps of paper or lists.Everythingwrittendown,evenincode,wasariskthatnoneofushadtherighttorun.I had abstained from voting but also from refusing what they offered me.

Nothingintheworldcouldhelpmemoretolivethanthisconfidenceonthepartof my friends, and this danger itself, which for some weeks might be evengreaterthantheirs.Lateron,ifitwasnecessarytospy,tocarryarms,tofleeorto fight, Iwould turn the task over to someone else. Iwould stay in the rear,necessarily.Butbeforemyeyescondemnedmenottomakewar,astheymightoneday, Ishouldhavemyeyes to thankfor thechance tomake it first, in the

frontlines.

IN LESS THAN A YEAR nearly six hundred boys took the road to the BoulevardPort-Royal.Theycametoseetheblindman.ItwillbeeasiertounderstandthetimesandtheburdenoftheirsecretifIexplainthatinmostcasesthesepeopledidnotknowmyname,anddidn’tevenaskwhatitwas.One of the fifty-two from the original group would watch a classmate for

severaldays,sometimesforseveralweeks.Eventually,iftheybelievedhecouldbetrusted,theysenthimontome.Theruleswerestrict.Iwasnevertoreceiveindividualswhose coming had not been announced.And Iwas not to receivethem unless they arrived within five minutes of the appointed hour. If theircomingdidnotmeettheseconditions,andifIwasunabletosendthemaway—a difficulty which was very likely to arise — I would ask them in, but,pretending there had been a misunderstanding, would talk of nothing thatmattered.ThemembersoftheoriginalgroupknewIwasn’tjoking.Theyknewitallthebetterbecausetheywerenotplayinggamesthemselves.“Gototheblindman,” they would say to the neophyte. “When he has seen you, I shall havesomethingtotellyou.”Then they explained that I lived on theBoulevard Port-Royal, opposite the

BaudeloqueMaternityHospital, and that thedoorofmyhousewasbetweenadrugstoreandasweatshop;thattheymusttakethemainstairwayinthebuildingto the fourth floor,andgive twoshort ringsandone longon thebell. Iwouldopenthedoormyselfandtakethemtomyquarters.After that theyweretoletthingstaketheircourse,andansweranyquestionsImightask.Inthefirstweeksonlytheveryyoungonescame,boysbetweenseventeenand

nineteen,whowerefinishingtheirsecondaryschoolingatthelycée.Butlittlebylittle older boys came along, people with more self-confidence and harder toknow. They were scholars from the colleges of letters, science, medicine,pharmacy, law, the schools of advanced agronomy, chemistry, physics. TheMovementwasgrowingatthepaceofalivingcell.Whatismore,ithadaname.WecalledourselvestheVolunteersofLiberty.EveryweekIgaveanaccountofmydecisionsbeforetheCentralCommittee.

So-and-sowasadmittedunconditionally.HejoinedthegroupfromtheCollegeof Law, on an equal footing with the others. So-and-so was admitted “onprobation.” He would be under surveillance for the time being. A foundinggroupexistedonlyifitincludedtwomembers,oneinaction,theotherrevealinghis intentions to no one and with specific responsibility for watching overdoubtfulcases.To anyone who has not lived through this period of the Occupation, these

cautious measures may seem exaggerated. But they were not, and the futurewouldproveit.Asforourplans,weretheyonsuchagrandscalethatweneededsixhundredyoungmentocarrythemout?Actually,theyweremodestbutalsodifficulttocarryout.Theyjustifiedthegatheringofallourforces.Our first task was to give people the news. The only papers which were

comingoutinFranceatthetimewerecensoredfromthefirsttothelastline.Inspirit, sometimes even to the letter, theywere copies of theNazi press.Oftenthey evenwent further, following the principle that traitorsmust behave evenworse than brigands.TheFrench peoplewere completely ignorant of thewar,andbecauseofthistheyhadonlyinstinctstorelyon.True,therewastheradioofFreeFranceinLondon.Butinninecasesoutof

ten, its broadcastswere jammed so effectively that you couldn’tmakeout thewords. Besides, listening to the British radio was forbidden. And even if theGermans exercised only sporadic control, fear ranwild and very few familieslistened.Ourfirstjobwastobringoutanewspaper—apaper,orifthatshouldbe beyond our means at the start, a loose-leaf news bulletin, one we couldcirculateinsecretfromhandtohand.AnumberofmembersoftheMovementwouldbesettolistentotheBritish

andtheSwissradios.Weweregoingtogathertherealnewsofthewar,putitinorder,distributeandappraiseit.Itwasurgent toguidepublicopinionandset itstraight.Neverforget that in

thosedaysinthemiddleof1941,mostofourcompatriots,andalmostthewholeofEurope,hadlosthope.ThedefeatoftheNazisseemedimprobableattheleast,orpostponed to an indefinite future. Itwasourduty todeclare, to cryoutourfaithinthevictoryoftheAllies.News was needed, surely, but courage even more, and clarity. We were

resolvedtohidenothing.Forherewasthemonstertobefought:defeatism,andwithitthatothermonster,apathy.EverythingpossiblemustbedonetokeeptheFrenchfromgrowingaccustomedtoNazism,orfromseeingitjustasanenemy,like enemies of other times, an enemy of the nation, an adversary who wasvictoriousjustforthemoment.ForourpartweknewthatNazismthreatenedthewholeofhumanity,thatitwasanabsoluteevil,andweweregoingtopublishitsevilnessabroad.Ourthirdtaskwouldtakelonger.WemustuncoverintheyouthofFranceall

thatwasleftintact.Wemustsortthestrongfromtheweak,thefaithfulfromthecowards.Thetimeforsubtletieswaspast.We were aware that the triumphant return of the Allies would not be

accomplishedfromonedaytothenext.Wealsoknewthatwhenitdidcome,thecountrywouldneedhostsofmenreadytoreceiveandhelptheinvasionofthe

liberators.Men in readiness, that meant men who had committed themselves months,

perhaps even years ahead, who had tested themselves in patience andundergroundwork,menwhowould be incapable of treachery or any kind ofmoral lapse.And for this task not justmen but youngmenwere needed.Theevidencestaredusintheface.Themenoverthirtyroundaboutuswereafraid:for theirwivesand theirchildren—thesewere real reasons;butalso for theirpossessions, theirposition, and that iswhatmadeusangry; aboveall for theirlives, which they clung to much more than we did to ours. We were lessfrightenedthantheywere.Theyearsaheadwouldprovethepoint.Four-fifthsoftheResistanceinFrancewastheworkofmenlessthanthirtyyearsold.Therewasanotherwaywecouldhelp.Youngaswewere,wecouldeasilygo

all over, pretend to be playing games, ormaking foolish talk, wander aroundwhistling with our hands in our pockets, outside factories, near barracks orGerman convoys, hang about kitchens and on sidewalks, climb over walls.Everythingwouldbeonourside,evenhelpfromthegirlsiftherehappenedtobeanyonthespot.TheVolunteersofLibertyweregoingtobuildaninformationnetwork,notan

organization of professional agents but something better, an organization ofagents dedicated and nearly invisible because they looked like harmlessyoungsters. In the end,we shouldhave toget in touchwithLondon,but eventhisdifficultyfailedtoalarmus.Finally,weshouldbeamovementwithnoarmsinoureverydaywork.Butthe

CentralCommitteewasgoingtoassemble thoseofus—sometwenty—whohad been mobilized or had enlisted as volunteers in 1939 and knew how tohandlearms.Weweregoingtosetupafewtrainingcentersintheoutersuburbsof Paris, or even on isolated farms in the countryside.We had alreadymadesome contacts with farmers in the region between Arpajon and Limours.According to ameticulous plan,wewere going tomaintain a hundred of ournumber ready for any eventuality. None of us had the illusion of beingimportant,butallofusweresureofbeingnecessary.

BUTLETUSGOBACKtomyapartment,andtheconferencesIwasholdingthere.Whatpicturecouldthesenewcomers—sometimesthreeorfourofthemthe

sameevening—havehadofthemysteriousyoungmanIwas?Thevisitoronlyknewonethingaboutme,thatIwasblind.Ifhehadcarefullyobservedtherulesaboutthebells,hefollowedmedownadarkcorridor—Ialmostalwaysforgottoturnonthelight.Twodoorsinsuccessionclosedbehindhim.Attheendhewas introduced into a narrow room with a window on the court, a bed, an

armchairforhim,astraightchairforme,alowslimchest.Throughadoorthatalwaysstoodopento thesecondroomhesawpilesofBraillebooksextendingall the way up the three walls of the room. Opposite him was a boy whoseextremeyouthwasthinlyconcealedbythepipehewasalwayssmoking.Buttheboyspokewithanintensityandanassurancethevisitorhadnotanticipated—theassuranceofanadultwiththeenthusiasmofachildorsomethingverylikeit— in any case with a mixture of mystery and candor which encouragedconfidences.Wasthenewcomersuspiciousoftheblindman?Buthowintheworldcoulda

blind man be fishing in troubled waters? At any rate, if the visitor was stillsuspicious,hehadeyesandhadonlytousethemtoobserve.Hemightblushathiseaseifemotioncaughthim,ormakesuddenmovementswithhisheadorhisfingers,mighttwitch,drawbackorsmile.Ablindmandoesnotseethesethings.Whileallthiswasgoingon,Iwasputtingmyeveryinstincttowork.Ihadno

systemsurely,andtheideaofadoptingoneneveroccurredtome.Isawtheonlywaytoknowmyvisitorwastotesthimout—inavacuumtobeginwith.Forthefirsttenminutesatleasttheremustbenosettledtopicofconversation.Afterall,thatinitselfmightwellbeamethod.Ihadscoutedoutawholeseriesofvagueexchanges,vagueorunexpectedbut

without connection with my plans. Some of my visitors were irritatedimmediatelybythishit-or-misswayofgoingatthings.Angerbeinganemotionit is veryhard to fake, andonewhichnever rings truewhen it is simulated, Igainedtimewiththesepeopleandcametoknowthemrightaway.Butmostof themweredisconcerted, and ratheruneasy.Then they tried,by

every means possible, to get over it. They stammered out complicatedexplanations. And nothing is more revealing of any individual — as everypsychologist knowswell— than elaborate explanations.But in the end everyone of these tactics amounted to very little. If I could plumb these hearts andconsciences—andIfeltsureIcould—itwasbecauseIwasblindandfornootherreason.WhenIwasveryyoungIhadacquiredthehabitofguessingsinceIcouldno

longersee,readingsignsinsteadofgestures,andputtingthemtogethertobuildacoherentworldaroundme.Whatismore,IadmitIwasmadlyhappytobedoingthiswork,tohavemeninfrontofme,tomakethemspeakoutaboutthemselves,toinducethemtosaythingstheywerenotinthehabitofsayingbecausethesethingswere set too deep in them— suddenly to hear in their voices the noteaboveallothers,thenoteofconfidence.Thisfilledmewithanassurancewhichwasverylikelove.Aroundmeitdrewamagiccircleofprotection,asignthatnothing bad could happen to me. The light which shone in my head was so

bright and so strong that it was like joy distilled. Somehow I becameinvulnerable.Then too I became infallible, or nearly. And my comrades in the Central

CommitteeandalltherestintheMovementknewit.Theytoldmeso,someofthemembarrassedandhalf ironical as they said it, theothers, likeFrançoisorGeorges,withtheconvictionoffaith.Aseachdaywentby,someofushadtogetusedtosomestrangephenomena.

SincewehadbeenintheResistanceourmentalpowershadgrownstronger.Ourmemorieswereunbelievablyagile.Wereadbetweenthewordsandthesilences.Deedswhichonlytwomonthsbeforeseemedimpossibletous,puttingwallsorphantomsinourpath,werenowbrokendownintoadustofeasylittletasks.Georgeswas rightwhenhecalledour state “the stateofgrace.”As far as I

was concerned, I was aware that my conscience was in touch with theconscience of hundreds of others, growing in rhythm with their sufferings ortheirhopes.These reinforcements camewith every day. I was surprised to find I knew

things theyhadnot toldme, surprisedwhen I awoke in themorning feeling asenseofpurposestrongandentirelynewtome—onewhichI foundoutwasshared, threehours later,bytwooreventenof thecomrades.Thespiritof theResistancewasborn,andwasusingmeas its instrument.Yetwhocouldhavesaidwhatitwas,thespiritoftheResistance?AmongtheVolunteersofLibertyithadtwentyfaces.Forexample,Georgeswasanationalist—Imeanapatriotandajingo,tothe

pointwhereifhewantedtosingthe“Marseillaise,”hecouldnevergettotheendofit.Itmadehimweeplikealittlegirl.Howweteasedhim!So, ifhewasmaking resistance,andhewasmaking it likea lion, itwas to

saveFrance.Germanycoulddiethedeath,andEnglandandthefivecontinentsalongwithher!Ihadundertakentoconverthimtoaworldfreedfromnationalfanaticism,butthisconversiontookmemorethanthreeyears,anditwasneverreallycompleted.ClaudeandRaymondwere thephilosophers.They thoughtFrancewasonly

oneamongthecircleofdemocracies,andthatitwasdemocracyitselfthatmustbedefended,deservingeveryexpenditureofcourage.Others,likeFrançoisandJean,andbeforelongthemajority,puttheirreasons

for fighting less clearly, butknew thembetter.Thewordsmattered as little tothemastome.Theywerefightingforhonor,liberty,theideal,therighttolive,purity,Christianity,respect.…Quitesimplytheycouldnolongerstandciviliansbeingbombedandstarved,lyinginpublicinaccordancewiththelaw,lootinginthenameoffriendshipandpracticingpolicetyrannyinthenameofprotection.

Aboveall,wedidnotwantpeople togoon treatingamonster—orevenaman, Adolf Hitler — as if he were a god. “God is neither a German nor aRussian nor a Frenchman,” I kept saying to Georges. “God is life, andeverythingthatdoesviolencetolifeisagainstGod.”Wedidnotwantthemtotortureprisonersbecausetheywereprisoners,orkill

Jews because they were Jews. But the Nazis were torturing and killingeverywhere.Since themorningof June22and theGerman invasionofSovietRussia—

howrightourhistoryteacherhadbeen—theyhadbeenscorchingtheearthinGalicia,WhiteRussiaandtheUkraine,fieldbyfieldandhouseafterhouse.OnAugust23wegot thenews that theyhad shot twoFrenchmen thatday,

Gabriel Péri, one of the Communist leaders, and D’Estienne D’Orves, aconservative Catholic officer, both of them heroes. This double death wasofficial.Londonhadconfirmedit.Butwhatwaslessknown—thoughknowntous—wasthattheeighty-seven

membersofaResistancenetworkhadbeenarrestedtendaysbefore.Therewereseveraldistinguishedanthropologists andethnologists among them.Theyweremenandwomenwhohadthrownthemselvesintothefightingthroughidealismjust as we had. They had published two underground papers, La FranceContinueandRésistance,andwehadbeenreceivingthesepapersinbundlesofathousandcopies.ThemembersoftheMovementhadthenpassedthemaround.WelearnedthatseveralofthesemenhadalreadybeenbeheadedattheFresnes,theSantéand theCherche-Midi, the three largestprisons inParis,and that theothershadbeenmovedtowardGermany,towardthefortressesandconcentrationcampsandaslowerdeath.Everyonewasbecomingmorefrightened,wesawthattoo.Germanvictories

in Russiawere crushing as the summerwent on. Londonwas being bombed.Americadidnotmove.Perhapsourresistancewaswithouthope.AllthisgaveFrançoisanewleaseonlife.Hewouldshakemeandsay,“What

aball!Justthink!Whatacelebrationifafterallthisthereisnotachance!Theyarejustghosts,theoneswhothinkpeoplefighttowin!Theyfightbecausetheylikeit.”Surely we were happy to fight, even on such a modest scale. In my own

effortsIwasthrowingsparks.Ipassedthesecondbachotlikepickingaflower,with themark “very good.” Itwas somuch less difficult than theResistance!AndnowIwasabouttoentertheUniversity.ItwasatthispointthatGérard,myfriendwhowasheldhostagebecausehis

fatherwasinLondon,wassetfreefornoreasonwecouldsee.Herushedofftomyhouseandtalkedforfivehours.WhenhelefthehadjoinedtheMovement.

Yethewasonewhoknew the score better than anybody else.Hehad seenmencomingbackmutilatedafterquestioningbytheGestapo.Hehadheardandseenthattheywerekillingeveryday.Butthatdidn’tstophim,onthecontrary.Besides,noneofmyfriendswerehesitatinganylonger.Totellthetruth,manyofthemwereburningtodie.Deathattwentyisstillpossible,somuchmoresothan it is lateron.Allofushadplunged intocourage. Itwasourelement.Wewereswimminginitandhadnoeyesleftbutfortheshore.

[11]

THEBROTHERHOODOFRESISTANCE

THEREWASNO LONGERANYONE overme, and the lonelinessof commandwasbeginningtocostmedear.IhadtoldmyparentsaboutthekindofactivityIwasinvolvedin.Theyhadcourageouslysilencedtheirfears.Theyhadgivenmetheirfull support, but we were agreed that from now on I should not tell themanything.Whatgoodwoulditdotomultiplytherisks?Theywereputtingtheirapartmentatourdisposal,andthatalreadywasdangerousenough.EvenintheCentralCommitteeIfoundnoonetoadviseme.Whenwewerein

troublewewereinittogether.Allofuswereapprentices,butwhatIneededatallcostswasachief.Themanwhohasnoadmirationorrespectforanyonebuthimselfisinabadway.Hissoulissick.IhadtofindsomeoneIcouldconfidein,someonewhowouldvouchforme.Andthishadtobeanexceptionalpersonbecausewhatweweredoingwasquiteoutoftheway.OnedayJean,whofelttheneedasmuchasIdid,tookmetoseeourhistoryteacher.Thismanwassuperlative.He listened towhatwehad tosay,approved,but

interruptedusverysoon.“NowIknowquiteenough,”hesaidtous.“Keeptheresttoyourselves.Youhavemyfullconfidence.Comebackandseemeonceaweek.EachtimeyoucomeIwillgiveyoutwohours.Bringmeyour troubles.Theyconcernmedeeply.Inreturn,wheneverIcanIwillhelpyou.”ThatwasallIneeded.Withthissupport,thisconfidencebehindme,Iwasreadytomeetthedangers,eventhedisastersiftheycame.Jean,forhispart,hadahardtimeadaptinghimselftoournewlife.Suspicion

heregardedasshocking.Itwasnotthathewasshortofcourage.Withhimitwasaquestionofdecency.Liketherestofusfromhereonhehadtosuspectpeople,assumetheywerehidingtheirplansorlying,onoccasionheevenmighthavetolie himself to be sure theywere telling him the truth. But to beat around thebush,tobesmirchtheheart!TheideamadepoorJeantremblewithdisgust.Hecould never have believed that the pursuit of the ideal was such a jumbled

business.Hisgreatestjoyhadalwaysbeeningivinghimself,rightaway,tothepeople

heliked,andthenneverdrawingback.Theboywasastransparentasglass.Andhowcanglassmakeitselfcloudy?Tomeheusedtosay,“Ishallneverbeagoodsoldierof theResistance. It isonly throughyou that Ishallbeable tobe in it.Sendmewhereveryouwantto.IfIgothereinyourplacedon’tbeafraid.Iwillgo.Butremember,ifIwereallalone,IshoulddonothingforIshouldnothavethestrength.”Atthispoint,JeanbegantotravelalloverParisonerrandswhichIentrusted

to him. Since he had enemies and knew it, but could not think about thembecausehefoundittoopainful,hewentstraightahead,withthestiffgaitofhislonglegs,andneverlookedaround.Hewasnotcareful.“Cautiondisgustsme,”heusedtosay,“itissostupid.”FrançoisandGeorges,ontheotherhand,wereintheirelement.Themorethey

hadtoconceal,themoreintelligenttheygrew.Françoisparticularlyhadadoptedthemannersofthegentlemen’sgentlemaninacomedy.Henolongerwentintobourgeoisapartmenthousesexceptbythebackstairs, inordertoavoidputtingthe concierge on her guard. To look less like a student he dressed like aworkman.Hewas somuch in the habit of looking around that evenwhenwewerealoneinmyroomhekeptturninghishead.Noneofthisaffectedhishealth.Ishouldsaynot.Hehadajobtodo,andhewasdoingitwell.He had turned himself into a secret agent, full-time. To do more for the

Movement,toworkforitdayandnight,hehadstoppedhisstudies.Helivedinagarret,atthetopofadarkhouse,inamaid’sroomwhichcouldbereachedovertherooftopstomakeescapeeasierwhenitwasneeded.CollectionstakenupintheMovementassuredhimofthethousandfrancsamonthwhichkepthimfromstarving.For twoyearshe lived like this,getting thinnerand thinner,moreandmore

agile,andalwayshappier.Therewasanelectricqualityinthetoneofhisvoice.Itseemedtosaythathecouldhavemadeheroesoutofcowards.“Allthiscomesfrom my Polish ancestors,” he said; “they have been persecuting us for fivecenturies.”EvenJeancouldnotblinkawaythefact thatwehadenemies.Ouractivities

weregrowingfast.Twiceaweekweputoutabulletinforcommunicationandfor information.Theobjectwas tokeepourpeopleclearheadedandalwaysontheirguard,andalsotodenounceNaziatrocitiesasweheardaboutthem.Theyweretakingplaceallaroundusingreatnumbers.Ourswasstillonlyabulletin,notyetarealnewspaper.Still,wehadtohave

paper, and since the sale of paper was entirely controlled by the Army of

Occupation,wehadtostealit.GeorgesandFrançoishadorganizedtheraid.Latertherewasthebusinessoftheinkandthemachinesformimeographing.

Withoutaccompliceswecouldgetnothing.Yeteachaccomplicewasapotentialtraitor.Butwhen andwhere could the duplicating be done?This question theCentralCommitteeaddressedtome.TheyallseemedtothinkIwasblessedwithaspecialgift,thegiftofsomehowfindingtheanswers.Andinasurprisingwaythey were right. For the very next day I had a visit from a doctor, a youngpsychiatristacomradehadsentmebecause“hehadsomeusefulinformation.”Henri,thepsychiatrist,hadfriendsintheFrenchpolice.Fromtimetotimehe

wouldbeinapositiontoletusknow,anhourortwoaheadoftime,aboutpoliceblockadessetupbyGermanorder.Thisinformationwouldbeveryvaluable.Butitwasnotlongbeforeourconversationtouchedonhispatients,thepoor

crazy women he was treating at Sainte-Anne, the psychiatric hospital. Thesolution to the problemofmimeographing had slipped out almostwithout thedoctor’sknowingit.Sainte-Annehadpaddedcellsreservedforviolentpatients.Asarulenotallofthemwereinuseat thesametime.Onecouldserveasourworkshop.Henritookthearrangementsincharge.WhenIgavethenewstotheCentralCommittee, theyaccepteditasamatterofcourse.Theywereabit tooquickinformingthehabitofmiracles.Thoughourbulletinswerenotverywellwritten,theywerepotenttosaythe

least.TheycirculatedthroughouttheMovement,andwehadevenmadeupthreeteamstodistributethemoutside.Françoiswasinchargeofthefirst,GeorgesofthesecondandDenis,anewcomer,ofthethird.Denis,what aman hewas!A good-natured lad of twenty, blond aswheat,

with innocent eyes, a pink and white complexion, something timorous, evenentreatinginhisvoice,handshotandaskinassoftasagirl’s;devout(hewasoftentellingthebeadsoftherosaryinhispocket);readytolaughatanythingbutneverdoingit forfearofarousingthecuriosityofothers;andalwayssopolitewith us, with an old-fashioned, rather clumsy politeness, almost as though heregardedhimselfasasmallchildandusasoldmenweigheddownwithhonors.The distribution of the bulletin meant trips to apartment houses in Paris,

copies slipped under doors, one boy on our team watching the exits to thebuildingwhiletheothersflewfromonefloortothenextwiththeirshoesintheirhands. Traitors were coming closer. Nothing was to be gained by deludingourselves.Itwasnottheprofessionalswewereafraidof.Weknewtheywerenotcommon and almost always maladroit. But there were still the unintentionalones,andtheywerethedevil.Justtrydefendingyourselfagainstpeoplewhoarecrazedbyfear.Disagreeableasitmightbe,itwasnecessarytoswallowthebitterpill.Halfof

Pariswasmadeofpeopleofthissort.Theirintentionswerenotcriminal.Theywould not have hurt a fly as the saying goes. But they were protecting theirfamilies, their money, their health, their position, their reputation in theapartmenthouse.Tothemwewereterrorists,andtheydidnothesitatetosayso.Theytalkedaboutitamongthemselves,onthedoorstepandoverthetelephone.If only we had not had them to reckon with. But they were worse than theGestapo.Likeallfrightenedpeopletheywereflighty.Theywouldgossipaboutus without reflecting. They would denounce us without giving it a secondthought.They did denounce us. In January 1942, a member of our Movement was

arrestedbecausehisneighboronthesamefloorusedtosayatthegrocer’sandthebaker’sthathehadnoideawhattheprintedmatterwasthattheboyacrossthehallwascarryingaround,butthatifhewerehisfatherhewouldputastoptoitbecauseitwasdangerous.OnedayGeorgessaid tome,“Imust introduceyou toNivel.Thischaracter

doesn’t seem to be at all reliable.” Like the othersGeorges had the idea that,being blind, I had greater faculties— tremendous ones— for seeing throughpeople.HewasgoingtohavememeetNivel,whoforsometimehadbeenmuch“toowell-behaved,” too zealous, tooknowing.Georges thought the accusationwasprobablyridiculous,buthewantedtogettothebottomofit.SooneeveninghetookmetoaspotbetweenthePlaced’ItalieandtheGare

d’Austerlitz,toavacantfactorywarehousewhere,inthemidstofpilesofemptycrates,scaled-offwalls,coilsofrustywireandmanydrafts,thetesttookplace.ThisNivelwasnotknown tome,andIwasnot really relyingonGeorges’s

fears.ButassoonasNivelcamein,burstingoutwithagreetingfullofgaiety,thediagnosiscamewithoutgropingforit:“Letthischaractergo!Getawayfromhimasfastasyoucan!”Thewarmthofhisvoice,thewell-turnedphrasesmadeupthefaceIsawfirst.

Butunderitwasanother,perceptiblealmostimmediately,nowwithdrawingandhiding, but then again in evidence in spite of all he could do. It gave theimpressionofsomethingswollen,fortherewerelumpsintheman’svoice.Hechattedforhalfanhour.Hemayhavethoughtwelikedhim.Afterhewas

gone,ItoldGeorgeshehadbeenquiterighttobesuspicious.AndthenGeorgestoldmethatduringthewholeinterviewIhadseemedfaraway.ItwastruethatIhadgonedownintothedepths.Insidemetherewasasecret

chamber,andwhenIhadanotiontogothere,everythingatoncebecamesimpleandclear.People, above all, found themselveswashedcleanof appearances. Icouldhearathreatinasoftwordandfearinboastfulness.And,strangeasitmayseem,thisplaceofbrightnesswasnothingmorethantheinnerspacewhichhad

becomefamiliartomewhenIwentblindateightyearsold.I never knew exactly what mishap my intuition had spared us. But some

months later Nivel, the suspect, was seen among the special police of theRassemblementNationalPopulaireatameetingforcollaborationwithGermany.Hewaswearingthebadgeoftheparty,andalongwiththeotherswasshouting,“HeilHitler.”

