Read Online Youth Without God by Odon Von Horvath - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Odon Von Horvath
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He’s—you know!”
“Why should he be on that account?”
“To keep a diary is a typical expression of egotism and conceit,” he replied.
“I dare say,” I answered—cautiously, for I was almost sure I’d heard this rubbish on the radio.
“Z’s brought a box to keep his diary locked up in.”
“Tell Z I’d like to see him.”
I let N go when Z arrived.
“Why are you always fighting with N?” I asked him in his turn.
I received a startling answer.
“Because he’s a plebeian.”
The rich plebeians …
“He can’t tolerate anybody being a bit introspective. It makes him mad. I keep a diary, you know—it’s locked up in my box—he’s been wanting to smash it lately, so I keep hiding it, sir. It’s in my sleeping-bag in the day-time. At night I sleep with it.”
“And where,” I asked him slowly, “do you keep it when you’re on sentry duty?”
“In my sleeping-bag,” he replied at once.
“And in this book I take it you write up all your experiences?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What you see—and hear—everything?”
He flushed.
“Yes.”
Should I ask him now about the letter? No. For already my mind was made up. I would read his diary.
My eyes followed him as he left me.
Introspection—wasn’t that the word he used? I’d read his very thoughts.
17. ADAM AND EVE
SOON AFTER FOUR, THE REGIMENT WAS ON THE march. The “cooks” went too this time, for the sergeant didn’t want to omit anybody from his instruction. It was trenches now—how to dig them, what ground was best for dug-outs, et cetera. His sprained foot had doubled his passion for explaining things.
So that I was the only person left in the camp.
Scarcely had the regiment disappeared into the wood when I let myself into the three youngsters’ tent. I found their three sleeping-bags. On one of them lay a letter—not
the
letter, of course! It was addressed to “Otto N. from (Mrs.) Elizabeth N——” the baker’s wife! I couldn’t resist glancing through it, to see what N’s mother had written.
My dear Otto [I read]. Thanks for your p.c. Your father and I are so pleased to know you’re feeling well. That’s fine. But mind and see that your stockings don’t get mixed up with the other boys’. So you’re going to start shooting in a day or so? My Otto, shooting!—doesn’t the time fly! When you start, your father says think of him, he was the best shot in his company. What do you think, Maudi died yesterday. The day before she was so playful and full of life in her cage, twittering and singing, it wasbeautiful. And now she’s gone—I don’t know what it was, some illness canaries get. Her little legs were so limp. I burned her up in the fire. Yesterday we had a lovely piece of venison, and cranberries. We thought of you. Do they feed you well? Father sends you his love, he says always tell him if your teacher says anything else like he did about the niggers, and he’ll break his neck. Well, Otto, my dear, we both send you our love. Good-bye. Your loving mother.
The next sleeping-bag held nothing hidden. This was R’s. So the box must be inside the third: and then I found it. A thin bluish metal box with a very simple lock. I’d have to try it with a piece of wire.
I was soon successful.
Inside lay letters, postcards, and a book bound in green leather. “ MY DIARY ” was printed on the cover in gilt lettering. On the fly-leaf there was an inscription:
“From Mummy. Christmas 193—.”
Who was Z’s mother? Some official’s wife—or widow, I seemed to remember.
The first entries Z had made were about a Christmas-tree. I turned over a few pages and came to Easter. In this first section, something had been written every day, but later, only every other day, and then at intervals—every fifth or sixth. Suddenly I came upon the letter.
A crumpled envelope. No stamp, no address.
Now to read it, at last! Quickly!
“Can’t come to-day. To-morrow at two. — EVE .”
Just that.
Eve? I know
“Why should he be on that account?”
“To keep a diary is a typical expression of egotism and conceit,” he replied.
“I dare say,” I answered—cautiously, for I was almost sure I’d heard this rubbish on the radio.
“Z’s brought a box to keep his diary locked up in.”
“Tell Z I’d like to see him.”
I let N go when Z arrived.
“Why are you always fighting with N?” I asked him in his turn.
I received a startling answer.
“Because he’s a plebeian.”
The rich plebeians …
“He can’t tolerate anybody being a bit introspective. It makes him mad. I keep a diary, you know—it’s locked up in my box—he’s been wanting to smash it lately, so I keep hiding it, sir. It’s in my sleeping-bag in the day-time. At night I sleep with it.”
“And where,” I asked him slowly, “do you keep it when you’re on sentry duty?”
“In my sleeping-bag,” he replied at once.
“And in this book I take it you write up all your experiences?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What you see—and hear—everything?”
He flushed.
“Yes.”
Should I ask him now about the letter? No. For already my mind was made up. I would read his diary.
My eyes followed him as he left me.
Introspection—wasn’t that the word he used? I’d read his very thoughts.
17. ADAM AND EVE
SOON AFTER FOUR, THE REGIMENT WAS ON THE march. The “cooks” went too this time, for the sergeant didn’t want to omit anybody from his instruction. It was trenches now—how to dig them, what ground was best for dug-outs, et cetera. His sprained foot had doubled his passion for explaining things.
So that I was the only person left in the camp.
Scarcely had the regiment disappeared into the wood when I let myself into the three youngsters’ tent. I found their three sleeping-bags. On one of them lay a letter—not
the
letter, of course! It was addressed to “Otto N. from (Mrs.) Elizabeth N——” the baker’s wife! I couldn’t resist glancing through it, to see what N’s mother had written.
My dear Otto [I read]. Thanks for your p.c. Your father and I are so pleased to know you’re feeling well. That’s fine. But mind and see that your stockings don’t get mixed up with the other boys’. So you’re going to start shooting in a day or so? My Otto, shooting!—doesn’t the time fly! When you start, your father says think of him, he was the best shot in his company. What do you think, Maudi died yesterday. The day before she was so playful and full of life in her cage, twittering and singing, it wasbeautiful. And now she’s gone—I don’t know what it was, some illness canaries get. Her little legs were so limp. I burned her up in the fire. Yesterday we had a lovely piece of venison, and cranberries. We thought of you. Do they feed you well? Father sends you his love, he says always tell him if your teacher says anything else like he did about the niggers, and he’ll break his neck. Well, Otto, my dear, we both send you our love. Good-bye. Your loving mother.
The next sleeping-bag held nothing hidden. This was R’s. So the box must be inside the third: and then I found it. A thin bluish metal box with a very simple lock. I’d have to try it with a piece of wire.
I was soon successful.
Inside lay letters, postcards, and a book bound in green leather. “ MY DIARY ” was printed on the cover in gilt lettering. On the fly-leaf there was an inscription:
“From Mummy. Christmas 193—.”
Who was Z’s mother? Some official’s wife—or widow, I seemed to remember.
The first entries Z had made were about a Christmas-tree. I turned over a few pages and came to Easter. In this first section, something had been written every day, but later, only every other day, and then at intervals—every fifth or sixth. Suddenly I came upon the letter.
A crumpled envelope. No stamp, no address.
Now to read it, at last! Quickly!
“Can’t come to-day. To-morrow at two. — EVE .”
Just that.
Eve? I know
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