yossarian was going absent without official leave with milo, who, as the plane cruised toward rome, shook hishead reproachfully and, with pious lips pulsed, informed yossarian in ecclesiastical tones that he was ashamed ofhim. yossarian nodded. yossarian was making an uncouth spectacle of himself by walking around backwardwith his gun on his hip and refusing to fly more combat missions, milo said. yossarian nodded. it was disloyal tohis squadron and embarrassing to his superiors. he was placing milo in a very uncomfortable position, too.
yossarian nodded again. the men were starting to grumble. it was not fair for yossarian to think only of his ownsafety while men like milo, colonel cathcart, colonel korn and ex-p.f.c. wintergreen were willing to doeverything they could to win the war. the men with seventy missions were starring to grumble because they hadto fly eighty, and there was a danger some of them might put on guns and begin walking around backward, too.
morale was deteriorating and it was all yossarian’s fault. the country was in peril; he was jeopardizing histraditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.
yossarian kept nodding in the co-pilot’s seat and tried not to listen as milo prattled on. nately’s whore was onhis mind, as were kraft and orr and nately and dunbar, and kid sampson and mcwatt, and all the poor andstupid and diseased people he had seen in italy, egypt and north africa and knew about in other areas of theworld, and snowden and nately’s whore’s kid sister were on his conscience, too. yossarian thought he knewwhy nately’s whore held him responsible for nately’s death and wanted to kill him. why the hell shouldn’t she?
it was a man’s world, and she and everyone younger had every right to blame him and everyone older for everyunnatural tragedy that befell them; just as she, even in her grief, was to blame for every man-made misery thatlanded on her kid sister and on all other children behind her. someone had to do something sometime. everyvictim was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime to try to break the lousychain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all. in parts of africa little boys were still stolen away by adultslave traders and sold for money to men who disemboweled them and ate them. yossarian marveled that childrencould suffer such barbaric sacrifice without evincing the slightest hint of fear or pain. he took it for granted thatthey did submit so stoically. if not, he reasoned, the custom would certainly have died, for no craving for wealthor immortality could be so great, he felt, as to subsist on the sorrow of children.
he was rocking the boat, milo said, and yossarian nodded once more. he was not a good member of the team,milo said. yossarian nodded and listened to milo tell him that the decent thing to do if he did not like the waycolonel cathcart and colonel korn were running the group was go to russia, instead of stirring up trouble.
colonel cathcart and colonel korn had both been very good to yossarian, milo said; hadn’t they given him amedal after the last mission to ferrara and promoted him to captain? yossarian nodded. didn’t they feed him andgive him his pay every month? yossarian nodded again. milo was sure they would be charitable if he went tothem to apologize and recant and promise to fly eighty missions. yossarian said he would think it over, and heldhis breath and prayed for a safe landing as milo dropped his wheels and glided in toward the runway. it wasfunny how he had really come to detest flying.
rome was in ruins, he saw, when the plane was down. the airdrome had been bombed eight months before, andknobby slabs of white stone rubble had been bulldozed into flat-topped heaps on both sides of the entrancethrough the wire fence surrounding the field. the colosseum was a dilapidated shell, and the arch ofconstantine had fallen. nately’s whore’s apartment was a shambles. the girls were gone, and the only one therewas the old woman. the windows in the apartment had been smashed. she was bundled up in sweaters and skirtsand wore a dark shawl about her head. she sat on a wooden chair near an electric hot plate, her arms folded,boiling water in a battered aluminum pot. she was talking aloud to herself when yossarian entered and beganmoaning as soon as she saw him.
“gone,” she moaned before he could even inquire. holding her elbows, she rocked back and forth mournfully onher creaking chair. “gone.”
“who?”
“all. all the poor young girls.”
“where?”
“away. chased away into the street. all of them gone. all the poor young girls.”
“chased away by who? who did it?”
“the mean tall soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs. and by our carabinieri. they came with their clubsand chased them away. they would not even let them take their coats. the poor things. they just chased themaway into the cold.”
“did they arrest them?”
“they chased them away. they just chased them away.”
“then why did they do it if they didn’t arrest them?”
“i don’t know,” sobbed the old woman. “i don’t know. who will take care of me? who will take care of me nowthat all the poor young girls are gone? who will take care of me?”
“there must have been a reason,” yossarian persisted, pounding his fist into his hand. “they couldn’t just bargein here and chase everyone out.”
“no reason,” wailed the old woman. “no reason.”
“what right did they have?”
“catch-22.”
“what?” yossarian froze in his tracks with fear and alarm and felt his whole body begin to tingle. “what did yousay?”
“catch-22” the old woman repeated, rocking her head up and down. “catch-22. catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can’t stop them from doing.”
“what the hell are you talking about?” yossarian shouted at her in bewildered, furious protest. “how did youknow it was catch-22? who the hell told you it was catch-22?”
“the soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs. the girls were crying. ‘did we do anything wrong?’ they said.
the men said no and pushed them away out the door with the ends of their clubs. ‘then why are you chasing usout?’ the girls said. ‘catch-22,’ the men said. ‘what right do you have?’ the girls said. ‘catch-22,’ the men said.
all they kept saying was ‘catch-22, catch-22.’ what does it mean, catch-22? what is catch-22?”
“didn’t they show it to you?” yossarian demanded, stamping about in anger and distress. “didn’t you even makethem read it?”
“they don’t have to show us catch-22,” the old woman answered. “the law says they don’t have to.”
“what law says they don’t have to?”
“catch-22.”
“oh, god damn!” yossarian exclaimed bitterly. “i bet it wasn’t even really there.” he stopped walking andglanced about the room disconsolately. “where’s the old man?”
“gone,” mourned the old woman.
“gone?”
“dead,” the old woman told him, nodding in emphatic lament, pointing to her head with the flat of her hand.
“something broke in here. one minute he was living, one minute he was dead.”
“but he can’t be dead!” yossarian cried, ready to argue insistently. but of course he knew it was true, knew itwas logical and true; once again the old man had marched along with the majority.
yossarian turned away and trudged through the apartment with a gloomy scowl, peering with pessimisticcuriosity into all the rooms. everything made of glass had been smashed by the men with the clubs. torn drapesand bedding lay dumped on the floor. chairs, tables and dressers had been overturned. everything breakable hadbeen broken. the destruction was total. no wild vandals could have been more thorough. every window wassmashed, and darkness poured like inky clouds into each room through the shattered panes. yossarian couldimagine the heavy, crashing footfalls of the tall m.p.s in the hard white hats. he could picture the fiery andmalicious exhilaration with which they had made their wreckage, and their sanctimonious, ruthless sense of rightand dedication. all the poor young girls were gone. everyone was gone but the weeping old woman in the bulkybrown and gray sweaters and black head shawl, and soon she too would be gone.
