CHAPTER TEN
N EXT MORNING, Hanna was dead. She had hanged herself at daybreak.
When I arrived, I was taken to the warden. I saw her for the first time—a small, thin woman with dark blond hair and glasses. She seemed insignificant until she began to speak, with force and warmth and a severe gaze and energetic use of both hands and arms. She asked me about my telephone conversation of the night before and the meeting the previous week. Had I picked up any signals, had it made me fear for her? I said no. Indeed, I had had no suspicions or fears that I had ignored.
“How did you get to know each other?”
“We lived in the same neighborhood.”
She looked at me searchingly, and I saw that I would have to say more.
“We lived in the same neighborhood and we got to know each other and became friends. When I was a young student, I was at the trial that convicted her.”
“Why did you send Frau Schmitz cassettes?”
I was silent.
“You knew that she was illiterate, didn’t you? How did you know?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t see what business the story of Hanna and me was of hers. Tears were filling my chest and throat, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to speak. I didn’t want to cry in front of her.
She must have seen how I was feeling. “Come with me, I’ll show you Frau Schmitz’s cell.” She went ahead, but kept turning around to tell me things or explain them to me. Here is where there had been a terrorist attack, here was the sewing shop where Hanna had worked, this is where Hanna once held a sit-down strike until cuts in library funding were reinstated, this was the way to the library. She stopped in front of the cell. “Frau Schmitz didn’t pack. You’ll see her cell the way she lived in it.”
Bed, closet, table, chair, a shelf on the wall over the table, a sink and toilet in the corner behind the door. Glass bricks instead of window glass. The table was bare. The shelf held books, an alarm clock, a stuffed bear, two mugs, instant coffee, tea tins, the cassette machine, and on two lower shelves, the cassettes I had made.
“They aren’t all here.”
The warden had followed my glance. “Frau Schmitz always lent some tapes to the aid society for blind prisoners.”
I went over to the bookshelf. Primo Levi, Elie Wiesel, Tadeusz Borowski, Jean Améry—the literature of the victims, next to the autobiography of Rudolf Hess, Hannah Arendt’s report on Eichmann in Jerusalem, and scholarly literature on the camps.
“Did Hanna read these?”
“Well, at least she ordered them with care. Several years ago I had to get her a general concentrationcamp bibliography, and then one or two years ago she asked me to suggest some books on women in the camps, both prisoners and guards; I wrote to the Institute for Contemporary History, and they sent a specialized bibliography. As soon as Frau Schmitz learned to read, she began to read about the concentration camps.”
Above the bed hung many small pictures and slips of paper. I knelt on the bed and read. There were quotations, poems, little articles, even recipes that Hanna had written down or cut out like pictures from newspapers and magazines. “Spring lets its blue banner flutter through the air again,” “Cloud shadows fly across the fields”—the poems were all full of delight in nature, and yearning for it, and the pictures showed woods bright with spring, meadows spangled with flowers, autumn foliage and single trees, a pasture by a stream, a cherry tree with ripe red cherries, an autumnal chestnut flamed in yellow and orange. A newspaper photograph showed an older man and a younger man, both in dark suits, shaking hands. In the young one, bowing to the older one, I recognized myself. I was graduating from school, and was getting a prize from the principal at the ceremony. That was a long time after Hanna had left the city. Had Hanna, who could not read, subscribed to the local paper in which my photo appeared? In any case she must have gone to some trouble to find out about the photo and get a copy. And had she had it with her during the trial? I felt the tears again in my chest and throat.
“She learned to read with you. She borrowed the books you read on tape out of the library, and followed what she heard, word by word and sentence by sentence. The tape machine couldn’t handle all that constant switching on and off, and rewinding and fast-forwarding. It kept breaking down and having to be repaired, and because that required permission, I finally found out what Frau Schmitz was doing. She didn’t want to tell me at first; when she also began to write, and asked me for a writing manual, she didn’t try to hide it any longer. She was also just proud that she had succeeded, and wanted to share her happiness.”
