Solitary Confinement - Christopher Burney

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Solitary Confinement
By the same author
THE DUNGEON DEMOCRACY
CHRISTOPHER
BURNEY
Solitary
Confinement
Foreword by Christopher Fry
University of Tugs
McFarlin Library
Tulsa, Okla.
Coward-McCann, Ine.
New York
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Copyright, 1952 by Christopher Burney
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must

not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 52-13993
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES

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To Julia
For no thought is contented. The better sort,

As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d
With scruples, and do set the word itself
Against the word:
As thus—Come little ones; and then again—

It is as hard to come: as for a camel
To thread the postern of a small needle’s eye.
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Shakespeare.
King Richard II, Act V.
Se. ns.Ff, ie ;
akin gees
yy ian Sie oes See
a ; Phys (eae oft

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Pe” eel eines There ib aio tbe est .
; ou i oat i ae ‘ detect —f eat ,
a ie Mot ine a el » sulwene ees

i wy WRQit shit Reels satay a? ae wel
a -l fie condraey. bein: yo biovw best tid Y;
: hice nae TOSS ah 3 atoentts Yor 102. dt
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eo: “S Mde SV Coyne) pair,
mw Preface
Tuts BooK should have been a diary. That form

of writing not only palliates the first person singular
but has the added convenience of ensuring that after-
thought is neither included by the writer nor suspected
by the reader. Alternatively, in a book of memoirs after-
thought is intended by the. writer but. severely’ dis-
counted by the reader. Having written neither the one
nor the other—for lack of means at the time and_ of
years later—I must preface the book with a word. of
definition.
This is an account of what went on during eighteen
months of solitary confinement, but not a word of it
was, nor could have been, written until some eighteen
months after the end of the period. Some of the inci-
dents in the early weeks, therefore, were brooded: upon,
hoped about and criticized hour after hour in the fol-
lowing months. My account of thenu I believe to be
accurate, but I must admit that cogitation: may have
tailored them to psychological ends. Having no: real
means to verify them and eliminate any results of wish-
Vil
SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
ful thinking, I can only give the account I think true

with this qualification: if there is any bias, it is un-
doubtedly in the direction of making me cleverer than
I really was.
On the other hand, I have been diligent in whittling
away all the afterthoughts which I sometimes found
creeping in. Since I first began to write, more than six
years ago, I have read many books. If I had read them
earlier I might have been able to portray here a rather
more mature and instructed process of thought than
now appears, but it would not have been true to super-
impose them afterwards. Statements of belief and judg-
ment are therefore indicative of what I believed then,
without regard to what I have since learned. For exam-
ple, I wonder now whether the guards of the prison do
not come very well out of it, although I loathed them
at the time. This limitation in time I believe to be essen-
tial, though it requires some care: the value of an ante-
dated cheque is always precarious and its negotiation
difficult.
I will not embarrass the few friends who read the
manuscript by naming them. One caused me to write
a preface, another to change a word, while the third
simply thought me mad. I am equally grateful for the
trouble and perspicacity of each of them and for the
pains taken by the publishers.
November, 1951.
Vill
mwitn Foreword
Ir 1s coop to be allowed to share another man’s

solitude. Men are, on the whole, separated by their
communal activity; in solitude we draw nearer to our-
selves, and therefore nearer to our kind. It is seldom
enough that we can so feel ourselves into a fellow being
that for an instant of time we are almost identical; but,
when we do, it is likely to be into a moment of solitude.
No experience of my own is comparable with what is
described in this book, the irrigation of physical and
spiritual loneliness; and yet, here and there, for perhaps
a sentence or two at a time, I not only understood what
I read but I seemed to write what I was reading. My
small experience was lifted bodily into the greater. For
instance, I can remember, after my first four weeks of
Army training, standing on parade when a wheelbarrow
was trundled by. The wheelbarrow squeaked, and the
squeak was suddenly and acutely the voice of the world
from which, for the time being, I was cut off. So when
Christopher Burney, after months of solitary confine-
ment, is let out into the yard for exercise: when, as he
ix
turns to go back to his cell, he wonders whether to take

his last look at the sky or the grass, and picks a small
snail off the wall “‘to serve as a companion and as a
memorial,” I seem to take the snail between my own
fingers; my chafing is transformed into Burney’s long
patience.
No man is free who will not dare to pursue the ques-
tions of his own loneliness. It. is through them that he
lives. The stature of this book is best distilled in one
sentence from it: “I knew that so many months of soli-
tude, though I had allowed them to torment me at
times, had been in a: sense an exercise in liberty.”
CHRISTOPHER FRY
February, 1952.
ya Chapter One
IN THE HEADQUARTERS of the Security Police, at

the rue des Saussaies in Paris, a guard brought me down-
stairs from the interrogation room. He slammed and
locked the door of a cell and left me surprised; for the cell
was light and reasonably clean, not unlike a saddle-room
without harness, with khaki blankets thrown across an
iron cot, whereas I had expected a traditional oubliette,
squalid and dank, with a remote pin-point of light above
the dripping walls.
Solitude and confinement were both unreal ideas to
me, and if I now said to my sub-conscious self “You are
in prison,” it was with the conventional notation of a
child reading from a picture book words that he cannot
read: “This is the clock that goes tick-tock.” I could see
the walls and be impressed by them, but I could not
read the writing. Yet, being shut in this little airy cell
was the miniature prelude of what was to become life
in a new element, a change as drastic as a transforma-
]
tion of the lungs to use some other gas than oxygen, a

rarefaction, seeming often like death, and yet fuller of
elemental life than the red-blooded world outside. Had
I known that life is the crossing of a series of discreet
thresholds to the future instead of believing it to be the
continuous unfolding of the consequences of the past,
I might have spent my few minutes in this gentle ante-
chamber in a more philosophical mood.
But the recent past and the immediate future ap-
peared as a smooth and speedy progress of calamity
which would at almost any moment be abruptly ended
in finity. The humiliation of arrest, early in the morning
in my shirttails, my confused inability to escape, the
handcuffs, the finger-printing and the short sardonic
interrogation seemed like a line of telegraph poles seen
from the rear end of a train, dwindling into an earlier
infinity where lay peace and security and the daily
round.
I felt the sense of impotence, of inexorable subjection
to a machine of nameless horror, which Peter Besukhov
felt among the ruins of Moscow. It was useless to think
of taking action: there was nothing to fight nor any-
where to go. In due course, depending on how the ma-
chine was geared, some unimaginable scene would be
enacted and the story would end; and neither I nor my
enemies, nor the lock on the door nor the bars on
the windows, would direct it. We would be puppets
2
dangling in our allotted roles, twisting and turning to
the pressure of unseen hands.
Through the bars of the window I could see a little
courtyard of green grass, with a tall tree casting a squat
shadow in the sun. Beyond the courtyard was an apart-
ment building, and in a window high up a man was
shaving, taunting me for an early worm.
Some charwomen were working in a corridor which
ran along the left side of the courtyard. They came to
look at me surreptitiously from an open window, whis-
pering among themselves, and I called to them as loudly
as I dared that they should remember my name, hoping
absurdly that they would gossip and that the news
would reach friendly ears. In such a case my few friends
would have to turn away and make sure to hide every
trace of their connection with me; but it was not for
this right and proper purpose that I called, but in the
selfish and delirious hope that they would arrange my
rescue.
One of them, if I judged the time aright, was waiting
for me at a café not half a mile from the rue des Saus-
saies. I had passed it in the police car in the early morn-
ing, when it was empty and glistening with the aqueous
chiaroscura of the scrubbed parts of Paris on a fine
morning. His name was Sebastien, and he would sit at
the back of the terrace, with his tinted glasses, black
moustache and reserved expression stamping him as a
3
suspicious character, yet endowed with a respectability

which made suspicion seem too simple.
It was to be our last meeting before my departure
across the Loire to procure communication for us with
the outside world and a new name for myself to replace
the one which my too frequent journeys had made con-
spicuous. I found myself growing impatient at the delay
and at my inability to warn him that I would be late.
There was my friend Jacques Fouré, who only last
night had obtained some clothes for me which were
more suitable than my absurd business suit for a long
journey through the country. Finally, there was Ma-
dame Terrien, in Caen, from whom I had found a post-
card when I returned to my hotel last night and to
whom I had written a reply before going to sleep. Those
two documents were now upstairs, and their only safe-
guard was the false mame under which I addressed her.
All these people were in the greatest danger, but I was
not yet conscious of it nor of my responsibility in it,
since I could not grasp the finality of my own downfall.
For imagination is an optimist, and I conceived this
cell not as a place of incarceration, where the damned
were jettisoned, but as a waiting room where suspected
innocence was kept while suspicion was removed.
Upstairs men were arguing my case, some doubtful
whether there could be harm in so poor a fish (those
would be the two who had seen me in my shirttails) ,
4
others cautious, preferring to make sure by telephoning

to Sancerre, where I claimed to: have been born, for con-
firmation of my papers. There was no question in’ my
mind but that the former would prevail and that in a
few minutes the door would be opened and I would be
let out into the street again.
The charwomen made helpless, sympathetic gestures,
and the door opened. A soldier took me by the arm and
led me out to the: forecourt of the building, where a
prison van was waiting: I was crammed into a compart-
ment,. and the van left at once.. I tried to follow its:
course by feeling the turns, but being able to sec noth-
ingI was soon lost, and: when we stopped again and I
was rushed out of the van and into another large build:
ing, I had no idea of where I was. I only realized that it
was a prison, bleak and uncompromising, boding not
temporary detention, but an irrevocable end, where men
wait powerless and destitute on “the crowded, arid mar-
gins of existence.”
Two armed soldiers led' me down a long, damp
tunnel until we emerged on the ground floor of a high,
hollow’ rectangle, with four storeys of cells built into
each outer wall and a narrow gangway running round
each level, the empty central shaft being crossed with
iron bridges. A third soldier received me here and led
me to the topmost floor, where a sergeant took away my
shoe-laces, searched me and gave me a piece of paper,
5
SOLITARY~ CONFINEMENT
saying, “Lisez.” I saw that these were the prison rules,

but I did not bother to read them, since I could safely
assume that everything was forbidden, and the sergeant,
not caring whether I read or not, then said ominously,
“Komm!” and ushered me into cell No. 449.
The door slammed behind me with a crash, the
double lock bolted with two heavy clicks, and I was
alone. The numbness which had possessed me since
morning was beginning to recede; disaster had heaved
and shaken and had now subsided, and I could survey
the wreckage with a slow beam of understanding. For
the first time since my arrest I acted rationally, if hope-
lessly, going to the window and door to make sure that
no one had been careless. But when I had only done so
much I was relieved that I had found no opportunity
to do more. I wanted to swear, to jump up and down,
to break china. I was petulant but not yet enough per-
suaded of the truth to be purposeful. Over the truth
still lay a mist, as it were of a dream or a stupid joke,
and I could neither believe nor wake nor laugh.
I looked again at the window. It was a high French
window of opaque panes, firmly locked, and at the top
there was a skylight, which opened by falling thirty de-
grees backward into the cell. Through the frosted glass
I could see nothing but the vague shadow of another
building, but in the gap over the open skylight there
6
was framed a small oblong of blue sky. I stared at this
sky, trying by gazing to be drawn to it.
A slight sound made me turn. In the middle of the
door there was a peep-hole, which had been uncovered.
Through it a cold blue eye, like slimy glass, was watch-
ing me. I looked vainly at the iron bed, the wooden
table hinged to the wall and the stool chained to it, at
the thin straw mattress, the ragged blankets and the
dirty earthenware toilet in the corer. There was noth-
ing even to throw. Then the shutter of the peep-hole
slid back, and the eye disappeared, leaving me sick at
heart and angry as a child.
wut Chapter Two
I] sOON LEARNED that variety is not the spice,

but the very stuff of life. We need the constant ebb
and flow of wavelets of sensation, thought, perception,
action and emotion,. lapping on the shore of our con-
sciousness, now here, now there, keeping even our isola-
tion in the ocean of reality, so that we neither encroach
nor are encroached upon. If our minds are thus like
islands, they are of many shapes, some long and straight,
others narrow and bent, a few nicely rounded, and yet
others round and hard, impervious to the sea and belch-
ing from deep unapproachable cones the universal
warmth which lies beneath us all. We are narrow men,
twisted men, smooth and nicely rounded men, and
poets; but whatever we are, we have our shape, and we
preserve it best in the experience of many things.
If the reach of experience is suddenly confined, and
we are left with only a little food for thought and
feeling, we are apt to take the few objects that offer
themselves and ask a whole catalogue of often absurd
questions about them. Does it work? How? What made
8
it and of what? And, in parallel, when and where did I
last see something like it and what else does it remind
me of? And if we are dissatisfied at the time, we repeat
the series in the optative mood, making each imperfec-
tion in what we have to hand evoke a wish or an ideal.
So we set in train a wonderful flow of combinations and
associations in our minds, the length and complexity of
which soon obscure its humble starting-point.
The objects in my cell were few and bare; I have
enumerated them all in the last chapter, except the
gamelle, or mess-tin, and spoon with which we ate our
soup. There was neither comfort nor company in any
of them, but they served a brief term of slavery to the
orgy of speculation to which confinement drove me.
My bed, for example, could be measured and roughly
classified with school beds or army beds, according to
appearance and excepting the peculiarity of its being
hinged to the wall. Yet it was a bed with a pronounced
difference from any other. The broad lattice-work of
iron Jaths, which took the place of springs, was unique
and almost supernatural in its torment. If I lay on my
back, at least one vertebra was wedged in a sharp
corner; if I lay on my side, a hip or shoulder-blade or
elbow found itself pressed against an edge; and if I lay
on my stomach, my nostrils were filled with straw-dust.
Yet this bed retained a quality of bed-ness which sum-
moned all my associations with all the beds I had ever
2)
known. In it my fears, joys, sorrows and relief were those

of bed, not to be found in haystacks or ditches or on
the floor, but common to every bed from canopy to can-
vas.
When I had done with the bed, which was too simple
to intrigue me long, I felt the blankets, estimated their
warmth, examined the precise mechanics of the win-
dow, the discomfort of the toilet (perversely, for its very
presence was an unexpected luxury), computed the
length and breadth, the orientation and elevation of the
cell.
There was also some decoration to be seen, for my
predecessors had evidently been better equipped than I.
There were smears of oilpaint on the walls and a great
deal of pencil work, ranging from signatures and saluta-
tions to lewd sketches derived from interrupted love
lives. Some had also counted the days, but the longest
line of pencil marks was fifty-six, so either their patience
or their imprisonment had been short. The first case
would have been natural and the second desirable, for
if the physical nature of this cell was only to be
described by understatement, its spirit or atmosphere
defied all words.
The adjectives which sprang to mind were those
which might properly be used of stagnant pools, al-
though the place was dry and not obscure; there was an
obscenity in this calculated degradation of a human
10
dwelling-place which chilled the heart as no fungoid