“gone,” she grieved, when he walked back in, before he could even speak. “who will take care of me now?”
yossarian ignored the question. “nately’s girl friend—did anyone hear from her?” he asked.
“gone.”
“i know she’s gone. but did anyone hear from her? does anyone know where she is?”
“gone.”
“the little sister. what happened to her?”
“gone.” the old woman’s tone had not changed.
“do you know what i’m talking about?” yossarian asked sharply, staring into her eyes to see if she were notspeaking to him from a coma. he raised his voice. “what happened to the kid sister, to the little girl?”
“gone, gone,” the old woman replied with a crabby shrug, irritated by his persistence, her low wail growinglouder. “chased away with the rest, chased away into the street. they would not even let her take her coat.”
“where did she go?”
“i don’t know. i don’t know.”
“who will take care of her?”
“who will take care of me?”
“she doesn’t know anybody else, does she?”
“who will take care of me?”
yossarian left money in the old woman’s lap—it was odd how many wrongs leaving money seemed to right—and strode out of the apartment, cursing catch-22 vehemently as he descended the stairs, even though he knewthere was no such thing. catch-22 did not exist, he was positive of that, but it made no difference. what didmatter was that everyone thought it existed, and that was much worse, for there was no object or text to ridiculeor refute, to accuse, criticize, attack, amend, hate, revile, spit at, rip to shreds, trample upon or burn up.
it was cold outside, and dark, and a leaky, insipid mist lay swollen in the air and trickled down the large,unpolished stone blocks of the houses and the pedestals of monuments. yossarian hurried back to milo andrecanted. he said he was sorry and, knowing he was lying, promised to fly as many more missions as colonelcathcart wanted if milo would only use all his influence in rome to help him locate nately’s whore’s kid sister.
“she’s just a twelve-year-old virgin, milo,” he explained anxiously, “and i want to find her before it’s too late.”
milo responded to his request with a benign smile. “i’ve got just the twelve-year-old virgin you’re looking for,”
he announced jubilantly. “this twelve-year-old virgin is really only thirty-four, but she was brought up on a low-protein diet by very strict parents and didn’t start sleeping with men until—““milo, i’m talking about a little girl!” yossarian interrupted him with desperate impatience. “don’t youunderstand? i don’t want to sleep with her. i want to help her. you’ve got daughters. she’s just a little kid, andshe’s all alone in this city with no one to take care of her. i want to protect her from harm. don’t you know whati’m talking about?”
milo did understand and was deeply touched. “yossarian, i’m proud of you,” he exclaimed with profoundemotion. “i really am. you don’t know how glad i am to see that everything isn’t always just sex with you.
you’ve got principles. certainly i’ve got daughters, and i know exactly what you’re talking about. we’ll findthat girl if we have to turn this whole city upside down. come along.”
yossarian went along in milo minderbinder’s speeding m & m staff car to police headquarters to meet aswarthy, untidy police commissioner with a narrow black mustache and unbuttoned tunic who was fiddling witha stout woman with warts and two chins when they entered his office and who greeted milo with warm surpriseand bowed and scraped in obscene servility as though milo were some elegant marquis.
“ah, marchese milo,” he declared with effusive pleasure, pushing the fat, disgruntled woman out the doorwithout even looking toward her. “why didn’t you tell me you were coming? i would have a big party for you.
come in, come in, marchese. you almost never visit us any more.”
milo knew that there was not one moment to waste. “hello, luigi,” he said, nodding so briskly that he almostseemed rude. “luigi, i need your help. my friend here wants to find a girl.”
“a girl, marchese?” said luigi, scratching his face pensively. “there are lots of girls in rome. for an americanofficer, a girl should not be too difficult.”
“no, luigi, you don’t understand. this is a twelve-year-old virgin that he has to find right away.”
“ah, yes, now i understand,” luigi said sagaciously. “a virgin might take a little time. but if he waits at the busterminal where the young farm girls looking for work arrive, i—““luigi, you still don’t understand,” milo snapped with such brusque impatience that the police commissioner’sface flushed and he jumped to attention and began buttoning his uniform in confusion. “this girl is a friend, anold friend of the family, and we want to help her. she’s only a child. she’s all alone in this city somewhere, andwe have to find her before somebody harms her. now do you understand? luigi, this is very important to me. ihave a daughter the same age as that little girl, and nothing in the world means more to me right now than savingthat poor child before it’s too late. will you help?”
“si, marchese, now i understand,” said luigi. “and i will do everything in my power to find her. but tonight i have almost no men. tonight all my men are busy trying to break up the traffic in illegal tobacco.”
“illegal tobacco?” asked milo.
“milo,” yossarian bleated faintly with a sinking heart, sensing at once that all was lost.
“si, marchese,” said luigi. “the profit in illegal tobacco is so high that the smuggling is almost impossible tocontrol.”
“is there really that much profit in illegal tobacco?” milo inquired with keen interest, his rust-colored eyebrowsarching avidly and his nostrils sniffing.
“milo,” yossarian called to him. “pay attention to me, will you?”
“si, marchese,” luigi answered. “the profit in illegal tobacco is very high. the smuggling is a national scandal,marchese, truly a national disgrace.”
“is that a fact?” milo observed with a preoccupied smile and started toward the door as though in a spell.
“milo!” yossarian yelled, and bounded forward impulsively to intercept him. “milo, you’ve got to help me.”
“illegal tobacco,” milo explained to him with a look of epileptic lust, struggling doggedly to get by. “let me go.
i’ve got to smuggle illegal tobacco.”
“stay here and help me find her,” pleaded yossarian. “you can smuggle illegal tobacco tomorrow.”
but milo was deaf and kept pushing forward, nonviolently but irresistibly, sweating, his eyes, as though he werein the grip of a blind fixation, burning feverishly, and his twitching mouth slavering. he moaned calmly asthough in remote, instinctive distress and kept repeating, “illegal tobacco, illegal tobacco.” yossarian stepped outof the way with resignation finally when he saw it was hopeless to try to reason with him. milo was gone like ashot. the commissioner of police unbuttoned his tunic again and looked at yossarian with contempt.