As she spoke, I had continued to kneel, my eyes on the pictures and notes, fighting back tears. When I turned around and sat down on the bed, she said, “She so hoped you would write. You were the only one she got mail from, and when the mail was distributed and she said ‘No letter for me?’ she wasn’t talking about the packages the tapes came in. Why did you never write?”
I still said nothing. I could not have spoken; all I could have done was to stammer and weep.
She went to the shelf, picked up a tea tin, sat down next to me, and took a folded sheet of paper from her suit pocket. “She left a letter for me, a sort of will. I’ll read the part that concerns you.” She unfolded the sheet of paper. “There is still money in the lavender tea tin. Give it to Michael Berg; he should send it, along with the 7,000 marks in the bank, to the daughter who survived the fire in the church with her mother. She should decide what to do with it. And tell him I say hello to him.”
So she had not left any message for me. Did she intend to hurt me? Or punish me? Or was her soul so tired that she could only do and write what was absolutely necessary? “What was she like all those years?” I waited until I could go on. “And how was she these last few days?”
“For years and years she lived here the way you would live in a convent. As if she had moved here of her own accord and voluntarily subjected herself to our system, as if the rather monotonous work was a sort of meditation. She was greatly respected by the other women, to whom she was friendly but reserved. More than that, she had authority, she was asked for her advice when there were problems, and if she intervened in an argument, her decision was accepted. Then a few years ago she gave up. She had always taken care of herself personally, she was slender despite her strong build, and meticulously clean. But now she began to eat a lot and seldom washed; she got fat and smelled. She didn’t seem unhappy or dissatisfied. In fact it was as though the retreat to the convent was no longer enough, as though life in the convent was still too sociable and talkative, and she had to retreat even further, into a lonely cell safe from all eyes, where looks, clothing, and smell meant nothing. No, it would be wrong to say that she had given up. She redefined her place in a way that was right for her, but no longer impressed the other women.”
“And the last days?”
“She was the way she always was.”
“Can I see her?”
She nodded, but remained seated. “Can the world become so unbearable to someone after years of loneliness? Is it better to kill yourself than to return to the world from the convent, from the hermitage?” She turned to me. “Frau Schmitz didn’t write anything about why she was going to kill herself. And you won’t say what there was between you that might have led to Frau Schmitz’s killing herself at the end of the night before you were due to pick her up.” She folded the piece of paper, put it away, stood up, and smoothed her skirt. “Her death is a blow to me, you see, and at the moment I’m very angry, at Frau Schmitz, and at you. But let’s go.”
She led the way again, this time silently. Hanna lay in the infirmary in a small cubicle. We could just fit between the wall and the stretcher. The warden pulled back the sheet.
A cloth had been tied around Hanna’s head to hold up her chin until the onset of rigor mortis. Her face was neither particularly peaceful nor particularly agonized. It looked rigid and dead. As I looked and looked, the living face became visible in the dead, the young in the old. This is what must happen to old married couples, I thought: the young man is preserved in the old one for her, the beauty and grace of the young woman stay fresh in the old one for him. Why had I not seen this reflection a week ago?
I must not cry. After a time, when the warden looked at me questioningly, I nodded, and she spread the sheet over Hanna’s face again.