squalor could. There was no filth, generally no vermin:
only the diabolic essence of perversion and the smugly
spruce technology of a stockyard.
Wishfulness came easily after I had taken the meas-

ure of this poor furniture. As evening fell the patch of
sky over the window changed to pink and violet and
red, and its beauty came as a harsh reminder that the
world still offered all its favours, as cheaply and lavishly,
to all who had not lost their foothold on it.
I was mostly concerned at that time with its abun-
dant food, and calculated that somewhere on the line
between me and the setting sun was the restaurant
where I had dined last night. If I was to the south, then
I would need to cross the dome of the Champs Elysées,
if farther east, I could skirt it by the river. I started to
water badly at the mouth when I remembered the de-
tails of the meal, which was the last I had eaten, and
found it hard to think of other things than omelettes,
Beaujolais and Brie. And I felt sad at the thought of the
comfortable feeling of contentment at the end, and in-
continently angry when I considered where I should
have been this day, on the banks of the Loire or perhaps
already over it. We are adaptable creatures, and flatter
ourselves with the conceit that by adapting ourselves to
I]
events we master them; therefore it is the irrevocable

which causes our greatest humiliation.
I lay awake for .a long time that night, pricked into
consciousness and fury by the bandillas of might-have-
beens and hunger. And when I woke again in the morn-
ing, they returned in a sudden solid onrush as I looked
round me at the walls of concrete and remembered
what had happened yesterday. It was then, too, that the
more remote parts of my life started to parade before me,
each marked with its little label, on which was written,
“T am past and cannot return.” Whereas yesterday I
had cursed an interruption to the current chapterof
my life, now I found myself obliged to say goodbye to
everything that had gone before. Fate, as it were, had
tired of the plot which it had woven round me, of the
people and places past which it had led me, and had
torn up the script, undone the world it had created, and
was now wondering whether or not to do the same to
me. From this farther side, the world that was gone pre-
sented a new and unfamiliar face. What my eyes had
once looked upon as things or scenes in themselves
complete and independent of me, my memory saw as
unfinished sketches on a single canvas, drawn higgledy-
piggledy in the mood of each minute, then abandoned,
and needing more generous and skilful artistry than I
had given them and an eye of a wider view than mine
2
to bring them together im harmony and endow each
and all with beauty and meaning.
People, to whom I had given such: fickle attention
as: the: casual mood inspired, looked, as they withdrew
from my world to another, sad and neglected; they: had
come laden with gifts, but time had been too short and
my interest too mobile, and they were returning with
their offerings scarcely touched, weighing on their
hearts. And it was too late: to do even the slightest thing.
The canvas: of life would never be more than a childish
daubing, and the people, if they remembered, would:
always be heavy with what they could not give. I did
not know how it would have been otherwise, but I knew
that the record was written and closed and that it
made: sad reading, less because it was unpleasant, for
most records have their lurid chapters and their tragic
incidents, than because it was unfinished I felt, in-
deed, rather like a student who is given an hour in
which to write an essay, and who, when the time is
over and only a phrase written, suddenly knows all the
brilliant things he might have said: and burns. with te-
sentment at their suppression by a silly rule of time.
Of the following days I remember little: in particular,

because nothing happened, and days in prison are dis-
13
tinguishable only by such rare incidents as from time

to time make one of them memorable among its fellows.
Although I never lost count of the day of the week or
of the date, I followed them subconsciously, and life
was divided into longer periods, limited by a state of
mind or a physical condition; and it was these more
personal symbols than sun or moon which marked out
the calendar of this period.
But I became an anchorite with almost the ease of
inborn talent, as puppies learn to swim, and in the earli-
est days I had already established the routine by which
I was to live, with little variation, for five hundred and
twenty-six days.
Throughout the summer, while it was fine and warm,
I slept bare between my two blankets, and when in the
early morning I heard the trolley rattling round the
floor with the “coffee” (a euphemism, but it will
serve) , I put on my trousers and washed under the cold
tap. This was an operation which required some skill,
for the tap was of the push-button kind and had to be
pressed with one hand while the water was scooped up
with the other. And when I had done that, my active
day was ended. As Economic Man my small doings
were quite passive, and as homo artifex I was incapaci-
tated by lack of the wherewithal to draw, write or make
anything; nor could I even be a student, however poor,
since I had nothing to read. The fourteen or more hours
1G:
of daylight could be filled only by the aimless movement
of my body in the cell or by the meandering of thoughts
within my head.
Patience is a matter of anticipation. One does not
suffer the passing of empty time, but rather the
slowness of the expected event which is to end it; the
patient mind is fixed on a future happening, not on
present inactivity. Nobody can say sensibly to himself,
“T am going to sit still for fourteen hours,” and no more,
because before the sentence can mean anything to him
the hours have to be given substance. But he can look
at his watch at ten o'clock, say his sentence and wait
quietly until the hands pass twelve o’clock for the sec-
ond time; or he can recollect some experience of similar
or related duration and relive it mentally. It is not, per-
haps, strictly true to say that time is only intelligible to
the human mind in terms of successive events, but it
becomes a statement of practical validity and of mortal
clarity in a life where there is little else but time and
where events are either undistinguished or so rare that
they defy anticipation. For living is largely the experi-
ence of succession and becomes rarefied in step with it.
I discovered a sort of clock. On a sunny day I could
just see through the frosted glass of my window that
while the main part of the wall opposite was of a light
colour, a shadow was cast by the gable at the top of it,
and this shadow lengthened slightly as the sun rose
15
higher. After the: zenith there was a period when I had

no sign at all, but late in the afternoon the sun sent one
tiny beam on to the wall of my cell above the skylight,
and this again cast a shadow which crept upwards for an
hour or so and then dissolved. But although this clock
was of some help, it was a fickle friend.
Watching it move so slowly was apt rather to snap
patience than to smooth it, and in the long run it was
best as an occasional encouragement, as when, after a
long and tedious: afternoon, the sun would suddenly
come out and show me that I was farther through tham
I had thought.
There was also: a daily event of great importance, at
midday, when the soup was served. It was brought
round in tubs on the trolley, making a great clatter, and
was preceded by a guard who opened a little hatch in
the: middle of each door. When we heard the: noise
begin, we stood by the door with our gamelle on the
shelf inside the hatch. There, for a moment, we could
see the outside world, but only in a flash until another
guard: seized the gamelle, half-filled it from a ladle and!
banged it back on the shelf, slamming the hatch before
he moved on to the next cell.
Either before or after the soup was issued, the trolley
came round again with the. bread ration, about 300:
grammes, with a minute piece of fat and sometimes a
slice of liver sausage—the small-bore kind—or a small
16
piece of cheese. At first, the soup was never more than
cabbage and water, but in 1943 it became thicker and
was varied on some days, and there was a daily slice of
sausage or cheese. But it never kept us more than barely
alive. Later, too, they barred all the hatchways so that
the door had to be opened for service, letting us glimpse
a little more than a dull Teutonic face: we could see
their legs, too, symbols of freedom.
There were thus two halves of the day, and I was
never sure which was the harder to endure. The morn-
ing was hungry at the outset, but it had a clear-and use-
ful end; the evening came in on a relieved stomach, if
not on a full one, but its end was hazy and therefore
more remote. Sleep was the only end, but sleeping de-
pended upon eating (and sanity depended upon both) ;
and the only thing I could eat at that time was my
bread, which I could otherwise use either to shorten the
morning wait or to make a whole meal with the soup.
To keep my bread untouched was always difficult,
and the more so as time went on and I became chroni-
cally hungrier, but I decided early that tt was the best
course. For there were ten hours in the night durimg
which nothing could happen, nothing be done except
lie in bed, and to pass them awake and on an empty
stomach was an ordeal which was best avoided. I found
it childish, and a matter for disrespect, that I needed
so much self-control to keep that small hunk of bread.
17
I felt that a stronger character would have managed

so small a task without fuss or frenzy, while for me it
was like a stone of Sisyphus, again and again rolling
back on me when I thought it would trouble me no
more.
But I kept my determination and fought an unceas-
ing war about it, and although I had never troubled to
inflict upon myself a discipline which I took irksomely
from others, the strange confusion of our language,
which brings expediency and moral dignity so close to-
gether, made me self-satisfied when I won and ashamed
when I was beaten.
To shorten the morning lap of this daily marathon,

after I had washed, I used a series of pastimes which I
regarded as ridiculous but useful. I started by manicur-
ing myself with a sliver of wood which I managed to
peel from the stool. I had never done such a thing be-
fore, at least with any but the most perfunctory atten-
tion, but now I made a great show of it, partly because
the more care I took with it the longer it would last,
and partly because I had sentimental memories of being
chided for my ill-kept hands and thought that the least
I could do now was to make myself as presentable as
might be.
But this was all that I could do for my toilet except
18
on one day a week, when the guards brought shaving
things round from cell to cell. The soap was bad, the
brushes thin and the blades, by the time they reached
me, so blunt that they pulled more bristles than they
cut. Shaving was supposed to be strictly supervised by
the guards, but often they were careless, having more
than one prisoner to watch, and at these times I man-
aged to cut my nails too. I had many scruples about
this, thinking guiltily of my neighbour’s beard, but I am
afraid I overcame them and hoped that I would be for-
given. I hated to bite my nails. Yet I never thought to
cut a vein.
When the manicure was finished, I sat on my stool
and, with what even then appeared ridiculous solem-
nity, forbade myself to rise again before I had cata-
logued the counties of England, Scotland, Wales and
Ireland and after them the States of America and their
capitals, as far as I could remember them. And if after
that I still felt that I could sit on for a while, I invented
other exercises, such as journeys from one place to
another, naming the towns and peoples on the way and
listing their languages and trades.
Once, when I was well trained in these austere ways,
I managed to sit for a whole morning occupied with
questions of geography, and I was pleased with myself
for passing the time so diligently. I believed that I was
not only conserving energy by sitting still but also that I
19
was keeping my brain in working order by saving it from

the sloth of dreaming which it more naturally sought.
When I could sit no longer, I did physical exercises,
remembering a warning that one could never tell, even
in prison, when fitness would be critical. But I per-
formed them with a vigour much greater than the hope
of escape which chiefly justified them, and there is
doubt in my mind whether they did more good than
harm.
The whole of this programme, which required great

concentration and not a little insanity of a self-con-
scious kind, can normally have lasted little more than
an hour. Rarely had the shadow on the opposite wall
begun to show when I reached the end of my repertoire
and was reduced to the chief stock-in-trade of all those
in solitary confinement: pacing up and down the cell.
My abode was some ten feet long by five feet wide.
Most of its width was filled by the bed on one side and
the table on the other, though they could be lifted on
their hinges and laid flat against the wall. I did this dur-
ing the first day or two and tried walking in a circle,
feeling that it would give me a greater sense of liberty,
but the experiment proved that the most satisfactory
method was to go straight up and down, taking five
20
paces from end to end and pivoting round on the last
in such a way as to keep the rhythm even. It was
strangely calming and. absorbing. Often I would count
the rounds, starting sometimes from the window and
sometimes from the door; but I generally forgot from
which end I had started and so had to make another.
turn to ensure that I had given full measure—a process
which could be interminable.
Sometimes I tried to reckon the time I had passed or
the distance I had covered, counting an arbitrary three
hundred and sixty rounds to the hour or a speed of one
mile an hour. But this was: a precarious calculation,
since if I started to count too early in the day I would
reach the formidable and wearying total of seven hun-
dred and twenty, only to realize that I had completed
less than half the course, and this might be the moment
when I would think that I could not go on. For the
most part, however, I paced up and down uncon-
sciously; the motion and the sound became hypnotic,
like the drip of water or the pulse of a drum.
Sometimes. a sudden weakness forced me to sit down;
sometimes, after the summer, the cold drove me into
bed. Then, if I was lucky, I might have been given a
new supply of paper—for a purpose quite unconnected
with literature—and if I had not already learned its con-
tents by heart, I could read it through and through until
21
I had. Generally, we were given torn and ancient sheets

of the Pariser Zeitung, but sometimes there were pages
of books. Whatever came was interesting.
But if I either had no paper or had drawn the last
drop of interest from what remained, I found myself
faced with one of those situations which are the em-
bodiment of nonsense, where some rescue from insan-
ity is necessary but none forthcoming, and where
madness yet does not leap into the breach. No doubt
I would have gone mad, because it takes a well-nour-
ished brain to cope with such an absolute as Nothing,
but I regret to say that I threw out the rules of the game
on most of these occasions and filled in the nothingness
which menaced me by eating my bread. This broke the
spell and calmed the animal gnawing at my solar plexus,
but it also brought leisurely repentance and anger at
my weakness and a hungry night.
Hunger was always in the background. As soon as