“what do you want here?” he asked coldly. “do you want me to arrest you?”
yossarian walked out of the office and down the stairs into the dark, tomblike street, passing in the hall the stoutwoman with warts and two chins, who was already on her way back in. there was no sign of milo outside. therewere no lights in any of the windows. the deserted sidewalk rose steeply and continuously for several blocks. hecould see the glare of a broad avenue at the top of the long cobblestone incline. the police station was almost atthe bottom; the yellow bulbs at the entrance sizzled in the dampness like wet torches. a frigid, fine rain wasfalling. he began walking slowly, pushing uphill. soon he came to a quiet, cozy, inviting restaurant with redvelvet drapes in the windows and a blue neon sign near the door that said: tony’s restaurant finefood and drink. keep out. the words on the blue neon sign surprised him mildly for only an instant.
nothing warped seemed bizarre any more in his strange, distorted surroundings. the tops of the sheer buildings slanted in weird, surrealistic perspective, and the street seemed tilted. he raised the collar of his warm woolencoat and hugged it around him. the night was raw. a boy in a thin shirt and thin tattered trousers walked out ofthe darkness on bare feet. the boy had black hair and needed a haircut and shoes and socks. his sickly face waspale and sad. his feet made grisly, soft, sucking sounds in the rain puddles on the wet pavement as he passed,and yossarian was moved by such intense pity for his poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly facewith his fist and knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad, sickly children in italythat same night who needed haircuts and needed shoes and socks. he made yossarian think of cripples and ofcold and hungry men and women, and of all the dumb, passive, devout mothers with catatonic eyes nursinginfants outdoors that same night with chilled animal udders bared insensibly to that same raw rain. cows. almoston cue, a nursing mother padded past holding an infant in black rags, and yossarian wanted to smash her too,because she reminded him of the barefoot boy in the thin shirt and thin, tattered trousers and of all the shivering,stupefying misery in a world that never yet had provided enough heat and food and justice for all but aningenious and unscrupulous handful. what a lousy earth! he wondered how many people were destitute thatsame night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes were shanties, how many husbands weredrunk and wives socked, and how many children were bullied, abused or abandoned. how many familieshungered for food they could not afford to buy? how many hearts were broken? how many suicides would takeplace that same night, how many people would go insane? how many cockroaches and landlords wouldtriumph? how many winners were losers, successes failures, rich men poor men? how many wise guys werestupid? how many happy endings were unhappy endings? how many honest men were liars, brave mencowards, loyal men traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt, how many people in positions of trust had soldtheir souls to blackguards for petty cash, how many had never had souls? how many straight-and-narrow pathswere crooked paths? how many best families were worst families and how many good people were bad people?
when you added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the children, and perhaps withalbert einstein and an old violinist or sculptor somewhere. yossarian walked in lonely torture, feeling estranged,and could not wipe from his mind the excruciating image of the barefoot boy with sickly cheeks until he turnedthe corner into the avenue finally and came upon an allied soldier having convulsions on the ground, a younglieutenant with a small, pale, boyish face. six other soldiers from different countries wrestled with different partsof him, striving to help him and hold him still. he yelped and groaned unintelligibly through clenched teeth, hiseyes rolled up into his head. “don’t let him bite his tongue off,” a short sergeant near yossarian advisedshrewdly, and a seventh man threw himself into the fray to wrestle with the ill lieutenant’s face. all at once thewrestlers won and turned to each other undecidedly, for now that they held the young lieutenant rigid they didnot know what to do with him. a quiver of moronic panic spread from one straining brute face to another. “whydon’t you lift him up and put him on the hood of that car?” a corporal standing in back of yossarian drawled.
that seemed to make sense, so the seven men lifted the young lieutenant up and stretched him out carefully onthe hood of a parked car, still pinning each struggling part of him down. once they had him stretched out on thehood of the parked car, they stared at each other uneasily again, for they had no idea what to do with him next.
“why don’t you lift him up off the hood of that car and lay him down on the ground?” drawled the same corporalbehind yossarian. that seemed like a good idea, too, and they began to move him back to the sidewalk, butbefore they could finish, a jeep raced up with a flashing red spotlight at the side and two military policemen inthe front seat.
“what’s going on?” the driver yelled.
“he’s having convulsions,” one of the men grappling with one of the young lieutenant’s limbs answered. “we’reholding him still.”
“that’s good. he’s under arrest.”
“what should we do with him?”
“keep him under arrest!” the m.p. shouted, doubling over with raucous laughter at his jest, and sped away in hisjeep.
yossarian recalled that he had no leave papers and moved prudently past the strange group toward the sound ofmuffled voices emanating from a distance inside the murky darkness ahead. the broad, rain-blotched boulevardwas illuminated every half-block by short, curling lampposts with eerie, shimmering glares surrounded by smokybrown mist. from a window overhead he heard an unhappy female voice pleading, “please don’t. please don’t.”
a despondent young woman in a black raincoat with much black hair on her face passed with her eyes lowered.
at the ministry of public affairs on the next block, a drunken lady was backed up against one of the flutedcorinthian columns by a drunken young soldier, while three drunken comrades in arms sat watching nearby onthe steps with wine bottles standing between their legs. “pleeshe don’t,” begged the drunken lady. “i want to gohome now. pleeshe don’t.” one of the sitting men cursed pugnaciously and hurled a wine bottle at yossarianwhen he turned to look up. the bottle shattered harmlessly far away with a brief and muted noise. yossariancontinued walking away at the same listless, unhurried pace, hands buried in his pockets. “come on, baby,” heheard the drunken soldier urge determinedly. “it’s my turn now.” “pleeshe don’t,” begged the drunken lady.
“pleeshe don’t.” at the very next corner, deep inside the dense, impenetrable shadows of a narrow, winding sidestreet, he heard the mysterious, unmistakable sound of someone shoveling snow. the measured, labored,evocative scrape of iron shovel against concrete made his flesh crawl with terror as he stepped from the curb tocross the ominous alley and hurried onward until the haunting, incongruous noise had been left behind. now heknew where he was: soon, if he continued without turning, he would come to the dry fountain in the middle ofthe boulevard, then to the officers’ apartment seven blocks beyond. he heard snarling, inhuman voices cuttingthrough the ghostly blackness in front suddenly. the bulb on the corner lamp post had died, spilling gloom overhalf the street, throwing everything visible off balance. on the other side of the intersection, a man was beating adog with a stick like the man who was beating the horse with a whip in raskolnikov’s dream. yossarian strainedhelplessly not to see or hear. the dog whimpered and squealed in brute, dumbfounded hysteria at the end of anold manila rope and groveled and crawled on its belly without resisting, but the man beat it and beat it anywaywith his heavy, flat stick. a small crowd watched. a squat woman stepped out and asked him please to stop.
