Read Online A Possible Life by Sebastian Faulks - Free Book Online
Authors: Sebastian Faulks
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say.
‘Listen,’ said Trembath. ‘Listen.’
There were wails and screeches coming from a building nearby.
‘What the hell …’
‘Oh God. It’s the Frenchwomen.’
‘Did you see?’
‘No, once they were inside, we were sent away. The SS took over.’
‘What happens?’
‘They lock them in a shower room. An SS man puts in pellets through the roof. I saw a guard in a gas mask. We’re not meant to see what they do. For fear that one day, when the war’s over …’
Headlights of the trucks swept over the walls of the bunkhouse; they could hear the individual cries of children, men and women. Normally a lorry would have revved its engine loudly to drown the noises. All through the night was the sound of screaming and, closer to home, of men in the bunkhouse who had lost control. In the morning it was impossible to get into the ablutions room for the number of them hanging from the pipes in the ceiling.
It was a relief to march to the work site the following day, to dig with head lowered. Geoffrey wore the uniform of the Special Unit and feared that it made him conspicuous and liable for further ‘special’ duties. He did his best to keep his eyes on the frozen ground.
That night, he tried to understand what he had seen. He tried to place it, without feeling crushed by it. He had no idea what reserves he had, how great his desire to live at any price. The French people, he heard, were all Jews, some refugees from Eastern Europe, but most of them French nationals from Poitiers, Paris or Limoges.
Geoffrey was not sure he had met anyone Jewish in England. There had been a mathematician called Isaacs in the college next to his and, when he came to think of it, a physicist in his own college called Levi. Perhaps old Samuels, the psychologist who had given such a good report on him to Mr Green in London, was Jewish. These were names he recognised from the Bible, which furnished almost his entire idea of Jews, their history and beliefs. ‘Heroic’ was the word he would have used to describe them – frequently enslaved or exiled, yet able to draw on a limitless supply of soldiers, prophets and commanders: Saul, David, Solomon, Elijah, Moses, Daniel, Joshua, Gideon … Their stories had been repeated to him in Scripture lessons at his Hampshire school a hundred times; he had thrilled to the lions’ den, the fiery furnace, the fall of Jericho and the parting of the Red Sea. What on earth was the point of taking a French seamstress from a backstreet in Lyons and transporting her across Europe to be murdered, on the grounds that some distant ancestor might once have plied his trade from Dan to Beersheba?
He turned on his side. The bunk now had a paper mattress that Trembath had bartered from an old Slovak. Geoffrey fixed his thoughts on England, certainties, and the life he had led as a child. He remembered his excitement on the September day he went to the village school and first encountered other children. His time at home was pleasant enough, but his parents didn’t understand what a boy’s world was like. Yet as soon as he met the children of the surrounding villages he found they all had the same enthusiasm for anarchy. There was no need to explain; once the bell rang and they roared into the yard, they all knew what to do. He was a pack animal who had found his place. Some of them won form prizes, some were good at football, others at art or adding up, but among themselves they made so few distinctions that they were surprised when life later seemed to push them into different channels. Geoffrey did not notice his own distinction in lessons or on the playing fields until his last year, when on seven occasions he went past fifty for the First XI and found himself steered once more toward the exam room, this time for university entrance.
Trembath was a bit of an ass in many ways, Geoffrey admitted to himself, but while he was still there, with his attachment to the proper way of doing things, it was
‘Listen,’ said Trembath. ‘Listen.’
There were wails and screeches coming from a building nearby.
‘What the hell …’
‘Oh God. It’s the Frenchwomen.’
‘Did you see?’
‘No, once they were inside, we were sent away. The SS took over.’
‘What happens?’
‘They lock them in a shower room. An SS man puts in pellets through the roof. I saw a guard in a gas mask. We’re not meant to see what they do. For fear that one day, when the war’s over …’
Headlights of the trucks swept over the walls of the bunkhouse; they could hear the individual cries of children, men and women. Normally a lorry would have revved its engine loudly to drown the noises. All through the night was the sound of screaming and, closer to home, of men in the bunkhouse who had lost control. In the morning it was impossible to get into the ablutions room for the number of them hanging from the pipes in the ceiling.
It was a relief to march to the work site the following day, to dig with head lowered. Geoffrey wore the uniform of the Special Unit and feared that it made him conspicuous and liable for further ‘special’ duties. He did his best to keep his eyes on the frozen ground.
That night, he tried to understand what he had seen. He tried to place it, without feeling crushed by it. He had no idea what reserves he had, how great his desire to live at any price. The French people, he heard, were all Jews, some refugees from Eastern Europe, but most of them French nationals from Poitiers, Paris or Limoges.
Geoffrey was not sure he had met anyone Jewish in England. There had been a mathematician called Isaacs in the college next to his and, when he came to think of it, a physicist in his own college called Levi. Perhaps old Samuels, the psychologist who had given such a good report on him to Mr Green in London, was Jewish. These were names he recognised from the Bible, which furnished almost his entire idea of Jews, their history and beliefs. ‘Heroic’ was the word he would have used to describe them – frequently enslaved or exiled, yet able to draw on a limitless supply of soldiers, prophets and commanders: Saul, David, Solomon, Elijah, Moses, Daniel, Joshua, Gideon … Their stories had been repeated to him in Scripture lessons at his Hampshire school a hundred times; he had thrilled to the lions’ den, the fiery furnace, the fall of Jericho and the parting of the Red Sea. What on earth was the point of taking a French seamstress from a backstreet in Lyons and transporting her across Europe to be murdered, on the grounds that some distant ancestor might once have plied his trade from Dan to Beersheba?
He turned on his side. The bunk now had a paper mattress that Trembath had bartered from an old Slovak. Geoffrey fixed his thoughts on England, certainties, and the life he had led as a child. He remembered his excitement on the September day he went to the village school and first encountered other children. His time at home was pleasant enough, but his parents didn’t understand what a boy’s world was like. Yet as soon as he met the children of the surrounding villages he found they all had the same enthusiasm for anarchy. There was no need to explain; once the bell rang and they roared into the yard, they all knew what to do. He was a pack animal who had found his place. Some of them won form prizes, some were good at football, others at art or adding up, but among themselves they made so few distinctions that they were surprised when life later seemed to push them into different channels. Geoffrey did not notice his own distinction in lessons or on the playing fields until his last year, when on seven occasions he went past fifty for the First XI and found himself steered once more toward the exam room, this time for university entrance.
Trembath was a bit of an ass in many ways, Geoffrey admitted to himself, but while he was still there, with his attachment to the proper way of doing things, it was
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