THETIMEWASSURELYBLESSEDwhenIwasonlyawareofmybodyassomethingthatgavemepleasure.Thefifteen-milehikeItookwithJeaneachSundaywasenough to wipe away the small physical discomforts that came from mentalstrain. At night we were dead tired. The next day, when we got up at fiveo’clock,itwasasifitwerethefirstdayoftheworld.Thewell ofmy strength never dried up. The later I stayed up, the better I

slept.ThemoreIlearned,themoreIwasabletolearn.Mymemoryonlyknewhow to say yes. Itmade room for everything, for the thousand and fifty Paristelephone numbers I needed formywork in the Resistance, andwhich I hadlearnedbyheartin1942tokeepfromwritinganythingdown.Itmaderoomtoofor the system of monads according to Leibnitz, for Turkish history in thenineteenth century, even for those fifteen pages from the letters of Cicero inLatin.Wheneveranewcontingentoffactspresenteditself,mymemory,insteadoftighteningupattheirapproach,expanded.Itwasmuchsimplerthatway.Mymindwasaworldingrowth,onewhichhadnotfoundits limits.Andif

my intelligence hung back a little at the effort, I could always turn to otherworldswithinmyself,totheworldsoftheheartandofhope.Theyimmediatelysentuparelay,andIkeptrunningcontinually.I hadnot yet acquired thehardness of aman, andwas still as resilient as a

child, a factwhichaccounts formyaccomplishmentsbetween1941and1943.WhenIthinkofthemnowatthemidpointoflifewithitsweariness,Ifindithardtounderstandthem.IhadenteredtheUniversityofParisinthefallof1941.Ihadchosenthefield

of literature,whichfittedinwithmyabilityandmytastes.At theendof thesestudiesthereshonetheprospectoftheonlyprofessionsIcouldcarefor,theoneswhich would put me in direct touch with other men — the professions ofdiplomacyandteaching.Nevertheless,Ihadnotturnedintoarun-of-the-millstudent.Ontheadviceof

my teachers I had gone into a special class which, I believe, exists only inFrance, theUpperFirst. In thecountryas awhole therewerenotmore thanadozensuchclasses.Theygatheredinthebrighteststudentsofliteraturefromthegraduatingclasses in the lycées, samefortystudents toaclassandallof them

involved in a highly competitive game. The passion which others devoted tophysicalsports,wedevotedtothesportsofthemind.Buthowfrantictheywere!Attheendoftwoorthreeyearsofstudy,dependingonthecircumstances,the

pupilsoftheUpperFirstwentintothecompetitionwhichopenstheway—fortheoneswhoareacceptedandthatisnoteasy—tothehighestinstitutionintheFrencheducationalsystem,theschoolofschools,theEcoleNormaleSupérieureintheRued’Ulm.Thework towhichweweresubjectedwas intensive—asortofproduction

lineofknowledge—inanycasenottobecomparedwiththeregularcoursesattheUniversity.Thirtyhoursofclassworkaweek,inwhichteacherschosenfortheir talent and learning were supposed to teach us all of Latin, Greek andFrenchliterature,philosophy,thehistoryoftheancientworldandworldhistoryfrom1715tothepresentday.Don’tsmileattheseambitions!IntheUpperFirst,everyonewasinearnest,bothteachersandstudents.I had to stand this hellish pace for two years, and to my great surprise I

manageditsuccessfully.Butat thesametimeIhad towork in theResistance.CouldIsucceedincombiningbothtasksorcouldInot?Ihadmadeitapointofhonor tosetupabalancebetweenmytwolives, thepublicand thesecret.Mydaysoscillatedbetweenstudiesandactionatafrighteningpace.Inthemorningbetweenfouro’clockandseven,Iwalkedthroughbookstwoorthreestepsatatime.FromeighttonoonIlistenedtotheteachers,tookfrenziednotesandtriedtoabsorbknowledgeas fastas itwasgivenout. In theafternoon, from two tofour,Iwasstillinclass.Thenatfouro’clocktheResistancebegan.Therewere trips acrossParisby routes setup in advance forgreater safety,

meetings, surveys, judgments, discussions, orders tobegiven,worries, puttingthe doubting ones back on the road, supervision of founding groups, calls forcoolness to those who thought the Resistance was like a detective story,deliberation over the articles for the bulletin, sifting of news, time lost in thekind of summons which could be made neither by letter because of thecensorshipnorbytelephonebecauseoflinestapped.Bythistimeitwasalreadyeleveno’clockatnight,andIbelieveIonlystoppedbecauseofthecurfew.Aloneinmyroomatlast,Iimmersedmyselfinmystudiesagain,andkepton

learninguntilmyfingersgrewstiffonthepagesofBraille.Sincemyinterestinlife and my confidence in it were boundless, everything seemed to me assignificantthetenthtimeIencountereditasithadthefirst.Andthatgavemeanenthusiasmwhichenabledmetogo throughfatiguewithout feeling it, throughfoodwhichwasalreadyverybad,eventhroughcold.ThosewintersoftheOccupationwerefreezing.Thegoodpeoplesaiditwas

alwayslikethatinwartime,mostofthemclaimingthewinterwasfrigidbecause

of thewar, but others,more daring, saying that therewaswar because itwascold.Inanycase,inParistherewasnothinglefttoheatwith.Frenchcoalwasallgoing toGermany.In theevening justonestovewas lightedatourhouse,andsinceIhadtoshutmyselfoffinmyquartersIgothardlyanyofthegoodofit.To be able to readBraille— the sense of touch does not function adequatelybelow ten degreesCentigrade— I had to keep themeager heat of an electricbowlonlyaninchawayfrommyfingers.I repeat that none of this bothered me. For all the ones like François, like

Georges,likeDenisandforme,therewaseternalspring.Eveninthedifficultiesof livingwe foundanexhilaration thatgaveus strength.Somehowdifficultiesonlysharpenedtheedgeandmadeusbetterabletocutthroughthebarriers.Wehadourmiseries,buttheyweredifferent,andmostpressingofallwasthefactthatweweretheexceptionalones.Thisnoneofuscoulddisregard.We,theexceptional!Butwhy,whenwewereconvincedthatweweredoing

thesimplestthing,the“onlythingtodo”?Withoutadoubt.Yettherewerenotmany of us. We had no illusions about the six hundred active membersbelonging to theVolunteersofLiberty in1942.Tokeep sixhundredboyswehadhadtoturndownsixthousand.Andyetyoungpeoplerepresentedapickedgroupinsociety,themostdisinterestedandthemostreckless.AftertwoyearsofOccupation, theNorthernZonehadyieldedonly a fewhandfuls ofResistancefighters. In thenature of the case they couldnever be counted.Theoptimists,likeHenri,thepsychiatrist,saidthereweresometwentythousand.InthetwoUpperFirstsatLouis-le-Grand,theeliteclassesastheywerecalled

bytheteacherswhodidnotmindputtingapointonit,outofninetyboyswehadfound only six, counting Jean and me, who had agreed to enlist in theResistance.Theothersneverevenconsideredit,somebecauseofmorallaziness(Jeansaid,“Ipromiseyoutheywillneverbehappyinlife”);othersbecauseofthe disease that often goeswith an overdeveloped intelligence, the inability tochoose; others because of bourgeois selfishness, even at nineteen; still othersbecausetheyhadcoldfeet.Finally,andmostpainfulofall,thereweretheoneswhohadchosentheotherside.Tobesure therewerenotmanyof these.But the twoor three inclass,who

patientlynotedall thesigns,beingcareful towrite themdown,whospreadtherumor that the six of uswere involved in theResistance,whonevermissed ameeting of the Association France—Allemagne, who harped on the swiftcomingofFascismallovertheworld;theoneswhospied,informed,denounced—weshould find thisoutoneday toour cost— those twoor threemadeusmoreunhappy,becausetheywerewhattheywere,thanalltherigorsofabitterwinter.

TheysymbolizedthefactthatHitlercouldcountcowardicewithoutacountryandwithout boundaries among his allies (for our part,wemuch preferred theGermanswhoweregoingouttobekilledinRussia).TheyprovedthatNazismwas not a historical disaster confined to a single time and a single place, aGermandisaster: “Let uskill theBoches, and theworldwill behappy.”TheyprovedthatNazismwasagermtobefoundeverywhere,asicknessendemictothe human race. Itwas enough to cast a few handfuls of fear towindward inordertogatherinthenextseason’sharvestoftreasonandtorture.AsforthesixofusintheResistanceintheUpperFirst,witheachdaywehad

a better idea of our reasons for being in it, and they were not limited topatriotism.ForitwasnotjustFrancethatwasthreatened,itwasmanhimself.WhenwehadateacherofFrenchliteraturewhowas“acollabo”—therewas

one—all sixofushad toholdourselvesunder a tight rein, andconsult eachothertentimesovertokeepfromspittinghisshamebackintohisface.Ishallnottrytodefendourcausetoanyonewhomaystillthinkweweretoo

harshandbehavinglike“realyounglunatics.”Thiskindofseveritywasathingto take or leave.But have you ever known anyone to choose indulgence as aweaponinafight?

ONEDAYWHENFRANÇOISASKEDMEwhat fault I foundhardest tobear inotherpeople,myanswershotoutwiththespeedofabullet—“Dullness.”WelaughedalotbecausejustatthemomentwhenIwasshoutingmyreply,hewasshoutinghisandtheywerethesame.Therewasnodoubtthatwewerecompletelyintunewitheachother.Dullness, mediocrity! Whether they were Catholics, Jews, Protestants,

freethinkersornotthinkersatall,allthemenoftheResistancesharedthesamecredo.Forthemlifewasnotmadetobelivedhalfway.This convictionwas second nature to us. “It has reached the pointwhere I

havetoholdontomyself,”asGeorgesputit.“Ifsomecharactersaysyestometobeobligingand just tobe let alone, Iwant tohithim.”Society formewasdivided into two parts, the Hard and the Soft. It was not cowards one foundamong thesoftones,andcertainlynot traitors, for traitorswerealmostalwaysthehardoneswhohadgonewrong,buttheformlessraceoftheprocrastinators,all the oneswho approvedofwhatwewere doing andwere careful not to beinvolvedinit.These,ofalltimes,werenottimesformeaningwell.The year 1942 was very black. Seen from the vantage point of Europe it

seemed several times to be a complete loss.TheGerman advance intoRussiawasdeeperthananyonehadpredicted.Towardtheendofthesummeritsforcewas broken in the suburbs of Stalingrad. But Stalingrad, as we saw it, was

alreadypasttheheartoftheU.S.S.R.Forthefirsttime,theGermansweremakingsomeoftheirkillingspublic.The

names of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen had appeared in the bulletins of theVolunteers of Liberty. It was true that America had come into the war. Ourhistory teacher had been a good prophet. ButAmericawas still far away andcompletelyabsorbed in thePacific, inbattleswhichweknewwere terriblebutstillanunknownquantity.Atlast,onNovember8,theAllieshadmadealandinginNorthAfrica.This

wasEurope’sfirstpieceofgoodnewsintwoandahalfyears,butimmediatelyafterwards the Germans had occupied the Southern Zone. The last scrap ofFrenchindependencewasgone,andasaresultitbecamenecessarytoorganizetheResistancenot just fromNantes toParis and fromParis toLille, but fromLilletoMarseillesandalloverthecountry.Thoseofuswhohateddullnessweresuddenlyfacedwithacrobaticfeats.MayGodforgiveus,butwewerealmostatthepointofrejoicinginthemisfortunesofFrance.SinceinthosedaysIwasbeingnourishedatthespringsofuniversalwisdom,

Ibegantohavescruples,sayingtomyself,“Iamtoopositive.”Thephilosophersnever stopped saying it, saying that everything in thisworld is temperedwithgood and evil; there are always at least two faces to truth.What anothermandoes which seems to us a crime is often only the result of a first mistake, amistakesosmallandsohard todetect thatwetoomaybemakingit fromoneminute to the next.Thiswas the kind of sermon that someofmy friends hadbeenpreachingtothemselvesforsometimepast.At theendofDecemberGeorges,whodidn’t read thephilosophersbecause

they gave him a headache, said tome, “You are falling by theway,my boy.Throwall yourbrainy schemes to thewinds, they arenothingbut nightmares.TheMovement is stagnating. For three months our number has stayed at sixhundred. We are still just passing out the bulletin. Don’t you see that thisdamnablewarismovingatafasterclipthanweare?”Ididseeit,anditdisturbedme.Butwhatweneededwasnewventures,andI

didn’t knowhow to go about them.FortunatelyGeorges had an idea.He saidtherewasonlyonewaytosetmeonfire—girls.Ibalked,knowingthissideofGeorgesverywell,hisnightside.Hewasthree

yearsolderthanIwas,andhavingenlistedin1939hadbeenthrownintothelifeofthebarracksattheageofeighteen,andhadacoarseideaoflove.“Havefunwhilethereisstilltime,”hewouldsay.“Later,we’llbestartingafamily.”IhadsomerealbattleswithFrançoisaboutGeorges.Inthisrespectasinevery

other, François was angelic, but that didn’t keep him from understandingGeorges.“Whatever roadmen take to their sourceof strength, so longas they

reachit,Iblessthemforit.”Hereperhapswasanotheroccasionforcompromise.Moral purity was not necessarily bound up with the purity of the body. AsGeorgeslikedtosay,“Realsoldiershavealwaysbeenrealrakes.”Sotheyundertooktocureme.Thetreatmentwasnotwhatyoumightexpect.

Georgesrespectedmetoomuchtotakemetodisreputableplaces.Itneverevenentered his head.But one day, since I couldn’t resist the temptation to talk tohimaboutAliette,hemadeitplain,withoutopenlymakingfunofme,thatIwasararekindoffool.Lovingagirlwhohadnevergivenyouanythingbutsmiles—andeventhatonly inpassingbecauseitmadehermorebeautiful—lovingherwithout knowing if she returned it, and still loving her after two years ofseparation,without ever having been tempted to put another girl in her place,thiskindof stubbornness seemed toGeorgesnot just ridiculousbutdownrightdangerous.Itrepresentedanunbelievablelackofrealism,andwasquiteenoughtoaccountforthesluggishnessofmyideas.So,forweeksonendIwasdraggedfromonepartytothenext.Thesegaieties

faroutshonethemodestdancesinthefamilycirclethatIhadbeenfrequentingfor two years. It was hard for me to understand how Georges could have somany friends and such frivolous oneswithoutmy knowing anything about it.BecausehardliquorwasscarceinoccupiedParis,weweredrinkingabrandofsparklingwinethatmadeustipsy,butslowly.Most of the girls had nothing in their heads. That didn’t seem to bother

anybody and I got used to it too. I didmybest to overcomemy shyness, andmost of all the notion, quite new to me, that my blindness kept me fromattractingpeople.Asamatteroffact,Iwasassuccessfulatthisastheothers—onceIputasidemyseriousnesswhichwasabsolutelynohelp.Itwasenoughtotalknonsense,ifyoudiditinacertainway,topretendyouwereatashowandthatnothing reallymattered.Allyouhad todowasdrink,getworkedupoverunimportantfeelings,andkeepdancing.Yougotyourrewardrightaway.Girlswereastrangebreed.Theymanagedtobreathelifeintoyourbodyandevenintoyourmind.Itwasnotthattheywerebeautiful,atleastnottome.Mycompanionswould

whisper,“DancewithHenriette.Myboy, she isdivine.”Butnot tome.Beingbrittleandselfish,howcouldshebebeautiful?Shehadsuchawayofbelittlingeverything,andofsharpeningherclawsunderthecaressesofhersmoothhands,thatIwantedtorunaway.Iturnedtothegirlswhowerenotsoprettybutwho,atleast,seemedcapableoflove.Nevermindifmysenseofbeautywasnotjustliketheothers’.Onethingwe

had in common, the sense of intoxication. Putting your hand on a girl’s hip,following the budding curve of her arm, embracing her shoulder, diving,with

empty head, into the many-colored brightness that comes from a girl’s body,hearing the rustle of a skirt or a handkerchief, not wanting to stop dancing,becausesolongasthegirlisclose,withherhairagainstyoursateachstep,theworld can go to pieceswithout your caring.All these thingsweremakingmewellasGeorgeshadsaidtheywould.Itwasatthispoint,aswewereleavingadanceinthefronthallofarichhouse

inthesuburbs,thatanewideasuddenlycametome—ithadtodowiththoseAllied airmen shot down every day by German fighters. I had been told ahundredtimesthatmostofthemsurvivedthankstotheirparachutes.IftheyfellinGermanterritorytheywerelost,withonlyonechanceinathousand.ButwhatiftheyfellinFrance?Theywerelostjustthesame(mostofthemdidn’tknowawordofFrench),lostunlesspeoplelikeustookthemincharge.By now we had our cells in Normandy, in Brittany, in the Nord and in

Franche-Comté, and I was about to notify the provincial sections of ourMovementtobeonthelookoutforfallenairmen,andtosendthemontousinParis.Therescuedpilot,dressedincivilianclothes,mustbeaccompaniedbyamemberoftheMovement.Ourmanwasnottomoveaninchawayfromhim.Afineplan,butwhattodowiththeflyersoncetheywereinParis?HowtosendthemontotheSpanishborderandgetthemacross?When I submitted my bright, impossible idea to Georges, he burst out

laughing.Heknewtheanswer.Runningasmallriskwoulddothetrick.Forthelast six months he had been in touch with a man named Robert— a settledperson, forty years old, married, a Catholic—Robert had never said exactlywhathedid.ButbyallkindsofsignsGeorgeswasconvincedthathewasdoingjustwhatwehadinmind.ThetwoofuswouldgotoseehimandofferhimtheservicesoftheMovement.Asamatteroffact,RoberthadbeenrepatriatingAlliedairmenfortwoyears.

Hehad set up an amazing systemof camouflage inParis and the surroundingcountry.HisnetworkhadaboutfiftyaccomplicesontheSpanishborder,ontheCataloniansideand in thePaysBasque.Theyweremountaineersandcustomsmen. Only one thing was missing, at least in part: groups of men in theprovinces,menwhowerebraveandfast,andcapableofgettinginformationinthecountrywithoutgivingtheshowaway.Wewereallheneeded,andnowwewereavailable.Oncemoreideaswereinferment.Aftertheairmencametheturnofthefalse

papers. InParis,where thenumberofprofessional fighterswasgrowingeveryday— besides François, we already had five others in theMovement— thebusinessoffalseidentitybecameurgent.Youcouldnolongereatwithoutfoodstamps.Everything,includingbreadandpotatoes,wasrationed,andinthetown

hallsticketsweregivenoutonlytopeoplewhosepaperswereinorder.Besides,what a terrible risk for the families, if oneof them, theone in theResistance,shouldbearrestedunderhisownname.TheVolunteersofLibertywouldhavetoseetothemakingoffalsepapers.Noneofuswasdeluded into thinking thiswouldbe easy.My first orderof

thissortIsentontothegroupsinArrasandLille.InMayandJune,inthenorthof France in 1940, many villages had been bombed or totally destroyed. Thepapersinthetownhallshaddisappeared,butthepeoplehadvanishedalongwiththem.We could find out their names by questioning the inhabitants carefully.Our first false cards of identitywould bemade out in the names ofmenwhocouldnotbefoundandwerebelieveddead.InJanuary1943,wewereonthebrinkofgreatthings,butwewerealongway

fromguessingthatinashorttimeweshouldbewalkingintohistorybythefrontdoor.

Jacques Lusseyran (center) at age eight in 1932. The boy to his right in white is his younger brother,Pascal.

Lusseyranatagenine,in1933.

Lusseyran’sclassatLycéeLouisGrandin1941.Lusseyran,age17,isthefourthfromtherightinthefrontrow.Hisdear friendJeanBesniée is the fourth fromtheleft in thesecondrow,withglassesandawhitehandkerchief.

Fabricated stamps used by the Resistance for all correspondence to avoid giving money to the Vichygovernment.

Lusseyran(left)andaradiojournalistin1953.

Lusseyranin1953.

JacquelinePardon,afellowmemberofDéfensedelaFrance,in1943.PardonwasLusseyran’sfirstwife.Theyweremarriedfrom1945to1954.

AuthorandphilosopherAlbertCamus(left),Lusseyran,andJacquelinePardon,Lusseyran’sfirstwife,in1953.

Lusseyranin1963,theyearAndThereWasLightwasfirstpublishedintheUnitedStates.

Lusseyranin1968.

Lusseyranin1971,theyearhediedinacaraccidentinFrance.Atthetime,hewasaprofessorofFrenchliteratureattheUniversityofHawaii,Honolulu.

[12]

OUROWNDEFENSEOFFRANCE

LIKEEVERYTHINGELSEINLIFEthatmatters,itcameaboutnotatallasexpectedbutmuch faster andmore simply. It happened through a young officer in thetank corpswhom Iwas about to receive atGeorges’s request.Butwithin fiveminutesthemaninfrontofmewasnolongeranofficer.Hewasaphilosopher,aconspirator,abigbrother,andmychief,Philippe.Letme explain. It had takenonly amonth to tie up the threadsofRobert’s

network and our Movement. Four RAF flyers had already been brought intoParisbyourpeople,twofromthehillsaroundDijon,onefromnearReims,thefourthfromthesuburbsofAmiens.At theGareduNord, theGarede l’Estand theGaredeLyon,Georgesand

Denisweretheoneswhohadtakenthemincharge.QuiterightlytheyweretheonlyoneswhoknewwhereRobert’shidingplacewas.Wehadneverhadanyserious doubts about thisman, but on this occasionwe reveredhim.Picture aface thatwasalways fullof fun,a travelingsalesmanwith thegiftofgab,butone who also had the gift of meditation. All of a sudden Robert would stopmakingjokesandretreatintohimself.Whatwashedoingthere?PrayingIfeelsure,buildinguphisreservesofcourage.Andheneededplentyeveryminuteofthetime.OfallthemeninFrancehewasoneofthemostexposed.HeknewverywellwhatwouldbecomeofhimifthisDonaldSimpsonorJohn

Smith,RAFpilots, turnedout tobeGermanspies. Ithadhappenedinsomeofthenetworksnearus.Thenitwasnotonemanwhowoulddie,himself,Robertthechief,butthirtyorfiftyofthem,andafterwhatkindofinterrogation!Hewasevenabletojokeaboutitandwithouteverabandoninghishumility.

Hewassomodestheneverspokeofhimselfinthefirstperson.Hewouldscrewuphiseyesandsay,“Thenetworkwonderswhether…Thenetworkhasdecidedthat…”Themanwasamissionary,indulgenttothefaultsofothers,withoutpityforhisown,fightinghiswayintoNaziterritoryasthoughitwerethelandofthe

heathen.But Robert did not want us to help him too much. He believed our work

shouldbe completelydivided fromhis.And finallyhe insisted thatwe shouldnotcontinuetomeet.“Ismellfire,”hesaid,“andifIamgoingtobeblownup,Iprefertobeblownupwithoutyou.”But in his finalmeetingwithGeorges he hadmade us a gift of a name—

Philippe,anofficerinthewarof1939—1940,twenty-sixyearsold.Andhehadadded,“Ican’tdobetter”;thatwasalwayshislastword,whateverelsehemighthavesaid.OnJanuary31ataboutteno’clockinthemorning,Pariswasshiveringinthe

cold though the sun was shining — that is just how clearly details can beimprinted on thememory—Georges and Iwerewaiting for Philippe. Imustadmitwehadnohighhopesofthisevent.ForallRobert’sblessing,wewereonguard,witheveryhairbristling.“Please,”Georgessaidtome,“ifthisindividualdoesn’t please you, giveme somekind of a sign to keepmymouth shut. Forofficers I have aweakness. And if he is an officer in the regular army, I amlikelytolosemybearings.”Itwasnotaprofessionalofficerwhocamethroughthedoor,butagreathulk

ofaman.Oversixfeet tall,broad in thechest,withstrongarmsandpowerfulhands, a quick andheavy step, the senseof brotherly protectiveness emanatedfrom his person. Besides, he had a voice which was warm though not veryresonant,avoicewhichcameclose toyouimmediately,whichgotright insideyoubecauseitwassoconvincing.Iamdescribinghimbadly.ThiswasnotamanIsawapproaching,butaforce.

Therewasnoneedtotellyouhewasaleader.Hecouldhandlehimselfanywayhewanted to, sprawl in every armchair in the room, pull up his trousers andscratchhisleg,beunintelligiblebecauseofasputteringpipethatgotinthewayof his speech, run his hands through his hair, ask tactless questions andcontradicthimself.Inthefirsttenminutesofourmeetinghehaddoneallthesethingsmanytimes,butsomehowyoudidn’tmindthem.Hiscomingplacedamantleofauthorityuponyourshoulders.Thewell-being

you felt in its enveloping folds was something you could not contain. Hisauthoritywasnotfalseandcertainlynotcalculated.Instead,itwaslikethespellcast by somewomen as soon as they comenear you.Youwere seduced, youwerealmostparalyzed,atleasttobeginwith.Forthefirsthalfhour,GeorgesandIwouldhavebeenphysicallyincapableofvoicingtheleastobjection.Ilookedatthiscasual,tempestuousdevilinfrontofme,andwonderedwhat

kindofmonsterwehaddrawnfromhislair.Butitwasnogoodmycallingonallthe presence ofmind and all the distrust I had left, I could notmanage to be

disturbed.Theysaythatstrengthenchants.Themagnetismofthismanwashisstrength.Heseemedtohaveendlessminesofenergy.Heexudedfeeling,purposeand

ideas. Here was a real phenomenon. Shaking his mane of hair, stretching hisarmsasthoughhewerelazy,thensuddenlycomingtoattention,hewasatoncegreat and good, gentle, talkative and secretive, precise as a watchmaker andvague as an absentminded professor. Confidences and meaninglessgeneralizationswereallmixedupinhistalk.Sincehestartedinanhourbefore,wehadlearnedthathewasmarriedandin

lovewith hiswife, that hiswifewas expecting a child and that he adored thechildevenbeforeitwasborn.InthesamebreathhehadspokenseveraltimesofSaintAugustine,Empedocles,Bergson,Pascal,MarshalPétain,LouisXVIandClémenceau.Icanvouchforthis,forIhearditwithmyownears.Icouldn’ttellyouwhatparttheyplayedintheconversation,butallthesametheywereinit.AsIsaid,Philippewasphenomenal.In an hour he had expressed what most people would never tell you in a

lifetime.Asyoulistened,itseemedasifnothingremainedthatwouldbehardtodo,evenintheParisofJanuary1943.Hetossedsolutionsatinsolubleproblemsrightonthespot.Hetookthembythehairofthehead,shooktheminfrontofhisgreatface,lookedthemstraightintheeye,andlaughedoutloud.Whentheygotthiskindoftreatment,theinsolubleproblemsjustdidn’tcomeback.Besides, Philippe had a good way of putting it: “In some circumstances

nothingiseasier thanbeingahero.It iseventooeasy,whichposesafrightfulmoralproblem.”And thenhebeganquotingSaintAugustine,PascalandSaintFrancisXavieralloveragain.AsyoumayhaveguessedIwasdumbfounded; inotherwordsIwashappy.