“mind your own business,” the man barked gruffly, lifting his stick as though he might beat her too, and thewoman retreated sheepishly with an abject and humiliated air. yossarian quickened his pace to get away, almostran. the night was filled with horrors, and he thought he knew how christ must have felt as he walked throughthe world, like a psychiatrist through a ward full of nuts, like a victim through a prison full of thieves. what awelcome sight a leper must have been! at the next corner a man was beating a small boy brutally in the midst ofan immobile crowd of adult spectators who made no effort to intervene. yossarian recoiled with sickeningrecognition. he was certain he had witnessed that same horrible scene sometime before. déjà vu? the sinistercoincidence shook him and filled him with doubt and dread. it was the same scene he had witnessed a blockbefore, although everything in it seemed quite different. what in the world was happening? would a squat woman step out and ask the man to please stop? would he raise his hand to strike her and would she retreat?
nobody moved. the child cried steadily as though in drugged misery. the man kept knocking him down withhard, resounding open-palm blows to the head, then jerking him up to his feet in order to knock him down again.
no one in the sullen, cowering crowd seemed to care enough about the stunned and beaten boy to interfere. thechild was no more than nine. one drab woman was weeping silently into a dirty dish towel. the boy wasemaciated and needed a haircut. bright-red blood was streaming from both ears. yossarian crossed quickly to theother side of the immense avenue to escape the nauseating sight and found himself walking on human teeth lyingon the drenched, glistening pavement near splotches of blood kept sticky by the pelting raindrops poking eachone like sharp fingernails. molars and broken incisors lay scattered everywhere. he circled on tiptoe thegrotesque debris and came near a doorway containing a crying soldier holding a saturated handkerchief to hismouth, supported as he sagged by two other soldiers waiting in grave impatience for the military ambulance thatfinally came clanging up with amber fog lights on and passed them by for an altercation on the next blockbetween a civilian italian with books and a slew of civilian policemen with armlocks and clubs. the screaming,struggling civilian was a dark man with a face white as flour from fear. his eyes were pulsating in hecticdesperation, flapping like bat’s wings, as the many tall policemen seized him by the arms and legs and lifted himup. his books were spilled on the ground. “help!” he shrieked shrilly in a voice strangling in its own emotion, asthe policemen carried him to the open doors in the rear of the ambulance and threw him inside. “police! help!
police!” the doors were shut and bolted, and the ambulance raced away. there was a humorless irony in theludicrous panic of the man screaming for help to the police while policemen were all around him. yossariansmiled wryly at the futile and ridiculous cry for aid, then saw with a start that the words were ambiguous,realized with alarm that they were not, perhaps, intended as a call for police but as a heroic warning from thegrave by a doomed friend to everyone who was not a policeman with a club and a gun and a mob of otherpolicemen with clubs and guns to back him up. “help! police!” the man had cried, and he could have beenshouting of danger. yossarian responded to the thought by slipping away stealthily from the police and almosttripped over the feet of a burly woman of forty hastening across the intersection guiltily, darting furtive,vindictive glances behind her toward a woman of eighty with thick, bandaged ankles doddering after her in alosing pursuit. the old woman was gasping for breath as she minced along and muttering to herself in distractedagitation. there was no mistaking the nature of the scene; it was a chase. the triumphant first woman washalfway across the wide avenue before the second woman reached the curb. the nasty, small, gloating smile withwhich she glanced back at the laboring old woman was both wicked and apprehensive. yossarian knew he couldhelp the troubled old woman if she would only cry out, knew he could spring forward and capture the sturdy firstwoman and hold her for the mob of policemen nearby if the second woman would only give him license with ashriek of distress. but the old woman passed by without even seeing him, mumbling in terrible, tragic vexation,and soon the first woman had vanished into the deepening layers of darkness and the old woman was leftstanding helplessly in the center of the thoroughfare, dazed, uncertain which way to proceed, alone. yossariantore his eyes from her and hurried away in shame because he had done nothing to assist her. he darted furtive,guilty glances back as he fled in defeat, afraid the old woman might now start following him, and he welcomedthe concealing shelter of the drizzling, drifting, lightless, nearly opaque gloom. mobs... mobs of policemen—everything but england was in the hands of mobs, mobs, mobs. mobs with clubs were in control everywhere.
the surface of the collar and shoulders of yossarian’s coat was soaked. his socks were wet and cold. the lighton the next lamppost was out, too, the glass globe broken. buildings and featureless shapes flowed by himnoiselessly as though borne past immutably on the surface of some rank and timeless tide. a tall monk passed, his face buried entirely inside a coarse gray cowl, even the eyes hidden. footsteps sloshed toward him steadilythrough a puddle, and he feared it would be another barefoot child. he brushed by a gaunt, cadaverous, tristfulman in a black raincoat with a star-shaped scar in his cheek and a glossy mutilated depression the size of an eggin one temple. on squishing straw sandals, a young woman materialized with her whole face disfigured by agod-awful pink and piebald burn that started on her neck and stretched in a raw, corrugated mass up both cheekspast her eyes! yossarian could not bear to look, and shuddered. no one would ever love her. his spirit was sick;he longed to lie down with some girl he could love who would soothe and excite him and put him to sleep. amob with a club was waiting for him in pianosa. the girls were all gone. the countess and her daughter-in-lawwere no longer good enough; he had grown too old for fun, he no longer had the time. luciana was gone, dead,probably; if not yet, then soon enough. aarfy’s buxom trollop had vanished with her smutty cameo ring, andnurse duckett was ashamed of him because he had refused to fly more combat missions and would cause ascandal. the only girl he knew nearby was the plain maid in the officers’ apartment, whom none of the men hadever slept with. her name was michaela, but the men called her filthy things in dulcet, ingratiating voices, andshe giggled with childish joy because she understood no english and thought they were flattering her and makingharmless jokes. everything wild she watched them do filled her with enchanted delight. she was a happy,simple-minded, hard-working girl who could not read and was barely able to write her name. her straight hairwas the color of rotting straw. she had sallow skin and myopic eyes, and none of the men had ever slept with herbecause none of the men had ever wanted to, none but aarfy, who had raped her once that same evening and hadthen held her prisoner in a clothes closet for almost two hours with his hand over her mouth until the civiliancurfew sirens sounded and it was unlawful for her to be outside.
then he threw her out the window. her dead body was still lying on the pavement when yossarian arrived andpushed his way politely through the circle of solemn neighbors with dim lanterns, who glared with venom asthey shrank away from him and pointed up bitterly toward the second-floor windows in their private, grim,accusing conversations. yossarian’s heart pounded with fright and horror at the pitiful, ominous, gory spectacleof the broken corpse. he ducked into the hallway and bolted up the stairs into the apartment, where he foundaarfy pacing about uneasily with a pompous, slightly uncomfortable smile. aarfy seemed a bit unsettled as hefidgeted with his pipe and assured yossarian that everything was going to be all right. there was nothing toworry about.
“i only raped her once,” he explained.
yossarian was aghast. “but you killed her, aarfy! you killed her!”
