英文小說連載《朗讀者The Reader》Part 2 Chapter 8

　　THE GERMAN version of the book that the daughter had written about her time in the camps did not appear until after the trial. During the trial the manuscript was available， but to those directly involved. I had to read the book in English， an unfamiliar and laborious exercise at the time. And as always， the alien language， unmastered and struggled over， created a strange concatenation of distance and immediacy. I worked through the book with particular thoroughness and yet did not make it my own. It remained as alien as the language itself.

　　Years later I reread it and discovered that it is the book that creates distance. It does not invite one to identify with it and makes no one sympathetic， neither the mother nor the daughter， nor those who shared their fate in various camps and finally in Auschwitz and the satellite camp near Cracow. It never gives the barracks leaders， the female guards， or the uniformed security force clear enough faces or shapes for the reader to be able to relate to them， to judge their acts for better or worse. It exudes the very numbness I have tried to describe before. But even in her numbness the daughter did not lose the ability to observe and analyze. And she had not allowed herself to be corrupted either by self-pity or by the self-confidence she had obviously drawn from the fact that she had survived and not only come through the years in the camps but given literary form to them. She writes about herself and her pubescent， precocious， and， when necessary， cunning behavior with the same sobriety she uses to describe everything else.

　　Hanna is neither named in the book， nor is she recognizable or identifiable in any way. Sometimes I thought I recognized her in one of the guards， who was described as young， pretty， and conscientiously unscrupulous in the fulfillment of her duties， but I wasn’t sure. When I considered the other defendants， only Hanna could be the guard described. But there had been other guards. In one camp the daughter had known a guard who was called “Mare，” also young， beautiful， and diligent， but cruel and uncontrolled. The guard in the camp reminded her of that one. Had others drawn the same comparison？ Did Hanna know about it？ Did she remember it？ Was that why she was upset when I compared her to a horse？

　　The camp near Cracow was the last stop for mother and daughter after Auschwitz. It was a step forward； the work was hard， but easier， the food was better， and it was better to sleep six women to a room than a hundred to a barracks. And it was warmer； the women could forage for wood on the way from the factory to the camp， and bring it back with them. There was the fear of selections， but it wasn’t as bad as at Auschwitz. Sixty women were sent back each month， sixty out of around twelve hundred； that meant each prisoner had a life expectancy of twenty months， even if she only possessed average strength， and there was always the hope of being stronger than the average. Moreover， there was also the hope that the war would be over in less than twenty months.

　　The misery began when the camp was closed and the prisoners set off towards the west. It was winter， it was snowing， and the clothing in which the women had frozen in the factory and just managed to hold out in the camp was completely inadequate， but not as inadequate as what was on their feet， often rags and sheets of newspaper tied so as to stay on when they stood or walked around， but impossible to make withstand long marches in snow and ice. And the women did not just march； they were driven， and forced to run. “Death march？” asks the daughter in the book， and answers， “No， death trot， death gallop.” Many collapsed along the way； others never got to their feet again after nights spent in barns or leaning against a wall. After a week， almost half the women were dead.

　　The church made a better shelter than the barns and walls the women had had before. When they had passed abandoned farms and stayed overnight， the uniformed security force and the female guards had taken the living quarters for themselves. Here， in the almost deserted village， they could commandeer the priest’s house and still leave the prisoners something more than a barn or a wall. That they did it， and that the prisoners even got something warm to eat in the village seemed to promise an end to the misery. The women went to sleep. Shortly afterwards the bombs fell. As long as the steeple was the only thing burning， the fire could be heard in the church， but not seen. When the tip of the steeple collapsed and crashed down onto the rafters， it took several minutes for the glow of the fire to become visible. By then the flames were already licking downwards and setting clothes alight， collapsing burning beams set fire to the pews and pulpit， and soon the whole roof crashed into the nave and started a general conflagration.

　　The daughter thinks the women could have saved themselves if they had immediately gotten together to break down one of the doors. But by the time they realized what had happened and was going to happen， and that no one was coming to open the doors， it was too late. It was completely dark when the sound of the falling bombs woke them. For a while they heard nothing but an eerie， frightening noise in the steeple， and kept absolutely quiet， so as to hear the noise better and figure out what it was. That it was the crackling and snapping of a fire， that it was the glow of flames that flared up now and again behind the windows， that the crash above their heads signaled the spreading of the fire from the steeple to the roof—all this the women realized only once the rafters began to burn. They realized， they screamed in horror， screamed for help， threw themselves at the doors， shook them， beat at them， screamed.

