Andre Malraux

Andre Malraux HOME
Andre Malraux An age of oppression an excerpt CHAPTER I Kassner was shoved into the guardroom just as a prisoner they were interrogating was finishing a sentence, but his words were drowned out by the usual police- station racket of rustling papers and clumping boots. Facing him on the other side of the table was a typical Hitlerite official: with the familiar square-jowled, angular face and virtually shaven head, his hair closely cropped from the ears up, and with short, blond tufts sticking up stiffly from his skull. “... Party orders!”. “Since when?” “1924.” “What post did you hold in the illegal Communist party?” “I don’t know anything about any illegal party. Until January 1933 my duties in the German party were of a purely technical nature.” The Communist shifted slightly, almost turning his back on Kassner, and the latter had to listen closely to their voices to be able to tell who was talking. The prisoner was speaking in a low, impersonal voice, as if he were deliberately using such a tone to show that it was not he, himself, who was answering, but someone else who was being forced to reply under duress and was not responsible for his ac- tions. The interrogator’s voice sounded detached, even younger than his youthful looks suggested. As he listened, Kassner waited for something in the voice and words which would gradually give him an insight into the character of this young man who was to be responsible for his fate. The latter was looking at the prisoner, who was looking into space. “You’ve been to Russia.” “As a technician: I was working for the Electrozavod.”² “We’ll look into that. What post did you hold in the German Volga Republic?”³ “Never been to any such Republic. Nor to the Volga.” “What cell did you belong to in Berlin?” “Ex-1015.” “We’ll see. Who was your leader?” The Communist’s back was completely turned towards him now, and Kassner lis- tened for his reply. “Hans.” “I knew it. I want his surname! Are you making fun of me, arse-hole?” “We only ever knew our comrades by their first names. It was always like that, who- ever it was.” “His address?” “I only ever saw him at the cell.” “All right. Well, I’m going to put you in one of ours: you’ll see how that will im- prove your memory. How long were you at Moabit?”⁵ “Six months.” “One hundred and eighty days after your arrest...?” Kassner finally began thinking about his own arrest. The SAS had taken him off in a bus to begin with, (which, because its passengers were all Nazis, seemed even more stifling than a prison van). One of the businesses he was supposed to be running was a small factory which made adjustable airscrews, which meant that, from time to time, he was officially permitted to use a plane. The latter was lying dormant now, out there in its hangar and, for the whole journey, it had been the only thing Kassner could think about. On one of the street corners some men were singing while they were repainting an ironmonger's shop-front — its gaudy colours reminded him of the Red Square... Until then, everything had seemed unreal to him, more like a ritual than a dream. “One hundred and eighty...” the interrogator resumed. “Well, well... So who’s been sleeping with your wife all this time?” Had the prisoner given any hint that the blow had struck home, while the other man had been staring at him so intently? Kassner was intensely aware of the pris- oner’s unwilling presence, stuck there physically captive, yet striving hard to remain mentally detached from what was happening. The interrogator softened his tone, less aggressive now. “Who’s sleeping with your wife then?” he repeated. Kassner put himself in the Communist’s shoes, feeling somehow like a spectator and a tragic actor at one and the same time and could not think straight any more. “I’m not married,” the prisoner replied, shifting sideways again. Another pause. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have a woman...,” the Nazi finally replied, in the same indifferent tone of voice. The two men stared at one another with weary disgust. The official jerked his chin: two SA men led the prisoner away, then pushed Kassner towards the table. The Nazi looked at him, opened a dossier and took out a photo. Like anyone who has ever needed to conceal their identity from time to time, every single feature of his own horsy elongated face, with its square-set jaws, was perma- nently imprinted on Kassner’s memory. Which photo was the Hitlerite scrutinising? Kassner could see it upside-down from where he was. Not much danger there: he’d had a short back and sides at the time it had been taken and the expression on that narrow, bony mask-like face, with its pointed ears, was passably different from the way he looked now, with his longish brown hair framing a haggard, thoroughbred face, giving him a vaguely romantic look. The photo had been taken when he’d had his mouth tightly closed; he knew that the minute he smiled his long teeth were exposed right down to the gums. Even when he was just biting his lower lip those teeth were still very obvious. He did so now — but only slightly, be- cause one of his molars was hurting him, — and dropped his gaze towards the table: usually his very large eyes appeared to be looking slightly more upwards than is natural and in order to conceal the white line which normally showed between his irises and lower lids he only needed to appear to be looking downwards. Silently, the Nazi stared first at the photo then at the face, in turn. Kassner knew that if he were recognised, he would be killed, whether or not he was officially condemned to death.