“oh, i had to do that after i raped her,” aarfy replied in his most condescending manner. “i couldn’t very well lether go around saying bad things about us, could i?”
“but why did you have to touch her at all, you dumb bastard?” yossarian shouted. “why couldn’t you getyourself a girl off the street if you wanted one? the city is full of prostitutes.”
“oh, no, not me,” aarfy bragged. “i never paid for it in my life.”
“aarfy, are you insane?” yossarian was almost speechless. “you killed a girl. they’re going to put you in jail!”
“oh, no,” aarfy answered with a forced smile. “not me. they aren’t going to put good old aarfy in jail. not forkilling her.”
“but you threw her out the window. she’s lying dead in the street.”
“she has no right to be there,” aarfy answered. “it’s after curfew.”
“stupid! don’t you realize what you’ve done?” yossarian wanted to grab aarfy by his well-fed, caterpillar-softshoulders and shake some sense into him. “you’ve murdered a human being. they are going to put you in jail.
they might even hang you!”
“oh, i hardly think they’ll do that,” aarfy replied with a jovial chuckle, although his symptoms of nervousnessincreased. he spilled tobacco crumbs unconsciously as his short fingers fumbled with the bowl of his pipe. “no,sirree. not to good old aarfy.” he chortled again. “she was only a servant girl. i hardly think they’re going tomake too much of a fuss over one poor italian servant girl when so many thousands of lives are being lost everyday. do you?”
“listen!” yossarian cried, almost in joy. he pricked up his ears and watched the blood drain from aarfy’s faceas sirens mourned far away, police sirens, and then ascended almost instantaneously to a howling, strident,onrushing cacophony of overwhelming sound that seemed to crash into the room around them from every side.
“aarfy, they’re coming for you,” he said in a flood of compassion, shouting to be heard above the noise.
“they’re coming to arrest you. aarfy, don’t you understand? you can’t take the life of another human being andget away with it, even if she is just a poor servant girl. don’t you see? can’t you understand?”
“oh, no,” aarfy insisted with a lame laugh and a weak smile. “they’re not coming to arrest me. not good oldaarfy.”
all at once he looked sick. he sank down on a chair in a trembling stupor, his stumpy, lax hands quaking in hislap. cars skidded to a stop outside. spotlights hit the windows immediately. car doors slammed and policewhistles screeched. voices rose harshly. aarfy was green. he kept shaking his head mechanically with a queer,numb smile and repeating in a weak, hollow monotone that they were not coming for him, not for good oldaarfy, no sirree, striving to convince himself that this was so even as heavy footsteps raced up the stairs andpounded across the landing, even as fists beat on the door four times with a deafening, inexorable force. then thedoor to the apartment flew open, and two large, tough, brawny m.p.s with icy eyes and firm, sinewy, unsmilingjaws entered quickly, strode across the room, and arrested yossarian.
they arrested yossarian for being in rome without a pass.
they apologized to aarfy for intruding and led yossarian away between them, gripping him under each arm withfingers as hard as steel manacles. they said nothing at all to him on the way down. two more tall m.p.s withclubs and hard white helmets were waiting outside at a closed car. they marched yossarian into the back seat,and the car roared away and weaved through the rain and muddy fog to a police station. the m.p.s locked him up for the night in a cell with four stone walls. at dawn they gave him a pail for a latrine and drove him to theairport, where two more giant m.p.s with clubs and white helmets were waiting at a transport plane whoseengines were already warming up when they arrived, the cylindrical green cowlings oozing quivering beads ofcondensation. none of the m.p.s said anything to each other either. they did not even nod. yossarian had neverseen such granite faces. the plane flew to pianosa. two more silent m.p.s were waiting at the landing strip.
there were now eight, and they filed with precise, wordless discipline into two cars and sped on humming tirespast the four squadron areas to the group headquarters building, where still two more m.p.s were waiting at theparking area. all ten tall, strong, purposeful, silent men towered around him as they turned toward the entrance.
their footsteps crunched in loud unison on the cindered ground. he had an impression of accelerating haste. hewas terrified. every one of the ten m.p.s seemed powerful enough to bash him to death with a single blow. theyhad only to press their massive, toughened, boulderous shoulders against him to crush all life from his body.
there was nothing he could do to save himself. he could not even see which two were gripping him under thearms as they marched him rapidly between the two tight single-file columns they had formed. their pacequickened, and he felt as though he were flying along with his feet off the ground as they trotted in resolutecadence up the wide marble staircase to the upper landing, where still two more inscrutable military policemenwith hard faces were waiting to lead them all at an even faster pace down the long, cantilevered balconyoverhanging the immense lobby. their marching footsteps on the dull tile floor thundered like an awesome,quickening drum roll through the vacant center of the building as they moved with even greater speed andprecision toward colonel cathcart’s office, and violent winds of panic began blowing in yossarian’s ears whenthey turned him toward his doom inside the office, where colonel korn, his rump spreading comfortably on acorner of colonel cathcart’s desk, sat waiting to greet him with a genial smile and said,“we’re sending you home.”