　　When the burning roof crashed into the nave， the shell of the walls acted like a chimney. Most of the women did not suffocate， but burned to death in the brilliant roar of the flames. In the end， the fire even burned its glowing way through the ironclad church doors. But that was hours later.

　　Mother and daughter survived because the mother did the right thing for the wrong reasons. When the women began to panic， she couldn’t bear to be among them anymore. She fled to the gallery. She didn’t care that she was closer to the flames， she just wanted to be alone， away from the screaming， thrashing， burning women. The gallery was narrow， so narrow that it was barely touched by the burning beams. Mother and daughter stood pressed against the wall and saw and heard the raging of the fire. Next day they didn’t dare come down and out of the church. In the darkness of the following night， they were afraid of not finding the stairs and the way out. When they left the church in the dawn of the day after that， they met some of the villagers， who gaped at them in silent astonishment， but gave them clothing and food and let them walk on.

　　那位女兒寫的關(guān)于她在集中營生活的那本書的德文版，在法庭審判結(jié)束后才出版。雖然在法庭審理期間已經(jīng)有草稿，但是，只有與此案有關(guān)的人才能得到。我只好讀英文版的，這對當時的我來說是件非同尋常和頗為吃力的事情。運用一門尚未完全掌握的外語，總會讓人產(chǎn)生一種特有的若即若離、似是而非的感覺。盡管人們特別仔細認真地讀過那本書，但仍舊沒把它變?yōu)樽约旱臇|西。就像對書寫它的這門外語一樣，人們對它的內(nèi)容也感到陌生。

　　多年以后，我又重讀了那本書，并且發(fā)現(xiàn)，這種距離感是書本身造成的。它沒能讓你從中辨認出任何人，也不使任何人讓你同情，包括那母女倆以及和她們一起在不同的集中營里呆過，最后在奧斯威辛和克拉科夫遭受了共同命運的那些人。無論是集中營元老、女看守，還是警衛(wèi)，他們的形象都不鮮明，以致人們無法褒貶他們的行為。書中充斥著我在前面已經(jīng)描述過的那種麻木不仁。然而，在這種麻木不仁中，那位女兒并沒有失去記錄和分析事實的能力。她沒有垮下來，她的自憐和由此產(chǎn)生的自覺意識沒有使她垮下來。她活下來了，集中營里的那幾年，她不但熬過來了，而且還用文學形式又把它再現(xiàn)了出來。她冷靜客觀地描述一切，描寫她自己v她的青春期和她的早熟，如果必要的話還有她的機智。

　　書中既沒有出現(xiàn)漢娜的名字，也沒有任何東西可以讓人聯(lián)想到或辨認出她。有時候，我認為書中的某一位年輕漂亮的女看守就是漢娜：執(zhí)行任務(wù)時認真到喪盡天良的地步，但是，我又不能肯定。如果我仔細地對照一下其他被告的話，那個女看守又只能是漢娜。但是書中還有其他女看守。在一所集中營里，那位女兒領(lǐng)教了一位被稱做"牡馬"的女看守的厲害，她年輕漂亮，俗盡職守，殘酷無情，放蕩不羈，正是這些令作者回憶起了這個集中營里這一位女看守。其他人也做過這種比喻嗎？漢娜知道這些嗎？當我把她比喻為一匹馬時，她是不是回想起了這些，因而觸及了她的要害？

　　克拉科夫集中營是那母女倆去奧斯威辛的最后一站。相比之下，到那里算是改善。那兒的活雖然繁重，但是生活容易些，伙食好些，而且六個人睡在一個房間總也比上百號人睡在一間臨時搭建的木板房里要好。房里也暖和一些，女犯們可以從工廠回集中營的路上撿一些木材帶回來。人們恐怕被挑選出來，但是這種恐懼感也不像在奧斯威辛那樣嚴重。每個月有六十名女犯要被送回去，這六十名是從大約一千二百名中被挑選出來的。這樣一來，人們只需擁有一般體力就有希望繼續(xù)活二十個月，而且，人們甚至可以希望其體力超過一般水平。此外，人們也可以期望這場戰(zhàn)爭在不到二十個月的時間里就會結(jié)束。