I had fallen into a steady rhythm of pacing I would
drift into daydreams, mixtures of memory and desire,
the past retouched to show it as the ideal life for any
future. The scenes and episodes varied with the sea-
sons; twenty summers would return in August, twenty
springs in April; but at the end of everything there was
a meal. I would spend an hour walking in the hills,
is
but it was not the intrinsic pleasure that was most
sharp, the freedom and the space, the gradual exalta-
tion of a long ascent, the sudden elation of walking on
the level crest, the happy dropping down. These things
were fine and beautiful in their way, but they were seen
dimly in the background, for the journey’s end was its
chief delight, and my imagined steps were guiding me
surely to supper, with pies and porridge and all the
other things that fill you to a stupor.
I even found unfamiliar pleasures in my schooldays,
occasions marked by quantities of chocolate; and the
drab life of barracks shone with a new brilliance when
I remembered its cloying quantities of food. The cheap-
est stew was reborn as good as a stuffed goose; dry
bread was something holy.
Yet for all its persistence, hunger was probably better
than food. The lions we put in cages are thought to be
well treated if they are well fed, but eating and sleeping
are only a small part of even the most bestial existence,
only two of the vast pattern of actions which is the life
itself, the concert of myriad sights and sounds with
their appropriate meanings and reactions, the rituals of
courtship and hunting, the customs of the natural com-
munity. Hunger lowers the whole vitality, so that after a
while these other things are missed less sorely. Thought
grows more abstract, sex goes to sleep, and a sort of
balance with the empty environment is attained, with
tig)
only a single giant appetite to disturb it. All the pres-

sures and strainings of the body are, as it were, collected
together in the stomach, where they are more safely, if
no less painfully, controllable.
I took the soup slowly, drinking the water first and

eating the questionable solid afterwards, pretending in
this way that it was a meal of two courses. And when it
was gone I sat or lay on my bed for a while, because my
frivolous memory reminded me that my sister had
always insisted that her puppy keep quiet after his meals
to get the best out of them, and I thought that what
was good for puppies might as well be good for me. But
impatience soon made me start walking again on the
second lap, which, as I reminded myself in my more
pessimistic moods, was seven hours, or two thousand
five hundred and twenty rounds, or seven miles.
The first two hours were generally the most difficult,
for the soup was a mere amuse gueule, tickling the appe-
tite and tempting me with the suggestion that if I were
only to eat my bread as well I could feel comfortably
full.
Sometimes I had to resort to the most absurd self-
trickery to avoid doing so. I hid the crust under a blan-
ket, or even under the bed, and tried to convince myself
that it was not really there. But this was apt to be dan-
24
gerous: oneself is a treacherous antagonist at bluff;
and more than once I found that I was not only eating
the forbidden fruit but had convinced myself that it
was the wise and proper thing to do.
It was safer to find some line of thought or daydream
which I could follow through the first half of the after-
noon, until the finger of sunlight on my wall told me
that the end was near. Then, as a rule, and unless I was
too interested in my own thoughts, I embarked on a
musical programme to conclude the day. Being no
singer, even to my own taste, I whistled every tune |
could remember, the martial ones to make me trium-
phant over my enemies, the homely ones which made me
think of food, and the emotional ones which occasion-
ally, and to my own amusement, brought a conventional
tear out of its duct. This was a long programme, which
grew as my memory became sharper, and it brought me
easily to a point where I could say, “Now it doesn’t mat-
ter if I do eat my bread.” And, having reached this
point, I found it easy to go on almost for ever, at least
until what I assumed to be seven o'clock.
It so happened that all forms of music were forbid-
den, and once or twice my performances were inter-
rupted by the entry of an infuriated sentry. Our regular
guards never worried over such details, but the mean
substitutes who replaced them at week-ends could only
use petty excuses to intrude upon us. The former were
25
for the most part harmless souls, if gruff. The sergeant

in charge of the floor was a big blond man, well in his
forties, with a bulbous and brutalized nose and hairy
brows over eyes which were blue and rather pleasing.
Rumours which I heard later had it that he was the
brother of the Bishop of Cologne, or some such person-
age, and he showed consideration for his charges.
With me he was silent, so I assumed him to be surly,
but he was a guardian angel compared with the Toad
and Bat-ears, under whom I suffered later, and on
Christmas Day, 1943, when he was on duty for the
whole prison, he came into all the cells and asked if the
prisoners wanted to attend Mass. I remember that he
wished me a happy Christmas.
He had a corporal under him named August. August
was small and most easily associable with a plough, or
perhaps a pig-sty. His speech was habitually rough, but
I suspect that this was a manner which he found
expedient rather than desirable.
Lastly, there was a lance-corporal, of whom I can re-
member little save that he sometimes brought the lava-
tory paper. I liked none of them at the time, although
later contrast made me almost love them, but at least
they let me play myself into supper undisturbed.
I made an even more elaborate ceremony of supper
than of soup. In summer I waited for it until the sun
was behind the other building and no longer shone into
26
my cell; later in the year, till sunset, judging the mo-
ment by the colour of the clouds in the tiny patch of
sky which I could see; and finally, when winter came
on, till dark, scrupulously estimating the fine degrees
of twilight and even reckoning with the moon and the
brightness of the stars to make sure that I was not too
early. In midwinter I waited even longer, to abbreviate
the night, and sometimes a sentry would switch on the
light (which was controlled from the passage and only
used for spying) and order me to bed. Perhaps he
thought that I was hatching an escape. He would have
misjudged me gravely, for this moment was the height
of my domestication.
When I had finally decided that the time had come,
I tried to muster all my capacity for enjoyment in prepa-
ration for the feast. But Pascal was right about pleasure.
I had looked forward for so long and taken such pains
to wait that at least two-thirds of my delight in eating
was consumed already in the anticipation.
In summer I ate rather primly at the table, trying to
behave as nearly as possible to an ordinary person in the
hope that my meal might thus more closely resemble
ordinary meals. But in winter I took my food to bed
and added to its consolation that of privacy, of that per-
fect secrecy from the world outside which only a blan-
ket, pulled well over the head, can procure.
Then, for a short while, I could congratulate myself
ry|
and put away the thought of hunger. But sometimes

I tried to do more and told my imagination that it could
feast freely on its dreams of loaded tables, stuffed pies
and steaming pots, that it could, in a manner of speak-
ing, make hay while the sun shone and reward itself for
a day’s restraint. But when I tried to gloat in this way
I found it tasteless. It was better to profit honestly from
what I really had than to make more of it.
As it grew dark a new activity stirred around the

prison. In the day-time there was a constant monotone
of sergeants and guards shouting to one another; on
week-ends they went to Paris, leaving the sentries, silent
and treacherous in grass-soled shoes, alone with the pris-
oners in a hush that seemed loud with anxious thoughts.
But dusk was the signal for a sudden awakening, like
dawn in a garden full of birds. First one voice, then
another, and finally a whole chorus started to chatter
and shout. Most of them seemed to belong to the build-
ing opposite, whose shadow I could dimly see, but a few
sounded much closer, above me or below. Only a little
of the noise was intelligible, and most of what came to
me coherently was names and isolated words.
There would be a cautious “Allo! Dédé!”
And then, still quietly: “C’est toi, Pierrot? What
have you heard?”
28
“Have you had a parcel?”
This would eventually mount into a complicated con-
versation, joined by other voices and growing more and
more raucous, as if the “Other spirits attending on
Prospero” had revolted and taken over the script of
Tempest. ‘There would be action of some kind, too, for
I would hear a warning, “Michel! T’es prét?” and then
a hushed, or sometimes a confident, “Vas-y!” Mean-
while, over the simian babbling, a particularly luscious
tenor was wailing a serenade or a loud baritone an-
nouncing that “J’emmerde les gendarmes.” It was only
after I had reached Buchenwald eighteen months later
that I learned that the prisoners in the other building
were in those days common-law criminals, with nothing
tespectably resistant about them, but I admired their
spirits and envied their adaptability. Even when I was
annoyed because their din was violating my carefully
won peace there was something sane and soothing
about being able to feel common human anger. But |
had no desire to take part with them, nor to talk to any-
one, unless it had been to order dinner. I wished for
company, because that would assure me of material
security, but it must be familiar. I wanted nothing of
strangers.
Later that evening, the man in the cell next to mine
started to tap on the wall. When I understood that he
was signalling to me I wanted him to stop, but because
29
I could not make him do so I learned his system and

listened to what he said. He had an infantile code, using
one tap for A and twenty-six for Z, and it took a great
deal of patience to listen to “what is your
name.” He asked all the obvious questions and some
leading ones, and I gave him laconic and untruthful
answers. I was suspicious of him and he bored me, the
only thing of interest that I learned being that the
prison we were in was Fresnes. But he continued in
spite of my coolness. I had no wish to hurt him if he
was in earnest, but I was selfish and prized my silence,
especially the silence of night. For the night, to those
who have used it for privacy and sleep rather than as a
trysting-place for ghosts and demons, is by instinct and
experience a peaceful time, when your surroundings
disappear and you may go where you will, and even the
deadliest fear is tamed and may be touched and played
with.
30
vw Chapter Three
For THREE WEEKS the Germans made no move

in my direction but left me to consider my plight.
Nevertheless, I expected them daily, and each time I
heard boots outside my door I waited tensely and dis-
mally to be summoned to the next interrogation, dis-
mally because I could not imagine otherwise than that
my bluff would be called and my story brought to a
swift conclusion. The worst time was in the early morn-
ing, because there seemed to be some sort of parading
at this time, as if the day’s crop of victims was being
gathered, and I felt that the hour was dangerous, since
my stomach was empty and my mind still smooth and
lazy from sleep. But it was almost worse to suppose,
as I did alternatively when this hour was past, that there
was no routine, and that at any moment all my wit and
power of resistance must be available.
After the first few days I gave up all hope that my
false identity would have survived. For a little I enter-
tained the kind of romantic hopes that are really despair
disguised, toying with the fancy that the French police
a
in Sancerre would see why they were being asked about

me and would take my side, or that our own people had
managed to alter the archives of the town so as to in-
clude my birth there. And I supposed that time waited
was time gained, and who could tell that there would
not be an invasion or a rising by the French before the
autumn? But such figments were an emotional routine,
a cushion of never-never keeping the two poles of fear
and reality apart. My more honest self knew that a new
crisis had to be faced.
The peril was both physical and moral. I was deeply
afraid of torture (I cannot imagine that anyone would
not be) and I was appalled by the thought of the treach-
ery to which it might reduce me. In England, they had
told us that if we were caught we could assume that all
we knew would be disclosed, and they had offered us
pills to kill ourselves with. I had believed them most
readily, but impersonally, not willing to consider my
own case as a possibility, and a natural disgust with sui-
cide had made me refuse the precaution; and even now
I gave at most only a passing glance at the road which
many took as the most honourable and which, in my
inner ineffectual heart, I thought the bravest. But at
this close range I knew that torture would make me
talk, and the extent of my information shocked me. For
having been briefed for three missions before finally
leaving London, and having moreover been fairly care-
32
fully trained, I knew enough about the mechanism of

our organization to be a considerable danger to it, espe-
cially in these days before large numbers of us were in
the field. But although common honour demanded si-
lence on these subjects, some stronger bond required
that my three friends in France should be defended.
All of them—Madame Terrien, Sebastien and Jacques
—had taken me without question at my own valuation,
had helped me for the asking, and would be deeply in-
volved if their names were so much as mentioned. And
yet it seemed impossible that I should shelter them if
the Germans did to me the things that I was imagining.
There were a few who resisted the worst punishment
and said nothing. There was one young Frenchman who
was returned to his mother’s house without eyes, teeth,
tongue or feature, because he was useless. He had not
talked and never would talk again. But they were few
and I was not of their number.
I did not believe I had been followed, because I had
taken studious measures to prevent it and had doubled
them before going to a meeting. It was therefore un-
likely that any of my friends were already suspect. But
I remembered, and hardly dared to remember, the letter
that I had written to Madame Terrien the night before
my arrest. There was proof that I knew someone, even
though the names and addresses were safely meaning-
less, and surely, if the Germans had found the letter, as
33
they must, they would merely have to persist in order

to find its real destination. The problem was too awe-
some to be faced reasonably.
However, our disabilities are mercifully balanced,
and as the blind are keen of ear, so the faint-hearted may
find a ready brain in his head: “Danger deviseth shifts;
wit waits on fear.’ My wits in the day-time were as
those of a driven hen, but at night they came to roost.
Then the bread I had eaten made a yeasty bubbling
in my stomach, as comforting as if a hot-water bottle
were being turned over and over inside me. Any-
where else, this might have been called indigestion, but
in Fresnes it signified the presence of matter in the di-
gestive organs, and this was one of the beatitudes. It
compelled stillness and, banishing the anxieties of the
body for a while, quieted those of the mind. It was a
moment of temporary withdrawal, and while it lasted
I found myself inspired by far-fetched and almost
absurd ideas of stories I might tell.
I did not give them much credit the next day, when
the tramping boots came back to duty and kept me face
to face with more realistic images, but I remembered
them nevertheless, and when the time came for me to
talk I found myself almost unconsciously reciting an
anthology of these plots and counter-plots which had
been cooked in the post-prandial simmering of an over-
heated imagination.
34
Footsteps were always coming to my door. They
passed, but not before they had asked the eternal ques-
tions. Did they handcuff you? Did they explain what
would happen? Would it be short or long? And before
they finished their business, did they grant you a last
wish, and what should you ask? I wanted to ask for an
escort to take me to the Crémaillére for an eight-course
dinner, but felt this to be slightly improper. A last letter
seemed more decorous, but what good would it do even
if there were some relief in writing it? Perhaps the
best course was to ignore the offer frigidly, although it
seemed a pity not to mark such a definite departure in
some fitting way. We have an instinct for celebration.
It seemed important only that I should be able to
keep my knees straight at the critical moment, and from
this point of view a good meal would be desirable. I
told myself that courage was more necessary, but the
notion had a meaningless ring to it. Courage serves in
face of pain or hardship, but one cannot face death.
Death is a word which presents no real target to the
mind’s eye.
Imagine a bare plot of ground with a wall around it;
see yourself standing against the wall, with soldiers in
front of you, aiming their rifles at you. Imagine the
flashes and the sudden start, and the pain of bullets
ploughing through you. Only so far can you imagine.
Death has retreated like the rainbow’s end. And if you
35
go further with the scene, and see the body lying crum-
pled before the wall and other soldiers coming to re-
move it on a barrow, you are using a playwright’s
license. For this body is not yours, but another: unable
to imagine the feelings of your own self after dying, you
have skilfully substituted an impersonal dummy for
your body.
At first, you were the actor, the passive victim of your
own subjective sensibilities; but now you have slipped
into the stalls and are watching actions in which you
have no part and of which you know nothing subjec-
tively. You can imagine the simple physical perishing
of someone else, but you can only track your own death
to the threshold of its lair, where it lies hidden from
you.
For death, as a word, is a limitless negation. It means
life with a minus sign ad infinitum and is therefore
irrational. But because we see it happen to other
people, or see what we take for the evidence that it
happens to them, we do not bother with the infinitude
but concentrate upon rationalizing the negative.
I said to myself: “If I have one apple and two baskets
and take the apple out of one and put it in the other
basket, I can describe the first as ‘basket minus apple’
and know all about it, but I cannot make sense of the
apple with that word minus before it until I have said
‘other basket plus apple.’ Then I understand every-
36
thing.” And it was clear to me that we perform much
the same logical trick with life.
Having an immediate personal interest in the prob-
lem, I performed two tricks. First, I tried to deceive
the problem itself by saying that by life I understood all
the pleasant things that used to happen to me and that
dying would mean simply transferring these things into
another dimension. But this only meant that I was sad
at the thought of leaving all the joys of life and wished
them back. It did not really mean that I had invented
a heaven for myself. And the second trick I performed
was the same manipulation by which mankind in all his
forms and ages has tried to provide an ending for his
story. I postulated a “life hereafter,” quite different from
thew life! here:
This process of imaginative compensation is as natu-
ral as eating. We have a vacuum, a perfect secret, pro-
posed to us as our end and we immediately set about
filling it up and revealing it. But I would say here that
I was never seriously convinced by my own attempts to
do so as long as I regarded death as a thing which might
happen to-morrow or in ten minutes. Indeed, the only
form in which I could clothe my speculations was the
stereotyped Heaven-and-Hell which we were taught
from earliest childhood, and this seemed to me much
less satisfactory as a metaphysical doctrine of survival
than as the carrot-and-stick to reinforce an ethical per-
37
suasion. And I was beyond the reach of either stick or