第10节 第二天早上，汉娜死了。她在黎明时分自缢了。
当我赶到时，我被带到了女监狱长那儿。我是第一次见到她，她又瘦又小，头发是深黄色的，戴着一副眼镜。在她没有开始说话之前看上去并不引人注目，但是，她说话却铿锵有力，热情洋溢，目光严厉，且精力充沛地挥舞着手臂。她问我昨天晚上的那次电话和一周前的那次会面。问我是否有预感和担忧，我做了否定的回答，我确实没有过预感和担忧，我没有隐瞒。
"你们是在哪认识的？"
"我们住得很近。"她审视地看着我，我意识到我必须多说些，"我们住得很近，后来就相互认识并成了朋友，作为一名年轻的学生我旁听了对她的法庭审判。"
"您为什么要给史密兰女士寄录音带？"
我沉默不语。
"您知道她是文盲，对吗？您是从哪儿知道的？"
我耸耸肩，看不出汉娜和我的故事与她有什么关系。我眼里含着泪水，喉头哽咽着，我害怕自己因此无法说话，我不想在她面前哭泣。
她看出了我所处的状态。"跟我来，我给您看一下史密芝女士的单人间。"她走在前面，不时地转过身来向我报告或解释一些事情。她告诉我哪里曾遭受过恐怖分子的袭击，哪里是汉娜曾工作过的缝纫室，哪里是汉娜曾静坐过的地方——直到削减图书馆资金的决定得到纠正为止，哪里可通向图书馆。在一个单人间的门前，她停了下来说："史密芝女士没有整理她的东西，您所看到的样子就是她在此生活时的样子。"
床、衣柜、桌子和椅子，桌子上面的墙上有一个书架，在门后的角落里是洗漱池和厕所，代替一扇窗户的是玻璃砖。桌子上什么东西都没有，书架上摆著书、一个闹钟、一个布熊、两个杯子、速溶咖啡、茶叶罐，还有录音机，在下面两层架子上摆放着我给她录制的录音带。
"这不是全部，"女监狱长追踪着我的目光说，"史密芝女士总是把一些录音带借给救援机构里的盲人刑事犯。"
我走近书架，普里莫·莱维、埃利·维厄琴尔、塔多西·波洛夫斯基、让·艾默里，除鲁道夫·赫斯的自传札记外，还有受害者文学、汉纳·阿伦特关于艾希曼在耶路撒冷的报道和关于集中营的科学文学。
"汉娜读过这些吗？"
"不管怎么样，她是经过深思熟虑之后才订这些书的。好多年以前，我就不得不为她弄一本关于集中营的一般书目，一年或两年以前她又请求我给她提供关于集中营里的女人、女囚犯和女看守这方面书的书名。我给现代史所写过信，并收到了相应的特别书目。自从史密兰女士学会认字之后，她马上就开始读有关集中营的书籍。"
床头挂了许多小图片和纸条。我跪到了床上去读，它们或是一段文章的摘录，或是一首诗，或是一则短讯，或是汉娜抄录的食谱，或者从报纸杂志上剪裁下来的小图片。"春天让它蓝色的飘带在空中再次飘扬"，"云影在田野上掠过"。所有的诗歌都充满了对大自然的喜爱和向往，小图片上展现的是春意盎然的森林、万紫千红的草坪、秋天的落叶、一棵树。溪水旁的草地、一棵坠满了熟透果实的红樱桃树、一棵秋天的浅黄和桔黄的闪闪发光的栗子树。有一张从报纸上剪下来的照片，上面有一位老先生和一位穿着深色西装的年轻人在握手。我认出了那位给老先生鞠躬的年轻人就是我，那时我刚刚中学毕业，那是我在毕业典礼上接受校长授予的一个奖品，那是汉娜离开那座城市很久之后的事情了。她一个目不识丁的人当时就预订了那份登有那张照片的地方报纸了吗？无论如何为了进一步获悉并获得那张照片，她一定费了不少周折。在法庭审理期间，她就有那张照片了吗？她把它带在身边了吗？我的喉咙又哽咽了。
"她是跟您学会了认字。她从图书馆借来您为她在录音带上朗读的书，然后逐字逐句地与她所听到的进行对照。那台录音机因不能长久地承受一会儿往前转，一会儿往后倒带，一会儿暂停，一会儿放音，所以总是坏，总要修理。因为修理需要审批，所以，我最终明白了史密芝所做的事情。她最初不愿意说，但是，当她也开始写并向我申请笔和纸时，她再也不能掩饰了。她学会了读写，她简直为此而自豪，她要与人分享她的喜悦。"