39、不朽之城
约塞连未经上司许可就擅自离队，搭乘米洛的飞机跟他一块飞往罗马。在飞机上，米洛责备地晃着脑袋，虔诚地咂起嘴唇，以教士的口吻对他说，他为他感到羞愧。约塞连点点头，米洛接着说，约塞连把枪挎在屁股后面倒退着走路，并拒绝执行更多的飞行任务，这是自己给自己出丑。约塞连点点头。米洛又说，这种做法是对他自己中队的背叛，既让他的上司感到为难，又使米洛处于一种极为难堪的境地。约塞连又点点头。米洛又说，官兵们已经开始抱怨了。约塞连仅仅考虑他自身的安全，而像米洛、卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和前一等兵温特格林这样的人却都在全力以赴打赢这场战争，这未免太不公平了。已经执行了七十次飞行任务的人也开始抱怨了，因为他们不得不飞满八十次。危险的是，他们中的某些人可能也会挎上枪，开始倒退着走路。士气正变得越来越低落，这全都是约塞连一手造成的。国家正处在生死存亡的关头，他却胆敢滥用自由、独立等等传统权利，从而危及到这些权利本身。
米洛没完没了地唠叨着，约塞连坐在副驾驶员的座位上，一边不住地点着头，一边却竭力不去听他的唠叨。约塞连满脑子想的全是内特利的妓女，还有克拉夫特、奥尔、内特利、邓巴、基德·桑普森、麦克沃特，以及他在意大利、埃及和北非见到过的那些贫穷、愚笨、疾病缠身的人。他知道，在世界上别的地区也有这样的人。斯诺登和内特利的妓女的小妹妹也使他感到良心不安。约塞连觉得，他现在明白了内特利的妓女为什么认为他对内特利的死负有责任，为什么要杀死他。她为什么不应该这样做呢？这是一个男人的世界，各种非自然的灾祸全都降临到她和其他所有年纪较轻的人的头上，为此，她们每个人都有充分的权利谴责他和其他所有年纪较大的人，正如她自己，即使她正处于悲伤之中，也应当为降临到她的小妹妹和其他所有孩子头上的种种人为的苦难而受谴责一样。某人某时总得做某件事。每个受害者都是犯罪者，每个犯罪者又都是受害者。总得有某个人在某个时候站出来打碎那条危及所有人的传统习俗的可恶锁链。在非洲的某些地方，幼小的男孩子仍然被成年的奴隶贩子偷去卖掉赚钱。那些买主把他们开膛破肚，然后吃掉他们。约塞连感到不可思议，这些孩子怎么能够身受如此野蛮的残害却未曾流露出丝毫的惧怕和痛苦呢？他认定这是他们的忍受力特别强的缘故。他想，要不然的话，这种习俗肯定早已消亡，因为，他觉得，无论人们对财富或长生不老的渴望多么强烈，都不至于使他们拿孩子们的痛苦去换取这些。
米洛说，约塞连是在捣乱。约塞连又一次点点头。米洛说，约塞连不是队里的一个好成员。约塞连点点头，听着米洛告诉他，如果他不喜欢卡思卡特上校和科恩中校管理大队的方式，那么他应该做的是离队去俄国，而不是留在这儿兴风作浪。约塞连本来想说，如果卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和米洛不喜欢他在这儿兴风作浪的话，他们可以统统去俄国，但他还是忍住了没说出口。米洛说，卡思卡特上校和科恩中校两个人一直对约塞连很好，上一次执行轰炸弗拉拉的任务之后，他们不是还发给他一枚勋章并提拔他为上尉吗？约塞连点点头。难道不是他们供给他吃的并按月发给他军饷的吗？约塞连又点点头。米洛确信，如果他前去向他们赔罪认错，答应执行八十次飞行任务，他们肯定会宽大为怀的。约塞连说，这件事他会考虑的。当米洛放下飞机轮子，朝着跑道滑降下去时，约塞连屏住呼吸，祈求上帝保佑平安降落。真是可笑，他怎么竟会变得这么厌恶飞行呢？
飞机降落后，他看到罗马已是一片废墟。飞机场八个月前曾遭到轰炸。在机场入口的两侧可以看见一个个推土机推成的平顶白色碎石瓦砾堆，机场周围的铁丝网也全给推土机推倒了。圆形剧场只剩下残垣断壁，君士但丁拱门也已经倒塌了。内待利的妓女的公寓墙倒屋塌，窗玻璃全都砸破了。妓女们都不在了，只剩下那个老太婆守在那儿。她身上左一层右一层地裹着毛线衣和裙子，头上蒙着一条深色的围巾。她双臂抱拢在胸前，坐在电炉旁边的一张木头椅子上，正用一只破铝锅烧开水呢。约塞连进门时，她正在大声地自言自语。一看见他，她就呜咽开了。
“走了，”他还没开口问话，她就呜咽着说。她抱住自己的胳膊时，在那张吱嘎作响的椅子上悲伤地前后摇晃着。“走了。”
“谁走了？”
“全都走了。所有可怜的年轻姑娘都走了。”
“去哪儿了？”
“外面。全都被赶到外面大街上去了。她们全都走了，所有可怜的年轻姑娘都走了。”
“被谁赶走了？是谁干的？”
“是那些下流的高个子士兵，他们戴着硬邦邦的白帽子，手里拿着棍子。还有我们的宪兵。他们拿着棍子把她们往外赶，连外衣也不让她们穿。可怜的姑娘们。他们就这么把她们全都赶到外面去挨冻。”
“他们逮捕她们了吗？”
“他们把她们赶走了，他们就这么把她们赶走了。”
“如果他们没有逮捕她们，那为什么要把她们赶走呢？”
“我不知道，”老太婆抽泣着说道，“我不知道。谁来照顾我呢？
现在所有那些可怜的年轻姑娘都走了，还有谁来照顾我呢？谁来照顾我呢？”
“这总得有个理由，”约塞连固执地说。他用一只拳头使劲捶着另一只手掌。“他们总不能就这么闯进来把所有的人都赶出去吧。”
“没有理由，”老太婆呜咽道，“没有理由。”
“那他们有什么权利这么做？”
“第二十二条军规。”
“什么？”约塞连惊恐万状，一下子愣住了。他感到自己浑身上下针扎般地疼痛。“你刚才说什么？”
“第二十二条军规。”老太婆晃着脑袋又说了一遍。“第二十二条军规。第二十二条军规说，他们有权利做任何事情，我们不能阻止他们，”“你到底在讲些什么？”约塞连困惑不解，怒气冲冲地朝她喊叫道，“你怎么知道是第二十二条军规？到底是谁告诉你是第二十二条军规的？”
“是那些戴着硬邦邦的白帽子、拿着棍子的大兵。姑娘们在哭泣。‘我们做错了什么事？’她们问。那些兵一边说没做错什么，一边用棍子尖把她们往门外推。‘那你们为什么把我们赶出去呢？’姑娘们问。‘第二十二条军规，’那些兵说。他们只是一遍又一遍地说‘第二十二条军规，第二十二条军规’。这是什么意思，第二十二条军规？什么是第二十二条军规？”