Thiswasnot thehappinessof love,but forall that itwashappiness:mineandGeorges’s(thoughhehadnotopenedhismouthIknewhewasascaptivatedasI),andlastofallthehappinessofPhilippe.Alreadyheseemedtoknowuswellthoughhehadhardlyheardusspeak.Heconfidedinusfully,toldushowmuchgood we were doing him, carried us along on his saddle and never stoppedtalking,HesaidhewasgladtobeintheResistanceaswewereandalongwithus.To

himthis lastpointwasameredetail,andhehadalreadysettledit. Imayhavegivenyou thefalse impression thatPhilippewasflighty,or thatGeorgesandIwere,infollowinghimatsuchapace.Nothingcouldhavebeenfurtherfromthetruth.Inthosedayswheneverymeetingwasamatteroflifeanddeath,relationsbetweenpeoplewereclearerthantheyaretoday.Eitheronewasonguardoronegaveoneself.Therewasnothirdchoice,andonehadtochoosequickly.Letus

sayfurtherthatPhilippehadlaidhiswholehandbeforeus.“Iamgoingallout,”hesaid.“Ifitdoesn’twork,youwon’tbeseeingmeagain.”HehadknownRobertfor threeyears,andRoberthadvouchedforhim.Just

beforethewarhehadbeenastudentintheUpperFirstlikeme.Wehadhadthesameteachersandfriendsincommon.Intheend,hehaddecidednottoaskusoursecretsbuttotellushis.HehadorganizedaResistancemovementat exactly the same timeas Ihad

organized the Volunteers of Liberty, in the spring of 1941. His was calledDéfensede laFrance.Hehadanundergroundnewspaperwithacirculationoften thousand a month, not mimeographed but printed, the genuine article.GeorgesandIwerefamiliarwithit.OurMovementhaddistributedsomeoftheissues.Défense de la France had a print shop manned by amateurs turned

professional. It had presses, paper, arms and machine guns, ten undergroundbranches in Paris, onewith cork-linedwalls for the noisywork, several smalltrucksdisguisedasdeliverywagons,afactoryforcounterfeitpaperswhichcouldproduce twenty-five hundred “absolutely genuine” fake cards a month, anorganized editorial board for the paper, a radio transmitter which thoughimprovised was able to function, an open channel to General de Gaulle’sgovernment inLondon, dependable supporters among the peasants ofSeine etOise,southandnorth,thirtymilesfromParis—andothersinBurgundyincaseescapefromthecapitalshouldbenecessary—andfiftyagentswithtwoyears’experience, “dependable,” according toPhilippe, ashewashimself.Fifteenofthemwerealreadyworkingfull-timeintheunderground.For us Volunteers of Liberty who were vegetating, not ingloriously, but

withoutmakinganyfurtherprogress,anewworldwasopening,aworldoftheimmediate and the real. Already our usefulness was making itself felt, forDéfensedelaFrance,whichhadallthethingswelacked,lackedwhatwehad,ageneralstaff,acommissariatandacorpsofengineersbutnotroops.Wewereanarmywith generals—Georges, François,Denis and I—who had never hadtimetocompletetheirtraining.WithoutfurtherprecautionsIturnedtoGeorges,lookedathimhardandheard

himsayunderhisbreath,“Goahead.”Then,toPhilippe,IsaidthatplansforourworkingtogetherintheResistancehadbecomeclear.AsafounderoftheVolunteersofLibertyIwasgoingtoexercisemyrights.I

wasgoingtoaskallmypeopletojoinDéfensedelaFrance,andwithinaweekIshould know about all the oneswhomight refuse to followme out of fear orconfusion.WiththemIwouldbreakoff,whateverthecost.TheindustrialresourcesofDéfensedelaFrancemadeitpossibletoincrease

the run of its newspaper and multiply its circulation ten times over in a fewweeks.GeorgesandIgaveourwordtodothis,andPhilippegavehis.Tocarryitout we needed only to supply the human material to correspond with themachines.Oursixhundredboysmadeupthematerial.Perhapswehadnotsucceededinmakingthemaccomplishgreatthingsinthe

lasttwoyears,butwehadsharpenedtheirmoraletoarazoredge.Wehadtheminhand,andcouldanswerforthemasforourselves.Barely two hours had gone by since the officer-philosopher had taken

possession.Withusheexchangedacomplicatedsystemofdrop-offs,mailboxesandhiddencommunications.Hegaveusthewartimenamesoffiveorsixofhisagents, threegirls among them. Iwas astonished, as I hadneverdreamed thatwomencouldbe in theResistance.But itwouldn’tbe longbefore I foundouthowwrongIwas.Philippetookhisleave,butweshouldbeseeinghimnearlyeverydayforthe

next six months. Georges and I had hardly enough strength left to speak orcommentonwhat hadhappened.Wewere filledwith contentment andwith aconvictionwhichcouldnotbedescribedinwords.Weweremovingtowardtheunknown, toward a fate that was sure to be victorious and as certain to beterrible.

THENEXT SIXMONTHSwereabattle,of a specialkindbutwithout interruption.Only the facts concernushere, and Iwill report themwithout comment.Lessthanaweekafterourfirstinterview,Philippeaskedmetomeethiminthebackroomofasmallrestaurant.Myhouse,withallthegoingandcomingofthepastyearandahalf,wastooeasyamarkforinformers.Ihadtherighttoruntheriskbuthedidn’t.Hecouldn’tcomethereanymore.

HetoldmethattheExecutiveCommitteeofDéfensedelaFrancewasinvitingmetojoinit.Georgeswastakeninatthesametime,asmyinseparablepartner,mydouble. Iwas to go to themeetingswithGeorges, andneverwith anyoneelse.Besides,theprinciplehadtobeestablishedthatforalltheimportantmovesfrom now on Georges would be the only one to accompany me. “For yoursecurityandoursweneedsomeonewitheyes in thebackofhishead,and thereflexesofawildcreature.Georgesisourman.”At the very first meeting of the Executive Committee which I attended I

understood that every dimension of the task was altered. I saw that we wereacting for thecountryasawhole,andofficially, forallwewereunderground.Philippe was there, two other young men between twenty-five and thirty, ayoung woman and a girl. They were the ones who held the reins of theMovement.Theyheldthemsoberly,andeachheldhisown,withouttellingthe

othersaboutit.Since eachmember of the ExecutiveCommittee had the right to sit on the

editorialboardof thepaper,I tookpart in thisworkalso.Mynewfriendssaidourpresencewasjustifiedbytheirhopethatwecouldcarryoutourpromisetosetupasystemfordistributingthepaper,andonewhichcouldbeworkedoutinsix months. The resources of Défense de la France were entirely at ourdisposition,butwealonewerechargedwiththejob.Thenightbefore,attheCentralCommitteeoftheVolunteersofLiberty,Ihad

signed the marriage contract between my old Movement and Défense de laFrance, or as we now called it DF. I had counted on some opposition fromClaudeandRaymond,mytwophilosophers.Iknewthemtobenoblyentangledin arguments andhesitations, andas it turnedout theydidnot fall inwith thedecisionmade so abruptly. It brought us a loss of some thirtymembers,whoweretheirfollowers.ButthemergerofalltherestwithDFwasanaccomplishedfact.I turned in somefigures to theExecutiveCommitteeofDFwhichsurprised

everyoneexceptGeorgesandme.Could theyprint twenty thousand insteadoftenthousandcopiesofthenextnumberofthepaperbythemiddleofFebruary?If,aswebelieved, the teamsfordistributionwhichwewereofferingtoDF—andtheywerealreadyorganized—couldabsorbthefirstshock,wewouldaskthattheissueofMarch1bethirtythousand,increasingafterthatatthepaceoftenthousandperissue,untilourforceswerestretchedtotheirlimit.Ihadnowayofjudgingthislimit,butIfeltsureitwasfaroff.Iknewoursixhundredboys,their discipline and their impatience. The Executive Committee made meresponsiblefordistributionofthepaperalloverFrance.It was then, for the first time, that my blindness was mentioned. The

Committeebelievedthatitseffectswereonlyphysical.Someonewasneededtowatchover everyoneofmyactions in theResistance, andwarnmeof all thedangers thatonly eyes can see.This samepersonwouldhave to carryoutmydecisions or anymove Imade, from the pointwhere they required the use ofeyes. Georges said quite simply: “That will be me.” A perfect pairing, forGeorgescoulddoallthethingsIcouldn’tandviceversa.Fromthismoment—tobetruthful—Ishouldnolongersay“I”but“we.”Our principal weapon was a newspaper.Défense de la France was a real

paper,poor,coveringonlytwopages—wehadtowaitfourmonthstogrowtofour — but printed. Besides, our four opposite numbers in the undergroundpress,Résistance,Combat,Libération,Franc-Tireur,werenotdoinganybetter.Each was doing the same thing on its own. Their papers passed through ourhandsregularly,butwehadnochannelswhichallowedus togoto thesource.

Thatwasthespecialcurseofthefightintheunderground.Ithadtobecarriedoninunitsthatwerehermeticallysealed.Therisksbeingwhattheywere,nokindofoverallorganizationwasconceivableorevendesirable. Ifoneof thepaperswascaptured,theothersmust,atallcosts,remainunknown.In1943arealpaperwasapreciousthing.Everylineofprintwasdrawnfrom

somuchcourageandsomuchskill.Everylineofprintheldwithinitthepossibledeath of all those who had written or composed it, put it through the press,carriedit,distributeditandcommentedonit.Therewasbloodatthebottomofeachpage,andnotjustinamannerofspeaking.ThenameDéfensedelaFranceborewitnesstothewilltopatriotism,andthat

we certainly had. Still, our paperwas far frombeing nationalistic. IfweweredefendingFrance, thatwasbecause shewasbeing attacked, above all becauseshewasbeingthreatened—werepeatedthisineveryissue—withafateworsethanthedeathofthebody,thedeathofthespirit.Thepaper’schieftaskwastheawakeningofconscience.Wehadseveralwaysofbringingaboutthisawakening.Thefirst,asalways,

wasnews. InFebruary1943, for instance,wesaidwhatnoone inEuropewassayingat the time,specifically that theNaziarmyhad just fallen intoa trapatStalingrad,andthatthefuturecourseofthewarwasabouttobereversedintheruinsofthatcity.ThentoowetoldtheFrenchpeopleabouttheterriblethingsofwhichwehadproofinmountingnumberseveryday.Ifithadn’tbeenforustheymighthavesuspectedthem,buttheycouldnothaveknownthem.WetoldhowtheGestapo’s arrestswere carried out andwhere, andwhat happened in theirinterrogations.Weexposed theexistenceofpoliticalprisonsandconcentrationcamps in Germany, and the most incredible fact of all, the systematicexterminationoftheJewsacrossEurope.Weadvisedthepopulationaboutwaysofspreadingpassiveresistance.Most

ofallwemadeitclearthattherewasanactiveResistanceatwork,andonethatwasgrowingfromdaytoday.Itwasinvisibletoourreadersandmustremainso.Theonlysignitcouldgiveatthisstagewasourtwo-pageprintedsheet.Tothepublicwesuggestedwaysforthemtohelpus,whenandhowtokeep

silent,whatnewstocreditandwhatattitudestomaintain.OurgoalwastokeepFrancefromabdicating,toseetoitthatshewaspresentandintactwhenshewasliberated.Ourswasnotapoliticalpaper.NotoneofusatDéfensedelaFrancehadany

commitment to adoctrine.Wewere tooyoung for that, andother thingsweremore pressing. We placed our trust in the ideal of Western democracy asembodied then, in forms that differed butwere of equalmerit in our eyes, byCharles de Gaulle, Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt. To perfect

democracywouldbethetaskofthepeace.Wehadnopartisancause,nomaterialinteresttodefend.Wewerepoorandfullofardor.Theonlybelief sharedbyall themembersofDéfensede laFrancewas the

survivalofChristianvalues.Ourswas franklyaChristianpaper.But letusbeclearonthispoint.Wewerenotprotectinganyonechurchattheexpenseoftheothers.ThereweremanyCatholicsamongusandverydevout.But therewerealsoProtestants,equallysincere.Wewerenotevenspeakinginthenameofthechurches, forsomeofourpeopledidnotbelong toany. Itwassimply thatwestoodforChristianmoralityanditsabsolutedemandsforrespectandlove.We signed all our articles with pen names of course. Philippe was

“Indomitus,”theunconquerable.Weeditedthepaperfrombeginningtoend,allourselves.Parisatthispointwasnotatownwhereyoucouldtelephonepeopletoaskfortheirhelp.Atwhatevercost,wehadtoliveinsecretandsufficienttoourselves.Still,therewerecertainmenwhowereknownpersonallytosomeoneof us. That was how, on several occasions, a Catholic bishop, MonseigneurChevrot, and a member of the French Academy, Robert d’Harcourt, came togiveusarticlesthattheyhadwritten.Every word was weighed by the editorial board of the paper, not for its

literaryvalue,asyoumayguess,butforitspowertoimpress.Besides,ineachcase,wehadtoconsiderwhetherwhatweweresayingwasgoingtodogoodorharm,tosafeguardlivesorplacetheminjeopardy.WhenwehadtopublishourfirstarticleonthetorturesadministeredbytheGestapotoarrestedmembersofthe Resistance, we had more than thirty concrete proofs in our hands. Still,should such horrors really be brought to light?We decided unanimously thattheyshould.But thedecisionwasmadeonlyafterwholenightswithout sleep,andevenatthelastminuteourfingerstrembled.Itwasthesamewaythefirsttimewehadachancetopublishapictureinthe

paper.Itwasapictureofacommongrave,anopenpitofbonesontheedgeofaconcentration camp inGermany. Itwas authentic, for a prisoner heroic to thepointofmadnesshadstolenitfromthearchivesoftheGestapoinHamburg.Butitistoosoontotellthisstory.LetusgobacktoFebruary1943.

THEFIRSTWEEKSWEREAGAMBLE.Weknewourcomradeswereprepared,butwehad no idea theywere prepared to this extent.We had to call for emergencymeasures at the Executive Committee, specifically for the printing of fiftythousand copies of the March 15 issue. Georges, in his turn, had become aprofessionaloperator,hewasonhandatallhours.Andthatwasnotexcessive,forthesectionshadtobereorganizedfromtoptobottom.Forustherewasnolongeranyquestionofrecruitingfromtheranks.Thiswas

much too risky and too fruitless. Our contact nowwaswith the chiefs of thegroups,andonlyadozenofthoseatmost.Thegroupchiefswerepeoplewehadknown for at least a year. They were entirely responsible for their sections,making all the decisions about admission or exclusion andwithout appeal.Ofcourse,everygroupwastoreceiveanaliasandfalsepaperstocorrespond.In twomonths thenumberofpeople in chargeof circulationgrew fromsix

hundred to about five thousand.TheParis region had to be divided intowell-defined zones, five for Paris itself, seven for the suburbs. The work in thesuburbswaseasier,fortherethepolicehadnotdrawnsuchatightnet.ProvincialFranceposedamoredifficultproblemincommunicationsbecause

ofthedistancesinvolved.Foreachregionweneededaresponsiblepersonofthefirstquality,onewhoknewneitherfearnorfatigue.ItbrokeourheartsbutwehadtocutourselvesofffromFrançois.HealonecouldtakecareofBrittany,asthemodelprovince, theplacewhere thepercentageofResistance fighterswashighestattheearliestdate.ChampagneandFranche-ComtéwereturnedovertoFrédéric,theolderbrotherofoneofourfirstcomrades.WehadsomeonefortheNord,andsomeoneelsefortheTouraine.Butoneofthekeyproblemswasnotsolved.SinceNovembertheSouthernZonehadbeenoccupiedbytheGermans.Yet

themythwasmaintained,withthelineofdemarcationwhichcutFranceintwo.Everymile of the borderwas patrolled night and day. Private cars and trainsweresearched,andyoungmenwerealmostalwaysarrestediftheytriedtocrossover.OnFebruary16aGermanorderhad started its ruinouswork: all theyoung

menovertwenty-oneweretobesenttoGermanyforforcedlabor.Onlycertaincategoriesofstudentsandheadsoffamilieswouldbereprieved.Butthisthreat,put into practice promptly, gaveus ourwings insteadof clipping them.At allcostspreventasingleleaderoftheMovementfrombeingtakenofftoGermany.All at once, nearly eighty boys became professional underground operators.FortunatelyDFhadthefunds,andforoncetheextremeyouthofourforceswasahelp,nodoubtaboutthat.Mostofourmemberswerenotyettwenty-one.At Lyon andMarseilles in the Southern Zone,DF had solidworking cells.

Ouronlyproblemwas toopena channelof communicationwith them. Itwasimperative that the paper be distributed in the SouthernZone as itwas in theNorth.Unfortunately,therewasnopossibilityofcarryingtwentythousandcopiesof

an underground paper in suitcases twice a month, with one of our band incharge.Obviously,everysuitcaseonthetrainsfromParistoLyonorfromParistoToulousewas not opened every day, but at least half of themwere.And a

Denis, a François, a Gérard, with their proud young look, would be naturalsuspects for the dullest Nazi. Finally, people who have never done this workcan’timaginehowmuchspaceisneededtocarrytwentythousandnewspapers.Itwasatthispointthatwerememberedthegirlswhowerewithus.Theywere

oursolution,andtherewasnoother.Georges,whosecrudeideasaboutwomenyoualreadyknow,arguedthatwewouldneverfindagirl,stilllessanumberofgirls, who could do such heroic deeds. For them, especially if they castthemselvesas ingenuesorwomenofeasyvirtue, theriskswouldbemuchlessthanforus.ButGeorgesthoughttheywouldstillbefargreaterthananythingwecouldexpectofpeople“unlesstheywereasmadaswewere.”ThenGeorgesgotadressingdownfromtheChief—theonlythingthatcouldhavebroughthimround.“Youidiot,”saidPhilippe,“youwilllearnsomethingfromwomeneveryday.”CatherinesetoutforLyon,SimoneforBordeaux.Theywentjustatasignal

wegave them,without asking for any explanation.When they cameback,wehad a hard time getting them to tell us anything about it. Both of them saidnothinghadhappened.Theywantedtoknowwhenthenextdeliverywouldtakeplace.Theanswerwas,twoweekslaterofcourse.ThesuitcasesontheirwaytoLyon,Marseilles,ToulouseandBordeauxwere

already loadedwith an explosivewhich, as soon as it was discovered, wouldleadourfriendsstraighttothefiringsquad.Itwasthesimplestmattertoaddafewarmstothepapersthenexttimearound.ThematterwashardlydiscussedattheExecutiveCommittee.AsforSimoneandCatherine,theyclosedtheireyestoit.TowardtheendofMarchtherewasanaccident.OneoftheParisshopswhere

DFwasbeingprintedmusthavebeenundersuspicionbytheGestapo.Forthreedays, every time one of our comrades came out, he was followed. Of coursethereweretechniquesforshakingoffsuchspies,andtheboysintheprintshopskneweverytrickofthegame:howtoenterafamiliarbakerybythestreetdoor,leaving it by the service entrance on the next street; how to climb aboard asubway train and then, at the first station, justwhen the automaticdoorswereclosing,hurloneselfoutontotheemptyplatform,takeone’sshoesinone’shandand run away silently through the night. But this time every device had beenblocked,becausetheyfollowedusrightfromthedooroftheprintshop,andthatcalledforamoveoutinlessthantwelvehours.At the very least this emergency involved three steps: finding a new shop,

finding a vehicle to carry themachines away, andmanaging it without beingseen.Thelastpointwassimplerthanyoumightthink.Sincetheinformerswereambushedonthejobandwerelimitedinnumber,itwasenoughtofindoutthat

there were five of them, and then choose five of our comrades who wouldarrangetobefollowedatagivenhourinfivedifferentdirectionswithoutbeingcaught.Wehadfivemenattheprintshop,andtheywoulddothejobthemselvessincetheinformerswereaccustomedtothem.As soon as the spies had scattered on the false trails, five other comrades

wouldrollthepressandalltheotherequipmentontoopenlorriescoveredwithtarpaulins which had conspicuous signs glued to them: Fragile. Opticalinstruments. National Meteorological Observatory. As for the shop, we werealreadyholdingoneinreserveagainstbadtimes.Theoperationsucceeded,andimmediatelybecamelegendinourlargefamily.

ThemoralPhilippedrewfromitwasthis:“Children,ifwearestillaroundtotellthetale,thedaywillcomewhenweshallsaythattheResistancewastheeasiesttimeinourlives.Justthinkofit!Notasinglemoralproblemtocopewith,onlymaterialones!”

WENOLONGERHADONEPOLICE tocopewith,but two.ForsomemonthsnowacorpsofFrenchspiesandtorturershadbeenworkingalongwiththeGestapoanditsagents.OrganizedatVichy,ifnotattheexplicitorderofthegovernment,atleast in the muddy waters around it, this Political Brigade had the task ofcoveringthewholeofFrancewithitsnet,andkillingtheResistance.ThepeopleinitwereFrenchNazis,fanaticsofthemostaggressivekind,ormoreoftenjustbums disguised as gentlemen, on the track of German bribes, altogether atreacherousandsadisticlot.ThesebandsweremoredangeroustousthanalltheSSputtogether.Weknew

theirtacticsweretoinfiltratetheResistancemovements.Myinstinctfortraitorswastobeputtoevengreatertests.Still,intheExecutiveCommitteeofDF,wewere not exactly elated. We knew our intuition was not infallible. “It isinevitablethatwemakemistakes,”Philippesaid,“eachofusatleastonce.Wemustexpecttrouble.”InthefirstdaysofApril,ascrawledmessagecametous,wecouldrecognize

Robert’ssignature:“CaughtattheGareduNordwiththreebirds.Prayforme,”ranthemessage…“Threebirds.”Itwasalltooclear—threeairmen.WeneverexpectedtoseeRobertagaininthisworld.Agreatman.…Howhadhemanagedtowrite thenoteandget it through tous?Thatwassomethingelseweshouldneverknow.Less than aweek later, fourmembersof theLyongroupdisappeared.They

hadgonetogethertoameetingplaceintheforest.Theyhadnotcomeback.InMaythefamilyofoneofthemhadatelephonecallfromtheBrigadePolitique,tellingthemthattheirson,brotherandhusband,refusingtoconfesshiscrimes,

hadbeenkilled.As the sizeofDFgrew fromoneday to thenext, the risksofbeingcaught

mountedatthesamepace.Weusedtocallitabiologicalphenomenon.Nowayofescapingit,itwasthelawforusandallorganizationslikeours.On April 15 we were delegated by the Executive Committee to set up

communicationswith theMovement called “Résistance”—whichhad lost itsheadasyoumayrememberinAugust1941,buthadlatercometolifeagain—andwiththeMovement“Combat.”ThegovernmentofFreeFrance,establishedbynow inAlgiers,wasasking theResistanceorganizations tocoordinate theiractivitiesasmuchastheycould.No doubt the order was justified, but the job to be done was almost

superhuman.Eachmovement in itselfwas a pyramid in precarious balance. Ifyoupulledoutonestone,thewholestructurethreatenedtofallinruins.Combat,startedintheSouthernZone,publishedanewspaper,likeDF.Sodid

RésistanceintheNorthernZone,andalsoFrancTireur.Besidestheundergroundpress,therewereactivistgroupsoftheSecretArmy,usuallyunderthecommandof professional officers, which were building stores of arms and ammunition,andlayingthecornerstoneofthefirstMaquis.Thenetworksofinformationandrepatriationofflyerswereinbetweenthetwo.Wewereallworkingsidebyside,sometimesonthesamesidewalkinParis,

withoutknowingit.TheonlychanneltoourneighborsintheResistancewasthegovernmentofFreeFrance.Ourmeetingswith thepeoplefromCombator theSecretArmywouldbearrangedfromLondonorAlgiers,andfromtherepassedontousincodeorovertheradio.In thisway I came to have severalmeetingswith the editor-in-chief of the

newspaperRésistance.Iwasstruckbytheidentityoftheirhopesandours,andby the similarity of our difficulties. It strengthened our morale immensely tolearn thatwewere not alone.At about the same time Iwas in touchwith thedelegates of Combat. They did not tell me that a young man named AlbertCamuswasworkingwiththem.TheCommunistPartywasathorninthefleshoftheResistance.Wehadall

kinds of proof that the Communists were hard at work. Several hundredthousand copies of L’Humanité were being distributed underground. TheCommunistswerewayaheadofusintechniquesofsabotageandterrorism.Onlyin Résistance, Combat and DF there were no Communists. The origin of allthesemovementswashumanist,evenChristian.Furthermore, if theFrenchCommunistswereresisting, itwasnot indefense

oftheircountry.TheyhadprovedthepointbynotopposingNazismbetweentheRusso-GermanPactofAugust1939andtheinvasionoftheU.S.S.R.byHitler’s

armies in June 1941. For them the fightwas strictly ideological and partisan.Shouldwe tryworkingwith them?A grave question, raised in the ExecutiveCommittee,whereitwasdecidedtomakecontactassoonaspossible,despitealltheevidence.WewereintouchinJune,butourcontactswerecool.ItwasclearthattheCommunistslookeduponusasoutsiders.Eachdaynow,twentytimesaday,wehadtofacethelikelihoodofimminent

arrest.GeorgesandIhadbuilttheentiresystemofourworkintheexpectationofthisevent.Ifoneofusshouldbecaptured,theothermustcontinue,takingallthe reins into his hands within a few days. In this way we were setting theexampleforthewholeMovement.Fromnowon,allofuswouldbeoperatinginunitsoftwo,withthepartnersinterchangeable.Ahundredthousandcopiesof theMay15issuehadbeenprinted.Madas it

might be, wewere determined to distribute it. The number of workers in theprovinceshadgrownsofastthatwehadhadtogivecarteblanchetotheregionalheads. The complexity of local operations was such that something like theadministrationof a flourishing factorywouldhavebeenneeded todirect themfromParis.Yettheruleaboutcommittingnothingtopaperwasmorerigorouslyobservedthanever.ParticularlyintheNord,DFwasonthecrestofthewave,butouragentsthere

were swamped.What we needed was a chief on the ground, and the kind ofdependablefriendswhohadcoveredagoodpieceof theroadwithuswereallengaged elsewhere. So this time we had to make an exception. We had toconfidetheworktoanewman,onewehardlyknew.Hehadcometoseeusonlyrecently.HewascalledElio.He was twenty-five, a medical student in Paris, with black hair and a

handshakethatwastooheavy.HehadbeensenttoGeorgesbyagroupleaderintheCollegeofMedicine,initselfthebestrecommendation.Onlyatthestarthehadmade onemistake.He had appeared on his own atmy apartmentwithoutbeingsummoned.Atonceallmysenseswereonthealert.Thensomethingunusualtookplace.