当她讲这些时，我仍旧跪在那儿，目光始终注视着那些图片和小字条，尽力把眼泪咽了下去。当我转过身来坐在床上时，她说："她是多么希望您给她写信。她从您那儿只是收到邮包，每当邮件被分完了的时候，她都问：'没有我的信？'她是指信而不是指装有录音带的邮包。您为什么从不给她写信呢？"
我又沉默不语了。我已无法说话，只能结结巴巴，只想哭。
她走到书架前，拿下一个茶罐坐在我身边，从她的化妆包里掏出一张叠好的纸说："她给我留下一封信，类似一份遗嘱。我把涉及到您的地方念给您听。"她打开了那张纸读到："在那个紫色的菜罐里还有钱，把它交给米夏尔·白格；他应该把这些钱还有存在银行里的七千马克交给那位在教堂大火中和她母亲一起幸存下来的女儿。她该决定怎样使用这笔钱。还有，请您转告他，我向他问好。"
她没有给我留下任何信息。她想让我伤心吗？他要惩罚我吗？或者她的身心太疲惫不堪了，以至于她只能写下所有有必要做的事情？"她这些年来过得怎么样？"我需要等一会儿，直到我能继续说话，"她最后的日子怎样？"
"许多年来，她在这儿的生活与修道院里的生活相差无几，就好像她是心甘情愿地隐退到这里，就好像她是心甘情愿地服从这里的规章制度，就好像这相当单调无聊的工作对她来说是一种反思。她总与其他女囚保持一定距离，她在她们中间享有很高威望。此外，她还是个权威，别人有问题时都要去向她讨主意和办法，争吵的双方都愿意听她的裁决。可是，几年前，她放弃了一切。在这之前，她一直注意保持体型，相对她强壮的身体来说仍旧很苗条，而且她干净得有点过分。后来，她开始暴饮暴食，很少洗澡。她变得臃肿起来，闻上去有种味道，但是，她看上去并非不幸福或者不满足。事实上，好像隐退到修道院的生活对她来说已经不够了，好像修道院本身的生活还太成群结队，还太多嘴多舌，好像她必须进一步隐退到修道院中一间孤独的小房间里去。在那里，没有人再会看到她，在那里，外貌、服装和体味不再具有任何意义了。不，说她自暴自弃是不妥的，她重新确定了她的地位，而且采取的是只作用于自己，不施及他人的方式。"
"那么她最后的日子呢？"
"她还是老样子。"
"我可以看看她吗？"
她点点头，却仍！日坐着，"在经历了多年孤独生活后，世界就变得如此让人难以忍受吗？一个人宁愿自杀也不愿意从修道院，从隐居处再一次回到现实世界中去吗？"她转过脸来对我说："史密芝没有写她为什么要自杀。您又不说你俩之间的往事，不说是什么导致史密芝女士在您要来接她出狱的那天黎明时分自杀了。"她把那张纸叠在一起装好，站了起来，把裙子弄平整。'"她的死对我是个打击，您知道，眼下我很生气，生史密芝女士的气，生您的气。但是，我们还是走吧。"
她还是走在前面，这一次，一言不发。汉娜躺在病房里的一间小屋子里。我们刚好能在墙和担架之间站下脚。女监狱长把那块布揭开了。
汉娜的头上绑着一块布，为了使下额在进入僵硬状态后仍能被抬起来。她的面部表情既不特别宁静，也不特别痛苦。它看上去就是僵硬的死人。当我久久地望着她时，那张死亡的面孔变活了，变成了它年轻时的样子。我在想，这种感觉在老夫老妻之间才会产生。对她来说，老头子仍旧保持了年轻时的样子，而对他来说，美丽妩媚的年轻妻子变老了。为什么在一周之前我没有看出这些呢？
我一定不要哭出来。过了一会儿，当女监狱长审视地望着我时，我点点头，她又把那块布盖在了汉娜的脸上。
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