“他们没有给你看看第二十二条军规吗？”约塞连问。他恼火地跺着脚走来走去。“你们就没有叫他们念一念吗？”
“他们没有必要给我们看第二＋条军规，”老太婆回答道。
“法律说，他们没有必要这么做。”
“什么法律说他们没有必要这么做？”
“第二十二条军规。”
“唉，真该死！”约塞连恶狠狠地嚷道，“我敢打赌，它根本就不存在。”他停住步，闷闷不乐地环顾了一下房间。“那个老头在哪？”
“不在了，”老太婆悲伤地说。
“不在了？”
“死了，”老太婆对他说。她极为悲哀地点点头，又把手掌朝着自己的脑袋挥了挥。“这里面有什么东西破裂了。一分钟前他还活着，一分钟后他就死了。”
“但他不可能死！”约塞连叫道。他很想坚持自己的观点，可他当然知道那是真的，知道那是合乎逻辑的，是符合事实的：这个老头和大多数人走的是一条路。
约塞连转身出去，步履沉重地在公寓里转了一圈，他阴沉着脸，既悲观又好奇地把所有的房间窥视了一遍。玻璃制品全都被那些兵用棍子砸碎了。撕成一条条的窗帘和被单乱七八糟扔了一地。
椅子、桌子和梳妆台全都给打翻了。所有能砸碎的东西全部给砸碎了。这场破坏真是干净彻底，野蛮的汪达尔人也只能干到如此地步。所有的窗子都打破了，乌云般的黑暗穿过破碎的窗格玻璃涌入每个房间。约塞连能够想象得出那些戴着硬邦邦的白色钢盔的高个子宪兵砰砰的沉重脚步声，能够想象得出他们乱砸乱摔时那副狠毒而又兴致勃勃的样子，以及他们那种伪善的、冷酷的所谓正义感和献身精神。所有可怜的年轻姑娘都走了。所有人都走了，只剩下这个穿着一层层肥大的褐色和灰色的毛线衣、戴着黑色围巾的老太婆。她很快也会走的。
“走了，”约塞连走了回来，还没来得及开口讲话，她就悲伤他说道，“现在谁来照顾我呢？”
约塞连没有理会她的问话。“内特利的女朋友——有人听到过她的消息吗？”他问。
“走了，”“我知道她走了。可有人听到过她的消息吗？有人知道她在哪儿吗？”
“走了。”
“还有她那个小妹妹，她怎么样了呢？”
“走了。”老太婆的声调没有任何变化。
“你知道我在说什么吗？”约塞连严厉地问道。他逼视着她的眼睛，想弄清楚她对他讲话时头脑是否清醒。他提高了嗓门。“那个小妹妹怎么样了，那个小姑娘？”
“走了，走了，”老大婆被他的追问惹火了，生气地耸了耸肩回答道。她低低的呜咽声变得越来越高。“和其他人一块被赶出去了，赶到大街上去了。他们甚至不让她带上自己的外衣。”
“她到哪儿去了？”
“我不知道，我不知道。”
“谁来照顾她呢？”
“谁来照顾我呢？”
“她不认识别的什么人，是吗？”
“谁来照顾我呢？”
约塞连往老太婆膝盖上扔了些钱——说来可笑，留下钱又能补救多少过失呢——便大踏步地走出了公寓。他一边走下楼梯，一边在心里狠狠地诅咒第二十二条军规，尽管他心里明白，根本不存在这么条军规。第二十二条军规不存在，对此他确信无疑，可那又有什么用呢？问题在于每个人都认为它存在，而更糟糕的是，它没有什么实实在在的内容或条文可以让人们嘲笑、驳斥、指责、批评、攻击、修正、憎恨、谩骂、啐唾沫、撕成碎片、踩在脚下或者烧成灰烬。
外面又冷又黑，空气中弥漫着死气沉沉的薄雾，四处渗透，把一排排用粗糙大石块建成的房子和一座座纪念碑的底座笼罩得严严实实。约塞连急急忙忙赶回米洛那儿认错。他明知故犯地撒谎说，他很抱歉，并答应米洛，只要米洛愿意利用他在罗马的全部影响，帮助找出内特利的妓女的小妹妹在哪里，那么，卡思卡特上校叫他再执行多少次飞行任务他就执行多少次。
“她还只是个十二岁的小处女，米洛，”他焦虑地解释道，“我想立刻找到她，不然就太晚了。”
听了他的请求，米洛宽厚地笑了笑。“我这儿正好有个你正在寻找的十二岁的小处女，”他眉开眼笑地说，“这个十二岁的小处女其实刚刚三十四岁，但她是靠吃低蛋白饮食长大的，她的父母又非常严厉，她一直没有跟男人睡过觉，直到——”
“米洛，我说的是一个小姑娘！”约塞连极不耐烦地打断他的话。“你难道不明白吗？我不是想跟她睡觉。我是想帮助她。你也有女儿吧。她还是个小孩子，她在这座城市里举目无亲，没有任何人照顾她。我是要保护她不受伤害。你难道不明白我在说什么吗？”
米洛终于明白了，而且深受感动。“约塞连，我为你而骄做，”他大为激动地叫道，“我真的为你而骄做。当我看到你并不总是一门心思考虑性生活时，你不知道我是多么地高兴。你是个讲义气的人。我当然有女儿，我完全明白你在说些什么。我们一定要找到那个女孩。你别着急。你跟我来，哪怕把这座城市翻个底朝天，我们也要找到那个女孩。来吧！”
约塞连坐着米洛·明德宾德开得飞快的m&m指挥车来到警察总部，会见一个警察专员。那人皮肤黝黑，长着两撇细细的小胡子，上衣敞开着，显得邋里邋遢。他们走进他的办公室时，他正跟一个长着肉赘和双下巴的矮胖女人调情呢。看到米洛，他喜出望外，奴颜婢膝地朝着米洛又是鞠躬又是作揖，好像米洛是什么高官显贵似的。
“啊，米洛侯爵，”他热情洋溢地叫道，看也不看一眼就把那个满脸不高兴的矮胖女人推出了门。“你为什么不早告诉我你要来呢？如果我事先知道，我会为你举行一个盛大宴会的。请进，请进，侯爵，你怎么这么长时间都不到我们这里来了呢？”
米洛知道眼下一分钟都不能浪费。“喂，卢吉，”他边说边急匆匆地点点头，几乎显得有些粗暴无礼。“卢吉，我需要你的帮助。我这个朋友要找个女孩。”
“找个女孩，侯爵？”卢吉问。他用手抓了抓脸，沉思了一下。
“罗马有这么多的女孩。对一个美国军官来说，找一个女孩不会是很困难的。”
“不，卢吉，你没明白。是个十二岁的小处女，他必须马上找到她。”
“噢，是这样，我明白了，”卢吉领悟地说，“找个处女也许要花点时间。不过，在公共汽车终点站那儿有许多进城来找工作的年轻农村姑娘，如果他在那儿等的话，我——”