Thismanthrewmymechanismoutofgear;myinnerneedlekeptoscillating,notsettlingeitheronthe“yes”orthe“no.”Eliospokeinalowvoice,toolow.Hisvoicewaslikehishandshake.Itlackedclarityandstraightforwardness.Ihada longargumentwithGeorges,whohadbeenpresentat the interview.

Didwehavetheright totrust thisman?Georgeshesitated,asIdidtoofor thefirsttime.SomethinglikeablackbarhadslippedbetweenElioandme.Icouldseeitdistinctly,butIdidn’tknowhowtoaccountforit.EliohadbeenintheResistanceforayear.Hewaswellinformedanddefinite.

Hehadundeniableinfluenceoverhisfellowstudentsinmedicine.Besides,asa

nativeoftheNord,heknewtheindustrialandminingcountryasthoughitwerehisownvillage.HevolunteeredtogiveuphisstudiesonthespotandgotoLillethenextday.Hewasreallytheperfectanswertoourprobleminthatquarter.Heseemedtoradiatecourageandwisdomfromheadtofoot.Still, because of our doubts, we couldn’t make the decision on our own.

PhilippehimselfandFrançois,ashewaspassing throughParis,wouldhave toinvestigateEliointheirturn.Theinvestigationover,Philippegrumbledthatwehadnorighttobetoocautious,andFrançoisthoughtweshouldgiveitatry.ButIcouldseethatnoneofthefourofusfeltthefamiliarandhearteningsatisfactionoffindingtherightman.EliotookoffforLilleanddidextraordinaryworkthere.Withinafortnighton

thegroundhehadmasteredthenetwork.Hisreportsweremoredetailedthanalltheothers,adroitanddiscreetatthesametime.Itriedtoconvincemyselfthatinfuture it would be better to beware of these manifestations of vision withouteyes.Theretoo,opticalillusionsweretobefeared.To transport the quantity of paper Elio was demanding for Saint-Quentin,

Valenciennes andLille,wehad found the ideal carrier inDaniel, a blindmanwhohadonlyrecentlylosthissightintheexplosionofagrenadein1940,and,likeme,wasentirelywithoutvision.Hewastwenty-threeyearsold,verystronganddetermined—arealbulldozer.Inotherwayshewasnotatalllikeme,nothavingaheadoverburdenedwith

thoughts.Acoachinalycéeatthetimeoftheaccident,hewastheoutdoortype.ThankstohimImadethediscoverythatallkindsofpeoplecanbeblind.Hewasnotonetomakeguesses,anddidnotseemtobeawareofhumanbeings.Buthehadphysicalpowerswhichfilledthevoidmagnificently.HewentalloverParisbyhimself,regardlessofconditions,traveledaloneonthetrains,madehiswaythroughpoliceblockadeswithhissuitcaseinhishand,gropingawkwardlywiththeendofhiswhitecane.Hewasarealherowithoutknowingit.InMay,JuneandJulythingshappenedsofastthatIcan’tdescribethem,only

listthem.Denis,ourdevoutandeasilyblushingfriend,hadplannedanddirectedanewmethod for circulating thepaper.Now itwas aquestionofmaking it apublic instead of a private affair. Slipping copies of the paper under doors,passing them hand-to-hand to people one could trust was not enough. It wasnecessarytoworkinthelightofday.InParisandaroundit,Denisorganizedteamsfordistributionintheopen.He

placed picked squads of men and women on the squares in front of the bigchurchesinParis,afterHighMassonSundays.Thememberofthesquadforcedhimselfonthefaithful,wavedfront-pageheadlinesbeforetheireyes,slippedthepapers into their pockets or their handbags.While thiswas going on, a cover

guardwatched all the approaches to the church.Denis got bolder and bolder.Our slim romantic friend was turning into a professional soldier, the kind ofknighttheMiddleAgesmusthaveproducedintheageofchivalry.Raidson the factoriesatRenaultandGnome-et-Rhône followed the raidsat

thechurches.Dangerwasgrowingbyleapsandbounds.ButitwasasifDenishadtakenthecross.Noonecouldstophim.Hehadorganizedthefirstworkers’cellsofDF,amongthemechanicsatRenaultandthemenworkingontheMétro.AndthencameJuly14.Thisdatemaybenothingmorethanasymbol,butit

isthesymbolofliberty,andindaysofmiserysymbolsarethebreadoflife.DFwas determined to have its July 14, the first anniversary of the undergroundpress.Thespecialissueofthepaper,andtheonejustprecedingit,hadreachedthe

two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand mark. We had kept the promise made inFebruary,250percentof it.Françoiscameback fromNantes for theoccasion,FrédéricfromBelfort,andEliofromLille.EvenGeorgesleftmeforforty-eighthours.Theshopwheretypewassetandalltheprintshopshadbeatentheirownrecords.TheentireExecutiveCommitteehadbeenwritingforthepaper,andhadsetthewheelsoftheoperationturningwithitsownhands.Finally,justtoshowthatlifeneverceases,thenightbeforethefourteenthHélènehadgivenPhilippeason.OperationDenis,OperationJuly14,wouldcontinuefrommorninguntilnight

on theParisMétro. Itallcame true.Fortysquadsof tenmemberseachpassedoutseventythousandcopiesofthepaperbetweeneightinthemorningandfiveo’clock in the afternoon on the subway cars, publicly, calmly, from onepassengertothenext,andsmilingasthoughitwerethemostnaturalthingintheworld.Soldiersandofficersof theGermanarmy,not tomentionspies inplainclotheswhocouldnotbeidentified,turnedastonishedeyesontheobjectthathadjustbeenhandedtothem.ReportscrowdedinthatnightattheExecutiveCommittee:notonepaperleft

in a corner in a hurry, not one squad broken up, not a single arrest. It was aperfectperformance.Wehadgivenpublicopiniontheshockitneededsobadly—theproofthattheResistancewasthereandcouldstrike.Allthesame,thethingthatmadeDenisproudestwasthatnoonehadusedhis

teargaspens.Recentlywehadhadtoarmoursquads,andLondonhaddroppedin whole cases of these pens. There was nothing about the little objects todistinguish them from the usual instrument by the same name, nothing but asafetycatchwhich,whenpressed,releasedenoughteargastoputanenemyoutof operation for three or four minutes. Though he knew it was impossible,Denis’sgreatdreamhadalwaysbeentomakewarwithoutkillingorwounding.

STILL,ALLTHISTIMEIwasastudent,andperhapsyoushouldberemindedofit.Sincethepassionfor livingcannotbedivided,Idevotedthesameardor tomystudiesas Idid to thedistributionofDéfensede laFrance. I shifted fromonekindofactivitytoanothertentimesaday,withoutanymorecircumstancethanthere is in flicking a switch. In the end I had acquired such flexibility inchangingoverthatIcouldevendispensewiththeswitch.Thetwopartsofmybrain were working at the same time. One recorded the latest information,suppliedbyFrançoisonhisreturnfromBrittany,aboutthecrewsfordistributionandintelligenceatRennes,SaintBrieuc,Brest,Quimper,LorientandNantes.Inthe forestof localnamesandhappenings it tried touncover someunsuspectedrelationshipwhich could lead to an alliance, to some consistency in thework.This part of my brain was on the scent of friend and enemy or planning acampaign.Meantime,theotherpartreviewedthefinancialdisastersbroughtonbynine successiveministersofLouisXVI in the fifteenyearsbefore July14,1789— disasters they pronounced essential to success in the competition forentranceintotheEcoleNormaleSupérieure.These parallel mental processes, so hard to maintain when one is older, I

couldmanage because Iwas eighteen years old.Memorywas a factor—mymindthenwaslikeaphotographicplate—butsowasintensity.Ihadtwoequalpassions at the time: to suppress Nazism and to be admitted to the NormaleSupérieure.Inmystudies, aswell as in theResistance, Iwas livingundera threat.The

yearbefore—itwasinJuly1942—theVichygovernmenthadissuedadecree.It was a strange document, like some others which this diseased ageunfortunately produced. It listed the physical qualifications required ofcandidates for public employment in the magistracy, in diplomacy, ingovernmentfinanceandlastofallinteaching.Thus far, onemust admit, the state had relied on only one criterion for the

recruitmentofitscivilservants—commonsense.Thegovernmentwassatisfiednottoappointadeafteacherofmusic,orablindteacherofdrawing.Butasidefrom these clear cases, everyone suited to a profession by ability or charactercouldenteritwithoutdifficulty.Inthisway,beforethewar,sometwentyblindpeoplehadtaughtintheFrench

lycées and universities. At Louis-le-Grand there was Fournery, an Englishteacherwhowasmore respectedandbelovedbyhis students thanmostofhiscolleagues—everyonewasagreedonthat.Oronastillhigherlevel,therewasPierreVilley,undisputedmasteramongtheblindinthegenerationbeforemine,PierreVilleywhowasappointedprofessorofFrenchliteratureattheUniversityofCaen,andwhohadpublishedauthoritativescholarlyworksonMontaigne.He

waskilledin1935,atfifty-four, inarailwayaccident.Butall thatwasintimepast—intheageofreason.Stunnedby theVichydecree, I had consultedmy teachers and someof the

officials in the Ministry of Public Instruction. I was one of the first to beaffected.NormaleSupérieurewasastateschool,puttingstudentsontheirwaytoastatecompetition,theAgrégation,whichwasdesignedtorecruitcandidatesforposts in theuniversities.Under thenew law theAgrégationwasclosed tome.Whatismore,IwouldnothavetherighttotaketheexaminationsforadmissiontotheNormaleSupérieure.IfIhavenotsaidthatblindnesswastreatedbythenewdecreeasoneofthe

conditionsmost likelytoexcludeanapplicantfrompublicemployment, that isbecauseblindnesswasonlyoneoftheclausesinalonglist.Myhistoryteacher,an old hand at interpreting official texts, explained this one to me: we weredealingwitharacistdocument,fascisttothecore.TheMinister at Vichywho had originated this document, Abel Bonnard, a

thoroughly neuroticman, had undertaken to imitate theNazi laws in themostservilefashion.Fromactiveservice insocietyheeliminatednotonly theblindbutalsotheone-armedandthelame—everyonewhohadsomephysicaldefect.He even went further. He laid down the law that all those with any kind ofserious deformity would be barred from public service. Can you imagine it?Hunchbacks were forbidden in their turn. The decree even prescribed themaximumlengthofnoseforfuturecivilservants!HowwasItodefendmyself?Itwouldhavebeenveryhardforme.Ihadno

uniontoresortto,notevenanyorganization.In1942therewerenotmorethanten of us blind in advanced studies in France. The onlyway outwas throughjudgmentofeachcaseindividually.ThatwasthecourseIwasadvisedtotake,and I was successful. In January 1943, the Director of Higher Education,informed of the situation by some fifteen ofmy old teachers, had granted anexemption in my favor. He claimed that my record in school and in theUniversity made me a special case. He authorized me to compete for theNormaleSupérieureonanequalfootingwithmysightedclassmates.So,onMay30, Ipresentedmyself for the first test in thecompetition,with

only the anguish of the ordinary candidates — considerable in itself — andaddedtoittheconcernofapersonwhoatallcostsmustforgetforaweekthathebelongedtotheExecutiveCommitteeofaResistanceMovement.My chances of being admitted to the school were among the best. I had

finishedthirdofforty-fiveintheregularexaminationsinmysecondyearintheUpper First. I had completed the history composition and the composition inphilosophy.Iwasfullofcouragewhentheblowfell.

AsIwasgoingintotheroomwherethethirdexaminationwastobeheld,anattendanthandedmealetter—itwassignedbytheMinister,AbelBonnard.Inthestylewhichisusual in this typeofcommunication, it informedmethat theMinister “had not confirmed the exception granted by the Administration ofHigherEducationonthe31stofJanuary”; that,asaconsequence, theMinisterdidnotauthorizemetopresentmyself for theexamination in literaturefor theNormaleSupérieure,and“calleduponmetobreakoffthetestswhichIhadjustpassed.”IthinkitwouldbefruitlesstogointothegriefandangerIsufferedinthehourswhichfollowed.Formeitwasnotanexamination,notevenacompetitionwhichwasatstake.

Itwasmywholefutureinthesocialsysteminmyowncountry.WhatwasItodoiftheonlyprofessionsIwasmadefor—theintellectualprofessions—wereclosed to me? Even more serious, what the satrap at Vichy was placing injeopardywasmyvictoryoverblindness,atleastthepartofitIhadwonintheworldofthemind.It was made plain to me that this order from Abel Bonnard, delayed and

arbitraryasitwas,wasillegal,andthatIshouldappealthroughtheCouncilofStateandbringsuit.ButhowcouldIhavedoneitthatJunein1943?Iwasnotaprofessionaloperatorintheunderground.Iwasstillusingmyownname.Iwasnoton theblacklistsof theGestapoor theVichyPoliticalBrigade—notyet.Butmyrealsituationwashardlybetter for that. Iwasoneof thesevenpeoplechiefly responsible for one of the five or six most important Resistancemovements.Themostrudimentarycommonsensetoldmenottoinviteofficialattention.Asyoucan imagine, thedistributionofDFdidnot leavememuch time for

self-pity.Yettheblowhadgonetothequick.ForthefirsttimeinmylifeIwasfacedbyanabsurdsituation.Uptonowmyblindnesshadalwaysmadesense.Nowtheywererejectingmeforthefirsttime.Anditwasnotasaperson—theyhardlyknewmynameatVichy—butasacategoryofthehumanrace.Thecontrastwastooflagrant.Myblindnessconqueredorskillfullyoffset—

thisisnottheplacetochoosebetweenthem—had,inthelasttwoyears,wonme the admiration, and farmore important than admiration, the confidence ofhundreds of men. It was my blindness which had turned me from the boysurroundedbyfriendsbutcenteredonhimself,whichIwasatsixteen,intoanewmanlinkedonallsideswiththousandsofotherlives,committedtothecauseandeffectiveness of thousands of other people. It was the very same blindnesswhich, all of a sudden, had cutme off from society or, to put it in themostmoderateterms,classifiedmeasunfit.PhilippeandGeorgeshadthesamereaction.Imustnotgiveanotherthought

tothisaccident,whichafterallwasonlyatinyepisodeinthewarinwhichwewereengaged.Attheendofthewarlayvictory,andpeoplewouldonlylaughatVichy’sdecrees.Butbeforewe laughed,we still had towin thewar, and thiswasnot just a

contestofarms,noraclashofnationshungryforpower.ThewhimsofaFrenchministerremindedme,incaseIneededtobereminded,whowastherealenemy.Therewas awholeworld to be rejected.Where itwas themaps showedonlyvery dimly. At present, its capitals were in Berlin, Tokyo and Rome, but thecentersofcontagionweremultiplying.Inthisworldtheonlythingthatcountedwasbruteforce—andnotevenforce

but the semblanceof it.Tohave the right to liveonehad toproveoneself anAryanwithout physical defect.The diseased inmind and the sick of soul hadtheir place immediately, andwerepushed into the front ranks.Butwoe to theone-legged, the hunchbacks, the Negroes and the Jews! In the biologicallaboratories, the latest inventions of modern science, they were preparing aconvenientendforallofthem:exterminationinthegaschambers,sterilization,atbesteliminationbyslowerstages.A society was being developed in whichmoral and spiritual factors would

finally be given their due, as the waste products of a dead civilization.Withthese happy times to look forward to, human stud farms had already beenestablished all over Nazi Europe, where selected Aryan men mated, at fixedhours,withselectedAryanwomentogivebirthtoanewrace.I did not take part with hands or eyes in DF’s Operation July 14. But I

preparedforitinmyheadwithaconvictionandaprecisionthatIdon’tneedtoexplainhereandhadnoneedtoexplainthentomycomrades.Theirplansweredefinitelysettledonlyaftertheyhadbeencheckedwithmine,hourbyhour,andfromonesubwaystationtothenext.

NO,OFCOURSENOT, Jeanhasnot leftus. If Ihave letyou thinkhimabsent forsometime, it isonlybecausewordsdescribesomerelationshipssopoorly.Forinstance, howwas I to tell you that at thoseparties, half decent, half indecentlikelifeitself,whereGeorgesusedtotakemeandwhereJeanwasnotinvited,itwas Jean who kept me straight with the girls, still respectful when the girls,befuddled by dancing and by their youth and mine, seemed on the point ofgivingthemselves?HowwasItoexplainthatintheExecutiveCommitteeofDF,towhichJean

didnotbelong,insixmonthsIhadneversaidawordormadeadecisionwithoutconsultingJean?Notinwords,ofcourse,andneitherPhilippenorperhapsevenGeorgescouldhaveguessed theconsultationwas takingplace,butwithout it I

shouldhavebeennothingbutapoorfool.I no longerneeded toquestion Jean toknow the answershewouldgive,or

talktohimtohavehimfollowmytrainofthought.Hewasmyfriend,firstandforemostamongalltheothers.HewasthemirrortowhichIreturnedtofindthebestsideofmyself.Absentorpresent,hewasmywitness.For Jean, at any rate, there could be no easy women and no Executive

Committee.Hewasnotamanof theworld.Theworldwasboth toocomplexandtoouglyforhim.Heusedhisstrengthtokeepitatadistance,butnottothepoint of forgetting his obligations. He had joined the Resistance, and he hadaskedme to give him an assignment somewhere in themiddle of the ladder.Sincewehadgone intoDF,hehadbeen coordinating the activitiesof severalgroupsofbeginners from theCollegesofLiterature,Scienceand theLaw.Hewasincapableofattemptinganythinghewasnotsureofcarryingout.Togetherwewenttoclass—hewasalsointheUpperFirst.Severaltimesa

day I found him standing in the doorway between the two rooms inmy littleapartment, notmuchmore talkative than he used to be, except possiblywhensomethingimportanthappened;gettingtallerandtaller,steadierandsteadierofvoice, holding my hand without being able to let it go, in a grip whichsometimesmademewonderhowmuchofitwastendernessandhowmuchfear.Wewereallfrightenedinthosedays.Youmustn’tthinkotherwise.Wewerefullofpassion,butwewerenotmad.FromtimetotimeJeansawdeathhoveringinfrontofhim.But,unliketheothers,hetalkedtomeaboutit.Histranquilityatmomentslikethesewasalmostunbelievabletome.Hewas

seriousinhisexplanations,butbarely,justalittlemoreattentivethanusual,likeaperson leaningover somethingwhich is hard to see, andwhoonly tells youwhatheperceivesalittleatatime.Jeansawhisowndeathbutnotmine,andthisthemekeptrepeatingitself.He

didnotunderstandwhy,butherecognizedthatthisperiodofhistorywasontoovastascaleforhim,toovastandmovingtooquickly.Somethingseemedtobecrushing him.Might it not have been life itself, the life forwhich hewas notmade?Itwasnotthattheactivitieswewereengagedindidnotsuithim.Nothingreallysuitedhim.Ifhehadnotbeeninvolved,itwouldstillhavebeenthesame.On the last twooccasionshispremonitionsbecamemorepressing. “When I

am gone,” he said, “you must not think about me anymore. That would beharmful.Besides, Iwill bewith you evenmore than before. In you, though Ican’tsayhow.”Whentheyhearthis,manypeoplewillthinkIshouldhaveforcedJeantobe

reasonable right then and there, made him drive out those evil dreams, havespokenharshlytohim,asonecanamongclosefriends.Butthatwouldonlybe

becausethesepeoplewerenotthereasIwas,andhadnotheardhimspeakwithsuchconviction.Theverylasttime,itmusthavebeeninJune1943,JeantoldmeIwasmade

tolive,eventothepointwhereanythingcouldhappentome,Iwouldstillstayalive;butthathewasnotmadeforlife.Iknewatthemomentthatwewerenottalkingatcross-purposes.Therewasn’ttimeforthat.Theessentialthingshadtobesaid.IrepliedtoJeanthatwewereontheedgeofanabyss.ButIcouldn’tgoon,becausetherealityofthethingshehadjustsaidwasgrowingtoofastinsideme.ItistruethatJeaninthosedayswasmoreandmoreintelligent,buthewasalsolessandlessadroit.It was at this point that he made a noble attempt at living. I was happy,

believinghimsavedwhenhegotengaged.NottoAliette,forAliettebelongedtothe past, but to a braveworking companion, a lively littlewoman, someone Imust admit I had not thought of for him, but whom he had chosen withdetermination,thewayhedideverythingelse;someonehelovedandwholovedhiminreturn.Wasn’t itstrangethatJeanshouldbeplungingheadfirst intolifeaheadofme?Whenthingslikethishappen,noneofthesignalscount.Remarkable that that year I almost never said, “I myself think, I want, I

believe.”Therewasalwayssomeoneelse there tobelievewithme, to think inmyplace.Usually itwas Jean,but sometimes itwasFrançois,Denis,Simone,Philippe,Catherine,Frédéric.Andforthemitwasthesamething.Therewasnotoneofthemwhodidn’trecognizeit,notonlywithpleasure,butwiththesensethathiswholebeingwas inprocessofgrowth.This fraternitywas thegreatestvirtue of the Resistance. But fraternity is a poor way of expressing it. It wasreallyasharingoftheheart.Therewereabouttwentyofus,livingintertwinedwithourheartsopentoeach

other,oneprotectingthenextman, thenextmanprotectinghim, ina trafficofcommonhopessocloseandsocontinuousthatintheenditmadeanopeninginour skins and fused us all into a single person. Such a thing can no longersurpriseorshockyou.DuringthenightbeforeJuly14,whenHélène,Philippe’swife, gave birth to a son, the childwas for all of us, our son also, born in asacredspot.To know François, Georges or Denis, I didn’t need to keep on saying to

myself,aspeoplecommonlydo:“Butwhereare theynow?”Or,“Whatwouldthey think in this case?” I carried themwithme, complete in everypart, evenwhenIwasreadingabookortakingexaminationsfortheNormale.Anditwaseasierandeasier,becausetheyweregrowinglighterandlighter.Aside fromPhilippe,whohada family—whata loadandhowproudlyhe

carried it—Ihadnota single friendwhohadanything left to lose.Theyhad

given up literally everything except life. As a result there was not a trace offrivolityleftinthem,noneofthoselittlesidelineswhichusuallymakepeoplesoinsipid.Georgeshadnotbecomeasaint.Hewasstillfranticallyrunningafterskirts,

the little beast.But hehadgrown sharp as a knife.Hisbodywas like abladebecausehewassothin.Hisvoice,naturallynasal,hewedoutthesentences,youcould see its tracks. He never wandered idly from one place to another. Hefollowedhiscoursestraighttothetarget,andwentthrougheveryobstaclealongtheway.Hadn’t he recently been facedwith aGerman patrol after curfewwithout a

reasonforbeingout?Hewasaneasymarkforarrest.Besides,thatnighthewasarmedwithanauthentic7.65,“abigfatrisk”ashedescribedit.Butasaknifehehaddonehisjob!Hehadgonethroughthepatrolwithoutlookingtorightorleftorbehindhim,without slowingdownorhurryingup,without reaching forhisgun,withoutthinkingaboutwhathewasdoing—hesworetothisnextday—andtheGermans,mystified,hadlethimthrough.Georgessaidinconclusion:“Ifonlyyougoallout,youareuntouchable.That’sastrueastheexistenceofthegoodLord.”AsforDenis,itwashardtorememberthatJulythathehadeverbeentimid.

Hewas in his hour of command, and among the five hundredworkers of theOpenDistribution—fiftyof themwerereal toughs—therewasnotonewhoopposedhisordersorhisrighttogivethem.IthinkIwastheonlyonetoknowthatDeniswasnotasstrongastheothersthought,atleastnotstronginthatway.Denismade short visits tomy house, just to unwind he said.And then the

artlessboyinhimreappeared.Hewasfullofsuperstition.Hestillbelievedthatallmenweregood in spite of the evidence.Hewould tremble and sometimesevenweepsilently.François?Hewastheonewhohadchangedtheleast.Hewasbornflame,and

flameheremained.Onlyheburnedmorebrightlythanbefore,thatisall.UnlikeJean,helovedtherealitiesoflife,andhadanall-embracingtoleranceforthem.He,whohadnever touched anythingmore than agirl’swrist,was completelyunderstandingofthepartyboys,thedissipatedones,theprostitutesandeventhepimps,heinsistedonthat.Onmywordofhonor,theairwasdifferentwheremyfriendswere.Thereyou

could smell joy. How can I saymore? Evenwhen theywere sad and talkingabouttheirowndeath,thesmelloftheirtalkwasgoodandgaveyoualift.Howeveritiswaged,warisadirtybusiness.Butoh,ifonlyinpeacetimemen

couldfindawayofbeingmorelikethefriendsImadeintimeofwar.

