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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 101/159
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This
is
the
squalid
,
or
moving
,
part
of
the
story
,
and
the
scene
changes
.
The
people
change
,
too
.
I
’
m
still
around
,
but
from
here
on
in
,
for
reasons
I
’
m
not
at
liberty
to
disclose
,
I
’
ve
disguised
myself
so
cunningly
that
even
the
cleverest
reader
will
fail
to
recognize
me
.
It
was
about
ten
-
thirty
at
night
in
Gaufurt
,
Bavaria
,
several
weeks
after
V
-
E
Day
.
Staff
Sergeant
X
was
in
his
room
on
the
second
floor
of
the
civilian
home
in
which
he
and
nine
other
American
soldiers
had
been
quartered
,
even
before
the
armistice
.
He
was
seated
on
a
folding
wooden
chair
at
a
small
,
messy
-
looking
writing
table
,
with
a
paperback
overseas
novel
open
before
him
,
which
he
was
having
great
trouble
reading
.
The
trouble
lay
with
him
,
not
the
novel
.
Although
the
men
who
lived
on
the
first
floor
usually
had
first
grab
at
the
books
sent
each
month
by
Special
Services
,
X
usually
seemed
to
be
left
with
the
book
he
might
have
selected
himself
.
But
he
was
a
young
man
who
had
not
come
through
the
war
with
all
his
faculties
intact
,
and
for
more
than
an
hour
he
had
been
triple
-
reading
paragraphs
,
and
now
he
was
doing
it
to
the
sentences
.
He
suddenly
closed
the
book
,
without
marking
his
place
.
With
his
hand
,
he
shielded
his
eyes
for
a
moment
against
the
harsh
,
watty
glare
from
the
naked
bulb
over
the
table
.
He
took
a
cigarette
from
a
pack
on
the
table
and
lit
it
with
fingers
that
bumped
gently
and
incessantly
against
one
another
.
He
sat
back
a
trifle
in
his
chair
and
smoked
without
any
sense
of
taste
.
He
had
been
chain
-
smoking
for
weeks
.
His
gums
bled
at
the
slightest
pressure
of
the
tip
of
his
tongue
,
and
he
seldom
stopped
experimenting
;
it
was
a
little
game
he
played
,
sometimes
by
the
hour
.
He
sat
for
a
moment
smoking
and
experimenting
.
Then
,
abruptly
,
familiarly
,
and
,
as
usual
,
with
no
warning
,
he
thought
he
felt
his
mind
dislodge
itself
and
teeter
,
like
insecure
luggage
on
an
overhead
rack
.
He
quickly
did
what
he
had
been
doing
for
weeks
to
set
things
right
:
he
pressed
his
hands
hard
against
his
temples
.
He
held
on
tight
for
a
moment
.
His
hair
needed
cutting
,
and
it
was
dirty
.
He
had
washed
it
three
or
four
times
during
his
two
weeks
’
stay
at
the
hospital
in
Frankfort
on
the
Main
,
but
it
had
got
dirty
again
on
the
long
,
dusty
jeep
ride
back
to
Gaufurt
.
Corporal
Z
,
who
had
called
for
him
at
the
hospital
,
still
drove
a
jeep
combat
-
style
,
with
the
windshield
down
on
the
hood
,
armistice
or
no
armistice
.
There
were
thousands
of
new
troops
in
Germany
.
By
driving
with
his
windshield
down
,
combat
-
style
,
Corporal
Z
hoped
to
show
that
he
was
not
one
of
them
,
that
not
by
a
long
shot
was
he
some
new
son
of
a
bitch
in
the
E
.
T
.
O
.
When
he
let
go
of
his
head
,
X
began
to
stare
at
the
surface
of
the
writing
table
,
which
was
a
catchall
for
at
least
two
dozen
unopened
letters
and
at
least
five
or
six
unopened
packages
,
all
addressed
to
him
.
He
reached
behind
the
debris
and
picked
out
a
book
that
stood
against
the
wall
.
It
was
a
book
by
Goebbels
,
entitled
"
Die
Zeit
Ohne
Beispiel
.
"
It
belonged
to
the
thirty
-
eight
-
year
-
old
,
unmarried
daughter
of
the
family
that
,
up
to
a
few
weeks
earlier
,
had
been
living
in
the
house
.
She
had
been
a
low
official
in
the
Nazi
Party
,
but
high
enough
,
by
Army
Regulations
standards
,
to
fall
into
an
automatic
-
arrest
category
.
X
himself
had
arrested
her
.
Now
,
for
the
third
time
since
he
had
returned
from
the
hospital
that
day
,
he
opened
the
woman
’
s
book
and
read
the
brief
inscription
on
the
flyleaf
.
Written
in
ink
,
in
German
,
in
a
small
,
hopelessly
sincere
handwriting
,
were
the
words
"
Dear
God
,
life
is
hell
.
"
Nothing
led
up
to
or
away
from
it
.
Alone
on
the
page
,
and
in
the
sickly
stillness
of
the
room
,
the
words
appeared
to
have
the
stature
of
an
uncontestable
,
even
classic
indictment
.
X
stared
at
the
page
for
several
minutes
,
trying
,
against
heavy
odds
,
not
to
be
taken
in
.
Then
,
with
far
more
zeal
than
he
had
done
anything
in
weeks
,
he
picked
up
a
pencil
stub
and
wrote
down
under
the
inscription
,
in
English
,
"
Fathers
and
teachers
,
I
ponder
'
What
is
hell
?
’
I
maintain
that
it
is
the
suffering
of
being
unable
to
love
.
"
He
started
to
write
Dostoevski
’
s
name
under
the
inscription
,
but
saw
—
with
fright
that
ran
through
his
whole
body
—
that
what
he
had
written
was
almost
entirely
illegible
.
He
shut
the
book
.
He
quickly
picked
up
something
else
from
the
table
,
a
letter
from
his
older
brother
in
Albany
.
It
had
been
on
his
table
even
before
he
had
checked
into
the
hospital
.
He
opened
the
envelope
,
loosely
resolved
to
read
the
letter
straight
through
,
but
read
only
the
top
half
of
the
first
page
.
He
stopped
after
the
words
"
Now
that
the
g
.
d
.
war
is
over
and
you
probably
have
a
lot
of
time
over
there
,
how
about
sending
the
kids
a
couple
of
bayonets
or
swastikas
.
.
.
"
After
he
’
d
torn
it
up
,
he
looked
down
at
the
pieces
as
they
lay
in
the
wastebasket
.
He
saw
that
he
had
overlooked
an
enclosed
snapshot
.
He
could
make
out
somebody
’
s
feet
standing
on
a
lawn
somewhere
.
He
put
his
arms
on
the
table
and
rested
his
head
on
them
.
He
ached
from
head
to
foot
,
all
zones
of
pain
seemingly
interdependent
.
He
was
rather
like
a
Christmas
tree
whose
lights
,
wired
in
series
,
must
all
go
out
if
even
one
bulb
is
defective
.
The
door
banged
open
,
without
having
been
rapped
on
.
X
raised
his
head
,
turned
it
,
and
saw
Corporal
Z
standing
in
the
door
.
Corporal
Z
had
been
X
’
s
jeep
partner
and
constant
companion
from
D
Day
straight
through
five
campaigns
of
the
war
.