carrot, or at least beyond their benefits.
Nevertheless, there is something compelling about
Hell. Heaven is a vague and rococo notion; it cannot
be held very firmly in the mind, which is only bafled by
memories of haloes and cherubim. But as for Hell, we
are shrewd folk and more apt to look the gift horse in
the mouth than the kicker in the heel: the faintest
hint of suffering has our immediate respect. Consuming
fires and parching thirst convey a picture which our
simple minds can grasp.
Moreover, the system which places Hell at the end of
the chain leads us to it by way of our breaches of its
moral rules. As I remember it, the morality on which I
was raised was really no more than prudence. If you do
certain things, it said, you will go to Hell; if you do not
do them you will go to Heaven, which is much too diffi-
cult a place to be explained. This is a negative doctrine.
It depicts in clear and practical terms the place not to
go to, the reason—specially vivid—for not going there,
and the things not to do in order to avoid it. It does not
bother to recommend a positive way to a desirable end,
and the hazy promises it makes are considered good
enough for a person busy with self-protection from eter-
nal fire. The result is that when we come to a time of
reckoning, and especially when we contemplate death,
we are more apt to retrace our deviations than the dis-
38
tance we have travelled. And then, though I speak for
myself alone, it is not easy to imagine a hereafter that
is not hellish.
Limited as I was by the particular traditions among
which I had lived, I found it difficult to see the way out
of this logic. But I was not convinced by it, partly be-
cause it was almost too logical and partly because it left
out of consideration all the greater part of life which
was quite outside the scope of moral rules and prohibi-
tions. I repented many sins of omission and commis-
sion, but I regretted at least as much the loss of the
things I loved. Why should a lot of miserable “sins”
have such paramount importance in what was the trans-
ference of a whole life? Sins are mostly the work of the
body, which dies, but it is the soul which is not allowed
to die but is kept in eternal torment for the shortcom-
ings of its carcass. Yet, if there is a soul, it is surely there
that happiness is—or was—enjoyed.
Such thoughts as these flitted uneasily through the

light atmosphere of my head, like fledgelings called too
early to a long migration. But at so short a distance
from the nineteenth century and given the proper
churching of an English schoolboy for some dozen
years, anyone may expect to find thoughts of eternity,
and especially of eternal Hell, colouring the prospect of
39
an early death. But he will also hope, and in particular

will base his hope on the idea, planted by the same tra-
dition, that the individual is bonded only to God and
that God deals with him with mercy and justice, mak-
ing the law to suit the accused rather than the punish-
ment to fit the crime. Perhaps he will have forgotten the
reasons for which he was taught to hope, but he will
hope none the less.
Early in my imprisonment—I suppose it was the sec-
ond Sunday, since my memory always worked strictly
to the calendar—I found myself in a daydream walking
back from the old church in Herefordshire where we
used to be taken every Sunday in the holidays. The
fields had their August warmth and yellowness, the hop-
yards stood like orderly jungles waiting for the pickers,
there were blackberries in the hedges and thirsty bull-
ocks resting in their shade. And across the stile and
through the gate there was lunch.
Like most of my contemporaries I regarded going to
church as work on the day of rest. I paid no particular
attention to what was said there, for it seemed more
manly to concentrate upon a strict indifference to
spiritual things, which savoured of girlishness, to stand
stiffly with self-conscious grimness and to sit rather
than kneel. One must be pharisaically scrupulous about
putting a penny in the plate and sleep stoically through
the sermon. But Sunday lunch was important, and its
40
importance, over all those years, now made my mouth
water more than ever.
Nevertheless, instead of rushing forward to gloat over
pictures of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, my mem-
ory seemed to fumble back a little way for something
which had been said in church.
The vicar was an old and venerable man, with a fault
in his speech, and we claimed as children that we could
understand nothing of what he said. Now all I could
remember were the opening words of his service, which
as far as I know he never varied: “I will arise and will go
unto my Father, and will say unto him: Father, I have
sinned before Heaven and in Thy sight and am no more
worthy to be called Thy son.”
My reaction to this piece of recollection was like that
of the Mole in The Wind in the Willows, when he
caught a whiff of scent from his old home while walking
back to the river bank with Mr. Rat. It was familiar but
not immediately recognized; it was strong, but not as
strong as the pleasures that lay ahead. But at a distance
it came back again and I remembered where it came
from. I also remembered more: “And he would fain
have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did
eat: and no man gave unto him.” What would I not
give for a few husks! I was not too clear as to what they
were, but they sounded solid and satisfying.
There were other obvious points in common between
4]
me and the Prodigal Son, for I had defied my parents

and squandered my money on riotous living in what I
supposed to be much the same way. But there was also
a great point of difference, for this was one of the par-
ables where the culprit was not destined to be fallen
upon by robbers and killed: history, alas, seemed once
more bound not to repeat itself. But it was beyond
my powers of discipline and resignation to refuse to
hope for the exception, and in spite of the evidence of
my fate I began to think about the chances of a happier
outcome.
Hope and fear changed places in my mind as in a
farmer’s looking for harvest weather. The sunset was
good, but there is a west wind, which should bring rain;
the stars are bright, but the weather forecast mentioned
a disturbance. The Prodigal Son got a fatted calf, but
Ananias died for a pretty common sort of lie. Such is
superstition: half-knowledge and wishes put together
with anxiety, fear and hope compressed in equal parts.
Eventually, like Mole, I decided that I was near home.
It was a poor home, to be sure, not built on reason but
on legend, and surrounded not with the formal garden-
ing of the intellect but with the endless hazy pasture
land of hope. Knowledge and reason had failed to serve
me, saying only of my problem that they could find no
answer to it. But I wanted an answer, as everyone must,
and the old and often despised parable had given one:
+2
that I could hope. I could not be certain (reason could
have found certainty, if there was any) but I could hope.
Who was I to pull this to pieces with clever dialectic?
What tired man looks at the legs of a chair if the cush-
ions are comfortable?
“Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and
put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring
hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be
merry.”
These were the words I needed to hear, and I would
not imperil them with wit. Here were rest and fullness,
and if my stomach were still empty, there was a calf to
come. It was assured, and who was I to doubt?
So I slept that night, dreaming of banquets and home-
comings.
43
ww Chapter Four
ON THE MORNING of the fourth Tuesday a ser-

geant burst into my cell as I was trying to wash under
the tap. The sun was up, but it was early, and the
trolley had not yet been round with the “coffee”; and I
felt even more discountenanced than I had expected
when he barked at me to put on my shirt and coat and
leave with him. I felt small and impotent, a mere thing
to be moved, inert but not resistant.
We jib at routines when we must observe them, but
unpleasant disturbances make us glorify them, and I
felt that there was something mean and dangerous in
being fetched away before breakfast. My silly mind, full
of fetishes, insisted that the missing ration of dirty
water was my only source of strength and, eventually,
of salvation. I wanted to suggest, as | fumbled with my
coat-sleeves, that we should wait until it came, but all
my dry and submissive tongue could manage was to ask
weakly where I was going. The reply was given in one
word: Tribunal.
This laconic answer so surprised me that I came a
44
little way back to my senses. For I had in my confusion
taken for granted that I was bound straight for the place
of execution. Half a minute earlier I could have told
accurately what it is like to walk the last few steps on
this earth. Or, more truthfully, someone able to read my
mind could have told, for I had lost the power of reason
or introspection, and the expressive part of my brain
could only toy with conventional inanities, like a par-
rot’s speech. The place, the other actors, primitive rep-
resentations of humiliation and helplessness, figures of
distant ignorant mourners: such things came and went
confusedly across the screen of my imagination, like
the jerky unreal figures of an old silent film. But I was
not myself among them, being somewhere behind the
scenes, quietly out of control like a free clockwork.
The word Tribunal made an end of that. It brought
up a picture of hard-faced, tight-collared German of-
ficers, unpleasant indeed, but unconsciously the reposi-
tories of hope, because they were not in themselves
final but only a stage towards finality. I could also im-
agine myself among them and could therefore concen-
trate again on a point of reality. To be sure, the hope to
be found was modest, and my wilder dreams were prop-
erly put to flight, for the bright part of the cloud is at
the fringe, not at the centre, and rescue by insurrection,
invasion, doctored archives and the rest could not be
thought of with the plain fact of a grisly sergeant a yard
45
in front of me. Romance was gone, but I could touch

once more the little disembodied hand of hope.
It was therefore in the fear of a fresh engagement
with the police rather than in the fear of death that I
was driven to the ground floor. I tried to remember all
the astute stories I had planned to tell them, but I was
too smitten with panic and could only remember my
fears. If the sergeant had asked me a few questions then
and there I should probably have told him all I knew.
There was already a row of nine or ten other prisoners
on the ground floor when I arrived there feeling like a
solitary stray goat before my private shepherd. I looked
down the line as I fell in at the end but found no one
whom I knew or recognized. They were an undistin-
guished gathering to look at, and I remember feeling
a little disappointed with them. Unkempt and bearded,
without collar or tie, their shoes gaping open at the top
where the laces were missing, they had moreover a look
of indistinction, or perhaps of extinction, which came
from the deliberate or accustomed banishment of all
expression from their faces. In one there might be a
flicker of doubt, in another a spark of jauntiness, but
the company as a whole was dour and drab.
It is a curious reflection that a man’s face may wear
its most ordinary complexion when his heart is fighting
its direst and most noble battles (whether winning or
losing) ;but I was glad to be among these people, be-
46
cause they showed me at least that it was not necessary
to swagger falsely in distress. Many people still live
under the illusion that the great and trying moments of
life must be met in medieval style, with a conventional
nobility of gesture and expression, but the truth is that
the style is at least irrelevant, because such moments
are of private, not public conflict and, the more deeply
they are dwelt in, the less openly are they revealed.
A feldwebel read our names from a list, standing
stiffly and contriving to inject a mild contempt into
his version of our inoffensive syllables. We were turned
into file and marched down the long underground tun-
nel which linked the different buildings of the prison.
Untidy riflemen escorted us along the flanks and at each
end. We made a dismal scene, not elemental and som-
bre like a Siberian droving, but decorated with the
shabby and factitious respectability of mild little bour-
geois. The ugly, drab, ill-fitting uniforms and the pre-
tentious, padded suits made it hard to believe that real
harshness or real heroism was related to that small
procession.
It was only a short walk to the other end of the tun-
nel, but long enough for me to lose the sense of com-
pany which I had begun to feel. I became a stranger
again, a foreigner intruding, a player in the wrong col-
ours. The Frenchmen were where they should be, or at
least where some of them inevitably must be: they were,
47
so to speak, true, while I was a degree removed from

truth: and the awareness of falsity put a moat, or a cor-
don sanitaire, round me so that, if the guards had been
suddenly withdrawn, I should have been embarrassed
by the conversation of my companions.
Although I passed six times through the entrance of

Fresnes, I cannot recall a single detail of its appearance,
being undoubtedly always too preoccupied with the
anxieties which, paradoxically for a prison, attended
upon entry and exit in almost equal number. On this
occasion there was little time to look; we were marched
straight into a police-van and locked in tiny individual
boxes, windowless and so small that every part of the
body was buffeted against the walls when we moved
over the paving-stones. In spite of the guard’s warning
to keep silence, the others started talking as soon as we
left, making me wonder that strangers who could not
even see each other could enter at once into so lively a
conversation. I was powerless to take part, struggling
against the paralysis of my brain to remember the de-
tails of the story I had prepared, but I heard a mention
of Dieppe.
My heart gave a little leap at the sound of the name,
assuming that it spelled invasion, but I could gather
nothing clear from the short comments. There was a
48
halt, probably at the Cherche-Midi prison, and a little
later the van pulled up finally and the doors of the boxes
were opened one by one as somebody called the names.
The last name was mine, and I climbed out into a court-
yard which I recognized as the rue des Saussaies.
I was received by the small man of the pair who had
arrested me. He took me silently but purposefully in a
lift to the upper office in which the first interrogation
had taken place, where the big man was waiting. After
making me sit down, the two of them went and talked
in undertones at the other end of the room. A few
minutes later, a woman was brought in and seated by
a window opposite me. She started to make signs to
me and to mouth questions, but I was wary and only
smiled until the big man shouted at her to keep quiet.
In a little while someone fetched her away.
As soon as the woman had gone the little man picked
up a newspaper and, crossing the room, flung it on my
knee, saying:
“Voila votre invasion!”
The largest and boldest type I have ever seen
announced the complete failure of the Canadian land-
ing at Dieppe, which had occurred some time before.
Well-chosen photographs made doubt impossible. Faced
with flaming tanks and columns of prisoners, I could
not say, as we used to say of disasters in other circum-
stances, that this was the enemy’s only success amid a
1
series of defeats. I believed every word and more, and

my belief shattered me; but at all costs I must make no
sign of it, so I kept reading.
The little man spoke again after a minute.
“You may well be disappointed,” he said. “It is a
pity you were caught before you could carry out your
orders.”
Despair had made me so sensitive that I understood
immediately the importance of what he had said so
lightly. He was suspecting me, in effect, of complicity
in the preparation of the Dieppe landing, and since my
orders and the chance that I had complied with them
expressly denied me access to the east bank of the Seine,
I concluded that he did not know much about me.
The reasoning was most imperfect, because for all I
knew there had been other landings farther west, but
I was so concentrated upon Dieppe, lying there like
the end of the world on my knee, that I jumped im-
mediately to this conclusion, which was, I think, not
only partly true, but also a most serviceable basis for
my future answers. For it gave me above all things con-
fidence that my opponents were acting on very little
information, that if they wanted more they must ask
me for it, and that, in the broad sense, they could not
confirm or refute anything which I told them of which
Thad not left evidence on my trail.
50
I looked up at the little man rather vaguely and said:
“T don’t understand.”
“It is simply,” he replied, with an air of patient ped-
agogy, “that the invasion you were supposed to help
has failed, and you are here.”
“All I can see,” I persisted, “is that there has been a
British raid and it seems to have failed. But I don’t see
where I come into it.”
He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a wicked little
look.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We shall soon see.’”’
And he went back to resume his muttering with his
crony.
A few minutes later an officer came in dressed in the
uniform of a major in the Gestapo. He was dark and
wiry, more Latin than German, with a ruthless, wolfish
face. The other two stood up abruptly at his entry
but greeted him somewhat casually, a blend of the forms
of welcome used by the meticulous Prussian and the
careless gangster. The newcomer crossed the room and
spoke to them, giving no sign that he had noticed
me, but after a short while he took a packet of ciga-
rettes from his pocket and, turning and seeming to see
me for the first time, offered me one and lit it for me.
Then he turned his back on me and continued to talk
to the others for perhaps twenty minutes.
51
As I watched the three of them and tasted delicately

