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- Джозеф Хеллер
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- Уловка 22
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- Стр. 405/452
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"
Stay
here
and
help
me
find
her
,
"
pleaded
Yossarian
.
"
You
can
smuggle
illegal
tobacco
tomorrow
.
"
But
Milo
was
deaf
and
kept
pushing
forward
,
nonviolently
but
irresistibly
,
sweating
,
his
eyes
,
as
though
he
were
in
the
grip
of
a
blind
fixation
,
burning
feverishly
,
and
his
twitching
mouth
slavering
.
He
moaned
calmly
as
though
in
remote
,
instinctive
distress
and
kept
repeating
,
"
Illegal
tobacco
,
illegal
tobacco
.
"
Yossarian
stepped
out
of
the
way
with
resignation
finally
when
he
saw
it
was
hopeless
to
try
to
reason
with
him
.
Milo
was
gone
like
a
shot
.
The
commissioner
of
police
unbuttoned
his
tunic
again
and
looked
at
Yossarian
with
contempt
.
"
What
do
you
want
here
?
"
he
asked
coldly
.
"
Do
you
want
me
to
arrest
you
?
"
Yossarian
walked
out
of
the
office
and
down
the
stairs
into
the
dark
,
tomblike
street
,
passing
in
the
hall
the
stout
woman
with
warts
and
two
chins
,
who
was
already
on
her
way
back
in
.
There
was
no
sign
of
Milo
outside
.
There
were
no
lights
in
any
of
the
windows
.
The
deserted
sidewalk
rose
steeply
and
continuously
for
several
blocks
.
He
could
see
the
glare
of
a
broad
avenue
at
the
top
of
the
long
cobblestone
incline
.
The
police
station
was
almost
at
the
bottom
;
the
yellow
bulbs
at
the
entrance
sizzled
in
the
dampness
like
wet
torches
.
A
frigid
,
fine
rain
was
falling
.
He
began
walking
slowly
,
pushing
uphill
.
Soon
he
came
to
a
quiet
,
cozy
,
inviting
restaurant
with
red
velvet
drapes
in
the
windows
and
a
blue
neon
sign
near
the
door
that
said
:
TONY
’
S
RESTAURANT
FINE
FOOD
AND
DRINK
.
KEEP
OUT
.
The
words
on
the
blue
neon
sign
surprised
him
mildly
for
only
an
instant
.
Nothing
warped
seemed
bizarre
any
more
in
his
strange
,
distorted
surroundings
.
The
tops
of
the
sheer
buildings
slanted
in
weird
,
surrealistic
perspective
,
and
the
street
seemed
tilted
.
He
raised
the
collar
of
his
warm
woolen
coat
and
hugged
it
around
him
.
The
night
was
raw
.
A
boy
in
a
thin
shirt
and
thin
tattered
trousers
walked
out
of
the
darkness
on
bare
feet
.
The
boy
had
black
hair
and
needed
a
haircut
and
shoes
and
socks
.
His
sickly
face
was
pale
and
sad
.
His
feet
made
grisly
,
soft
,
sucking
sounds
in
the
rain
puddles
on
the
wet
pavement
as
he
passed
,
and
Yossarian
was
moved
by
such
intense
pity
for
his
poverty
that
he
wanted
to
smash
his
pale
,
sad
,
sickly
face
with
his
fist
and
knock
him
out
of
existence
because
he
brought
to
mind
all
the
pale
,
sad
,
sickly
children
in
Italy
that
same
night
who
needed
haircuts
and
needed
shoes
and
socks
.
He
made
Yossarian
think
of
cripples
and
of
cold
and
hungry
men
and
women
,
and
of
all
the
dumb
,
passive
,
devout
mothers
with
catatonic
eyes
nursing
infants
outdoors
that
same
night
with
chilled
animal
udders
bared
insensibly
to
that
same
raw
rain
.
Cows
.
Almost
on
cue
,
a
nursing
mother
padded
past
holding
an
infant
in
black
rags
,
and
Yossarian
wanted
to
smash
her
too
,
because
she
reminded
him
of
the
barefoot
boy
in
the
thin
shirt
and
thin
,
tattered
trousers
and
of
all
the
shivering
,
stupefying
misery
in
a
world
that
never
yet
had
provided
enough
heat
and
food
and
justice
for
all
but
an
ingenious
and
unscrupulous
handful
.