“卢吉，你还是没明白。”米洛烦躁而粗暴地打断了警察专员的活，后者不禁面红耳赤，急忙跳起来立正站好，胡乱地系上制服的扣子。“这小姑娘是一个朋友，是家人的一个老朋友。我们要帮助她。她还是个孩子。她眼下在这座城市里的某一个地方，无依无靠的。我们得在她受到伤害之前找到她。现在你明白了吗？卢吉，这件事对我极为重要。我有个女儿跟这个小姑娘一样大。眼下对我来说，世界上再也没有比及早救出这个可怜的孩子更为重要的事情了，你愿意帮忙吗？”
“是的，侯爵，现在我明白了，”卢吉说，“我将尽我所能去寻找她。不过，今晚我这儿没有什么人了。今晚所有的人都忙着去打击非法烟草买卖了。”
“非法烟草买卖？”米洛问。
“米洛。”约塞连声音微弱地叫了一声。他的心沉下去了，他当时就明白一切全完了。
“是的，侯爵，”卢吉说，“非法烟草买卖的利润非常高，所以走私活动几乎无法控制。”
“非法烟草买卖的利润真的这么高吗？”米洛极感兴趣地问。他贪婪地高高挑起铁锈色的眉毛，直往鼻孔里吸气。
“米洛，”约塞连冲他叫道，“听我说，好吗？”
“是的，侯爵，”卢吉回答道，“非法烟草买卖的利润非常高。走私引起了全民的公愤，侯爵，这真是国人的耻辱。”
“这是事实吗？”米洛出神地笑着说，着魔似地迈步朝门口走去。
“米洛！”约塞连大叫道，冲动地奔上去拦住他。“米洛，你必须帮助我。”
“非法烟草买卖，”米洛露出癫痫患者般的贪婪神色对他解释道，倔强地甩开他往外走。“让我走，我必须去非法走私烟草。”
“留在这儿帮我找到她吧，”约塞连恳求道，“你可以明天再去非法走私烟草。”
但是，米洛根本没听见他的恳求。他大步流星地往外冲去，虽然算不上来势凶猛，可也无法阻拦。他满头大汗，双眼闪闪发光，嘴唇抽搐，口水直淌，仿佛他已经深深陷入某种盲目的情结之中了。
他平静地呻吟着，好像处在某种出自本能的、模糊不清的痛苦感觉之中。他一遍又一遍地重复道：“非法烟草，非法烟草。”约塞连最后终于看出来了，和他根本讲不通道理，只好无可奈何地给他让开条路。米洛像出膛的子弹猛冲了出去。警察专员又解开了制服的扣子，轻蔑地看了看约塞连。
“你还在这儿干什么？”他冷冷地问，“你是要等我逮捕你吗？”
约塞连走出办公室，走下楼梯，来到昏暗的、墓地般的街道上。
经过门厅时，他遇上那个长着肉赘和双下巴的矮胖女人进门往里走。外面根本没有米洛的影子。所有的窗子里面都没有灯光。空无一人的人行道形成一个陡峭的斜坡，向前延伸了好几个街区。他能够看见，在长长的鹅卵石斜坡的顶端，有一条灯火通明的宽阔大道。警察总部差不多位于这斜坡的最低处，人口处的黄色灯泡像湿火把似的在潮湿的夜晚里噬噬作响。空中飘洒着寒冷的细雨。他慢慢地顺着斜坡往上走，不一会便来到一家安静、舒适、诱人的餐厅前面。餐厅的窗户上挂着大红天鹅绒窗帘，门旁有块天蓝霓虹灯招牌，上面写着：“托尼餐厅，佳肴美酒，请勿入内。”有那么一瞬间，天蓝霓虹灯招牌上的这几个字使他稍稍有点惊讶。在他身处的这个不可思议的畸形世界里，无论什么反常的东西都不再显得稀奇古怪了。那些矗立在街道两侧的建筑物的顶部全都以一种奇特的、超现实主义的比例修建成斜面，结果使得街道本身看上去也是倾斜的。他翻起暖和的羊毛外套的衣领，让它紧紧地裹住自己。这个夜晚阴湿寒冷。一个穿着薄薄的衬衫和薄薄的破裤子的男孩赤着脚从黑暗中走了出来。他长着黑黑的头发，他需要理发了，他还需要鞋子和袜子。他面带病容，脸色苍白，一副凄惨的模样。他走在湿漉漉的人行道上。他的脚踩在雨水坑里，发出吮吸般的轻微声响，听起来十分可怖。这男骇的穷困深深地打动了约塞连，他从心底里同情他，他真想一拳把男孩那张苍白、凄惨、面带病容的脸打个满脸开花，真想一拳把他打出人世间，因为，看见这男孩使他想起所有生活在意大利、生活在这同一个夜晚的苍白、凄惨、面带病容的孩子，想起他们全部需要理发，需要鞋子和袜子。这男孩还使约塞连想起那些残废人，想起那些饥寒交迫的男男女女，想起那些寡言少语、逆来顺受的虔诚母亲，她们在这同一个夜晚目光紧张地坐在户外，毫不在乎地在阴冷的雨中袒露前胸，用冻得冰凉的动物般的乳房给婴儿喂奶。奶牛。恰恰在这个时候，一个正在喂奶的母亲抱着用黑色破布裹着的婴儿缓步走过。约塞连真想也把她打得满脸开花，因为她使他想起了刚才那个穿着薄薄的衬衣和薄薄的裤子的男孩，以及这个世界上所有令人不寒而栗、目瞪口呆的悲惨事件。在这个世界上，除了那些擅长权术、卑鄙无耻的一小撮人之外，其他所有的人全都得不到温饱和公正的待遇。这是一个多么令人憎恶的世界啊！他想知道，即使在他自己那个繁荣的国度里，在这同一个夜晚，有多少人缺吃少穿，有多少住房四壁透风，有多少丈夫喝得烂醉，有多少妻子遭受毒打，有多少孩子被欺侮、被辱骂、被遗弃。有多少家庭忍饥挨饿买不起食物？有多少人伤心欲绝？在这同一个夜晚，发生了多少起自杀事件，又有多少人精神失常？有多少奸商和店老板欣喜若狂？有多少赢家变为输家，多少成功者变为失败者，多少富人变为穷人？有多少聪明人其实愚蠢透顶？有多少美满的结局其实充满了不幸？有多少老实人其实是骗子，多少勇敢的人其实是胆小鬼，多少忠心耿耿的人其实是叛徒，多少圣徒其实道德败坏，多少身居要职的人为了几个小钱向恶魔出卖灵魂？又有多少人根本没有灵魂？有多少笔直的窄道其实弯弯曲曲？有多少最美好的家庭其实是最糟糕的家庭，多少好人其实是坏人？你要是把这些人全都加起来，然后再把他们从总人数中减掉，剩下的也许就只有孩子们了，或者还有个艾尔伯特·爱因斯但，再加上什么地方的一个老提琴手或雕刻家。约塞连孤零零地走着，内心非常痛苦。他觉得自己似乎与世隔绝了。他心里老是想着那个面带病容的赤脚男孩。直到他拐了个弯走到大道上时，他才终于把男孩那令人惨不忍睹的形象从脑海里摆脱掉。在大道上，他碰到一个盟军士兵躺在地上抽搐。这是个年轻的中尉，长着一张小小的、苍白的、孩子气的脸。六个来自不同国家的士兵使劲按住他身体的不同部位，努力想帮他平静下来。他咬紧牙关，语无伦次地喊叫着、呻吟着，一个劲地翻白眼。“别让他把舌头咬掉了，”约塞连身旁一个矮个中士机灵地提醒道。又一个