my cigarette—of which I felt slightly ashamed since it
was the gift of an enemy—I could no longer concentrate
on what I should say nor guess at what I should be
asked. I was full of foreboding but yet more full of
resignation: unable to foresee exactly, I could only wait,
in fear of disgracing myself but with no great spirit of
resistance.
Suddenly the major turned and strode across the room
and struck me in the face with a swing of his open hand
roaring:
“Wie heisst Du?”
I knew now what was to come, but although in my
fear that violence would prove too much for me I had
foreseen and imagined and exaggerated it, the first im-
pact still took me by surprise. There is a sense of shame
following an unanswerable blow which has nothing of
fear in it but which is more demoralizing than any pain.
I now felt that all my thought and planning was in vain
and that I was before something which was irresistibly
compelling, almost hypnotic. But I had to answer a
question and to do so I had to think, which restored a
little of my balance and saved me from utter rout.
Since my arrest I had perceived that on no account
during an interrogation must I allow myself to be tor-
tured to a point where I should lose my capacity for
clear thought, and now, seeing that however much my
52
nationality might be in question there was little or no
exact knowledge of my origins or doings, I understood
that if I were to become slow of wit I might make slips
which would offer loop-holes for further questions and
thus enable them little by little to pry from me details
about my connections which were at present secure.
So suddenly all the disjointed thoughts which had been
streaming through my head during the past three
weeks fell into place and bore the outline of a plan.
Sooner or later I must talk, before I was bullied from
my senses but after an inquisition long enough to let
them think that I had submitted. And I saw how eas-
ily I could interweave the fictitious story which I had
imagined with the truth which I could not deny. But
my adoption of this solution was scarcely conscious, for
my senses were filled with the menace of my opponent.
“Wie heisst Du?” he roared again, and I looked at
him as calmly as I could and replied:
“Blanchard.”
He came in again savagely, hitting and kicking and
swelling with fury as I parried or avoided his blows.
Then the big man came and held me from behind while
the little one put a pair of rigid handcuffs on my wrists.
Then the major attacked again, nastily now and with-
out anger. In a pause the little man, who was still the
only one to speak French, said:
“There is no use in denying your real identity. We
53
know it already. There is worse than this to follow if

you are obstinate. We have special rooms downstairs.”
And the major roared again:
“Wie heisst Du?”
And I again, for it was not yet enough although I was
growing numb with pain and appalled at the temerity
which I would have to show to lie again:
“Blanchard. If you know my identity already you
know that is my name. Why go on asking?”
The bluff had no effect, and the major resumed his
attack. He must have had much practice to have
become such an expert, for although every blow told,
he avoided with great skill dealing any which would
give me the quick release of unconsciousness.
Time was beyond reckoning, but it dragged eventu-
ally to a moment where coherent thought was slipping
willy-nilly away, and with something of the deliberate
but reluctant improvidence with which a parachutist
leaves his aircraft I emitted a sound of defeat. For in a
strange way it now seemed harder to start my new de-
ception than to brazen out the old and broken one. The
major stopped at once, turned on his heel and stalked
across the room with the indifference of a Hollywood
gunman returning his pistol to his pocket.
The little man spoke again.
“It will be better if you speak now. He is getting
54
impatient. But mind that you tell the truth. If you don’t
things will be much worse.”
I bowed my head in acquiescence, being ashamed of
this posture of cowardice and of the scorn which I
knew they were fecling. Also I feared that to start talk-
ing meant to go on talking and that in the end, for all
my good intentions and beginnings, I would be unable
to resist and would allow my mind to spill out uncon-
trolled like a breached dam.
The major came back from the end of the room and
leaned disinterestedly against the desk, and the small
man began his interrogation.
“What is your real name?”
I gave it.
“And your first name?”
I gave that too.
He showed a momentary flicker of doubt and looked
at the major, who did not appear to understand. Then
he asked:
“Are you sure you are telling the truth?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“And what is your profession?”
“T am an Army ofhcer.”
“Quite so. And how do you come to be here?”
His tone was becoming complacent and sardonic as
he became surer of offering my head in sacrifice to the
55
high priest at his side. But I had chosen this opening

carefully in order to guarantee my credit for what was
to follow. If a man were to lie in such circumstances, I
reasoned, the two points which I had admitted would,
in most people’s minds, be those about which he would
lie longest. I had admitted my identity, enough in
itself to warrant my execution: why, therefore, should
I bother to lie about anything else? And if the telling
of those two truths at the same time pandered to my
real desire to give in altogether, it was well so; our great-
est determination is frail and not to be overtaxed, and
this little adventitious easement of the strain relaxed
and cleared my mind so that, although I was still over-
awed by the leap I was about to take, I knew what I
had to say and felt able to command the rest of the
conversation.
“T think,” I said, after a pause, “that if you don’t
mind I had better tell this story myself from the begin-
ning. I cannot think very clearly after all this, and you
can always ask me questions afterwards.”
There was a short whispered consultation between
the three, after which the little man said to me severely:
“Very well, but remember, we want the truth. We
Germans do not like liars. And go slowly, because what
you say must be written down.”
Meanwhile, the big man had put paper into a type-
writer and was sitting before it, fingering the keys
56
with his stubby fingers. He was incongruous, this oaf at
the machine of letters, but he was a blessing in absurd
disguise. For if he was to write the statement it must
be translated to him, and therefore the construction of
it would be slower and the dovetailing easier.
“All right,” I said. “Shall I begin?” And when the
little man nodded I went on to give an almost true his-
tory of myself, with many insertions of references, up
to the month of April, 1940. In that month I had in
fact gone with my regiment to northern Norway, but
here history was remade.
“My uncle,” I told them, “was at that time com-
manding a brigade of the Highland Division, and since
they were part of the Expeditionary Force in France, I
managed to get myself seconded to him as interpreter.”
This lie had merit, for not only is nepotism a fault
easily attributed to those whom one despises but the
uncle moreover happened to be true, although, as they
would find to their inconvenience, he had later died as
a prisoner-of-war and could therefore neither confirm
nor deny my story. Obviously they would (and in fact
did) ask for the names of other officers, but that was
not difficult, especially in the Highland Division, and
if the officers I named proved reticent about their briga-
dier’s “interpreter,” the Germans would as likely as not
ascribe it to their unwillingness to get me into trouble.
There were questions, too, about the position of the
D7
brigade at that time, but although I knew nothing of it

it did not seem probable that they would verify my an-
swers as long as I gave them realistically.
So the story went on. The German attack came, and
the British advance and retreat. Finally, the unbroken
division was cut off on the cliffs of St. Valery-en-Caux.
“You mean St. Valery-sur-Somme?” interrupted the
little man, advertising his trap with the hint of a smile.
“No,” I said. “St. Valery-en-Caux. I'll show you the
two on the map.” And the protest was waived.
In the end the division had to give up. It could not
be taken off by sea and the Germans had locked it on
the headland. So the march to Amiens started, as I
supposed.
“There was a huge amount of trafhe on the road, and
many of us saw how easy it would be to slip out of the
column. Especially for me, because I could speak
French, and once I had changed my clothes I could
easily reach the Spanish frontier. So that’s what I did.
I slipped out of the column about fifteen kilometres
before Amiens.”
There was no comment. The little man dispassion-
ately translated to the big one, who banged on his type-
writer, and the major eyed me in a calculating way.
The next part of the story was easy, for I had known
an officer from another division who had in fact escaped
from about the same point, so that all I needed to do
58
was to make myself his companion. And in this way,
not unconvincingly, I reached the Pyrenees. Here, how-
ever, the real difficulties began, for I must account for
two whole years spent in France, and I was at a loss to
explain how I, who spoke French well, had failed to
make the simple journey which hundreds had man-
aged comfortably on simple Cockney. But they gave
me no chance to stop for thought, so I embarked upon
the recital of such a series of catastrophes as my real
self would never have survived.
“When we arrived near Pau,” I told them, “an un-
healed wound gave my companion so much trouble
that we had to rest for a while.” I nearly attributed the
wound to myself, until I remembered that I had no
suitable scar.
“What was the name of the place, and how did you
rest?”
“T forget the name of the place, but it was a farm
about ten kilometres on the road to Tarbes.”
“What was the name of the farmer?”
“Ybarnegaray.” The first Basque name that came
to my head.
“Go on.”
“We stayed in a barn for a few days and went on.”
“Who fed you? The farmer?”’
“Yes, but I don’t think he realized quite who we
were.”
59
I hoped there was no farmer of that name who would

be victimized on our mythical account; if they found
there was none it would make little difference to my
story as a whole.
When he nodded to me to continue I told how we
had made our way to the frontier and had found a party
of smugglers who were willing to take one, but not
more, of us across. Whereupon, with quasi-Teutonic
but improbable chivalry, I had surrendered the privilege
to my companion. (Indeed, I had to be quit of him at
some point.) I had wandered back to the farm, but the
farmer had been too frightened to keep me longer, so I
had drifted about sleeping and eating where I could,
until I had fallen sick with a high fever. There followed
imprisonment and escape from the French in Marseilles,
at a time when there had been so many such incidents
that they were not all likely to have been properly re-
corded, finance from an American newspaperman and
concealment in the Camargue.
It was a most improbable tale, and I had some difh-
culty in dating it conveniently, but it came most nat-
urally to my lips, as if I was being prompted from the
wings each time a fatal gap threatened to halt me. It
was, moreover, so vague as to be almost impossible for
them to check in detail. So I brought myself through
until the preceding May, when I supposed myself to
have decided in despair to make for the Channel coast
60
and try to find a boat which would take me across to
England. I thus accounted, and this part could be
verified, for my apparently aimless wandering about
Normandy.
And so it ended. There were questions and cross-
questions, dates and places were travelled over and
over again, but the story once told never left me for a
moment, and although I tried not to be too glib I had
an answer for everything. Finally, the big man took
the last sheet of paper from his machine and handed
me a copy of the whole statement as he had written it.
I was bidden look at it and sign, but remembering that
my German was limited to two or three words, I simply
signed.
My three judges appeared a little taken aback.
“T hope that was the truth,” said the little man doubt-
fully. “Your signature as an officer is your honour, and
if you have signed nothing but lies you will find we
will refuse you any respect.”
I always think of him as the “little man.”
The lift took me down again, and after a short wait
in the old cell on the courtyard another Black Maria
bumped me back to Fresnes. The little corporal of
the top floor, August, called to escort me to my cell,
stared at me and muttered:
“Aber Du lieber Mann! That was a Tribunal!”
Perhaps he suffered from vicarious conscience, for
61]
he was almost kindly as, staring wide-eyed at my altered

features, he led me upstairs and pointed to the gamelle
of cold soup which had been waiting for me since noon.
“Essen,” he said; “gut!’ and went out, locking the
door with the two heavy clicks, but, I thought, not
quite as roughly as usual.
For a while, however, I left the soup untouched, and
the bread beside it. Now that the day was past, the long-
awaited summons answered and no damage done, some
inflated rubber animal inside me eased, and I felt a
great vacuum being sucked downward through my
body.
It was nearly dark, and I sat emptily on my bed, be-
ginning to feel my aches. Yesterday I had thought that
I had come near to believing in God and that there was
some hope in life. Then I looked again at the awful
rank-smelling tin of old cabbage soup, comparing it
with the fatted calf and remembering, as it were with
despair, one who had told me not long ago that “the
New Testament is the finest known piece of propa-
ganda, because it tells people exactly what they want to
hear.”
It was so clear to me now. Men sought an explana-
tion of what they could not understand, comfort when
they were desolate and hope when they despaired. So
they invented God in their imaginations, a universal
providence to feed their wants. The Greeks, who were
62
a curious and thoughtful people, came by their Pan-
theon to explain the many mysteries of nature; the Jews
in their misfortune claimed a Victorian father who ac-
counted for such few amenities as came their way, but
even more adequately for their unceasing tribulations.
And then, to crown all, came the “finest piece of prop-
aganda,” rivalling all the theologies in explanation and
in consolation. But how could it be reconciled with
that pan of putrid soup?
With that I stopped thinking, because, after all, there
was no further room for thought. I sat until a stealthy
footstep outside the door brought back antagonism and
made me rise. The shutter of the peep-hole slid up, and
the eye behind it found me at my usual exercise; and as
it waited long and watched, thinking itself unnoticed, I
sat on the stool and started to eat.
63
wut Chapter Five
THE NEXT MORNING found me more hopeful

than I had ever been. I had slept through the reaction,
and now the purely physical aches were as satisfying
and relaxing as those of a good day’s exercise. My tale
was a feeble one, but my inquisitors seemed—at this
distance—to have minds not far from feeble, and if
they checked it in the way I had intended they would
come first, in official lists, to my own authenticated
identity, and secondly, in their own lists of prisoners,
to that of my uncle. My chances of being taken for a
prisoner-of-war would therefore brighten. Then they
would probe in the Unoccupied Zone and find a dead
trail; but collaboration between the French and Ger-
man police was by no means cordial, and with fortune
on my side they would come back to the last part of
the story, investigating the hotels in which I had stayed
in the Occupied Zone, where they would again find
nothing but the simple truth. And then? . . . But at
this point I abandoned calculation and sailed gaily off
to a dreamland of camps of prisoners-of-war, where
64
only English was spoken, where no one worked, and
where daily arrived thousands of enormous parcels of
food. Into the parcels I delved and romped in a heap of
hams and plum puddings and bathed in condensed
milk, until at length my rhythmic feet were quite dis-
jointed from my spirit.
For several days I lived in a mad exaltation of con-
fidence, thinking of little but the good days to come.
Only a realism most unnatural to me made me inter-
rupt my rapture from time to time to go over the story
I had told, see where it would fail and try to devise a
sequel for the next interrogation.
I was disturbed from my reverie one day by the sound
of the trolley outside. “Soup,” I told myself, not real-
izing that the morning had passed so quickly and con-
gratulating myself on the fortunate and absorbing theme
which had made time so harmless. This was in truth
the secret of living in prison, and perhaps of all living:
to dream of pleasant things when there were none real
to be enjoyed, and to make the most of the few real
pleasures. For of pleasures there was at least one, since
I had grown used to prison food. Especially in the
evening, after I had jealously kept my bread to make
my solemn supper, I was learning to enjoy tasting
the bran and the corn in it. For my sense of smell
and taste had become acute, perhaps because I no
longer smoked, so that I could detect the essence of the
65
raw food, which reminded me of bags of uncooked oat-