　　隨著集中營的被解散和囚犯的西遷，悲慘再次降臨。當時正值隆冬時節(jié)，冰天雪地。女囚們身上穿的衣服在工廠里已是薄不可耐，在集中營里尚能讓人承受，但是在冰天雪地里就不足以抵寒了。她們的鞋子就更慘了，它們通常是用破布或報紙做的，這樣的鞋在站立和慢走時還能不散架子，但是在冰天雪地里進行長途跋涉就不可能不散架子了。那些女人不僅僅要長途跋涉，她們常被驅(qū)趕著小跑。"向死亡進軍？"那位女兒在書中這樣問道并回答道，"不，是趕死，是向死亡飛奔！"許多人在路上就垮掉了，又有許多人在糧倉里，或者在一面墻下過夜后就再也爬不起來了。一個星期之后，這些婦女中幾乎一半都死掉了。

　　教堂要比那些女囚此前的棲身之處——糧倉或墻下要好多了。在這之前，當她們經(jīng)過被遺棄的庭院并在那過夜時，警衛(wèi)隊和女看守們就分別占據(jù)能住人的房間。但在這里，一個正在被遺棄的村莊，看守們住進了教士住宅，而讓女囚們住進了一個比糧倉和墻角好得多的教堂里。她們這樣做了。在村子里她們甚至還得到了熱湯喝，好像結(jié)束這種痛苦不堪的生活變得有希望了。這些婦女就這樣入睡了。隨后不久炸彈就落了下來。教堂的塔尖在燃燒時，在教堂里面只能聽得見燃燒聲卻看不見火焰。塔尖坍塌并砸到屋架后，又過了幾分鐘才看得見火光，隨后火焰也一點一點地躥了進來，點燃了衣服。燃燒著的房梁掉下來點燃了座椅和布道壇。屋架很快塌人大堂，一切都熊熊燃燒了起來。

　　那位女兒認為，如果那些女人馬上齊心協(xié)力地砸開其中的一扇門的話，她們還是可以得救的。但是當她們明白過來，知道發(fā)生了什么事，什么事將要發(fā)生，以及沒人給她們開門時，為時已晚。當擊中教堂的炸彈把她們驚醒時，正值漆黑的夜晚，有好一會兒工夫，她們只聽得見塔頂上的一種令人奇怪和驚恐雜音。為了能更好地聽清楚、弄明白那雜音是怎么一回事，她們都屏住了呼吸。那是火焰發(fā)出劈劈啪啪的聲音，火光時而在窗后閃爍，那是投在她們頭頂上的炸彈，那意味著大火由塔頂蔓延到了房頂，女人們直到屋架上的火焰明顯地看得見的時候，才意識到這些。她們一旦意識到了這些，就開始大喊大叫，她們驚慌失措呼喊救命，向大門沖去，一邊叫喊，一邊拼命地搖撼和捶打著大門。

　　當燃燒的房頂轟轟隆隆地塌到教堂里面時，教堂里面的墻皮脫落下來使火勢更旺，就像一座壁爐一樣。大多數(shù)女人并不是窒息而死，而是被熊熊燃燒的大火給活活燒死的。最后，大火甚至燒透、燒紅了教堂的鐵皮大門，不過那是幾個小時之后的事情了。那母女倆能活下來，完全是僥幸。當那些女人陷入驚慌失措時，她們也在其中。由于實在無法忍受，她們逃到了教堂的廊臺上。盡管她們在那兒離火焰更近，但是這無所謂，她們只想單獨呆著，遠離那些吱哇亂叫的、擠來又擠去的、渾身上下著火的女人。廊臺上很狹窄，狹窄到燃燒著的房頂都沒有觸及到它。母女倆緊緊地挨在一起，站在墻邊，看著。聽著那大火的肆意燃燒。就是第二天她們都不敢走下臺階來，不敢走出去。夜幕降臨后，在黑暗中又擔心害怕摸不到臺階，找不到路。在第三天的黎明時分，當她們從教堂里走出來時，遇到了幾位村民。村民們不知所措，目瞪口呆地凝視著她們而說不出話來。他們給了她們衣物和食物，然后讓她們逃走了。