What
a
lousy
earth
!
He
wondered
how
many
people
were
destitute
that
same
night
even
in
his
own
prosperous
country
,
how
many
homes
were
shanties
,
how
many
husbands
were
drunk
and
wives
socked
,
and
how
many
children
were
bullied
,
abused
or
abandoned
.
How
many
families
hungered
for
food
they
could
not
afford
to
buy
?
How
many
hearts
were
broken
?
How
many
suicides
would
take
place
that
same
night
,
how
many
people
would
go
insane
?
How
many
cockroaches
and
landlords
would
triumph
?
How
many
winners
were
losers
,
successes
failures
,
rich
men
poor
men
?
How
many
wise
guys
were
stupid
?
How
many
happy
endings
were
unhappy
endings
?
How
many
honest
men
were
liars
,
brave
men
cowards
,
loyal
men
traitors
,
how
many
sainted
men
were
corrupt
,
how
many
people
in
positions
of
trust
had
sold
their
souls
to
blackguards
for
petty
cash
,
how
many
had
never
had
souls
?
How
many
straight
-
and
-
narrow
paths
were
crooked
paths
?
How
many
best
families
were
worst
families
and
how
many
good
people
were
bad
people
?
When
you
added
them
all
up
and
then
subtracted
,
you
might
be
left
with
only
the
children
,
and
perhaps
with
Albert
Einstein
and
an
old
violinist
or
sculptor
somewhere
.
Yossarian
walked
in
lonely
torture
,
feeling
estranged
,
and
could
not
wipe
from
his
mind
the
excruciating
image
of
the
barefoot
boy
with
sickly
cheeks
until
he
turned
the
corner
into
the
avenue
finally
and
came
upon
an
Allied
soldier
having
convulsions
on
the
ground
,
a
young
lieutenant
with
a
small
,
pale
,
boyish
face
.
Six
other
soldiers
from
different
countries
wrestled
with
different
parts
of
him
,
striving
to
help
him
and
hold
him
still
.
He
yelped
and
groaned
unintelligibly
through
clenched
teeth
,
his
eyes
rolled
up
into
his
head
.
"
Don
’
t
let
him
bite
his
tongue
off
,
"
a
short
sergeant
near
Yossarian
advised
shrewdly
,
and
a
seventh
man
threw
himself
into
the
fray
to
wrestle
with
the
ill
lieutenant
’
s
face
.
All
at
once
the
wrestlers
won
and
turned
to
each
other
undecidedly
,
for
now
that
they
held
the
young
lieutenant
rigid
they
did
not
know
what
to
do
with
him
.
A
quiver
of
moronic
panic
spread
from
one
straining
brute
face
to
another
.
"
Why
don
’
t
you
lift
him
up
and
put
him
on
the
hood
of
that
car
?
"
a
corporal
standing
in
back
of
Yossarian
drawled
.
That
seemed
to
make
sense
,
so
the
seven
men
lifted
the
young
lieutenant
up
and
stretched
him
out
carefully
on
the
hood
of
a
parked
car
,
still
pinning
each
struggling
part
of
him
down
.
Once
they
had
him
stretched
out
on
the
hood
of
the
parked
car
,
they
stared
at
each
other
uneasily
again
,
for
they
had
no
idea
what
to
do
with
him
next
.
"
Why
don
’
t
you
lift
him
up
off
the
hood
of
that
car
and
lay
him
down
on
the
ground
?
"
drawled
the
same
corporal
behind
Yossarian
.
That
seemed
like
a
good
idea
,
too
,
and
they
began
to
move
him
back
to
the
sidewalk
,
but
before
they
could
finish
,
a
jeep
raced
up
with
a
flashing
red
spotlight
at
the
side
and
two
military
policemen
in
the
front
seat
.
"
What
’
s
going
on
?
"
the
driver
yelled
.
"
He
’
s
having
convulsions
,
"
one
of
the
men
grappling
with
one
of
the
young
lieutenant
’
s
limbs
answered
.
"
We
’
re
holding
him
still
.
"
"
That
’
s
good
.
He
’
s
under
arrest
.
"
"
What
should
we
do
with
him
?
"