[13]

BETRAYALANDARREST

THAT NIGHT — IT WAS JULY 19 — Philippe and Georges had held a longconferenceatmyhouse.ThematterswediscussedincludedthestepstobetakentoincreasethecirculationofDF,howtoarrangeforthefeatofthefourteenthtobeonlythefirstofaseries,andhowtogoaboutturningmeintoanundergroundagent,full-time.The risks thatmywork at theBoulevardPort-Royal brought onmy family,

not to mention myself, had reached the proportions of an alert. On the otherhand,DF couldnotdowithoutmyservices. Iwas tocontinue to supervise itsdistributionbut inamorecarefullyprotectedanonymity. Iwouldgo to live inoneoftheP.C.oftheMovementinParis.When he left, Georges took with him the twenty tear gas pens I had been

holdinginreserveforthelastfivedays.HehadalsotakenastockofcounterfeitidentitycardstoturnovertoFrédéric,whowasgoingofftoBesançonatseveno’clockthenextmorning.That nightwas one of the happiest ofmy life.A stormwas rumbling over

ParisandIcouldn’tgettosleeptillnearlyfouro’clock.ButthesleepIlostwasnot because of the storm, it was because of the friendship of Philippe andGeorges.Ihadknownitintimatelyformonths,butIhadneverknownittoreachsuchapoint.Friendshipwas salvation, in this fragileworld theonly thing leftthatwasnotfragile.Ipromiseyouonecanbedrunkonfriendshipaswellasonlove.From the depths of my happy sleep about five in the morning I heard my

father’svoice:“Jacques, theGermanpolice iscalling foryou.”Arrest!Here itwas.“Justaminute,please,”whileIjumpedoutofbedanddressedwithtrembling

hands.Aroundtheworldforthelasttwentyyears,therehavebeensomanymenand

womenarrestedby somanypoliceagents for somany reasons, and so fewofthem have survived, that I feel I should not make much of my personalexperience.Soletmegiveonlytheplainfacts.Myfather’svoicesoundedprettymuchas itusedtowhenhewastalkingto

his small son. He wanted so much to protect me, but of course he could donothing.Strangelyenough, itwasmoremyjob toprotecthim,at least tokeepthem fromarrestinghimormymother ormy little brother.Thatwas the firstthingtobedone,buthowtogoaboutit?ThereweresixGermans, twoofficersandfoursoldiers,and these imbeciles

were armed. Perhaps no one had told them that I was blind. They were notbrutal.Theygavemetimetogetready.Theyletmetakeapackageofcigarettesandmylighter.Theysearchedmytwosmallroomsmethodically,ifyoucancallit that, since their systemconsisted in scattering fiveor six thousandsheetsofBraillewhichtheyobviouslycouldmakenothingof.Inanycasewhattheywerelookingforwasn’t there. Itwas inmyhead,andat the timemyheadwas inaconfusion fromwhich themost diabolical policeman could not have extractedanythingatall.ThequestionIaskedmyselfwasmonstrous.Whohaddenouncedme?First,

seetoitthatMotherandFatherwerenotarrested,thenfindoutwhothebetrayerwas.Alreadytherewasaplan.Granted,aplan,buttherewasnotasingleideainitsplaceinmyhead,notonelucidfiberinmywholebody.Whenyouarecaughtinatrapyoucutapoorfigureinyourowneyes.Notlikingyourself,youwouldwillinglyinjureyourself.Fortunatelyoneof theofficerswhowasquestioningmedidn’tknowhowto

goaboutit.Hehadapaperwithnamesonitinhishand.HisFrenchwasbadandhegotallthenamesjumbled.TogaintimeIwastryingtoplaytheterrifiedlittleboyandmixedeverythingup.TheSSofficergotnowherebutitdidn’tseemtobotherhim.Heendedbytakingmebythearminafatherlywayandleadingmedown the stairs. ThankGod, theywere taking onlyme. They had letme saygood-byetomyparents.Now on the pavement in the car which was already moving, as I leaned

against those heavy immovable German bodies, it was much less difficult.Thingsweregettinginterestingagain.Sotherewasafutureafterall.Ifonlyonecouldarrivelater,laterstill.Thecarstoppedinthemiddleofalargecourtyard.Andfromthattimeonfor

hours on end, without any explanation, I was taken from office to office andfloortofloorbytensurlybutsilentGermans,whohandledmeasthoughIwerebreakable.Theonlythingtheyaskedme,allofthemandoftentwiceover,waswhetherIwasreallytheBlindOne.Ianswered,“Yes,IamtheBlindOne,”and

thatseemedtomakethingseasierforthem.Forthatmatteronthatdayitwasappallinglytrue.Iwasstoneblind.Because

ofmycreepinganguishaboutwhatwasgoingtohappen,Ihardlysawanythingatall.Forhours,nothinghadbeengoingonwhiletheywerewalkingmearoundandshowingmeoff.HowcouldItell?Theysatmedowninaparloronasoftbench,andtoldmetoeatathickpeasoupIdidn’twant.Finally,amanfellonmelikearock,wavinghisfistinfrontofmyeyesandcursing,andpushedmeintoaroomwhereIcouldhearthesoundofatypewriter.Sofaritwasnothing,nothingbutthequestionnaireaboutidentity.Theyasked

stupid things, whether my father’s parents were Jewish, or his grandparents.They seemed delighted to learn that itwasn’t so. I askedwhy Iwas arrested.Everyonelaughed,fromtheorderlytothetypist.ButallthesameIwasrighttoask the question, because the man who spoke French was giving theundergroundnamesofFrédéric,Denis,Catherine,Simone,Gérardandtenothersjust as real.Hewanted toknow if I knewwhy theyhad all been arrested.Hewound upwith thesewords, “Where areGeorges and Philippe? They are theonlyoneswearestilllookingfor.”IfeltasthoughIwerebreathingingas.Mynervecentersstoppedfunctioning.

AndthenallofasuddenIwassetfree.Literally,Iwasnolongerafraid.Electriclightbulbswentonineverycornerofmyhead.IsawthemanfromtheGestapoandthesecretary.Ihadtoclenchmyteethtokeepfromburstingoutlaughing.IfIstayedlikethis,theycouldkeeponforeverandneverfindoutanything.AtrandomImadeupthreeorfournamesoutofwholecloth.Iaskedifthey

had been arrested, if they had really caught all the people who were at thatsurprise party at Saint-Germain-en-Laye two weeks before. There never wassuchaparty,buttomyamazementIsawthatmyquestionsgotthemallmixedup.Butthiswasonlyabrightinterval.Theytookmebacktothesoftparlorwhere

Ihadnoteatenthesoup.Theyleftmetherealongtime.Insuccessionabouttenpeoplewereletintotheroom.Everytimeoneofthemcamein,Isaid,“Whoareyou?”Butnoneof themanswered.Theymusthaveknownthatwewerebeingwatched. There must have been a jailer somewhere. My eyes, I would havegivensomuch tohavemyeyes. Ifonly theycouldbe loaned tome just foraweek!Atnight—itwasnightforIhadjustheardnineo’clockstrike—theyleftme

inawashroom.Therewereabasin,achairandatransomhighundertheceiling.Icouldhearthemslidingthebolts.Iwasbymyselffortwelvehours.Themostdistressingthinginsuchcircumstancesisthatonekeepsonthinking

inspiteofoneself,andnot thinkingstraight. Ihavebeenover thesubjectwith

hundredsofmen,ofeverycharacter, fromeverysocialclassandofeveryage.Onthispointtheyallagree.Thoughtrunsawayfromyou,likeacarabandonedbyitsbrakesinthemiddle

ofahill.Itnolongerbothersaboutyou.Youcanstayinitorjumpout.It isamachine and doesn’t care at all. Thinking is always a machine, especially inpeopleofintelligence.AndIputthisquestiontothosewhostilldoubtit:“Haveyoueverspentanightallalonebeforebeinginterrogatedbypoliticalpolice?”Yourthoughtsslipthroughyourfingers;youreflectinavacuum.Meanwhile

yourbodygoesoff in anotherdirectionby itself. It isnothingbut amiserableshellwithslackenedmuscles.Andwhen themusclesstiffen it isnobetter, forthen they quiver. Something hurts all the time, either dryness in your throat,buzzinginyourears,rumblinginyourstomachortighteningofthelungs.Andatallcosts,don’ttrysayingtoyourself,“Iamamanofcharacter,itcan’thappentome!” It happens to everybody.And as for character, that is something elseagain.Obviously,Ihadlearnedthetruthaboutthearrestoffourteenofthechiefsof

DF.Philippe andGeorges hadnot been taken.But these arrests in themselveswerevery likely tomeanfifteendeaths in thecomingdaysorweeks.MyowndeathamongthemIcouldn’tbringmyselftothinkabout.Itwasoneofthefewthingswhichthemachinehadcastoutwhenitgotawayfrommeontheslope.Butwhat aboutDenis,Gérard andCatherine? Itwas surely not by accident

that they hadmade such a catch. Itwasmass betrayal and so fantastic that itdidn’tseemreal.Isaidaprayer,twoprayers,andsurelymore.Wordsflowed.Then,bychance,

Ihitmyelbowhardonthewall.Ithurtalittle,andthendidmealotofgood.Icriedaloud,“Iamalive,Iamalive.”Onesmallpieceofadvice.Inaspotlikethisdon’tgotoofarafieldforhelp.

Eitheritisrightnearyou,inyourheart,oritisnowhere.Itisnotaquestionofcharacter,itisaquestionofreality.Ifyoutrytobestrong,youwillbeweak.Ifyoutrytounderstand,youwillgocrazy.No,realityisnotyourcharacterwhich,foritspart,isonlyaby-product—I

can’tdefine it,acollectionofelements.Reality isHereandNow.It is the lifeyouarelivinginthemoment.Don’tbeafraidtoloseyoursoulthere,forGodisinit.Makeall thegesturesyou like.Washyourhands if there isaplace towash

them,stretchoutontheground,jumpupanddown,makeaface,evenshedtearsiftheyhelp,orlaugh,sing,curse.Ifyouareascholar—thereisagimmickforevery category — do what I did that night. Reconstruct, out loud, Kant’sarguments in the first chaptersofhisCritiqueofPureReason. It ishardwork

andabsorbing.Butdon’tbelieveanyofit.Don’tevenbelieveinyourself.OnlyGodexists.Thistruth,anditholdsgoodalways,becomesamiraculoushealingremedyat

sucha time.Besides, I askyou,whoelse is there that you can counton?Notmen, surely. What men? The SS? Sadists or madmen, or at best enemiespatrioticallypersuadedthatitistheirdutytodisposeofyou.IfGod’spitydoesnotexist,thenthereisnothingleft.But to experience thispityyoudonotneedan actof faith.Youdon’t even

needtohavebeenbroughtup inanorganizedchurch.Fromthemomentwhenyou start looking for this pity, you lay hold of it. It lives in the fact that youbreatheandhavebloodpulsinginyour temples. Ifyoupaystrictattention, thedivinepitygrowsandenfoldsyou.Youarenolongerthesameperson,believeme.Andyou can say to theLord: “Thywill bedone.”This you can say, andsayingitcandoyounothingbutgood.There is forgiveness for every misery. And as misery grows, forgiveness

growsalongwithit.IhadlearnedmanyvitalthingsduringthenightofJuly20,1943.

ANDWHATABOUT JEAN?Whyhadn’thebeenarrested?Theyhadn’tmentionedhisname justnow,but if theyknewme, theyknewhim. It seemed inevitable,andyetperhapsitwasn’t.And François? The day before yesterday, François had started back to

Brittany. Surely he had escaped them, but not so surely. Among the fourteennamestheyhadnamedinmypresencewerethoseoffourchiefsofourgroupsintheNord.TheymusthavemadearrestsatLille,intheprovinces,astheyhadinParis.InthatcasewhynotElio?Whenyouareaprisoneryouknownothing,aresureofnothing.That’s just

what prison is. You are shorn of confidence, they cut you off from it at oneblow.Thenyouarebornintoahideousworldinwhichnothingholdstogether,where the only remaining law is human.And all of a sudden you realize thatmanisthegreatestofallthedangersintheuniverse.Thenextdayaboutnineo’clocktheybroughtmecoffee,buttheydidn’tgive

me time todrink it.Theypushedmeby theshouldersdownthecorridor toanoffice. There was an SS Major there — everyone called him that — and asecretary.Immediately the major made a long speech to the secretary in German.

ObviouslyhewasconvincedthatIdidn’tunderstandit,butIdid,wordforword.ButhowrightIhadbeenthedaybeforetotellthemIdidn’tknowGerman.Inaminute, while the secretary was translating, I should have time to collect my

thoughts.ThemajortoldmeIhadbeencondemnedtodeathforsubversiveactsagainsttheoccupyingauthorities.Ihadheardperfectly,butIdidn’tbelieveit.And now the secretarywas repeating it in French. I believed her even less

thanIdidhim.HadIlostmymindinthenight?Hadtheymademedrinkadrugwhich wipes out imagination? “They tell you they are going to shoot you.Believethem!Theyaretellingyouwhy.”Theirreasonforkillingme,theysaid,was that they could prove that for six months I had been responsible fordistributingDFalloverthecountry.Whatcouldbetruer?Buttherewasnothingtobedoneaboutit,Istilldidn’tbelievethem.Itwasthe

first thingIsaidtothesecretaryinFrenchwhenshehadfinishedtranslating.Isaid it in a voice that surprised me for it was very calm. “You have notcondemnedmetodeath.”TheMajormusthaveexpectedeveryreactionexceptthisonebecause,instead

ofshoutingorlaughing,heseemedtobethinkingitover.Atlastheorderedthesecretarytotaketherecordandreadittomefromoneendtotheother.That is how the impossible came about. But even today I can’t say what

miraculous intervention accounted for it. The bottomless stupidity of an SSmajor?Really?Atalleventsheavenwas takingmyaffairs into itsownhands.TheGestapowaslayingdownitsarmsoneafteranotherinfrontofme.Butseeforyourselves.Forfivehoursbytheclockthesecretaryreadaloud,hesitatingoverthewords

but never stopping.Therewere about fifty pages, obviouslywritten in Frenchandadmirablydrafted.Afaultlessdocumentofdenunciation.FromthefirstofMayon,myactivitiesintheResistancewererecordeddayby

day,onoccasionhourbyhour,eventomyownwords—atleasteveryactandevery decision connected with the distribution ofDF. For strange as it mayseem,mymembershipintheExecutiveCommitteewasnotevenmentioned.I had been betrayed so meticulously, and this was revealed to me so fast,

detail after detail, that I didn’t even have time to get angry, nor time tounderstandorsuffer.Theonly thingthatcountedwas tofix inmymemoryallthattheyknew.But mine was not the only record in the dossier. Unfortunately Georges,

Frédéric,Denis,Gérard,Catherine,François,Elio,andtwentyothersweretheretoo…. I could no longer count them.And Jeanwhose name kept coming up,Jean whose relations with me were described more precisely than I had everheardanyonedescribethem.StillnotasignoftheExecutiveCommittee.Philippe’snamewasmentioned

twice,with a description of his appearancewhichwas very like him.Nothingmore. Ihadno time tosuffer, Iwashuntingfor thebetrayer, theauthorof the

dossier. Ihad to findhim. I focusedmyattentionalmost to theburstingpoint.Neverthelessthereadingwasdrawingtoaclose.Theevidencetheyhadagainstus condemned us without any possibility of reprieve. Still, even more thanbeforethedocumentwasread,IknewIwaswinning.Indroppingthedocumentonthetrailtheyhadmadememasterofthegame,atleastonegame.Andtheycouldcountonme toplay it.For fivehoursmybrainhadbeenmanufacturinglies,twentytotheminute.Thenitwastheofficer’s turntospeak.Wheredidthemangethispatience?

HeaskedinGermanwhetherIwanted toaddanything. InGermanIansweredthat I did. The odd thingwas that I had thought of everything else. I had notconsciouslydecidedonrevealingmyknowledgeoftheirlanguage.Butthatstillwasnothing.HereIwasintheirlanguagesayingthingssodangerousthattheyfrightenedmealmostassoonasIhadutteredthem.I explained that I was knocked out. Since I knew they knew everything, I

couldnolongerlieandwasabouttotellthewholetruth.Therewasnothingtheirinformerhadnotseen.Butseveraltimes,Ipointedout,hehadbeenwronginhisinterpretationofthefacts.Iwouldconfinemyselftocorrectinghismistakes.Asto proof that I was telling the truth, they had it. I knewGerman. Even that Icouldnolongerhide.TheywerecowardlywordsIspoke.ImadethemcomeoutasthoughIwere

faltering.IincreasedthetremblingofmyhandsasmuchasIcould.Butmyheartwasfullofcourage.Onmyhonor,onmylife,Ihadresolvedtodeceivethem.Blind as I was, I couldn’t escape, couldn’t even see to it that I was killed inflight.ButevenifIhadnoeyes,Ihadahead.Iwoulduseit,evenifitshouldburst.IwouldfightwithittillIlostit.Believe it or not, now it was I who was questioning the major. My voice

asked,“Whydon’tyou tellmewhobetrayedus?”Themajorgotup, furiouslyangry.ButIgotuptoo,shouting,“ItisElio,isn’tit?Iknowheistheone.”The Major sat down again. But I was no longer interested in his reply.

Besides,hedidnotreply.ItwasElioandIknewit.Ihadrememberedtheblackbar,thekindofomenIhadnotwantedtorelyonthatfirsttimeEliohadcometoseeme.AndthefirsttimewasonMay1,theopeningdateoftherecord.InmyheadIwasgoingoverthewholerecordofdenunciationinreverse.The

evidencefascinatedme.WhattherewasinitwaswhatEliohadseenandheard.AllthethingstherecorddidnotcontainweretheonesEliohadnotknown.Hisfinal ruse had been to include himself in the denunciation, to record his ownactivitiesintheResistanceasfullyasours.Evenmorefully.HowhadImissedthis the first time? When it revolved around Elio the record included evennotationsofhisexpenses.

Themajorwasgrinning.Heseemedtothinkthelastepisodewaspurefarce.The fact that I managed to guess who was the traitor, and the sight of myfrightenedface,madeituptohimforseveralhoursofboredom.Hesqueezedmyneckintohisgreatfist,andledmeslowlydownfiveflights

intothecourtyard.HemademesitnexttoanotherGermaninthefrontseatofacar.Itwasalloverfortheday.AnhourlaterIwasinthesuburbssouthofParisattheadmittingofficeoftheFresnesprison.The rest of the story ishardlyworth telling. Itmoves too slowlyand is too

commonplace.FromJuly22toSeptember8Iwastakenthirty-eighttimesfromFresnestotheParisheadquartersoftheGestapointheRuedesSaussaies.Theycame forme about seven o’clock in themorning inmy cell, and broughtmebackthereatsevenintheevening.TherestofthetimeIwasbeingquestionedorwaitingtobequestionedbyfiveSSmenwhoworkedinrelays.One day one of the five took it into his head to beat me up.With all his

strength he threwme against one of thewalls of the room, pickedmeup andthrewme again. I lostmy temper and shouted, “You are a coward. Even if IwantedtoIcouldn’tdefendmyself.”Thenthebrutelaughed.Theydidn’ttouchmeagain.Wasthereanythingthosepeoplerespected?Itcertainlywasn’tintelligenceor

courage.Was it somethingmore indispensable,more at the core of things? Itwas a fact that when I managed to forget their presence, when I forgoteverything except what I found in the depths of my being, in the innermostsanctum of my inner world, in the place which, thanks to blindness, I hadlearnedtofrequent,andwherethereisabsolutelynothingbutpurelight—whenthis happened the SS did not wait formy answers; they changed the subject.Then, naturally, theydidn’t knowwhat theyweredoing, and I knew it hardlyanybetter.No,theydidnotrespectcourage.Courageisahumanattribute,andthereforemadetobebroken.OnemorningattheendofJuly,astheywereabouttotakemefromFresnesto

theRuedesSaussaies,theyhadlockedmeupinoneofthecompartmentsoftheprisonvanasusual.Butthevandidn’tstartup.Theyseemedtobewaitingforsomeone.Atlastthedoorofmycompartmentopenedagain,andthebodyofaman fell in a heap against mine. For twomen to be crowded into that smallspace, only one posturewas possible, twomen embracing each other, face toface.“HolyVirgin,MotherofGod,”themanmuttered,“itcan’tbeyou,littleone.”

Theman who was rubbing his prickly beard against my face and who neverstopped praying was Robert. The Robert we thought had already died; theRoberttowhomweowedPhilippeandDéfensedelaFrance.Thetwoofushad

anhouron thewaytoParis, to telleachothereverything.Theywere torturinghimsystematicallyattheGestapo.Oneofhisearswastorn.Hisvoicewhistledthroughthefewteethhehadleft.Sweatpoureddownhisarmsandoffhishands,asifhehadjustcomeoutofthewater.HetoldmethatbutforhissteadyconcentrationonChrist,hewouldwillingly

haveallowedhimself tobekilled.He toldme that sincehis arrest theBocheshadnotcaughtasoulinhisorganizationbecausehehadnotgiventhemasinglename.Theyweregoing to shoothimbuthe couldn’t saywhen.All hehad tohope for was that it wouldn’t be too late. “One might speak without evenknowing it. That’s theworst of it,” he said.Robert too had faith.He had it athousandtimesmorethanI.Thentellme,whywashenotprotected?

THE PERIODOF INVESTIGATIONOVER, itwas prison for sixmonths, a space fourfeet long and three feet wide, with walls like a medieval fortress, door threefingers thickwithapeephole throughwhich the jailerswatcheddayandnight,andasealedwindow.Still,youshouldn’tthinkofFresnesasnothingbutaprisoninthesummerof

1943.Itwasachurchunderground.Therewereseventhousandprisoners thereand nearly all of them from the Resistancemovements. Therewere no guiltymenandtherewasnoremorse.On thewalls of the cells inscriptions had been cut into the plasterwith the

pointofanail:March17,1937, threeo’clock in themorning, the lasthourofDede theBlack. Pray for his soul.Or this one:Forgiveme,God, forgiveme,Mother,withacrossafterit.Sointhissameplacetherehadbeenmenwithouthope.Butthatwaslongago,inanotherworld.Bloodwaspulsinginourhearts,callitcourageorliberty.Itsangwithavoicethatwaslouderthanfear.Whennight came, itwasnot fear tapping against thewall of our cellswith

thosepreciselittleblows,totransmitmessagesfromoneprisonertothenext.Itwasnot feareitherwhichmadeus slowly loosenawindowpaneandshout thewatchwordthroughtheopeningfromoneleveltothenext.Nothingcouldstopus,notthreatofthedungeon,northreatoftheblowsreceivedthere.AttheendofafewhoursIhadlearnedthatitwasnotsohardtobebravewhensomanybravemenweresonearthatallyouneededwasonemoresmallleapoftheheartandtheturningoftheimaginationintherightdirection.Toknowyourselfoneofseventhousandmenstrivingtosustainpatienceand

hope,yearningforlibertyandlifeandtheirhomesoncemore,createsforyouasecondsoulandasecondbody:yourownhasonlytodwelltherein.WehadfeltthisbeforeattheGestapo.Inthefinalweeksoftheinterrogations

theywereswampedwiththeflowofprisoners,andhadthrownuspell-mellinto

prison vans, up and down stairways and into waiting rooms. Finding Gérardoncemorelikethis,andFrédéric,Denis,Catherine,Simoneandtwentyothers,comingincontactwiththeirvoicesandtheirhands,andhearingmyownnameon their lips, I had gainedmuchmore than solace. I had gained an exaltationwhichneithertheGermansnorImyselfcouldholdincheck.Youhardlysufferwhenyouarenotsufferingalone.Iwasbeginningtofindthatout.Theyhadnotpassedfinalsentenceonus.TheyhadclosedthefileoftheDF

case,onemightalmostsayoutofexhaustion. It is true thatmanypeoplewerestillbeingexecuted,butnoonewasevercondemned.Therewasnotimeforit.Iwasjustlikemyseventhousandcomradesbehindthewalls.Ididn’tknowwhereIwasgoingtobe,norforhowlong.Inthemeantime,Iwasalive.Eventhatwashard,becausethiskindofliving

wasnotatall likewhatyouused tocall lifeoutside.Youhad togiveupyourindividuality. It would have been in your way, like clothes when you areswimming.Neverforgetthattheenemyhaseveryrightoveryou:therighttokillornottokillyou,todressorundressyou,tobefoulyou.Theonlythingtodoistothinkaboutitaslittleaspossible;tothinkofyourcomradeswhoareenduringthesamething.IhadtorememberthatI,forone,hadfinishedforthetimebeingwith my beautiful new identity as a blind young intellectual. Now I was theprisonerincell49,intheseconddivision.Iwasinsolitaryconfinement,andonthe door outside there was a comical inscription: “Watch out! Dangerousprisoner.”Me,dangerous!The hardest thing was not remembering I was in prison, but remembering

why. Twenty times a day I lost track of the connection. Everything washappeningasifmyactionsofthepasttwoyears—notjustmyacts,butevenmythoughtsandmydreams—hadturnedtostoneandwereburyingmealive.Myfatewasnolongerthatgreatindescribablesubstanceinthefutureorinthestars,butwalls,chippedmesstins,shouting,keysendlesslyknockingagainstthesteelofguns.Myfatehadbecomeanobject.Icouldhearitandtouchit.SolitaryconfinementIhatedanditmademeflabby.Howhavemenmanaged

tostayinsolitary,sometimesforyearsonend,awayfromthevoicesofothers,fromthefleshandbloodoftheirownkind?Humanityisapreciousthing.JusttohaveoneofmyfellowcreaturesnearmeIwouldwillinglyhaveassociatedwiththeworstrogue.Ihadonlyonewayoffindingpeaceoncemoreinthissolitude:byclosingmy

eyes. That surprises you because of course you think my eyes are closed.Unfortunately,thatisn’tso.Isawwallsandonlywalls.Ilongedtoboreaholeinthem, togodown intomyselfall theway tobedrock, to the solidplace insidewheretimeandspacenolongerexist,whereprisonslipsawayandvanishesinto

thinair,astheysaymiragesdo.Asamatteroffactprisonisstillthere,butthenitisIwhocontainit.Finally,onemorning, twojailerscametogetme.Theymademeclimbfour

flights of stairs. They shovedme into another cell. There I found three othermen.Thedesiretocryfilledmymouthwiththetasteofbrine.Thislongingtocrywasstillwithmehourslaterbutforadifferentreason.The

three men didn’t want to have anything to do with me, at least two of themdidn’t: the furniture salesman from Toulon and the road inspector fromNormandy.Asforthethird,hesaidnothingtoanyone.Hejustlaybackonhispallet,collapsedlikeabundleofclothes.IhadtoldthemrightawaywhoIwasandallaboutit.Ithoughtthatwasthe

naturalthingtodosinceweweregoingtobetogetherdayandnight.Imusthavedoneittoofastandthewrongwayaround.Theydidn’treturnthecompliment.Theroadinspector,amanthirtyyearsold,thebossytype,withaloudvoice,

toldme immediately he was “a big wheel in the Resistance,” and pledged tosilence. That was a stupid thing to say. I had no intention of telling himmysecretsoraskinghimabouthis.ThefurnituresalesmanwasalittleoldgrayishmanwholaughedeasilyandwasmoreapproachablewithhisProvençalwayoftalking.Buthehardlydaredspeakwithoutthepermissionoftheroadinspector.Mycominghadupsetthemandtheymademefeelit.Havingbeentogetherin

thatcellfortwomonthstheyhadmadeitintoacozyconfinement,acomfortablespot to be in. I was not welcome with my free and easy way, my hotyouthfulnesswhichoverflowedandwhichIdidnotknowhowtoholddown.Forwhole days Iwaswretched. “What should I say to them? There are certainlythings not to be discussed, but which ones?” The Provençal and the Normanwere having private conversations which lasted a long time but were almostincomprehensible, with all kinds of allusions to events and people only theyknewabout,thekindofthingsmarriedcouplessaytoeachother.Iwasslowtocatchon. Itseemedreallyunbelievable.These twomenhada

grudgeagainstmebecauseIwasonlynineteen,becauseIwasdoingadvancedstudiesandbecauseIwasblind.Theroadinspectorendedbysayingtomeinanaggressiveandconfused toneofvoice:“TheResistance isnoplaceforablindman.”Iansweredthatitwastheplaceforhonestmen,likehimorme,blindornotblind,youngorold.Buthedidn’twanttotalkaboutit.SoIhadonlythethirdoneleft,thebigflabbyonelyingonhismattress.All

daylongheonlyleftitforhalfanhourtotakecareofhisbodilyneeds.Thenhefellback,flatonhisbackwithhisarmsoutstretched,andquietasadownquilt—exceptonceinawhilewhenasmallwhistlingnoisecameoutofhislips,andseemedtoconveysomethingfullofirony.