An age of oppression

an excerpt

CHAPTER I

Kassner was shoved into the guardroom just as a prisoner they were interrogating was finishing a sentence, but his words were drowned out by the usual police- station racket of rustling papers and clumping boots. Facing him on the other side of the table was a typical Hitlerite official: with the familiar square-jowled, angular face and virtually shaven head, his hair closely cropped from the ears up, and with short, blond tufts sticking up stiffly from his skull.

“... Party orders!”.

“Since when?”

“1924.”

“What post did you hold in the illegal Communist party?”

“I don’t know anything about any illegal party. Until January 1933 my duties in the German party were of a purely technical nature.”

The Communist shifted slightly, almost turning his back on Kassner, and the latter had to listen closely to their voices to be able to tell who was talking. The prisoner was speaking in a low, impersonal voice, as if he were deliberately using such a tone to show that it was not he, himself, who was answering, but someone else who was being forced to reply under duress and was not responsible for his ac- tions. The interrogator’s voice sounded detached, even younger than his youthful looks suggested. As he listened, Kassner waited for something in the voice and words which would gradually give him an insight into the character of this young man who was to be responsible for his fate.

The latter was looking at the prisoner, who was looking into space.

“You’ve been to Russia.”

“As a technician: I was working for the Electrozavod.”²

“We’ll look into that. What post did you hold in the German Volga Republic?”³

“Never been to any such Republic. Nor to the Volga.”

“What cell did you belong to in Berlin?”

“Ex-1015.”

“We’ll see. Who was your leader?”

The Communist’s back was completely turned towards him now, and Kassner lis- tened for his reply.

“Hans.”

“I knew it. I want his surname! Are you making fun of me, arse-hole?”

“We only ever knew our comrades by their first names. It was always like that, who- ever it was.”

“His address?”

“I only ever saw him at the cell.”

“All right. Well, I’m going to put you in one of ours: you’ll see how that will im- prove your memory. How long were you at Moabit?”⁵

“Six months.”

“One hundred and eighty days after your arrest...?”

Kassner finally began thinking about his own arrest. The SAS had taken him off in a bus to begin with, (which, because its passengers were all Nazis, seemed even more stifling than a prison van). One of the businesses he was supposed to be running was a small factory which made adjustable airscrews, which meant that, from time to time, he was officially permitted to use a plane. The latter was lying dormant now, out there in its hangar and, for the whole journey, it had been the only thing Kassner could think about. On one of the street corners some men were singing while they were repainting an ironmonger's shop-front — its gaudy colours reminded him of the Red Square... Until then, everything had seemed unreal to him, more like a ritual than a dream.

“One hundred and eighty...” the interrogator resumed. “Well, well... So who’s been sleeping with your wife all this time?”

Had the prisoner given any hint that the blow had struck home, while the other man had been staring at him so intently?

Kassner was intensely aware of the pris- oner’s unwilling presence, stuck there physically captive, yet striving hard to remain mentally detached from what was happening.

The interrogator softened his tone, less aggressive now. “Who’s sleeping with your wife then?” he repeated. Kassner put himself in the Communist’s shoes, feeling somehow like a spectator and a tragic actor at one and the same time and could not think straight any more.

“I’m not married,” the prisoner replied, shifting sideways again. Another pause.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have a woman...,” the Nazi finally replied, in the same indifferent tone of voice.

The two men stared at one another with weary disgust.

The official jerked his chin: two SA men led the prisoner away, then pushed Kassner towards the table. The Nazi looked at him, opened a dossier and took out a photo. Like anyone who has ever needed to conceal their identity from time to time, every single feature of his own horsy elongated face, with its square-set jaws, was perma- nently imprinted on Kassner’s memory. Which photo was the Hitlerite scrutinising? Kassner could see it upside-down from where he was. Not much danger there: he’d had a short back and sides at the time it had been taken and the expression on that narrow, bony mask-like face, with its pointed ears, was passably different from the way he looked now, with his longish brown hair framing a haggard, thoroughbred face, giving him a vaguely romantic look. The photo had been taken when he’d had his mouth tightly closed; he knew that the minute he smiled his long teeth were exposed right down to the gums. Even when he was just biting his lower lip those teeth were still very obvious. He did so now — but only slightly, be- cause one of his molars was hurting him, — and dropped his gaze towards the table: usually his very large eyes appeared to be looking slightly more upwards than is natural and in order to conceal the white line which normally showed between his irises and lower lids he only needed to appear to be looking downwards. Silently, the Nazi stared first at the photo then at the face, in turn. Kassner knew that if he were recognised, he would be killed, whether or not he was officially condemned to death.