meal and great pails of bran mash given to horses, of
an honesty not to be found in ordinary meals.
So I was pleased with myself, almost jubilant, when
the trolley rattled to a halt near my door. But the hatch
was unlocked roughly, and as I held out my mess-tin a
fist met it and banged on to the little shelf the lump
of bread, split in two parts, which was the ration for the
day. This had happened before, quite often, and it had
always annoyed me, because it meant that I must keep
the bread uneaten for an hour longer, and an hour in
which I was more impatient than at any other time.
To-day I raged childishly at the breach of the con-
venient order. All had been well, the morning had
passed and I was happy. Some diabolic spirit had lured
me into complacency and then had poked this jibe at
me, as if to say, “I’m sorry, but you're still in prison.”
The bread was a taunt and I sensitive, and in my fury
I broke off a crumb and ate it. Even as I did so I knew,
with that deep intuition which becomes almost a sec-
ond self to the unreasonable, that my day was done.
Always, or almost always, I had been able to keep my
bread if I had kept it whole, but were I to taste the
tiniest morsel my empty stomach clamoured and
twisted until it had made me satisfy it.
I broke off another small piece and chewed it in a
pondering way, trying to make myself realize the enor-
66
mity of what I was doing, of the unending day and night
to be passed without food; but I could not make the
future hunger more real than the present, nor could I
hold myself in by self-mockery. I decided to compro-
mise by eating only one half of the crust (a compro-
mise which had never succeeded) , but the inner voice
insisted more loudly that it was too late; and this time
I heard it and acquiesced.
Pondering the vanity of the comfort I had believed in
earlier, I sat on the bed and slowly ate until there was
nothing left. Then the trolley started to clatter with
the soup. Only half an hour had stood between me and
the empty night. If only . . . nowhere can we escape
our conditional mood.
Hunger was a monster of many heads and arms,
thinking evilly against my thoughts and striking wick-
edly at all my weaknesses. Loneliness, weakness, the
binding walls, memory, desire—it took them all into
its service, drawing my guard to one, then striking at
the other, letting me slink into the stronghold of a day-
dream, then pulling me painfully out. Time healed
each scar, but time was endless, so that the wounds
were continually renewed; and the knowledge that this
was so was itself another weapon against me. Patience
was always at its limit, but the limit always advanced.
By the end of the day I was chastened and sought nei-
ther to hope nor to regret. I had neither will nor dream,
67
only a vague interrogation of mood, passive and general,

querying, even querulous, but not curious in particular.
The next two days passed in the same mental dol-
drums. I made no effort to keep my bread until the
evening but ate it promptly as it came, trying to appre-
ciate the fleeting mid-day fullness. But when I woke
on the Saturday morning and remembered the long
depressing silence of the week-end to come, when the
bread was issued early on both days, I cursed myself
for having let my control slip so far that I could no
longer regain it. But I cursed weakly, with no thought
of remedy.
Resistance, however, is as spontaneous as the draw-
ing of breath, and before an hour was past I had de-
termined that I would try again. I cast about for new
stratagems to conquer time, new hiding-places where I
could pretend to forget my bread, and soon exhausted
myself by fighting the battle before the enemy’s ap-
proach. And, seeing defeat arranged in spite (as I
thought) of my good intentions, I sought a scape-goat,
and at once there came back the seeming mockery of
that “finest piece of propaganda.” Fine it was indeed:
“ask and ye shall receive. . . . What man of you, if his
son ask him bread, will he give him a stone. . . . ?”
It was easy to sit and listen to the kindly, hopeful words
so long as the Sunday beef was sizzling in the oven
68
and there was no need to ask. This was the testing time
and the words had proved barren.
A remote but persistent memory of scholarship pulled
me up. “Loose criticism,” it said, “is both unwise and
2?
unjust. ‘To judge sentences you must weigh each word

and not simply ascribe a meaning to the full stop. What
about ‘Father’ and ‘son’ and ‘ask’? Did you consider
yourself as a son and ask for anything?”
This was a somewhat embarrassing thought to me,
but in the end I had to admit my unfairness. I had not
considered the proposition so and indeed doubted
whether I could. But was there not another passage
which said that God knew what you needed before you
did yourself? Still, the argument held, because at least
the relationship was inherent, and I wondered awk-
wardly whether it was possible at this late stage to ask
God for help. There was certainly no other possible
source, though it seemed that the “worth trying” frame
of mind would be unlikely to produce results. I believed
conversationally in God as I believed in molecules: as
I could credit the likelihood of microscopic physical
division without seeing it, so I could also admit that
there must logically be a Beginning or a First Principle.
Such a Beginning was as likely to be an impersonal as a
personal one, for I had not bothered to inquire into the
meaning of such philosophy as I had been taught.
69
I had been apt to consider, as the shallow science of

our age had urged, that for practical purposes the world
was a finite object for the analysis of Man, who was also
finite but on a superior plane from which he could mas-
ter the world with an all-powerful tyranny of algebra.
I was not so critical as to ask what the achieved mastery
was worth or how well men’s needs were satished by
its progress, for I was most cogently self-centred, and
if I inquired, it was after my own profit from the
arrangement and not after that of mankind. At this
moment in particular the inquiry was limited to: “Am
I helpless or not, and if not, how is help going to come?”
The word “‘prayer’’ scarcely occurred to me. Per-
haps the unnaturalness of its old associations forbade
its formulation. ““T’o ask’”” was the operative verb; but
to ask whom? A Beginning was too bleak, the relation-
ship too distant, and it was only by an unsatisfactory
process of imagination that I could endow it with the
quality of mercy. It was the old trap of anthropomor-
phism, but what of it? There are no doubt as many
views of God as there are creatures.
When the bread was brought round it was the same
meagre ration as on other days, and immediately I felt
an impulse to seize on the excuse of disappointment
and eat it. But even my unbalanced mind understood
that it would be nonsense to prejudice a fair trial, and
it also occurred to me that, if I were to be really scru-
70
pulous, faith was enjoined. And although I had none and
even found the word beyond my understanding, pa-
tience might be considered the next best thing. So I
waited and the soup came.
As I finished it I heard the trolley approach a second
time. Sometimes there was a surplus, which would
be distributed round the cells in turn. This was an op-
portunity. The trolley came to within two cells of mine,
but then there was a clattering of the empty cauldron
and it was rolled away back to the kitchens.
This time the disappointment came near to breaking
my resolve, and in a fit of temper I made for the corner
where my bread was, to show my spite. But once more
the new wisdom—perhaps it was simple canniness—
halted me. Nothing more could happen on a Saturday,
but just to defend myself I would have one side of the
matter clear and wait till evening. Then the trial would
have been fair and at least some result would have been
achieved.
So I waited and forced myself to walk and to keep
walking even when I heard the sergeants making the
round of the floors, banging the keys in the locks to
make sure that all was secure before they went to Paris.
In all the week, it was the sound which I most dreaded,
already knowing and feeling the silent featureless hours
to follow, not only to-day but to-morrow also, and al-
ready counting the number of times I should have to
71
walk up and down the cell before they would be past.

But I succeeded, until heavy footsteps tramped down
the landing and stopped outside my door.
Was this why Euripides called the Avenging Furies
“the Kindly Ones’? There was a horrid subtlety in such
crude and simple irony, which seemed for ever derisively
to cap all acts of trust and all humility. “Can a man be
profitable unto God?” asked Eliphaz the Temanite.
Was the answer “No; but be careful to make sacrifices
all the same, even without reward’? For once, I
thought, I would have been right to eat my bread, for
if a further interrogation was to be held I would need
strength above all things.
But there was no time to dwell on the perversity of a
fate which brought the Germans on this of all days to
take me out. The key turned and the floor-sergeant
came in, followed by a monster feldwebel with a large
gold tooth. The latter looked at me for a moment and
then said:
“Your hair is too long.”
I said nothing, wondering that a sergeant-major could
carry such fetishes even to the grave.
“Get it cut,” said the feldwebel, turning to the ser-
geant.
“Jawohl!” said the sergeant.
Carelessly, the feldwebel laid a slab of chocolate
on the table, then, half-turning to go out, looked again
WZ
as if appraising me and slowly laid another on the
first. Then he muttered, “Gut,” and went out.
The suspense which followed may be imagined. I
stared and felt the chocolate in my hands for some time
while my reason left me. Then, when it returned, as
is the way with those who are attuned only to the ra-
tional order of things, I feverishly construed systems of
logic which would explain the incident as ordinary.
Perhaps this was a routine of which I did not know, a
monthly dole which seemed marvellous in this first in-
stance but which later I would accept as a niggardly
essential. Perhaps I had been condemned to death, and
this was some sort of last rite.
Yet the circumstances offered no encouragement to
these ideas. The steps had come straight along the land-
ing to my cell without stopping at others. It was un-
likely that routine distributions would be made at this
_time, when the prison staff was eager to leave for the
afternoon. Nor was the idea of secret condemnation
congruous with that of special favour, at least not in
terms of chocolate. Was this then the Prime Mover
acting, as it were immediately? There was nothing il-
logical in the Prime Mover moving a feldwebel in the
right direction; on the other hand, it was scarcely cred-
ible that this particular feldwebel had been so moti-
vated.
With so little knowledge of what had happened, how
73
could I justify such a terrible conclusion while there

were other possibilities not yet disproved? Ideas of
divine intervention would be so natural in a person who
was physically prevented from seeing the natural causes
that they would be for that reason suspect. The concept
of the Feeder of Sparrows is too simple not to occur
but it is also too simple to be easy to believe. But I did
not pause long in subtle speculation. My mouth was
watering, and I passed quickly from the Cause to the
Effect.
Two slabs of chocolate, divided into ten bars each,
made twenty bars. From then until Monday morning
there would be about seventeen hours of daylight, in my
reckoning of hours. I should therefore be able to eat
one bar each hour for the whole week-end, and there
would be three bars over. It would be unreasonable
to start such severe rationing from the beginning, so I
could eat the three bars at once, which would give me
a good start and make discipline easier thereafter.
In ten minutes there were ten bars left, and in twenty
five. I watched them go quite objectively and observed
with interest how the rivets of my resolution loosened
one by one in relentless order and then dropped out,
leaving holes thinly stopped by a putty of excuses
which crumbled in turn and left the inner hollowness
of my will exposed.
But when the five bars lay alone I stopped. Good
74
intentions and a festive week-end were gone. I had not

reckoned with my formidable appetite and would have
shown a stronger mind by enjoying the chocolate as
well as I could and, when it was gone, by thankfulness
for small mercies. But to make amends I would keep
the last bars until tomorrow, which would be as good
a grace as was left to me.
I kept them in fact, but when I had eaten them I
realized that I had not enjoyed them, and I thought
later how foolish I had been to treat chocolate as a lux-
ury to be gloated upon instead of as a food which I
really needed. Had I done so, I might not have felt a
twinge of suspicion that I was still being teased, pur-
sued by irony, that I had been given a fish which had
turned out in the end to have a serpent’s tail.
But until my thoughts were overturned again by a
third visit to the rue des Saussaies, I was fuller of joy
and wonder than of doubt, and if sometimes an old
spirit which had been sloughed off told me slyly that it
would be better to accept life as it came with fortitude
than to seek escapes from its hardships through magic
suppositions (mere softening of the brain and heart) ,
there seemed no more reason in its argument than
in the other, and I was content with the humbler and
more hopeful.
75
yw Chapter Six
Wen the sergeant came for me this time he

seemed to announce the withdrawal of the protective
shield which I had wishfully imagined to be mine
since the Saturday of the chocolate. He blew down
my house of cards, but with less effect than before, as if
I was sure that I could build it up again. Every morning
and every night since the last interrogation I had re-
peated my story in detail and had tried to foresee and
allow for its weak points, and I felt confident that by
this evening I would have won the argument. During
the journey in the van I went through a final rehearsal
and was not anxious when J arrived.
A uniformed guard collected me from the van and
led me up a wing of the building in which I had not
been before. We stopped at an office, and the guard
knocked, went in and muttered something, and then
signalled to me to enter. A young man in plain clothes,
with a rather soft face and wavy hair, rose politely and
offered me his hand. For a moment I thought of ignor-
ing it, thinking it wrong to compromise in the least
76
degree with my enemies; but rudeness seemed gross
and even childish, so I shook the hand firmly but with-
out enthusiasm and then sat in the chair which the
other indicated to me opposite his desk. I studied him,
found a high-domed brow and rather humorous un-
German eyes, and foresaw truly that I had entered the
intelligent phase in the cycle of interrogations.
The German made a few banal remarks by way of
preface, probably to test the state of my nerves, and
then said abruptly in his perfect French:
“So you say you are a prisoner-of-war? I will tell you
at once that some people believe your story. But I’m
afraid I don’t. I know how easy it was and still is to
cross the Pyrenees, and you cannot convince me that
it was any more dificult for you than for others. Also
we have, of course, found that the addresses you gave
us in the south are nonexistent. However, if you are not
satisfied with my reasoning, I will ask you to go through
the story again.”
Was it a double bluff? If I made no slip in the repeti-
tion, would he accept the story? I thought it unlikely
and made a hasty review of the last line of defence, to
which I should have to repair if this failed; but it was
worth a good performance and the process of retelling,
even if it were unsuccessful, would help to set the stage
for the last act. So I went slowly through it, purposely
omitting a detail here and there, which my opponent
77
immediately pounced upon and demanded. And when