At last, on the second day, he spoke up to ask me some simple andaffectionatequestionsaboutmyselfandtogivemeawarning:“Paynoattentiontothosetwofellows.Theyarenoaccount”—justthisinabrightclippedvoiceinthepresenceofthetwootherswhodidn’tevennotice.Sothefourofushadtolivethereinaspaceoftwelvesquareyards,without

heat,without friendliness, almostwithout speaking, in full view of the bucketstanding wide open in the corner. My ears were pressed against the innerrumblings of these strange bodies, so close to them I sometimes didn’t knowwhether I existed as a separate being. So near and yet so far. I had expectedeverythingbutthiskindofmisery.Iwouldnotbecontentwiththisdefeat.Theseweremen,nomore,nolessthan

I.Theydidn’tevenseemparticularlyspiteful.Perhapstheywerejustunhappy.Theypiercedmyearswiththesoundoftheirwoes.ButifItriedtohelpthem—thatwouldhavemademeforgetmyownunhappiness—theysentmepacking.God,howclumsymancanbe!Itbecamea trial forme tosee those twosoclose.Literally Icould thinkof

nothingelse.When,bychance,theytalkedabouttheirwivesinshortsentencesbadlyturned,theydiditinsuchawaythatIfeltasifitwereIandnottheywhowascaressingthemorsleepingwiththem.Oddlyenough,tofreemyselfofthemuck,Ihadtothinkofthethirdone,thebiglazyoneonhismattress.Hetooknothingfromme;itwasmoreasifheweregivingmesomething.Inshort, thetwo who were talking I didn’t understand, while the one who said nothing Iunderstoodrightaway.Two weeks later, going on from a guess to a certainty, I realized that the

Norman and the Provençal were petty bourgeois patriots and the other onerefuse, as the two of them liked to say again and again: half tramp, halfhousebreaker,agreatman forchasinggirls,witha foulmouthand thoroughlydisreputable.Myideasofsocietywereinforaroughcorrection.Thehabitgrewonme.BytheendofSeptemberIwasanoldhandatturning

phrases without thinking about them, at never asking questions, even indirectones, at stringing together endless idiotic jokes as one strings a set of pearls;evenanexpertatcomplaining,anartthatwaswellreceived.IftheNormanwascrying over his lot, you had to cry over your own longer and louder if youpossiblycould.Thatmadeyouamemberofthefamily.Forsure,thatwasnotwhattheyhadtaughtmeaboutmenattheUniversity.

They had even taughtme just the opposite.Butwhy?All that learning inmyheadwasdoingmenogood.Iwasanemptywineskin,emptybuttransparent,nodoubtbecauseofmyage.Everythingwentthroughme,andIsawitclearly,tooclearly.

Fromapointsocloseathandyoucanimaginehoweasyitwastoresorttomyinnervision, todependuponthesoundofvoices.Ispenthoursat it. In timeitbecamemyonlyoccupation.Bytheway,whenyouareinprison,youmustthinkofanythingbuttheworld

outside. That is forbidden, materially, because of the walls, but above allspiritually.Whatisoutsidewoundsyou.Itisdreadfultothinkthatotherpeopleare going on living while you are no longer alive. Already you begin to tellyourself that theyaregrowingoldawayfromyou,and thatyouwillneverseethemagainastheywere.Theideaisfoolish,especiallywhenyouhavenotspenttwomonthsinprison,butitisinescapableanddestroysyou.Youmustnotletitin.Inprison,more than everbefore, it iswithinyourself that youmust live. If

there is a person you cannot do without, not possibly — for instance a girlsomewhereoutsidethewalls—doasIdidthen.Lookatherseveraltimesadayforalongtime.Butdon’ttrytopictureherwhereversheisatthemoment,outtherewhere there is freeaireverywhereandopendoors.Youwon’tmanage itand it will hurt you. Instead, look at her inside yourself. Cut her off fromeverything that is space. Focus on her all the light you hold within yourself.Don’tbeafraidofusingitup.Love,thoughtandlifeholdsomuchofthislightyoudon’tevenknowwhattodowithit.Inthiswayyouwillseeyourmother,yoursweetheartoryourchildrenperfectly.Andforalongtimeyouwillnotevenrealizeyouareinprison.Believeme,thatiswhattheinnerlifecando.

[14]

THEROADTOBUCHENWALD

WHERE WERE MY FRIENDS? All at Fresnes like me. I couldn’t shake off thefoolishnotionthatIwouldhavesufferedlessifIhadknownexactlywheretheywere. In thecell aboveme, thecellunderme?Was Igoing to see themagainsomeday?DidDenis,FrédéricandGérardhavecellmatesasordinaryasmine?Andifso,howweretheybehaving,hot-bloodedanddemandingastheywere?Werewemoving toward the same fate?TheGestapohad saidnothing.Oh, ifonlywecouldsharethesamesentence!Livetogetheror,ifnot,dietogether.Butnot apart! All of them were thinking as I was at that very moment, I wasconvincedofit.EarlyinNovemberIwascalledformedicalinspectioninacellontheground

floor.When a sad cry of joy greetedme, I stammered, “Is it you, François?”What?Françoistheretoo?François,whomIhadthoughtwasoneofthefewtohave escaped the raidof July20, because that dayhewas inBrittany, andnoone,dearGod,noone,couldpickuphistrail.Ilistenedtohisstory.HehadreturnedtoParisfromBrittanyJuly27,coming

intotheGareMontparnasse.OntheplatformEliowaswaitingforhim,notquitenormalthat,becauseofthestrictrulesoftheMovement,butstillpossible.ThenElioledhimtoasmallbistronearby.Hedescribedthehugecatchoftheweekbefore.He toldhimthat theExecutiveCommitteehadchargedhim,Elio,withthetaskofroundingupalltheforcesthatremainedofthedecimatedMovement.At thatpointhehandedovera6.35caliberpistol,passing it toFrançoisunderthetable,andFrançois,distractedbythetragicnews,hadnothadthepresenceofmindtorefuseit.Twominutes later,Eliosnappedhis fingersas ifhewerecalling thewaiter.

Immediately, two men in plain clothes threw themselves on François, andjamminghis armsbehindhis back, put onhandcuffs. François had comeveryclose to dying, for theGestapohad tortured him, he said, because of the gun.

They certainly had tortured him.He had a dislocated shoulder.His voice hadgrownhorriblynasal.Butwhatstrengthhehad!Hewaslikeaburningbush.The medical examination took place, apparently to no purpose. François

thought theywouldsendhimtoGermanyforforcedlabor.“Butyou,”hesaid,“theyaregoingtoreleaseyou.”Hehadnowayofknowingthat,andIforonedidn’tbelieveit.Ididn’twantit.Iwantedmyfreedomofcourse.ButifIwastheonlyone to receive it, itwasa rotten fruit. Itwasunthinkable thatFrançoisorJeanshouldgoontosufferingandI,atthesametime,tohappiness.Oneeveningaftertheguardhadbeenchanged,ajailer,astockyoldman,and

onewehadspottedforhistimidityandgentleness,nodoubtapeasantfromtheTerritorials, came intoour cell.He shut thedoorbehindhim, a thing that hadnever happened before. Then he handedme a scrap of paperwhich Jean hadsigned.Oneofmycellmatesreadittome:“Iaminthethirdsection.Theyhavedonemenoharm.Ihavehighhopesforyou.Iloveyoumorethanmyself.Jean.”Idictatedawordofreplywhichthejailertook.Itwasover.Ihadhadmynews.Anditwasthelast.“Ihavehighhopesforyou.”DidJean,likeFrançois,meantheyweregoingto

setmefree?Thethreecharactersinmycell thoughtitwasasurething.Againtheroadinspectorsaid:“Whatinhellcantheydowithablindman?”Itwasnogoodmysaying tomyself thatall threeof themwere talking like

that to please me, or because they were ignorant, or because, like everybodyelse, theycouldn’tkeep from talkingevenwhen theyhadnothing to say— itwasincrediblehowtalkativewehadgrownastimepassed—stilltheideaofmyliberation obsessedme and the idea ofmy blindness alongwith it. Blindnessagain,butthistimeinastrangedress,sinceperhapsmyblindnesswasgoingtoprotectme.AttheGestapotheyhadhadsuchahardtimebelievinginmyguilt.A cripple must be harmless in spite of all appearances. Or else he must beanotherman’s tool.Theyhad looked for theotherman,but theyhadn’t foundhim.Weekspassed,andadelicioussenseofreliefcamewiththem,thereliefthat

habit brings, I suppose. Iwasno longerbotheredby thepresenceof theotherthree.It is truethat theroadinspectorhadleftus,setfreesuddenlyonedayatnoonafterasingleinterrogation.ThenitwastheturnofthefurnituresalesmanfromToulon.But inhiscasewedidn’tknowwherehewasgoing.Othershadtakentheirplace:anoldpeasantfromtheAuvergne,withheavyspeechandthesmellofthesoil,likeafishoutofwaterinthatprison;thentheproprietorofasmallrestaurantinBurgundy;thenayoungofficeroftheregulararmy.Here at last was a man, lively, gay, open, warm. He reconciled me to the

human race.Only I had changed a great deal even before he came. I was no

longer the spoiled, precocious boy. I no longer expected everybody to be likeme.Ihadfoundarefugeformyhopesinsidemyself,tokeepthemfrombeingblownoutbythebreathofothermen.Keepingupone’sillusionsisalwaysharderthanonethinks.OnJanuary15in

theevening,inagreatlyricaloutburst,Ihadpointedouttomyofficerpalhowand why it was inevitable for the Germans to set me free. He, as a rule socautiousand so suspicious, seemedconvinced. Ihadnot felt such fever inmyheadorheartsincethenightbeforeIwasarrested.Thenextmorning,veryearly,anSSlieutenantopenedthedoortoourcell.He

consultedalist.Hewasinahurry.Hecalledmyname.Ihadtenminutestogetready.Eitheritwasfreedomoritsopposite.Butsuddenly,whileIwaspickingupmysmallpackageofclothes,theoutcomebecameunimportant.Iwasalreadydreaming,butIcouldn’ttellyouwhatIwasdreamingabout,perhapsaboutthereturnoftheSSmaninthreeminutes,eveninone.Iwasbreathinginmydestinygreedily.Wewentdownstairs. I asked the lieutenant,“Whereareyou takingme?” In

passableFrenchheexplainedthatIwaslucky,becausetheyweretakingmetoGermany, andGermanywas a great big generous country.Themechanismofhopeinourheartsmusthaveathousandsprings,almostallofthemunknowntous, because when I heard this news about Germany, the most dramatic theycouldhavegivenmeexceptfortheannouncementofmyowndeath,Ifeltakindofpassionatepleasure.Itwasbitterandsudden,cuttingasawound,butpleasureforallthat.That’stheonlywayIcandescribeit.The dangerwhich had been hanging overme for three years, since the day

when I joined theResistance, suddenly stoppedbeing a danger to become theminuteaheadofme,mytomorrow.AtleastthistimeIknewwhereIwastogo.They had assigned me my place. The transformation was instantaneous. Thehope of being free, which an hour earlier had raised my temperature, hadbecomethecouragenottobefree,notyetand,ifneedbe,never.Ihadjustspentahundredandeightydaysinacell.Mybodywasanemic.My

legsdidn’tholdmeupstraight.Theoutsideairscratchedthemembranesofmynose.Myshrunkenlungsblockedtheentranceofair.Everythingsmelledtomelikeflintorrawsteel,hadthesmelloftheknife.Mybreathingintoxicatedmeasifitwerewine.Beingfreecouldnotpossiblyhavemadememoredrunk.Godbepraised!TheotherswerethereandtheytooweregoingtoGermany.

Denis, Gérard, Frédéric, all of them except the girls, who had stayed in thewomen’squarters,andFrançois,whosenamewasnotcalled,andJean.Jean,theone theyclearlydidnotwantus to see. I saidaprayer,withall the strength Ihad,beggingthathisabsenceshouldhavenospecialmeaning.

Thehours,thedaysthatfollowed,Istillseethemtodayasthoughtheywereabacchanal.TheGermansmadeacarefulcensus.Theycountedandrecountedustentimesover.Thefirstnighttheymadeusspendinonecell,alleightofus.Wedidn’t have aminute’s sleep.Wehad found each other again.Weoverflowedwith confidences exchanged. Our anguish and our joy cried aloud withoutknowinghow.Every subjectwas somehow religious,with the tasteof anotherworld.Duringthenightinthecellourhandsreachedouttoeachother.Wekeptsaying,“YouarethereandIamtoo.Theyaregoingtotakeusawaytogether.”Nothingseemedhardanymore.Oncemoreweweremen.DrunkonfriendshipandthecoldlightofaJanuarymorning,weclimbedinto

abus.WedroveacrossParis.AttheGareduNordatrainwaswaitingforustotakeusfiftymilesnorthofthecapital,toCompiègneontheedgeoftheforest,toacampwhichservedasaclearinghouse.Ourbodiesunfolded, thensankbackagainbecause theairwas tooharshas

wecame incontactwith itallofasudden.ThecampatCompiègne-Royallieuwasnotunfriendly,onlyunfamiliar.IthadbeenagroundformaneuversintheFrench army, a place where quarters had been put up and where some tenthousandmen ran fromone spot to another as fast as theycould, all day longwithoutanyvisiblegoal.BeingblindIdidn’tknowwhat todo in thiswhirlpoolofmen. Iwent from

one to the other. I don’t know why, but they showed me everything andintroducedmetoeverybody.Myfriendsmadeachainandneverletmegoforaminute.Iseemedtobealuckypiecefor them,akindoffetish.PerhapsitwasbecauseIcouldn’tpossiblydoanybodyanyharm.Therewerelawyersthere,peasants,doctors,radiooperators,peopleintrade,

teachers,hawkers,formerministers,fishermen,railroadengineers,conspirators,football champions, professors at the Collège de France, newsboys. All ofResistanceFrance,bigandlittle,allmixeduptogether.I was taken from one dormitory to the next. I was hardly allowed towash

myselfalone.Therewasalwayssomeonetoscrubme.Butwhyshouldtheyallbesogiving?The rumorwasgoingaround thatweweregoing tostay thereafewdays,andthentherewouldbe“thegreatsummons.”Italwaysbegan,theysaid, with a search, a great big search, with two thousand men having theirhidingplacesandtheirbodilyopeningsexaminedtobesuretheysetoffwithoutarms.The search tookplace inhoarfrost and sunlight.Allofuswhowere friends

pressedagainsteachothertoshutoutanypossibilityofbeingsentoffapartfromtherest.Everytendaysorsoabouttwothousandmentookoff.Thatwashowitwas atCompiègne, a cage tobe loaded.Every tendays the scales tipped, and

twothousandmenslippeddowntowardGermany.Only no one knew anything beyond that. Names were going the rounds

without our knowing where they came from and without their telling usanything: Neuen Gammen, Mauthausen, Buchenwald, Dora, Oranienburg,Nachsweiler.TheywereGermannameswhichsentachillallthroughusfornoparticularreason.Beforetheendoftheweekitwasourturn.Theytoldusitwasourlastnight

before thebig trip.Of coursewe stayedup.Howcanyou sleep,whenhymnskeepresoundinginyourhead,andanguishbelaborsyourbody,whenrevolvingsearchlights make the shadows flicker like a merry-go-round, and when thedarknesstheypunctureisalsoyourfuture!Denis,Frédéric,GérardandIspentthenightstandingup.Wehaddecidedto

lookateachotheraslongaswecould.Wehaddecidedtoknoweachotherasifitwereforthelasttime,orfortheveryfirst.Wewerepersuadedwemuststoreupwarmthasfastaswecould,thewarmthwhichmightwellbetakenfromus.The silent column of two thousand Frenchmenwalked through the town of

Compiègneunderthesnowyskyatdawn.Hundredsofeyesstaredatusfromthewindows.Nothingcouldbeheardbutthecallsofthejailersintheconvoy.ThecolumncrossedthebridgeovertheOise,andontheplatformoutsidethe

station a trainwaswaiting.About twenty cattle cars, the familiarFrench cars,“fortymen,eighthorses.”Wewereshovedinside.Inourcartherewereninety-fiveofus,standingofcourse.Therewouldn’thavebeenroomtositdown.Thedoorsslidshutandweresealed.Thetrainofcarswasshakenbythelocomotive.Thentherewastheusualceremonyofleave-taking.Twothousandmensang

the“Marseillaise”justtobesureofbeingFrench,andforauldlangsyne.Therehastobeasongofuniversalfriendshipwhenfearshutsdown.Wehadbeentravelingforthreedaysandtwonights.Thelasttimewehadhad

anythingtodrinkwasontheemptyplatformatTrier.Thenitwasaburningsaltysoup slopped around in an earthenware pot. We were facing the muzzles ofmachinegunsandwereorderedtorunalongthetracks.Thesoupsplashedovertheedgeofthepot,andwhatwasleftofitweswallowedontherun.WehadcrossedtheRhineatCoblenzasitwasgettingdarkonthesecondday.

Weknewitbecausetherewerestillmeninourcarwhocouldpullthemselvesupby the wall to the height of the metal ventilator and read the names of thestationswewerepassingthrough.Ithadsnowedinthenight,andthemeninthecornersofthecarriagehadbeenlickingthecoldmoisturewhichseepedthroughthecracksbetweenthemetalplates.No one could sit down except on someone else’s knees, but thiswas not a

position one could hold for long.Right in themiddle of the car thewrestling

championwaslyingstretchedoutflatonhisbackallbyhimself.Atfirstheusedhisfiststokeephisplace,butforhourshehadbeengroaninglikeabeatenchild,fromthirst.Hisfistshadgonemadandweremakingthewholecarriagebloody.Twomenwhohadfaintedhadfallenacrosshisbody.On theseconddaysomeof themensuddenly remembered that Iwasblind.

Theywerelostinthetangleofbodiesinthemiddleofthenightandcalledouttome to help them. Then I began groping my way through the mass of flesh,movingasdelicatelyasIknewhowaftertwelveyearsofpractice.Iputonefootdown in the space between two heads, the other between two thighs, andmanaged to reach the corner the cries were coming from without hurtinganybody.AnolddoctorfromBourgeswhowasshakingwithfever,theoneIhadledtothelatrine,mumbled:“Icouldswearyouweremadeforemergencieslikethis.”For forty-eight hours I had been crawling around without stopping, and it

helpedtorelievemypain.Whatwasreallybadwasthethirst,andthenourlegsbecauseof the swelling thatclimbedup toourknees.When I stuckmy fingerintothecalfofmyleg,itsankinthelengthofthewholefinger.Deniswassupportingmewithhisprayers.Hehadaspecialprayerforevery

case.Heprayedforme,sayingIdidnotneedtoworkatprayers,butonlyfortheboyswithpainsintheirstomachs.Wehadnoideawherewewere.ThelastnamedecipheredwasMarburg-an-

der-Lahn. But now there was no one left with strength to climb up to theventilators.Wewere traveling east, thatwas all, towardPoland.Somehowwewereconvincedofit.Inthecarnexttoustheywereworseoffthanwewere,becausethefirstnight

— itwas still inFrancewhile the trainwaspuffingup the longgrade towardBar-le-Duc— five men had managed to cut through the metal plates with aknife,andstretchingoutfulllengthontheirsideshadthrownthemselvesoutofthecarinthedirectionoftheembankment.TheSSguardswhowereonwatcheverywhere had stopped the train. Machine guns fired, dogs howled, and weheard cries of pain. Then the SS guards opened the carriage from which theprisonershadescaped,shotthreemenatrandom,andtookawaytheclothesofalltherest.Thesemenwerenaked.Wewerenot,notyet.Mybodyhadfinallyturnedintoasoftfeverishpulp,butallthetimemyhead

wasgrowingclearer.IunderstoodlifeandIunderstoodGermany.Thetrainmusthavestoppedsometimeback.Wecouldn’tbesure,therewas

toomuchwailinginthecar.Fourmenhadgoneberserk,thewrestlingchampionand three others. They had upset the bucket and were yelling and biting thepeoplenexttothem.Idon’tknowjustwhenitwasthatweheardavoicethrough

thewallofthecaraskingusinFrenchifwewereFrenchmen.Itmusthavebeensomeoneoutside, perhaps in a station, aprisonerwhowasworking there.Thevoice droned on, saying we had reached our destination that morning in thestation atWeimar, and that soon theyweregoing to takeus tenmiles farther,that it was only there that everything would begin. But what? Something todrink?Inmy headwords floated around like small balloons:Weimar,Goethe, the

ElectorCharlesAugustus,FrauVonStein,BettinaBrentano.IsaidfatuouslytoDenis that we were lucky to have the chance to seeWeimar. Denis was notlistening—hewaspraying.Thetrainstartedupagainbutnotforlong.Therewasasteepgrade.Thenthe

doors slid open. We had arrived. Some of us called out, “Trinken! Bitte,trinken!”Theanswerwasahailofblowsrainingdownonfleshandbloodinthecar,blowsofclubsandriflebutts.Themenstandingtoonearthedoorfellout.Wehadtoformalineandwalkfast.Allaroundusthereweredogsbitingthe

oneswhohungback.Itwasalmostimpossibletomovebecauseofourswollenlegs.Wefeltasifwewerewalkingonknives.Iwasangrywithmyselffornotbeingstronger,butIwasnotreallymiserable.Mybodywas,butnotImyself.TheSSguardswerechargingintoourlinesbyfitsandstarts.Lamouche(he

wasayoungstereighteenyearsold,fromNantes,wholovedmeandwantedtoprotectme)hadhiswristbrokenfromtheblowofariflebutt.Ifithadn’tbeenfor him I would have gotten it full in the forehead. A few minutes later wesuddenly heard a military band drawn up on either side of a monumentalentrance.Themusicitmadesoundedlikedancetunes.Theinscriptionoverthegateread,KonzentrationslagerBuchenwald.Ipassed through thisgatewaygoing in theoppositedirectionfifteenmonths

later,onApril18,1945.ButhereIcometoahalt.Ican’tsayhow,butitisnolongerIwhoamconductingmylife.ItisGod,andIhaven’talwaysunderstoodhowhewentaboutit.IthinkitwouldhemorehonesttowarnyouthatIamnotgoingtotakeyou

through Buchenwald, not all the way. No one has ever been able to do it. AFrenchmanlikeme,whogotthereatthesametime,DavidRousset,haswrittentwobooksaboutBuchenwald.Ananti-NaziGerman,EugenKogon,haswrittenhisownversion.Icantestifythatthesebookscomeveryclosetoreality.Still,Ican’tsaythattheyare“true.”Thereisnotruthabouttheinhuman,anymorethanthereistruthaboutdeath;

atanyratenotonourside,amongusasmortalmen.Suchtruthcouldonlyexistfor our Lord JesusChrist, absorbed and preserved by him in the name of hisFatherandours.

Of the 2,000 Frenchmenwhowent intoBuchenwaldwithme at the end ofJanuary1944,aboutthirtysurvived.Accordingtothecountmadeafterthewar,duringthefifteenmonthsofmystay, inthecampitselfandinthecommandoswhich were its direct dependencies, 380,000 men died: Russians, Poles,Germans, Frenchmen, Czechs, Belgians, Dutchmen, Danes, Norwegians,Hungarians,Yugoslavs,Romanians.TherewereevenAmericans, thirty-fourofthem,allofficers,brothers-in-armswhohadbeenparachutedintotheResistancein Western Europe. There were very few Jews, for Jews only went toBuchenwald through administrative error. They were sent to Lublin, toAuschwitz-Birkenau, Theresienstadt, for quick extermination by scientificmethods.Ourexterminationwasonlytotakeplaceafterwehadbeenexploited.Theprocesswasmuchslower.The survivors of deportation have never told all they saw except to a few

friends—eachofthemcancountthemonhisfingers—andtoafewwomen,theirwivesaboveall.But there isonerecordyouareentitled to, therecordofone handicapped man, a blind man, and how he managed to live through it.AboutthisIshalltrytobeaspreciseanddetailedasIcan.A few hours after we arrived at the camp, we were shunted through the

offices.ANaziconcentrationcampishighlyorganized,fullofredtape,aimedatpersecutionanddeath,butextremelycomplex,hierarchicalandartfultothenthdegree.Theultimate artfulness consisted in leaving theSS,whowere the realmasters,outof theeveryday routines.Therewere17,000of them to superviseourcampbutweprisonershardlyeversawthem.Whentheycamein,itwasingroups,heavilyarmed,formasshangingsorshootings.InJanuary1944,therewere60,000prisonersatBuchenwald.Sixmonthslater

wewere100,000.Likeall therestIwent throughthedifferentoffices.For thelast time I had to identify myself. Immediately after that you were given anumber.Minewas41978.Ofcoursetheofficesweremannedbyprisoners,ourcomrades.One of them, a Pole, learning that Iwas blind, did not falter for aminute;hemerelyrecordedthefact.ButwhenhefoundoutIwasastudentattheUniversity of Paris, he slipped in this piece of advice in amuted voice inGerman:“Neversaythatagain.Oncetheyknowyouareanintellectualtheywillkillyou.Nameatrade,nevermindwhatitis.”Myanswercameout—Idon’tknowwhodictatedit:“Profession:interpreterofFrench,GermanandRussian.”Then my fellow prisoner in the office muttered, “Good luck,” and seemedrelieved.That’showIacquiredanofficialprofession,enteredonthebooksthefirstday

andrecognizedasofgeneraluse.WithoutthatprotectionIwouldnothavelastedaweek. Itwas true I knewGerman, but at the time I didn’t know aword of

Russian. My notion to mention that language could have been expensive.Luckily I wasn’t put to the test for twomonths, and by then I couldmake apretenseofunderstandingRussian,aslongastheykepttosimplethings.AllthroughFebruarytheykeptusinquarantineincrowdedbarracksremoved

fromtheactivecenterofthecamp.Itwashardtobearbecauseofthecold.InthedeadcenterofGermany,near theedgeofSaxony,andon the topof thathighhill, fifteen hundred feet above the plain, the thermometer fluctuated betweenfiveandtwentydegreesbelowzero.They had dressed us in rags.My shirt had only one button,my jacket had

holesintenplaces.Ihadopenwoodenclogsonmyfeet,andnosocks.Thecoldliterallywinnowedoutmycomrades.Nearly twohundredof the two thousanddiedofitbeforetheendofFebruary,particularlytheboysbetweentwentyandtwenty-fivewholookedstrong.Eatingsolittle,beingsocoldandsofrightenedkilledthemoff.Iwasmuchlessbotheredbymybody,whichwasofmediumheight,onthe

smallside,andwhichsincechildhoodIhadtrainedtoliveonthedefensive.Likeeveryone else, the cold hurt me very much. But Denis, Gérard, Frédéric, allfriends from DF, were with me. I didn’t have a single failure of courage.Togetherwemade an island of humanwarmth. Fromone day to the nextwemanagedtoputoffthehourofdespair,thoughithadalreadyfallenuponmanyof theothers.When itdid theydiedrightaway,sometimes in less than twelvehours.Imustbefrank.Thehardestthingwasnotthecold,noteventhat.Itwasthe

men themselves, our comrades and other prisoners, all the ones sharing ourmiseries. Suffering had turned some into beasts. But they at least were notmalicious.They could be calmedwith a sign or aword, in the toughest caseswithablow.Worsethanthebeastswerethepossessed.ForyearstheSShadsocalculated the terror that either it killed or it bewitched. Hundreds of men atBuchenwald were bewitched. The harm done them was so great that it hadentered into them body and soul. And now it possessed them. They were nolongervictims.Theyweredoinginjuryintheirturn,anddoingitmethodically.Theman in charge of our quarantine barrackswas a German, an anti-Nazi

whohadbeen there for sixyears.Rumorhad it thatoncehehadbeenahero.Now,everyday,hekilledtwoorthreeofuswithhisownhands,barehandedorwithaknife.Hestruckoutinthecrowdatrandom.Itwasasatisfactionhecouldnolongerlivewithout.Onemorningwhenitwassnowinghard,wediscoveredthathehaddisappeared.Whenthesnowwassweptoffthestepsofthebarracks,theyfoundhisbodywithalargeknifewoundintheback.At theendofFebruaryI thoughtIwas lost.Frédéric,DenisandGérardhad

beencalledforcommandoserviceoutside.Thatmeanttheyweregoingtoothersecondarycamps,andthatIwastostayatBuchenwaldalone.Theyleft.Istayed.ThatdaythecoldwassobitterIthoughtIwasn’tgoingtobeabletostandit.

[15]

THELIVINGANDTHEDEAD

ICAMEVERYCLOSETODYING.ButhowcanImakeyoubelieveitaliveasIamtoday?Ishalltellitbadly,butsinceIhavepromised,Iamgoingtotellmystory.InMarchIhadlostallmyfriends.Theyhadallgoneaway.Asmallchildwas

reborninme,lookingeverywhereforhismotherandnotfindingher.IwasverymuchafraidoftheothersandevenofmyselfsinceIdidn’tknowhowtodefendmyself.Onedayoutoftwo,peoplewerestealingmybreadandmysoup.Igotsoweak thatwhen I touchedcoldwatermy fingersburnedas if theywereonfire.Allmonth long a blizzardwhich had no beginning and no end had beenbuffetingtheBuchenwaldhill.Beingblind,Istillavoidedoneofthegreatestmiseries,thelaborcommandos.

Everymorningatsixo’clockallthemenwhowerefitleftthecamptotheblareoftheorchestra,anefficientorchestraandfunctional,theliturgyofforcedlaborincaricature.Thewholeday thesemenmoved rocksandsand in thequarries,dugintothefrozengroundtoputdownpipes,carriedrailsforthetracks,alwaysin range of submachine guns and SS Kapos who were blind with rage. Theprisonerscameinatfiveo’clockatnight,butneverallofthem.Theyardswerelitteredwiththeday’sdead.Theyweredyingwhatevertheymightbedoing:pulleddownbytheweightof

a rock on the slippery paths in the quarries; felled by blows or bullets in thenight; executed with ceremony before the eyes of 100,000 fellow prisoners,underfloodlightscloudedbyasnowstorm,tothestrainsofafuneralmarch, toset an example on the square where the roll was called; or hanged moreobscurely in the barn they called the movie house. Others were dying ofbronchialpneumonia,ofdysenteryortyphus.Everydaysomewereelectrocutedonthechargedwiresthatsurroundedtheenclosure.Butmanyweredying,quitesimply,offear.Fearistherealnameofdespair.Iwas spared the labor commandosbecause I couldn’t see.But for theunfit

likeme,theyhadanothersystem,theInvalids’Block.Sincetheywerenolongersure of winning the war, mercy had become official with the Nazis. A yearearlierbeingunfitforphysicalworkintheserviceoftheGreaterGermanReichwouldhavecondemnedyoutodeathinthreedays.The Invalids’Blockwasabarracks like theothers.Theonlydifferencewas

thattheyhadcrowdedin1,500meninsteadof300—300wastheaveragefortheotherblocks—andtheyhadcutthefoodrationinhalf.AttheInvalids’youhad theone-legged, theone-armed, the trepanned, thedeaf, thedeaf-mute, theblind,thelegless—eventheywerethere,Iknewthreeofthem—theaphasia,the ataxic, the epileptic, the gangrenous, the scrofulous, the tubercular, thecancerous, thesyphilitic, theoldmenoverseventy, theboysundersixteen, thekleptomaniacs, the tramps, the perverts, and last of all the flock of madmen.Theyweretheonlyoneswhodidn’tseemunhappy.Nooneat theInvalids’waswhole,since thatwas theconditionofentrance.

Asaresultpeopleweredyingthereatapacewhichmadeitimpossibletomakeanycountoftheblock.Itwasagreatersurprisetofalloverthelivingthanthedead.Anditwasfromthelivingthatdangercame.Thestenchwassoterriblethatonlythesmellofthecrematory,whichsentup

smokearoundtheclock,managedtocover itupondayswhenthewinddrovethesmokeourway.Fordaysandnightsonend,Ididn’twalkaround,Icrawled.Imadeanopeningformyselfinthemassofflesh.Myhandstraveledfromthestumpofalegtoadeadbody,fromabodytoawound.Icouldnolongerhearanythingforthegroaningallaroundme.TowardtheendofthemonthallofasuddenitbecametoomuchformeandI

grewsick,verysick.Ithinkitwaspleurisy.Theysaidseveraldoctors,prisonerslikemeandfriendsofmine,cametolistentomychest.Itseemstheygavemeup.Whatelsecouldtheydo?TherewasnomedicineatallatBuchenwald,notevenaspirin.Very soon dysentery was added to pleurisy, then an infection in both ears

whichmademecompletelydeaffortwoweeks,thenerysipelas,turningmyfaceinto a swollen pulp, with complications which threatened to bring on bloodpoisoning. More than fifty fellow prisoners told me all this later. I don’trememberanyofitmyself.IhadtakenadvantageofthefirstdaysofsicknesstoleaveBuchenwald.TwoyoungboysIwasveryfondof,aFrenchmanwithoneleg,andaRussian

withonearm,toldmethatonemorninginApriltheycarriedmetothehospitalonastretcher.Thehospitalwasnotaplacewheretheytookcareofpeople,butsimplyaplacetolaythemdownuntil theydiedorgotwell.Myfriends,PavelandLouis, didn’t understandwhat happened.Later they kept tellingme that I

was a “case.”Ayear afterwardsLouiswas still amazed: “The daywe carriedyou, youhad a fever of 104ormore, but youwere not delirious.You lookedquiteserene,andeverynowandthenyouwouldtellusnottoputourselvesoutonyouraccount.”Iwouldgladlyhaveexplainedit toLouisandPavel,but thewholeaffairwasbeyondwordsandstillis.Sicknesshad rescuedme fromfear, ithadeven rescuedme fromdeath.Let

mesaytoyousimplythatwithoutitIneverwouldhavesurvived.FromthefirstmomentsofsicknessIhadgoneoffintoanotherworld,quiteconsciously.Iwasnot delirious.Louiswas right, I still had the look of tranquility,more so thanever.Thatwasthemiracle.Iwatchedthestagesofmyownillnessquiteclearly.Isawtheorgansofmy

bodyblockedupor losingcontroloneafter theother, firstmy lungs, thenmyintestines, thenmy ears, allmymuscles, and last of allmy heart, whichwasfunctioningbadlyandfilledmewithavast,unusualsound.Iknewexactlywhatitwas,thisthingIwaswatching:mybodyintheactofleavingthisworld,notwantingtoleaveitrightaway,notevenwantingtoleaveitatall.Icouldtellbythepainmybodywascausingme, twistingand turning ineverydirection likesnakesthathavebeencutinpieces.HaveIsaidthatdeathwasalreadythere?IfIhaveIwaswrong.Sicknessand

pain,yes,butnotdeath.Quite theopposite, life,andthatwas theunbelievablethingthathadtakenpossessionofme.Ihadneverlivedsofullybefore.Lifehadbecomeasubstancewithinme. Itbroke intomycage,pushedbya

force a thousand times stronger than I. Itwas certainly notmade of flesh andblood,not evenof ideas. It came towardme like a shimmeringwave, like thecaressof light. I could see itbeyondmyeyesandmy foreheadandabovemyhead.Ittouchedmeandfilledmetooverflowing.Iletmyselffloatuponit.TherewerenameswhichImumbledfromthedepthsofmyastonishment.No

doubtmylipsdidnotspeakthem,buttheyhadtheirownsong:“Providence,theGuardianAngel, JesusChrist,God.” Ididn’t try to turn itover inmymind. Itwasnotjustthetimeformetaphysics.Idrewmystrengthfromthespring.Ikepton drinking and drinking still more. I was not going to leave that celestialstream.Forthatmatteritwasnotstrangetome,havingcometomerightaftermy old accidentwhen I found Iwas blind.Herewas the same thing all overagain,theLifewhichsustainedthelifeinme.TheLordtookpityonthepoormortalwhowassohelplessbeforehim.Itis

true I was quite unable to help myself. All of us are incapable of helpingourselves.NowIknewit,andknewthat itwas trueof theSSamongthefirst.Thatwassomethingtomakeonesmile.But there was one thing left which I could do: not refuse God’s help, the

breathhewasblowinguponme.ThatwastheonebattleIhadtofight,hardandwonderfulallatonce:nottoletmybodybetakenbythefear.Forfearkills,andjoymaintainslife.Slowly I came back from the dead, and when, one morning, one of my

neighbors—I foundout laterhewasanatheistand thoughthewasdoing theright thing— shouted in my ear that I didn’t have a chance in the world ofgetting throughit,soIhadbetterpreparemyself,hegotmyanswerfull in theface,aburstoflaughter.Hedidn’tunderstandthatlaugh,butheneverforgotit.OnMay 8, I left the hospital on my two feet. I was nothing but skin and

bones,butIhadrecovered.ThefactwasIwassohappythatnowBuchenwaldseemedtomeaplacewhichifnotwelcomewasatleastpossible.Iftheydidn’tgivemeanybreadtoeat,Iwouldfeedonhope.Itwasthetruth.Istillhadelevenmonthsaheadofmeinthecamp.ButtodayI

havenotasingleevilmemoryofthosethreehundredandthirtydaysofextremewretchedness.Iwascarriedbyahand.Iwascoveredbyawing.Onedoesn’tcallsuchlivingemotionsbytheirnames.Ihardlyneededtolookoutformyself,andsuchconcernwouldhaveseemedtomeridiculous.Iknewitwasdangerousanditwasforbidden.Iwasfreenowtohelptheothers;notalways,notmuch,butinmyownwayIcouldhelp.Icould try toshowotherpeoplehowtogoaboutholdingon to life. Icould

turntowardthemtheflowoflightandjoywhichhadgrownsoabundantinme.Fromthattimeontheystoppedstealingmybreadormysoup.Itneverhappenedagain. Often my comrades would wake me up in the night and take me tocomfortsomeone,sometimesalongwayoffinanotherblock.AlmosteveryoneforgotIwasastudent.Ibecame“theblindFrenchman.”For

many,Iwasjust“themanwhodidn’tdie.”Hundredsofpeopleconfidedinme.Themenweredeterminedtotalktome.TheyspoketomeinFrench,inRussian,inGerman,inPolish.IdidthebestIcouldtounderstandthemall.ThatishowIlived,howIsurvived.TherestIcannotdescribe.

THE IMAGE OF JEAN NEVER LEFT ME. Through all my illness it stayed withmeconstantly,watchingoverme.When,tooweaktofacetheworldoutside,Iwaslivingentirelyinsidemyself,hisimagewasstillthere,myoneremainingpictureof theworldwithout.Forwholedaysandnights IhadheldJean’shand inmythoughts,butinmymindithadshieldedmemorethanhishandcouldhavedoneintheflesh.HowcanIexplainthisstrangephenomenon?AllthelongingforthelifewhichJeanhadnotlivedhadflowedoverintome,for,thoughIhaveputoffsayingthewords,Jeanwasdead.Therewasnoquestionaboutit.TheyhadtoldmethenightbeforeIbecame

sick, inMarch. Jean had died at the gates of Buchenwald. The circumstanceshavebeenalmost entirelyblottedoutofmymemory.All I remember is that Iwasexhausted,wanderingaroundthecamp,whenasortoflargethinbirdfellonmyneck.Suddenlyhisarmswerearoundme,hisboneslikethinsticksofwoodabout to pierce the skin. It was François. I didn’t know François was atBuchenwald.Hehadnotcometherewith therestofus.HeweptandsodidI.Wehadnootherwayofexpressingouraffection.And,asalwaysinthatplace,ourtearswereforjoyandgriefatthesametime.RightafterthathetoldmeastorysoshockingthatImadehimrepeatit.The

first time I hadn’t heard it. That day back in Januarywhenwewere taken toCompiègne, theyhadalsobeencalled—François, Jeanand threeothers fromDéfensedelaFrance.AtfirsttheGermanstreatedthemwell.Theyputthemincars built for regular passengers. They had traveled all night but thatwas all.Politely, they were told to get out. They were then near Sarrebruck at NeueBremm.ButNeueBremmwasaninventionofthedevil.TheadministrationoftheSS

calleditaStraflager,acampspecializinginpunishment,awaitingroomfortheconcentrationcampsonthebigscale,aplacewheretheybrokemeninaweekortwo, rapidly and methodically, until the will to live left them just as smokeleaves burningwood. They only let them sleep two hours a night. They onlygave themsomething todrinkonce in twenty-fourhours.Theyshowered themfive timesadaywith torrentsof icywater.Theymade themcrouchdownandstayin thatpositionunder threatofbeingfiredon.Stillcrouching, theyhadtohop around a pond filledwithwater, some days for six hours, other days foreighthoursonend.Theoneswhofellintothepondwerepulledoutandbeaten.It was the same kind of horror as at Buchenwald, but all concentrated in thespaceofafewdays.Buchenwaldinanabridgedversion.AndFrançoisandJeanhadstayedatNeueBremmforthreeweeks.At last one February night, when they were all on the point of dying of

injuriesandexhaustion,theGermanshadoncemoresatthemdowninarailwaycarriage,withouttellingthemanything,ofcourse.Theydidn’tknowwheretheyweregoing.Thecarriagewas comfortable andheated, and they fed them.Buttheywerekeptgoingfortwenty-threedays.Fornoreason,asfarastheycouldsee, theyhadgone fromSarrebruck toMunich, fromMunich toVienna, fromViennatoPrague,fromPraguetoNuremberg,fromNurembergtoLeipzig,fromyardstostationsandbacktoyards.AtthejunctionofZwickautheystayedfivedaysandnights,stillwithnoreasongiven.François and Jean stuck together, and the Germans didn’t separate them.

François said itmade thewhole thingpossible.But Jean’sbreathingwasvery

badandhecouldn’tsitup.Hejustlaystretchedoutononeofthebenches.Twoorthreetimesadayhespokeafewaffectionatewords,aboutFrançois,aboutmeorhisfiancée.Hewaswithouthope,butdidn’tseemtobesufferingmuch.Onthetwenty-thirdnight,aboutsixo’clock,hediedintherailwaycarriage,

asFrançois said,“Gently, likeachildgoingoff to sleep.”Twohours later thetraincametoastopintheBuchenwaldstation.Jeanhadnotmadeitalltheway.Françoishadfoundmeincamptheverynextday.Jean’sdeathhehadseenwithhisowneyesthenightbefore.RightafterthatItookJeanwithmeinmyillness,toaplacewhere,forweeks,

Ididn’tknowexactlywheredeathorlifewere.WhenIcameoutofthehospitalandsawFrançoisagain,hedidnothavethestrength to talk tomeagainaboutJean’sdying,nordidItohim.Yousee,justkeepingalivewhatwaslefttousoflifewasataskwhichtookallwehad.François’sfutureworriedme,certainlymorethanmyown,forIknewhewas

goingoffonalaborcommando.Hewascalledtwoweekslater.But,mostofall,Françoiswasmuchtoobrave,andwhenyouaredeported,thatkindofbraveryneversparesyoufor long.Youdieof it.HehadgonethroughNeueBremm,Ican’tthinkhow,butwitheverythinghehad.AndthenthisFranco-Pole,thisPolefromFrance,whoseancestorshadgrownhardened to sufferingovercenturies,hadplantedanguishinthemiddleofhisheart,likeanarrowinthecenterofitstarget.Itquiveredthere.Hesuffered,ofcourse,liketheothers,butinsteadofcomplaining,hesangthe

praisesofsuffering.NeverinhisexaltedlifehadIheardhisvoicemoreintenseorseenhismovementsmorerapid.Onhiswaytoworkhecarriedhisshovelorhis stones, but always, too, thoseof anotherwhocouldn’t carry themhimself.Backfromworkatnighthetookcareofthewounded,ministeredtothedying,andfortwohourssangallthesongsheknew.Françoisdidnothaveanounceofgriefinhisheart,notaninchofsoftnessinhisbody.Hisskinhadturneddryandroughlikeleather.Itmadenosensetotellhimtosavehisstrength.Hekeptsaying:“WhatifI

die?But the boys don’t know how tomanage by themselves.” Then FrançoiswentoffandGeorgesarrived.ItwasinthemiddleofMay.Thatmadeallofuswithoutexception.Itwouldnevercometoanend.Georges had escaped the raid of July 20. We had found that out at the

Gestapo.TheSShadbeen furious.May13as Iwas comingoutof theblock,suddenlyIheardacryandfeltthebodyofamanembracingmine.IknewrightawayitwasGeorges,Ican’ttellyouhow.I had not heard his voice yet, but it was he. Unlike François two months

earlierhedidnotweep,helaughedlikeamadman.ForseveralminutesIhadthe

hardesttimeunderstandingwhathehadtosay.Helaughedtoomuch,hechokedoverhiswords,hewasconfused.Itwasafact,hesaid,theyhadnotcaughthimonJuly20.Noindeed.Georges

had worked double time until January 31: “For you and for me, youunderstand?”OnthatdaytherewasanotherpieceoftreacheryandGeorgeshadbeen taken. I was learning remarkable things. DF was not dead, it had evengrown. How right we had been, Georges and I, to work as a team in theResistance.Everything I knewheknew.Hehadput together the fragmentsofthenewspaper’scirculation,andhadevenincreasedit.InJanuarytheissuewas250,000,butitwasnotliketheheroicfeatofJuly14,fornowitwasaregularaffair twice a month, a machine in good running order. And DF had anundergroundfightingforcenorthofParisbetweenL’Isle-AdamandCompiègne,withtwothousandmenunderarms,waitingforthelandingoftheAllies.Georges’sownstory,horrifyingandbynowsocommonplace,wasthestory

of torture. The day he was arrested he was carrying the keys of elevenundergroundbranches in theregion.Theyhad torturedhimeleven times.Howhad he managed to tell them nothing, how had he lived through it? I didn’tunderstand, and I saw thathedidn’tknow theanswer.Thereareboysborn tocourage, perhaps just as others are born to weakness. But unfortunately myGeorgeswasadamagedman.Strange, itwasnot sowithFrançois, but itwaswithGeorges.Therewasdefiance in everythinghedid and said, and terror aswell.Tocaptheclimax,assoonastheperiodofinterrogationwasover,theysent

himtoCompiègne.Andfromthere throughanadministrativeerrorhisconvoyhadbeentakentoAuschwitz.Whentheyarrived,someoneonthestaffwhowasmore conscientious than the others noticed that the two thousand Frenchmentheyhadbrought there thatdaywerenot Jews.So for the timebeing theyputthem in a barracks, and a week later shipped them off to Buchenwald. ButGeorgeshadhadtimetoseeseveralthousandJewishmen,womenandchildrenlinedupinacolumnastheywereabouttogointogaschambersmasqueradingasshowerrooms.Hecouldstillseethatsight,andinhimithadkilledbothloveandhope.Wehadafewgreatdaystogether.ComparedtoGeorgesIhadsufferedvery

little. Iwas almost intact. I tried a kind of artificial respiration on him.At allcostshehadtohavejoybreathedbackintohim.Otherwisehewasboundtogounder.Strange to say, itwasnotphysical strengthhe lacked,but strengthofadifferent kind, the kind I had by the grace ofGod. The pointwas for him tomakeuseofmystrengthrightaway.IsaidtoGeorges:“Helpyourself,takeallyou can.”Andhedid.Hehadgrown terribly irritable.Sometimeshe evenhit

peoplefornoreason.Butfrommetherewasnothinghewouldnottake,becauseIwashis“brother.”Onemorning about eight o’clock— itwas June 6, 1944—Georges and I

weretogetherwhenaDutchmanwhomweknewonlybysightblockedourwayandshoutedinGerman:“TheAllieshavelandedinNormandy.”Howthisnews,onlyfourhoursoldandaccurate,managedtoreachBuchenwaldsofast isstilloneofthecountlessmysteriesofthedeportation.Soperhaps,afterall,onedayweweregoingtobesetfree.ThatwasthelasthappinessGeorgesandIshared.AweeklatertheycalledGeorgesforthecommando.IamsureofitbecauseI

wastherewhenthecolumnwasbeingformed.Itwasonlytenyardsawayfromme, and between us was the barbed wire. I remember his voice when theywhistled for them to go off. From a distance he cried out tome: “Good-bye,Jacques,Iwon’tbeseeingyouagain.”Thatwassomethingnoonehadsaidyet,notDenis,orGérardorFrédéricorFrançois.AndrightawayIhadtheanswerinmymind:“Ifhesaidit,itmustbetrue.”Jean, François, Georges, all of them, one after the other, while I could do

nothing and was nothing. Only the chief, Philippe, was free, back there inFrance.

TO FORGET WAS THE LAW. We had to forget all the missing, the comrades indanger,ourfamilies,thelivingandthedead.EvenJeanmustbeforgotten,andnotjusttokeepoffsuffering—inanycasesufferinghadsettledinwithusasifwewereacountryunderoccupation—butrathertoholdontothestrengthtolive.Memoriesaretootender,tooclosetofear.Theyconsumeenergy.Wehadtoliveinthepresent;eachmomenthadtobeabsorbedforallthatwasinit,tosatisfythehungerforlife.Tobringthisabout,whenyougetyourbreadration,don’thoardit.Eatitright

away,greedily,mouthfulaftermouthfulasifeachcrumbwereallthefoodintheworld.Whenarayofsunshinecomes,openout,absorbittothedepthsofyourbeing.Neverthinkthatanhourearlieryouwerecoldandthatanhourlateryouwillbecoldagain.Justenjoy.Latchonto thepassingminute.Shutoff theworkingsofmemoryandhope.

The amazing thing is that no anguish held out against this treatment for verylong.Takeawayfromsufferingitsdoubledrumbeatofresonance,memoryandfear.Sufferingmaypersist,butalreadyitisrelievedbyhalf.Throwyourselfintoeachmomentasifitweretheonlyonethatreallyexisted.Workandworkhard.AbouttheendofMay,Ihadfoundmyjob.Duringall theeighteenhoursin

thedaywhenthecampwasnotasleep,Isetmyselftofightingpanic,thepanicofmyfellowsandmyown,fortheywereinseparable.

Iwasgoingtosortoutthewarnews,andthatwasimportant.IfGermanywasvictorious,weweredonefor,allofus. IfGermanywasbeaten,butbeaten toolate, later than the coming spring, only a handful of survivors would still bealive,andwhichofuscouldflatterhimselfthathewouldbeamongthem?Itwasimportant for another reason, because at Buchenwald everyone lied. Falserumors flooded thecamp.Since theAllieshad landed inNormandy,Parishadfallenonceaday;Berlinhadbeendestroyed;Hitlerwasdead;theRussianswereat the gates of Leipzig or Nuremberg; airborne troops had taken over fromSouthernGermanytoDenmark.Youcouldneverfindthesourceofsuchnews.Youcouldnever find theguiltypersonwhohad started it.Allwereguilty, allwere peddling rumors. Shunted from false hopes to denials, from illusions togossip,allofourheartswerelikeshipscapsized.Doubtandagonyweretakingroot.Wehad tomakewar on the disease.My comrades putme in charge of the

news in the“littlecamp,” inotherwordsadivisionofabout30,000prisoners.Therewasaloudspeakerineachblock.OverittheSScommandgaveitsordersfromoutsidethecamp.Therestofthetime,theloudspeakersweretunedtotheGermanradio, forofficialbroadcastsandbulletinsof theGermanarmy.EverydayItookdownthebulletins,allofthem,frommorningtonight.Myjobwastodecipherthem.Thefactwasthearmybulletinswerenotstraightforwardandnotclear. They didn’t describe operations as theywere. They spoke by omission.Theysketchedthewarinavoid.Mywork,anditwashardandpainstaking,wastoredressthebalance.When we came to the middle of August 1944 the name of Paris never

appearedinthebulletins.Nodefeat,nolostcitywasevermentioned,youhadtofill inthegapswithoutmakingmistakes.Still, IannouncedthefallofParisonAugust26,andthatwasneitheraheadoftimenorbehindit.Oncethenewswaspickedupanddeciphered,ithadtobedistributed.Iwent

fromoneblocktothenext,climbeduponatableoronbenchespiledoneachother, and thenmademystatement.Youmustbe thinking itwouldhavebeeneasiertowritedownwhatIhadheardonaslipofpaper,thenhaveittranslatedintofiveorsixdifferent languagesandcirculated.Unfortunately,Ihadlearnedthis would not work. Even a crowd that is happy and confident does notwelcomethenewsbroughtbeforeit.Butacrowdenslavedbyfearanddespairsetsitselfagainstnewsasthoughitwereanattack.Itwasnotfacts,namesorfiguresthatallthesemenwanted.Itwascertainties,

thekindofrealitiesthatwentstraighttotheheart.Onlyamanstandingbeforethemcouldgivethemthat.Theyneededhiscalmandhisvoice,anditwasIwhohadbecomethevoice.

I started by saying I had heard the newsmyself, and I told themwhen andwhere. For one thing I repeated the bulletins of the German High Commandword forword.Then I explainedwhat theymeant,what I understood them tomean.InGermanandFrenchIdidthetalkingmyself.WhenitcametoRussian,Polish,Czech,HungarianandDutch,Ihadfoundpeopletohelpme.ItookmybandofinterpreterswithmeeverywhereIwent.Sincewehadnomaps, everydaybefore speaking Ihad to findamanwho

knew the zone of operations at first hand,whether itwas inGalicia or in theArdennes.Atallcosts,names,positions,distancesmustbeexact,especiallythedistances,sincethewardependedonthem.Thatwasonly thebeginning. I have said that everyone liedatBuchenwald,

some fromdiscouragement, some from fear, others from ignorance, and someviciously. I have watched men inventing the bombing of cities, just for thepleasureoftorturinganeighborwhohadallhisdearonesinthatplace.Once thenewswasgivenout, it had to bekept straight, and that called for

unendingvigilance.Ihadputtwoorthreepeopleinchargeineachblock.TheirtaskwastorepeataccuratelywhatIhadsaid,andcorrectpubliclyallthecrazyandviciousdistortions;but,aboveall,tofindanddenouncethepeoplewhowerepeddlingfalserumors.Someof thesepeoplewereveryhard tohold in check, for theybelieved in

theirown inventions.Truthslidesoveraman,but falsehoodfastenson tohimlike a leech.Often the onlywayoutwas a fight. Somebodyhad to hit oneofthesecharacterstomakehimstoplying.Therehewas,persuadedofhisgarbledstory,andbeggingyoutolethimtellit;likethePolewho,onenight,screamedoutthattherewasnotonestoneleftonanotherinPoznan,thathehadfounditout,knewitforacertainty,andmusttelleveryoneaboutit.Butthatwasjustthepoint.Suchthingswerenottobetold,absolutelynot.ForotherwisetherewouldhavebeenmurdersandsuicidesamongthemenofPoznanwhocouldnotbearthenews.Buthowwerewetoholdontotheremnantsofreasonintheswirlingmadness

ofdeportation?Howwerewe tokeepsomeorder in theutterconfusionof thebrain? If we really couldn’t find out what was going on, at least let us notconjureitup!Somuchfor theofficialnews,nowfor the insidestory. It ishard tobelieve

but true nonetheless. News was coming in to us from France, England andRussia. In one of the blocks set aside for medical experiments, down in thecellars, some prisoners had set up a radio receiving station made with stolenparts,andalsoasenderaswefoundoutlateron.Ifithadbeendiscovered,thisreceivingstationwouldsurelyhavecostthelivesofseveralthousandmen.But

whatwastobedonewithnewsreceivedthroughthesechannels?Shoulditbepassedontoalltheprisoners?Afterall,wasn’tittheirsbyright?