I supplied an answer, there appeared first a puzzled,
then an almost admiring, look in his eyes, which urged
me to drive on and hammer in the wedge of doubt.
But when I reached the end, he slowly put aside the
statement from which he had been checking me and
said:
“You play well, and I will continue this game with
you. After you escaped from your division, you say you
changed your clothes. Where?”
“At a farm. I couldn’t tell you exactly where, though.
I didn’t know where I was at the time.”
“Well, we'll see if a map will help you. You appar-
ently knew approximately in what area you were.” And
he fetched from the adjoiniing room a large-scale map.
Now, I was confronted by two great difficulties
at this point. First, I hardly knew, even generally, the
geography of the area of Amiens, although I saw clearly
enough that if I had been in action thereabouts |
should be able to retrace my steps. Secondly, were I
to succeed in a further bluff, and if my story were
finally believed, the Germans would undoubtedly de-
scend on the unfortunate farmer of my choice and pun-
ish him.
There was therefore only one solution. I must make
a convincing display of map-reading, with all the nec-
essary accompaniment of noises and head-scratching,
78
and then ultimately become confused about the precise
point at which I had changed my clothes.
Unfortunately my start was prejudiced, because the
interrogator had carefully folded the map in such a way
that neither Amiens nor any other place which might
have given me my bearings was visible. Only the Somme,
in winding blue, could be recognized, and I had but the
vaguest notion of its course. But to confess ignorance
was impossible and to unfold the map also, because he
jealously held it, so with my finger I hunted diligently
from place to place, snuffling at cross-roads and giving
loud tongue at marshes and trigonometrical points,
until suddenly my opponent gave a short laugh and
opened the map to its full extent, allowing me to see
that I had been remembering places many miles from
the area in which I claimed to have been.
“You see?” he said, smiling faintly. “I knew I was
right. But now I want the truth.”
“But,” I protested, “you can’t expect me to read a
map blind. I assumed that this”—pointing to a con-
spicuous road—“was the road from Amiens to St. Val-
ery. It certainly looks like it, and the country is all much
the same around there.”
“Very well,” he replied; “but you are wasting my
time. I don’t approve of the methods which were used
on you last time, but if your duty is to keep your mouth
shut, mine is to open it, and if it is necessary I will have
79
to hand you back to the military, who are not likely

to waste their time. But I will leave you for five minutes,
and when I come back you will either show me that
farm or tell me the truth.”
He went out, and a large ugly man in uniform came
and stood over me. I kept my face turned towards the
map so that he could not read my thoughts.
Although I had clearly been given leisure to use the
map to any advantage and might easily have picked out
my route on it, it was obvious that I would be subjected
to the same test over the whole story and clear, at least
to me, that sooner or later my pretence would be broken
down. I was also firmly and fearfully convinced that a
further interrogation by violence would bring the whole
truth out of me, a fear reinforced by the physical
menace of the knotty guardian leaning over me.
Whether the fear of pain or the fear of self-disgrace was
uppermost I do not know. They combined to lead me
to one conclusion: that I must recant as a prisoner-of-
war and produce an alternative story, which would be
the last.
I had considered this situation from time to time and
was convinced that the principles which I had used in
the first instance were still applicable. It was necessary
to convince the Germans at the outset that I had broken
down and subsequently to tell them anything which
80
would fit the facts known to them and maintain ob-
scurity over those which they did not know.
I had not, however, thought very deeply about the
details of a second story. The only think of which I
was reasonably sure was that the extent of their knowl-
edge was strictly limited, and the task of filling in the
two years of my life convincingly and without telling
the truth after a mere five minutes’ thought brought
me to the verge of panic.
I let my eyes wander over the map to repose my
mind, as seers watch tea-leaves or a crystal, and I kept
saying to myself “the Lord is my shepherd, therefore
shall I lack nothing,” but in the middle this changed to
“the Ford is my car.” There was no irreverence in
this, but a reflection of the irony which I saw in all
things. I needed the one version to be true, but I felt
dreadfully aware that the other was more in keeping
with my circumstances.
At length the interrogator came back and the big man
went out.
“Well?” asked the former.
I kept my head bent and my voice (suitably, but by
no means on purpose) unsteady.
“T shall have to tell the truth,” I said.
He sat down and rather kindly said nothing but gave
me a cigarette. I was certain now that he had reckoned
with my fear of torture.
81
After a little while he said:

“When you are ready, will you tell your story—the
true one?”
“There’s nothing much to tell now,” I said gloomily.
“T Janded in France by parachute.”
“Well,” he smiled, feeling perhaps that kindness was
the fruitful method. “Let’s keep things in order. What's
your name.”
“All that I told last time,” I said, “was true. At least
in that respect. Everything up to 1940. You can check
my name and so forth in directories if you take the
trouble. But the last part is a bit different.”
I intended now to give him a military history with
plenty of unimportant details which he could confirm,
which would carry me through all the period of training
and preparation and bring me to the eve of my arrival
in France; thus I could safely feign ignorance over
many matters. Had I been a prisoner-of-war I should
have been guilty of saying too much, since the rule was -
to say nothing, but I had higher things at stake and felt
free to discourse of my insignificant part in the Narvik
campaign and the subsequent garrisoning of England.
My questioner seemed to be bored with these matters,
for he was no soldier and little interested in a soldier’s
deeds. But the plot still lay before him, and I brought
him suddenly to it.
82
“On May fifteenth,” I said, “I was sent for to report

to the War Office.”
He brightened at once.
“What branch, and what was the name of the officer
you saw?”
I gave him a room number and a name. Even if he
knew them to be false he would not lay the falsification
at my door but would realize that I myself would have
been deceived. |
“And what did he say?”
“He asked me if I would be prepared to go on a
special mission to France.”
“And what did you say?”
I looked as ingenuous as I could.
“Well,” I said smugly, “you can’t say no to questions
like that. Especially if it’s not put as an order.”
“Quite. And then?”
“When I agreed, he told me to take a week’s leave
and then to go to the Midland Hotel at Manchester. I
went there, and each day for a week I was fetched in a
car and taken to an aerodrome where I was given para-
chute training.”
“What was the name of the airfield?”
“T was never told. It was some way to the north of
the city.”
I had a rather delicate choice to make. We were in
83
fact trained near Manchester, but to the south, and it

was likely that if the Germans knew anything of us
they would have located such an obvious centre. So I
had to find a middle way between disclosing a place
of which they might not know and destroying the cred-
ibility of the rest of my story, which was far more im-
portant, by telling an obvious lie about a matter of
common knowledge. This was the solution I found on
the spur of the moment. It was not a very happy one,
falling between two stools, and many simpler answers
occurred to me later, but the questions would not wait
for my wits.
Meanwhile, my opponent studied my face closely
and seemed to listen to my replies only with half his
attention. From time to time he wrote with a little port-
able typewriter.
“And then?” he went on without comment.
“T went back to London and was given my instruc-
tions.”
“Did you see the same officer that time?”
“Him and another.” I gave another name. If my
memory serves me truly the names I gave were those
of marmalade-makers, because it was past breakfast-
time.
“And what was your mission?”
“To find a man at Caen, give him some money and a
message and to return.”
84
I was fortunately able to state with perfect truth that
I could not describe the man since I had never seen
him, but a photograph album was produced and I was
asked if anybody in it corresponded to the description
I had been given of him. The names were covered, but
when the interrogator came to the picture I recognized
from the one I had been shown, he let the cover slip so
that I could see the name. But I passed on until even-
tually I came to a face largely concealed by bandages
and said,
“That might be him, though it’s very hard to tell.”
I was beginning to lose my confidence by this time.
It was comparatively easy to invent stories concerning
the English end of the matter, but the French side,
and especially concerning people, was more difhcult,
because I could not be sure of the amount of evidence
already available to the Germans. Of this man I knew
nothing at all except that he had disappeared, and I
assumed that he had either been arrested or had ceased
to exist as himself; and I was afraid that if I made an
obvious blunder in his case I would lose my way and
ultimately betray Madame Terrien or Sebastien. But
in fact I scarcely need have worried. He had been ar-
rested before I even arrived in France and spent the
remainder of the war as a genuine prisoner-of-war, with-
out any repercussions from my quarter.
Worse followed. The German delved into his pocket
85
and pulled out the letter which I had written to

Madame Terrien the night before my arrest and which
I had never been able to post. Fortunately it was ad-
dressed to a mythical person at an accommodation
address upon which we had agreed, and this offered me
my chance, which I was not yet too stupid to forgo. He
wanted to know all about this lady. I gave him a de-
scription of my sister, a meeting-place in a church to
which she never went and a series of passwords which,
if he used them with a forgery of my writing, would
at once tell her of my arrest. It served its purpose, but
not for long, for Madame Terrien and her children
were all killed in our bombardment of Caen in 1944.
These details were carefully noted down on the little
typewriter, and to my relief they seemed to be accepted,
for my questioner changed the subject.
“And what was the message you were to deliver?”
he asked.
“ “Forget the Cherbourg line and go and find Yves.’ ”’
It was really the only intelligent reply I gave him.
Whether it was a railway line or another kind and who
was the mysterious Yves were secrets which had not
been confided to my humble person, for my imagina-
tion had been content to leave the phrase rest on its
laurels; and with the best will I could help him no fur-
ther than he could himself. He came back on his tracks
and worried me over details, but I had achieved my ob-
86
ject and closed the circle of his questions. How was I

going to return to England? The man in Caen would
arrange it for me, and it was because I had not been
able to find him that I was still in France.
The interrogator sometimes broke off his questioning
and diverted me to other topics. Once he asked me
whether I was not afraid that England would be
Bolshevized as a result of our alliance with the Soviet
Union. On another occasion he brought in a senior
officer, a big grey man, to entertain me with personal
remarks. I was a little cramped, however, by my tem-
porary disability in German. Then, without warning he
would snap a question at me.
“Were you ever at B .. . ?” he asked once.
I was overjoyed.
(beeen: 1 said. Of course. I used”to live’ very
near it.”
“Where was that?”
“In Herefordshire.”
“But B . . . is a long way from Hereford.”
“Not from my part,” I said. “Pll show you on the
map if you have one.”
He produced a map, and I showed himaB...,
differently spelled, in Worcestershire, whereas the one
he meant was in quite another part of England. It
was an easy victory and completely disarmed him. He
spent some more time testing my story, but it was a
87
simple weave and I could not lose the thread, and

finally he made me sign the statement as he had writ-
ten it.
It was late in the afternoon when he finally rang a
bell and told an orderly to bring me a meal. It was a
good meal of braised heart, which I remembered for
many years after I had eaten it. When I had finished
it, my interrogator drove me back to Fresnes in his own
car. He talked little on the way, and of trivialities, but
when we arrived at the entrance of the prison and a
guard came out to take me, he held out his hand for
a second time. “Goodbye,” he said, “I don’t believe a
word you've told me.”
88
vv Chapter Seven
SOON AFTERWARDS the gales started to blow and

swept from the stone prison such warmth as it had
stored in summer. With them came another change,
for the whole division, or wing, of the prison was trans-
ferred. (‘There were three long parallel divisions, of
which we had been in the third, and this was now evac-
uated for women prisoners.) The move started at about
mid-day and continued throughout the afternoon, and
for some administrative reason the mid-day issue of
soup was withheld. In the new chill I felt depressed and
angry, stamping up and down my new abode in the
insensate rage properly induced only in very young and
thwarted children. When it was dark, coals of fire ar-
rived in the form of a thick and warming mess of beans,
of which we were given not only a full mess-tin but also
a second helping. My spirit at once became soft with
enjoyment and assured me that if I could rely on one
such meal every three weeks or so I could survive in
comfort. But such generous optimism lacked the sup-
port of the required condition and therefore soon sub-
89
sided, leaving only the memory of one vast repletion

to be compared odiously with the succeeding emptiness.
My new cell was identical with the old, or I should
rather say that it had been built identically but had
been tenanted by jail-birds of a lower order. The walls
were splashed with dirt of many colours, the floor was
chipped and rough, and, worst of all, the blankets
were no more than rags. Those who live only with the
barest elements of life are keen judges of their meagre
assets and set great store by them, and the gloom of the
dirt and the shreds of blankets boded worse for me than
would the loss of a pair of shoes for a tramp. The old
blankets had sufficed, as I had discovered by intricate
experiment, to cover me, however barely; but the new
ones, even with the most careful over-lapping, could
scarcely afford a single thickness of protection. I re-
membered being told that seventy-five per cent. of a
man’s bodily heat was lost through exhalation, and I
tried to evolve a way of sleeping in a tent. But however
carefully I tucked it in it came continually undone.
I noticed, too, for the first time how thin I was be-
coming. My arms, for all the exercises I forced on them,
were mere sticks, and I could already without difficulty
pass my whole hand between my neck and the shirt col-
lar which had once fitted. The cold was as yet no more
than the first chill of autumn (we only call it freshness
outside, after the summer) but I was shivering, and the
90
prospect of winter gave me a short fit of anxiety which
would have been hypochondria if there had been no
cause for it. I had no clothes but a cotton shirt (thick-
ened, it is true, by the dirt of continuous wear) and a
serge suit of which the waistcoat was missing. My
socks had been worn by the endless walking in loose
unlaced shoes, so that there was no wool at all left on
the soles, but only on the insteps and ankles. I once
asked the sergeant for a new pair, but he only growled
at me, and the same socks lasted until the following
spring, when they disintegrated finally.
But if the spectacle of my own destitution took some

of my attention it seldom depressed me, except in my
more perverse and theatrical moments, when I was
feeling sorry and amused at myself as an old man exas-
perated at the absence of his favourite slippers; gener-
ally I felt the discomfort and let it pass, since I could
do nothing for it. The bidding to consider the lilies of
the field came to my mind continually, and I found
that it leaves little room for revolt from circumstances.
Consider them, indeed, and if you appear poor beside
them there is only the plain fact to be observed that
“they toil not neither do they spin”; which accounts
for no poverty but quietly rebukes all claim to wealth
and silences complaint or the smugness of suffering
without complaint.
91
I should not be truthful if I were to say that it re-