Of course it would be done without naming the source, but the risk was toogreat.Theplacewasswarmingwithspies.UndertheSSsystem,noonecanbetrusted.No,wehadtokeepthenewstoourselves,toalittlegroupofusintheknow.Itwasabsurd,itwascruel,butitwasindispensable.SoeachdayIknewa littlemore thanIhad theright to tell. Iwasforced to

measuremywords, toholdeverything incontrol,evenasmile.Allday longIwasbusy.Ihardlyhadtimetothinkofmyself.IcouldsaytomyselfthatIwasakind of doctor.When Iwent into a block, I took its pulse.With experience Ilearnedtorecognizerightawaythestateofblock55orblock61onthatday.Abarracks was a spirit shared, a collective body. In theremen were so packedtogethertheycouldhardlytelleachotherapart.Whenpanicstartedatoneendoftheblock,itreachedtheotherwithinafewminutes.Icouldsensetheconditionofablockbythenoiseitmadeasabody,byits

mixture of smells. You can’t imagine how despair smells, or for that matterconfidence.Theyareworldsapartintheirodor.Sothen,accordingtothestateofthings,Igaveoutmorenewsofonekind,orlessofanother.Moraleissofragilethataword,evenanintonationcanthrowitoutofbalance.The remarkable thingwas that listening to the fears of others had endedby

freeing me almost completely from anxiety. I had become cheerful, and wascheerfulalmostall the time,withoutwilling it,withouteven thinkingabout it.Thathelpedme,naturally,but italsohelpedtheothers.TheyhadmadesuchahabitofwatchingthecomingofthelittleblindFrenchmanwithhishappyface,hisreassuringwordsdeliveredina loudvoice,andwith thenewshegaveout,thatondayswhentherewasnonews,theyhadhimvisitthemjustthesame.Howwell I remember that September night when 1,500Ukrainians setme

downinthemiddleoftheirblock,madearingaroundme,sang,danced,playedthe accordion, wept, sang again— all this gravely and affectionatelywithoutevershouting—thatnightIpromiseyouInolongerneededtodefendmyselfagainstthepastorthefuture.Thepresentwasasroundandfullasasphereanditwarmedmemanytimesover.And finally, as for those men who were laughing and putting their arms

around eachother— for theywere laughingwithin anhour— if anyonehadtoldthemthenthattheywereunhappy,thattheywereinaconcentrationcamp,theywouldnothavebelievedhim.Theywouldhavechasedhimaway.

WEHADOURPOORANDOURRICHatBuchenwaldastheyhaveeverywhere.Onlyyou couldn’t recognize them by their clothes or their decorations. For

decorationseveryoneofushadatriangleofmaterialsewedontohisjacket,redforthepoliticals,yellowfortheJews,blackforthesaboteurs,greenforordinarycriminals,pinkforthepederastswithrecords,purplefortheenemiesofNazismonreligiousgrounds.Andunderneaththetriangletherewasasquareofthesamestuffwithourregistrationnumberandtheletterindicatingournationality.Lastofall,iftherecordssaidweweremad,wehadtherighttowearanarmbandwiththreeblackdots.Theclothesweworewereallalike,allrags.Theonlydistinguishingmarkwasonthehead.Beforeyouhadbeenincamp

threedays,theyshavedyourheadclean,andsinceyourbeardkeptongrowing,itgaveyoua fearsome look.During thesecond threemonthsofyourstay, thetwosidesofyourheadwereshaved,butamaneofhairwasleftgrowinginthemiddle. For the next sixmonths, the two sides were not touched. They grewwild, while the mane was shaved, leaving a large stripe we used to call theexpressway.Bytheendofayearyoucoulddoasyoulikedwithyourhair.Thatwasyourprivilege.Allofuswerenaked,ifnotliterally,toalleffects.Wehadnorank,nodignity,

nofortuneleft…andnofacetosave.Everymanwascutdowntohimself, towhathe reallywas.And,believeme, thatcreateda realproletariat.Still, therehadtobeawayofrecognizingpeopleinthecrowd,ofknowingwhotospeakto.Thecampwasthewitches’well.Theyhadthrownthemallintheretogether,theBenedictinemonk,theKirghizshepherdwhoprayedtoAllahthreetimesadaywith his face to the ground, the professor from the Sorbonne, the mayor ofWarsaw, theSpanishsmuggler, themenwhohadkilled theirmothersorrapedtheir daughters, the ones who had let themselves be arrested to save twentyothers;thewiseonesandthefools,theheroesandthecowards,thegoodandtheevil.Theonlythingwas—andyouhadtogetusedtoit—allthesecategoriesweredeadandgone,forwehadpassedoverintoadifferentworld.Iwas luckyenough tobe twentyyearsoldand tohavenohabitsexcept the

fewthathadtodowiththemind.Ineedednohonorexceptthehonorofbeingalive.Soitwasn’tsurprisingifIwasmorecontentedthanmostofmyneighbors.Thereligioussearchedeverywherefortheirfaith.Theydidnotfinditagain,

orelsetheyfounditsoreducedinforcethattheycouldn’tmakeuseofit.Itisaterrifying thing to have called yourself Christian for forty years and thendiscover that you are not a real one, that your God no longer solves yourproblems. The people who had been generally respected ran after their lostrespect,buttherewasn’tanythingleftofit.Andtheintellectuals,thecultivatedmen,thegreatbrains,hadgreatsorrows.Theydidn’tknowwhattodowiththeirlearningfor itdidn’tprotect themagainstmisfortune.Theyweresubmergedinthatvastbrothofhumanity.Howmanydoctorsandsociologists,archaeologists

and barristers needed comforting. And it wasn’t easy to console them. Theycouldunderstandanythingmorereadilythanthefactthattheirintelligencewasoutofseason.OurrichatBuchenwaldwerethedevilandall tofindinthecrowd,forthey

hadno label.Theywereneither religiousmennoratheists,neither liberalsnorcommunists,neitherwellnorbadlybroughtup.Theywere just there, thatwasall,mixedupwiththerest.Myoneideawastofindthem.Their wealth was not made of courage, for courage is always suspect or a

consequence of something else. The richwere the ones who did not think ofthemselves,oronlyrarely,foraminuteortwoinanemergency.Theyweretheoneswhohadgivenuptheridiculousnotionthattheconcentrationcampwastheend of everything, a piece of hell, an unjust punishment, a wrong done themwhichtheyhadnotdeserved.Theyweretheoneswhowerehungryandcoldandfrightened like all the rest, who didn’t hesitate to say so on occasion—whyconcealtherealstateofthings?—butwhointheenddidn’tcare.Therichweretheoneswhowerenotreallythere.Sometimes they had removed themselves entirely by going crazy. In the

Invalids’BlockIhadknowntwoorthreehundredsuch,andintimately.Weate,slept,washedtogetherandtalkedtoeachother.Mostofthemwerenotharmfulifyouleftthemalone.Theydidn’tneedtobedestructive.Forasaruletheywerecontent.Butstilltheircontentmentwasterrifying,asortoffrozenhappinessandnot communicable. I watched thesemadmen across the barrier of my reason.Therewasalwayssomethingchangelessaboutthemwhichfascinatedme.TakeFranz,thelittleSilesian,whosehandsneverstoppedtrembling,whotalkeddayandnightunderhisbreath,sayingoverandoverthatallinallBuchenwaldwasnot a bad spot, and that the misfortunes of the others were only their ownhallucinations.Franz lookedas thoughhehad theanguishof theworldonhisshoulders.You couldn’t say just how, but still hewas taking it upon himself.SomepeoplesaidhisfacehadbeguntolooklikethefaceofChrist.Thefeeble-minded,theoneswhowereshortonmemoryandimagination,also

didnotsuffer.Theylivedfromminutetominute,eachdayforitself,Isupposeasbeggarsdo.Theodd thingwas that itwascomforting tobewith them.Thetramps,thehoboes,theoneswhohadneverhadaplacetolive,stupidandlazyas theywere, had gathered up all kinds of secrets about living. They did notcomplain.Theypassedtheirsecretsalong.WiththemIspentmanyhours.Andthen,Imustn’tforget,therewerealsotheRussians;notalltheRussians,

ofcourse,foramongthemtootherewerethedarkones,theburdened,especiallytheoneswhoclungtoMarx,LeninorStalinasthoughtheywerelifepreservers.Theones Imeanwere theRussianworkersand thepeasants.Theydidnotact

like other Europeans. It was as if there were no intimacies for them, and noindividualconcernsexceptforthebasicaffectionsfortheirwomenandchildren;andeventhesewerenotnearlyasstrongaswithus.Itwasasiftheywereallcombinedinasingleperson.Ifeveryouhappenedto

strikeaRussian—anditwasn’teasytoavoid,thereweresomanyoccasions—in aminute fiftyRussians sprang up all over, to right and left, andmade yourepentit.Ontheotherhand,ifyouhaddoneaRussianagoodturn,anditdidn’ttakemuch, just a smile or silencewell timed, then all of a sudden toomanyRussians to count became your ‘“brothers.” They would willingly have letthemselvesbekilledforyou,andsometimestheydidjustthat.Iwasfortunateenoughtobetakenintotheiraffectionsrightaway.Itriedto

speaktheirlanguage.Ididn’ttalkpoliticsandtheydidn’ttalkaboutiteither.Irelied on the strength of their people, a people not composedof individualistslikeours,butchargedwithacurrentofenergywhichwasdirectedpassionatelytowardlife.Last of all there were the old men, the old Russians and all the rest, the

French, the Poles, the Germans. From them too I always learned something.Because,yousee,thebadoldmen,allthosewhohadn’tfoundouthowtogrowold,haddied.AtBuchenwaldmanydiedbetweenfiftyandsixty-five.Thatwastheageforthegreatslaughter,andalmostallthesurvivorsweregoodmen.Asforthem,theywerenolongerthere.Theywerelookingattheworld,with

Buchenwaldinthemiddleofit,fromfurtheraway.TheyabsorbedBuchenwaldaspartofthegreatoutpouringoftheuniverse,butalreadytheyseemedtobelongtoabetterworld.Ifoundnothingbutgladnessinthemenoverseventy.That is what you had to do to live in the camp: be engaged, not live for

yourselfalone.Theself-centeredlifehasnoplaceintheworldofthedeported.Youmust go beyond it, lay hold on something outside yourself. Never mindhow:byprayerifyouknowhowtopray;throughanotherman’swarmthwhichcommunicateswithyours,orthroughyourswhichyoupassontohim;orsimplyby no longer being greedy. Those happy oldmenwere like the hoboes. Theyaskednothingmore for themselves,and thatputeverythingwithin their reach.Beengaged,nomatterhow,butbeengaged.Itwascertainlyhard,andmostmendidn’tachieveit.OfmyselfIcan’tsaywhyIwasneverentirelybereftofjoy.Butitwasafact

andmysolidsupport.JoyIfoundeveninstrangebyways, inthemidstoffearitself.Andfeardepartedfromme,asinfectionleavesanabscesswhenitbursts.BytheendofayearinBuchenwaldIwasconvincedthatlifewasnotatallasIhadbeentaughttobelieveit,neitherlifenorsociety.Forexample,howcouldIexplainthatinblock56,myblock,theonlymanwhohadvolunteereddayand

night,formonths,towatchoverthemostviolentmad,tocalmthemdownandfeedthem,tocarefortheoneswithcancer,dysentery,typhus,tobathethemandcomfortthem,wasapersonofwhomeveryonesaidthatinordinarylifehewaseffeminate, aparlorpederast, amanonewouldhesitate toassociatewith?Butherehewasthegoodangel,franklythesaint,theonlysaintinInvalids’Block.How account for the fact that Dietrich, the German criminal, arrested sevenyears before for strangling his mother and his wife, had turned brave andgenerous?Whywashesharinghisbreadwithothersattheriskofdyingsooner?Andwhy, at the same time, did that honest bourgeois from our country, thatsmalltradesmanfromtheVendée,fatherofafamily,getupinthenighttostealthebreadofothermen?TheseshockingthingswerenotwhatIhadreadinbooks.Theyweretherein

front of me. I had no way of not seeing them, and they raised all kinds ofquestionsinmymind.Andlastofall,wasitBuchenwald,orwasittheeverydayworld,whatwecallthenormallife,whichwastopsy-turvy?AnoldpeasantfromAnjouwhomIhadjustmet—howstrangethathewas

born only sixmiles from Juvardeil— insisted that itwas the everydayworldwhichwasaskew.Hewasconvincedofit.

[16]

MYNEWWORLD

PROGRESSIVELY,FROMDAYTODAY,theEasternfrontandtheWesternfrontwereclosing Germany in a vise between them. The liberation of Europe wasapproaching, but the more the Allies’ chances of victory grew, the more ourchances of survival shrank. We were not ordinary prisoners. There were nocodesofinternationallawforus,nohumaneconventions.WewerethehostagesofNazism,thelivingwitnessesofitscrimes.IfNazismwasgoingtoblowup,ithadtoblowusupatthesametime.InSeptember1944,a rumorwas spreading.TheSScorpshadbeenordered

not to leave a man alive in the concentration camps in case of defeat. Thecharges of dynamitewere ready, andwhatever explosions and firesmight notaccomplish,machinegunswouldfinishoff.Soonitwasnotjustarumor,itwasadirectivewhicheventheSSwerenottryingtohide.At Buchenwald, as in all the rest of the camps, we were caught in a trap.

Seven concentric circles of electrified barbedwire cut us off from theworld.Nothing less than a divine accident could save us. No fragment of the futurebelongedtous.Wedidn’tevenhavetherighttolookahead.Besides,wedidn’thavethestrength.During thewinter of 1944–1945 the food ration had been cut down to less

thanaquarterofapoundofbread,andlessthanahalfpoundofthinsoupaday.Whateverwehadinthewayofenergyweconsumedonthespot,foritwastheonly thing we had left. Our nervous vitality was so reduced that it could nolongernourishourdreams.Hope is a luxury—a thingonedoesn’tordinarilyrealize—becauseasarulethereisasuperabundanceofthelifeforce.In March 1945, when the Allies crossed the Rhine, a strange indifference

blanketed Buchenwald. The news was impressive, but to us not sufficient todiminishorincreaseourcourage.Leadenbodiesandmutedheartsweretheonlythingstobefoundthosedays,andtheoneslikemewhohadn’tgivenuplifeheld

itpressedclosetothem.Itwasnotathingtheywereexpendingortalkingabout.Fromthis timeon,everynight longflightsofplaneswecouldn’tseepassed

overtheBuchenwaldhill.Thewholeskyresoundedlikeametallicshell.Giantfirebrands rose from the surrounding plains — factories blown up, citiesdestroyed.Onenightthefirewasinthedistancetowardtheeast—thistimetheflames burned for twenty-four hours — they said it was the synthetic gasfactoriesatMerseburg.SScontroloverthecamphadbeensomewhatrelaxed,butwhenitcameback

it cameback in furious force.Marchwas the time for themostghastlypublichangings. At last, on April 9, there was no longer any doubt about it, thoseconcentratedbombardmentsoverWeimarandnearthecamp,thatcannonadetothewestinthesuburbsofErfurt,somefourteenmilesfromus,couldonlymeanthatourforceshadarrived.Thenews fellonusas though ithadbeendropped intoawell thatwas too

deep.Wecouldseeitfallingandthenlostsightof it.Ourbodieswereterriblyweak,andthenonthesamedaythefoodrationstoppedaltogether.Onthetenthanorderwassuddenlypassedalong.Weweregivenachoice,butjustwhatdidthatmean?TheSS command offered an alternative to theBuchenwald prisoners. They

could either stay in camp at their own risk and in great danger, or they couldleavewithintwohoursontheroadstotheeast,escortedbySSguards.Thatwasthehardestblowofall.Howcouldwechoose?Noonewascapableofit.Therewasnoreasoningpower,nohumanreckoningtogoby.Whichwaylaysafety?Whichwaylife?WhatwastheSSoffering?Isawpanicallaroundme.Theultimateabsurdity,thefalsefreedomtochoose

theirdestiny,heldmenby the throatsmore tightly thanany threat.Somesaid,“Theywillexterminatetheoneswhostay.Theyaregivingachancetotheoneswholeave.”Buttheoppositewasjustaslikely.At this point Imademydecision to stay.More than that, I draggedmyself

acrossmyblockandacrosstheonesnexttoit.Icalledtoeveryonetostay,criedoutthatstaytheymust.Irememberhittingacomradebrutallytokeephimfromtaking off.Why? I didn’t know any more than the others. Nothing had beenrevealedtome.Still,Iwasdeterminednottogo,IknewImustnotgo.Insteadofarguing,Ispokethewordswithoutanyplan:“Youdon’trunaway.Yousticktotheship.”Whatship?Godsaveus.Inthecourseoftheafternoon,oftheonehundred thousand men at Buchenwald, eighty thousand left. We, the twentythousandwho stayed,hadnothing to say.Wedidn’thave thecourage.On themorningoftheeleventhhungerwassuchagonythatwewerechewingthegrassinthepathstofoolourfamishedstomachs.Thefightwasragingsixmilesoff,at

thefootofourhill.Wecouldbarelyhearit.Toward noon I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to have news. I suddenly

recalled the existence of the loudspeakers. There was one in each blockconnectedtotheGeneralHeadquartersoftheSS,anditwasthroughthischannelthattheyalwaysgavetheirorders.Idraggedmyselftowardtheprivateroomreservedfortheprisonerwhowas

inchargeofourbarracks.Thatwaswheretheloudspeakerwaslocated.Nobodyelsewas around.All themenwereoutside, trying to follow the soundsof thebattle.I knew that out of this loudspeakerwould come life or death—oneor the

other.The instrumentwasobstinatelysilent.Atone-thirty, Iheard the familiarSSvoice, very deliberate, ordering theSS troops to proceedwith the plan forexterminatingallsurvivingprisonerswithinthehalfhour.Whathandwasholdingmysenses incheckat thatmoment,whatvoicewas

addressingme?Ihavenoidea.ButIdoremembernotbeingfrightened.Idon’trememberbelievingtheSS,andIdecidednottoinformmycompanions.Twentyminutes later,a fourteen-year-oldRussianboy, suppleasamonkey,

whohadclimbedupontheroofoftheblock,fellintothemiddleofthecrowdfromaheightoftwelvefeet.Hewasshouting,“TheAmericans.HerecometheAmericans.”Theypickedhimup.Hehadhurt himself badlywhenhe fell. Somepeople

wererunning,otherswerecryingout.AFrenchcomradetookmebythearmanddraggedmeoutside.Hewaslookingandkeptlookingtowardtheentranceofthecamp. He cursed and blessed between his teeth. He looked again and it wasthere,quitereal—anAmericanflag,anEnglishflag,aFrenchflagwereflyingfromthecontroltower.Thedaysafterthatweredaysofstupefaction.Weweredrunkbutwithanevil

drunkenness.We still had thirty-six hours to gowithout food, for the SS hadspreadpoisonover thestores in thecamp,andsowehad towait.Onedoesn’tpassover all atonce from the ideaofdeath to the ideaof life.We listened towhattheyweresayingtous,butweaskedforalittletimetobelieveinit.There was a very strong American army, the Third Army, under a bold,

supremely bold general, Patton. Patton knewwhatBuchenwaldwas andwhatdangers it held. He knew that a three-hour wait meant 20,000 dead. Againstevery rule of caution in strategy, he had mounted an armored attack, anenvelopingattackonthehill.Atthelastminute,theSStroopswerecutofffromthe camp, forced to flee or surrender. The underground receiving set, in thehands of the prisoners in the cellars of themedical block, told theAmericanswhattodo.

Butwherewasthejoyoffreedom,orthejoyofliving?Thecampwasunderananesthetic,anditwouldtakehoursandhourstolayholdonlife.Finally,allof a sudden, it burst upon you, blinding your eyes, stronger than your senses,strongerthanreason.Itcameingreatwaves,everywavehurtingasitcamein.Thenthetensionrelaxed,andeveryonefellintoastuporassmallboyswouldifyougave themastrongdrink. Itwasn’talwaysaprettysight, for inhappinessmen reveal themselves as much as in misfortune, Besides, in the first weekpeopleweredyingingreatnumbers.Somediedofstarvation.Othersdiedfromeating toomuch too fast. Somewere thunderstruck by themere idea of beingsaved.Itwaslikeanattackwhichcarriedthemoffinafewhours.

ONAPRIL13,THECAMPRADIO—itsfreeradio—announcedthedeathofFranklinDelanoRoosevelt.Hiswas the first nameof a realman thatwehadheard—Roosevelt, one of our liberators— and it was he who had died and not we.When thenewscameIwascarryingmypail inawaterdetailwithabout fiftyothermen.Mostofthepipeshadburst.Irememberitwell.Thewholeteamputthepailsdownontheground,andeveryoneknelt,FrenchandRussianstogether.Forthefirsttimeinayear,thedeathofamanhadmeaning.Life came back tomost of us,mixed up, incoherent, tempestuous, ironical,

difficult, likelifeitself.Iwasproudofthecomradeswhohadsurvived.Itmayhavebeenfoolish,butIwasproudofthem.Seventeen hundred officers and soldiers of the SS, taken prisoner by the

Americanarmy,hadbeenplacedinablockofthecampatourdisposition.Itiscertainlyworthreportingthattherewasnotasingleactofvengeance,notoneSSmankilledbyaprisoner,notablowstruck,notaninsult.Nobodyevenwenttolookatthem.OnApril 16we learned through official channels that the 80,000 prisoners

whohadgoneoffontheroadsonthetenthhadbeenmachine-gunnedenmassebytheSS,ataplacesixtymilessoutheastofBuchenwald.Theysaidfirsttherewasnot a single survivor.We learned later that thiswaswrong; tenwere stillalive.OnApril18,justaweekaftertheliberation,asIwascominginfromawater

detail,avoicesuddenlyburstoutfifteenfeetawayfromme,warmassunlight,impossible to believe, but crying, “Jacques.” It was Philippe’s voice. It wasPhilippe himself.Hewas holdingme against him.Hewas there, Philippe thechief,Défensede laFrance,Francepersonified. Iwasnot dreaming.Philippe,thatdaredevil,acaptainnow in thearmyof the liberation,hadcrossedFranceand Germany in three days and three nights, throwing caution to the winds,withoutamilitarypass,a realResistance fighter,a realmanof theMaquis, to

callforhisownmen,atleastthosewhowereinBuchenwald,thoseofthemwhowerestillalive.Philippewaslifeitself.Itwasthetriumphantequation.HewasthelastmanI

hadseenbeforeIwenttoprison.HewasthefirstmanIsawwhenIcameout.Iwasalive,andtwoothersfromDéfensedelaFrancewerealsoliving.Philippegathered the three of us together. A French car was waiting for us, a carbelonging toDF, forDF was no longer underground; it had becomeFrance-Soir, themost important daily newspaper in Paris.Whenwe got to Paris, thechauffeur, a boy who had never been in prison, drove us around the Placed’Appelinhiscar,topaytribute.

EPILOGUE

THERE ARE STILL SOME FACTS TO REPORT. François died onMarch 31, twelvedays before the liberation of Buchenwald, somewhere near Leipzig, incircumstances unknown. Georges died in the first days of April, it seems ofexhaustion, aboard an armored car, near Halle an der Saale. Denis died inCzechoslovakiaonApril9,killedbyanSSbulletontheroadside.Twenty-fourothermembersofDF,arrestedalongwithmeonJuly20,1943,didnotreturn.Youcertainlyhavetherighttoknowaboutthem.

HERE MY STORY ENDS, as it must, for the man I am now, husband, father,university professor, writer, has no intention of telling you about himself. Hewouldn’tknowhow,andhewouldonlyburdenyou.Ifhehasrecordedthefirsttwentyyearsofhis lifeatsuchlength, it isbecausehebelieves theynolongerbelong to him as an individual but are an open book, for anyone to readwhocaresto.Hisdearestwishwastoshow,ifonlyinpart,whattheseyearsheldoflife,lightandjoybythegraceofGod.And now, in conclusion, why has this Frenchman from France written his

book in the United States to present to his American friends today? Becausetoday he is America’s guest. Loving the country and wanting to show hisgratitude,hecouldfindnobetterwayofexpressingit thaninthesetwotruths,intimatelyknowntohimandreachingbeyondallboundaries.Thefirstoftheseisthatjoydoesnotcomefromoutside,forwhateverhappens

tousitiswithin.Thesecondtruthisthatlightdoesnotcometousfromwithout.Lightisinus,evenifwehavenoeyes.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

JACQUESLUSSEYRAN(September19,1924,toJuly27,1971)wasablindauthor,professor, and French Resistance leader. Born in Paris, he was blinded in aschoolaccidentat theageofeight.Atageseventeen, less thanayearafter theGerman invasion of France, Lusseyran formed a Resistance group called theVolunteersofLibertywith fifty-twootherboys.Becauseofhis ability to readpeople as a blind person, hewas put in charge of recruitment, and the groupgrew to over six hundred young men. The group later merged with anotherResistancegroupcalledDéfensedelaFrance,whichpublishedanundergroundnewspaper that eventually achieved a circulation of 250,000.After thewar, itbecameoneofFrance’smostrespecteddailynewspapers,FranceSoir.InJuly1943,Lusseyranwasarrested,alongwithtwenty-fiveotherleadersof

DéfensedelaFrance,andspentnearlyfifteenmonthsintheNazis’Buchenwaldconcentrationcamp.WhentheU.S.ThirdArmyarrivedatBuchenwaldinApril1945, Lusseyran was one of roughly thirty survivors of a transport of twothousandFrenchcitizens.Afterthewar,despitehisserviceaspartoftheundergroundandhisbrilliant

schoolwork,LusseyranwasdeniedadmissiontotheÉcoleNormaleSupérieure,aneliteuniversityfortrainingFrenchacademics,becauseofadecreepassedbytheVichygovernmentbarring“invalids”frompublicemployment.Althoughforyearshewaspreventedfrombecomingaprofessor,herepeatedlypresentedhiscaseandwaseventuallyable to teachinFrance.Laterhemovedto theUnitedStates,wherehefirstlecturedatHollinsCollegeandthenbecameaprofessoratCase Western Reserve University in Cleveland. He was a professor at theUniversity ofHawaii in 1971when, at age forty-seven, hewaskilled in a caraccidentwith hiswife,Marie, not far from Juvardeil in France,where he hadbeenhappyasaboy.

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