placed these things by some equivalent counterpart.
Indeed, any such counterpart would have been too difh-
cult for me to understand. The change in my outlook
did not make me venture into faith, or even conf-
dence; it did not occur to me that “all these things shall
be added unto you.” I had simply acquired a new
ability to perceive that my own self was merely a small
part of one creation. And I no longer felt that whatever
blame I bore was of enough importance to bring the
concentrated forces of the universe to bear exclusively
against me.
More intricate patterns and relationships could be
vaguely discerned beneath the surface of habitual ap-
pearances, and I was slowly and unconsciously coming
to accept that my impotence and littleness could at-
tract a support to which my erstwhile self-importance
could never have aspired.
This change came quietly, so that I was almost un-
aware of it except in moments of rebellion. The simple
acknowledgment of a minor planet that it is not, after
all, the sun does not greatly alter its customary gyra-
tions, although it may perform them with more grace,
and the subtle persuasion to the same effect which had
come upon me did not drive me to prayers and pros-
trations which were foreign to my nature, nor to ex-
pectations which went against the grain of my habitual
92
view of the nature of things. I remembered the after-
noon when the feldwebel had brought me chocolate,
but I remembered it with awe and was afraid of rather
than impatient for a repetition of that happening. Mir-
acles were still matters of fable for me, and I would
as soon have seen Red Riding Hood’s grandmother
appear as the doors of my cell opened. But I accepted the
likelihood of timely help, even without miracles.
Moreover, whenever it occurred to me to presume
that this state of, as it were, dependence should logically
bring results of the kind suggested by the Prodigal
Son, it happened that the thought was born only to be
proved false.
One morning when I was feeling particularly cold
and wondering where I should find the energy to shiver,
I remembered the saying, “God tempers the wind to
the shorn lamb.” It was a comforting thought, and I
began to visualize the sergeant bringing me an extra
blanket or doubling my rations. But shortly afterwards
the barber appeared and sheared off my hair. It was too
pointed to be treated as a casual annoyance. If the ra-
tions had been small or some other trivial discomfort
had been inflicted, I might have felt wronged. As it was
I could only repeat to myself the proverb I had remem-
bered, but with rather more philosophical assertion than
before.
Having in this way relinquished my illusion of being
Le
the pivot and focus of all things, I found that the im-
minence of death was less oppressive than before. Per-
haps this was partly because I had no further decision
to make in the matter. I had taken the last step open
to me and was therefore relieved of the need to con-
sider evasion, which is the most exhausting part of all
apprehension. Also, no doubt, such a fear cannot live
long with a man without stirring his contempt.
I was nervous in the early mornings, which I assumed
to be the time of convocation, and gave thanks each
evening for having survived another day. Each day I
recited my story, to keep it fresh, but I found passages
which I could no longer confirm and began to believe
that I had in fact given everything away and that the
story I believed I had told was only that which I had
wished to tell. A Chinese proverb has it that “where
there is much talking, there is surely some scandal,”
and I spent hours doubting, trying to remember what
scandal lay at my door and with what words I had be-
trayed my friends. But there were no sources but my
unruly memory and peevish doubt, and I have still only
the evidence that my friends survived long after my
arrest to suggest that I had succeeded at least in
some measure. Finally, I was attacked sometimes by a
vicarious sadness for my mother, for my younger brother
had been reported missing in a submarine in February,
and she would now have no news of me at least until
Son
France was retaken. But I was free of any temptation
to brood and no longer found myself scrabbling to free
myself from my cage.
Autumn went its way unruffled by impatience on

my part. I had not yet learned to count in months and
years and was content to live day by day, filling them
mostly with memories of rainy hills and London’s damp
dark evenings and the pale sunlight catching the pastel
stone of Paris. (I could see them through the walls,
and each had its earthly counterpart of food and drink.)
And for exercise and discipline I had my bourgeois
bread-hoarding, which I despised for its pettiness but
held to for its profit both to my nerves and to my night-
time comfort. But the spark of rebellion was still alight
in me, and in one respect at least I claimed jurisdiction
over my future.
“One thing,” I assured myself, “is out of the ques-
tion. I cannot still be here at Christmas.”
The possibility occurred to me some time before the
event, and I dismissed it at once as absurd and unthink-
able. My way of life alone would prevent it, for if I was
not shot or released or transferred soon I should un-
doubtedly go mad, but even if none of those things were
to happen it was still impossible. I do not think I was
normally more than an average enthusiast for Christ-
95
mas, but now I counted all its attributes of rejoicing, of

reunion, of kindness and feasting, and decided that
Fresnes and Christmas were quite incompatible. As the
day drew nearer, I became sentimental about it, won-
dering how best to spend it there; but still, when it
arrived, I would not be there. ‘This was an axiom.
In the afternoon of December 18 the door of my cell

opened, and a young man came in, dressed in a dark
suit and carrying a brief case. Thinking him a Gestapo
man, I was for a moment both alarmed and surprised
that he should have come here rather than have me
sent to him. But he advanced into the cell and said in
very German French:
“T am the Protestant padre. I have seen in the register
that you are not a Roman Catholic.”
I was taken aback and said nothing, not too ready to
believe him, for the Gestapo were by no means above
using such a trick. I offered him my stool but he de-
clined and sat on the bed, while I perched on the hinged
table.
“T only came to tell you,” he said, “that if you want
to receive Holy Communion I can obtain permission
for you. Would you like that?”
I was still more astonished at these words and sensed
an unwelcome implication in them.
96
“Do you mean as last rites?” I asked him. “As a mat-
ter of fact, I don’t think it would be possible, because
I have never been confirmed.”
“I don’t think that would matter,” he replied; “but
I have not come for that reason. Have you been con-
demned?”
I told him that I did not know but that I would not
be surprised to learn of it.
“These things are difficult,” he said. “But I have no
doubt it will be all nght. Anyway, I can assure you that
I have come only as a matter of routine. I visit all the
non-Catholics, because all prisoners are allowed to re-
ceive the Communion if they wish unless there is some
special restriction against them.”
Now I had decided that I wanted to talk to him, but
I found that the muscles of my mouth had become stiff
and unwilling and that the thoughts and questions I had
wanted to express became ridiculous when I turned them
into words.
For months I had allowed my thoughts to run freely
and deeply, unhampered by the need to convey them
to another person or by the delicacies and conventions
of speech which normally keep our tongues insulated
from our inner selves, and now that I would have liked
to test them I was unable to voice them. How could
I ask this ordinary little man, composed and dutiful,
whether the parable of the Prodigal Son was to be taken
97
literally and whether there was any reason why I should

not apply it to myself? How should I set about applying
it? Wasn’t it perhaps a perfectly normal refuge for peo-
ple in my circumstances, a sort of wishful escape with-
out any foundation in fact?
I was appalled at the thought of the answers I would
get: that it was not in our power to say how God would
work, that all parables were true but, being parables,
they were not always to be taken literally; and so forth.
I was not prepared for such a conversation.
“It’s very kind of you,” I said, my lips feeling as if
they were frozen hard, “but when you are in the sort of
position I am in, ceremonial does not seem very im-
portant, although other things are. It would even be
hypocritical for me, because I should be doing some-
thing I have never done before and don’t really believe
ing
Then I went on rather rudely:
“T think really I shall have to solve my religious prob-
lems in my own mind, but you may be able to explain
one thing to me. I assume that a Christian would say
that my present condition is a punishment, which is
easy to understand. But if I’m being punished for things
I have done, why do other people get punished through
me for what they haven’t done?”
I said this rather belligerently, but he was quite un-
ruffled.
98
“IT don’t think we could claim to explain that,” he
said. “After all, people have so many things which are
secret that we don’t know enough about them to explain
why things happen to them.”
He got up from the bed and fumbled in his brief
case.
“Perhaps I can’t help you now,” he said, “but if you
want to see me you can always ask and I shall come if
Ican.” And he handed mea sheet of paper.
I felt that I had been crude and smiled as well as I
could to show him that I was sorry if I had hurt his
feelings. Then he left me, a little angry with myself but
making the excuse that I was not sure that he was what
he claimed to be.
And when he was gone I wanted to bring him back,
for I at once became able again to frame the questions
which I wanted answered. I was like a man worried that
he has a cancer and determined at long last to declare
his symptoms to a doctor, but who, when a doctor
comes, complains weakly of swollen tonsils and lets him
go. I was not worried but baffled by the numberless and
paradoxical conclusions which could be drawn from any
one of the comforting assurances of the Gospel.
Being naturally and circumstantially inclined to fa-
vour a literal interpretation of straightforward passages
about sparrows and lilies and lost sheep, I found myself
hardly reconciled with less optimistic exhortations to
09
wait for the other world. And from what I could re-
member of the sermons I had heard, there was a general
attitude of warning among churchmen that the benefits
of Providence were not to be counted upon on earth,
in the form of material comforts, but in an intangible
experience after death.
Since I was growing daily more uncomfortable and
less aware that I must die, this interpretation was of
little use to me and struck no response in either heart or
mind; the whole Gospel became more and more a struc-
ture of paradoxes, carefully balanced so that each state-
ment could be invalidated by another, none having
absolute precedence. The lost sheep, the foolish vir-
gins; the prodigal son and the man with one talent:
they made an impenetrable maze through which I could
see no way. But the opportunity to ask was past.
I picked up the sheet which the padre had left, a little
excited, because whatever it contained it was something
to read and therefore something to pass a little time.
It was in the form of a sermon and for title bore a text
from one of the Psalms: “For all our days are passed
away in Thy wrath; we spend our years as a tale that is
told.” I thought that the second phrase must be the
best description ever given of a prisoner’s life. For a
few moments we sat in our discomfort, with the words
of our stories echoing in our ears. Like musicians who
100
have played their piece, we would remain silent and
motionless for a space before leaving. Then “the place
thereof shall know it no more.” But the theme of what
followed was the anger of God and the frailty of human
life to withstand it; and I was outraged at the represen-
tation of God as a ferocious scourge when I was almost
convinced that He was kind. I regretted no longer the
shallowness of my conversation with the padre, feeling
that if he could propagate such an offensive idea in
print we would surely have found no common ground
for speech. The God portrayed in this interpretation
was of no use to me, for wrath (courroux was the
French word, quicker and testier than the English) in-
dicated such an uncertainty of temper as could hide
mercy only by accident; and this was pessimism, which,
in such a place at least, was death. Nevertheless, I read
the pamphlet for hours, until I knew it by heart, and the
speeches and arguments which I worked up against it
occupied me for a long time afterwards and saved me
from stagnation.
Four days later another interruption brought me back

to immediate reality. A strange sergeant came to my
cell and told me to collect my things, of which I had
none, and ordered me out of the door. For once I was
101
not paralyzed, though I felt cold when I discarded the

blanket I had been wearing as a cloak, and I asked him
where I was going more out of curiosity than of fear.
He was unusually communicative.
“Down to the second floor,” he said. “This floor will
be used to put three or four prisoners in a cell, so you
are being moved down.”
“Do you know why they don’t move others in with
me?” I asked, as we walked down the stairs.
“Police orders,” he said shortly, and this seemed to
him sufhcient explanation.
Cell No. 239 was no different from the others, but I
had the same feeling of being uprooted as if I had been
living for a long time in a warm Georgian house and
had had to move to a draughty villa. Yet, when I had
examined the appointments of my new home, I found
much to recompense me for the change. The floor was
shiny, the cement round the lavatory was clean and not
yet crumbling and, best of all, the blankets were new,
full-size and with all their hair. The plug pulled, the tap
flowed, and there was even a pane of transparent glass
in the skylight, which gave me many square inches of
extra light and extra sky to look at. It was wonderful to
look at the sky, whatever the weather. Little clouds lit
like southern islands in the sunset, or fast grey scurries,
or the blue fullness of invisible things were all beauty
102
to me. I knew why we put Heaven up there, and could
not tire of looking at it.
The worst feature of the change appeared in the floor-
staff. It seemed that the authorities had determined
that the prisoners in solitary confinement were the more
dangerous, and they had wished on us a trio of guards
of an unpleasantness to daunt even the least faint-
hearted. The sergeant looked as if a witch had tried to
turn a gnome into a toad. The transmutation had been
arrested halfway and had left the two sets of features in
the one diminutive body: bulging eyes, vast, down-
turned mouth, crapulousness, wrinkles, and a sub-
human peevish cunning which ever drove him to spy on
us silently from behind our shoulders. He had a deep
hoarse croak, and if there were no warts visible on the
exposed portions of his skin, they were not lacking in
his spirit.
Two corporals were his apprentices, one a simple bat-
eared bruiser with a strong neck supporting a head
which undoubtedly contained the overflow of his
muscle, the other more dangerous, because he had
strength neither in his mind nor in his body. He looked
mild and inoffensive and seldom shouted, but warred
on us with sneak-thief weapons, cutting the soup ration
and reporting us to the Toad.
I received their several and unwelcome visits shortly
103
after taking up my new residence. They were out to per-

suade me of my iniquity and their force majeure, the
Toad and the bruiser blustering and barking and the
little one prying silently for dust. They wanted me to
stand at attention immediately they entered, but I man-
aged to teach them that my movements were slow and
my positions languid.
From upstairs I heard the unremitting roar of the old
sergeant and felt almost homesick. “August! August!
Wo ist der Mann? Verfluchter August!’ Then a little
chirrup from some distant corner, and: “Komm Mann!
Geh’mal Brot holen!”’ And, sadly: “O-je, dieser August!”
August was no longer mine, but I had new blankets.
104
ru Chapter Eight
CHRISTMAS WaS snow-white and cold. My change

of cell had kept my mind off it for four days, and it
was only on Christmas Eve that I realized fully that
the paradox had become truth and that I was after all
still there. All that evening I wandered up and down in
my blanket-cloak, sensing the snow outside and listen-
ing to the choirs of German soldiers singing carols, the
voices coming to me like a single voice, purified by the
snow. I assured myself that there was still time, that
anything was possible except the one event which I had
excluded. But my assurances only served to convince
me that I was wrong and that probably I had made it
necessary for me to be wrong by setting the limit in the
first place. I recalled the old injunction to beware of
tempting Providence and assumed that I had broken
the rule. But then, I thought, did the temptation of
Providence mean so much? I had believed it to mean
that Providence should not be defied to do something
which you either wished or feared; I had not realized
that it meant that one should never, on any subject, pre-
105
sume that a certain thing would happen, however be-

nign and innocent. By the time I went to bed I was
properly humbled.
When I woke to the Day itself I made one final and
histrionic protest to myself, but to a sceptical and some-
what laconic self which quite illogically assured its
other half, the play-acting one, that if I had been wrong
about Christmas I would be right about some other
day. And it immediately proceeded to set that other day
as Easter. Christmas, it said, was an unreasonable time
for anything to happen, at least in Europe, but in spring
the snows would melt in Norway and the tides rise
higher in the Channel, and there would almost cer-
tainly be an invasion of the Continent then. St.
Nazaire had been in the spring, and Hitler had waited
for it in 1940, and it was in every way preferable to the
late summer, when harvests were interrupted and the
autumn rains too close ahead.
In the end, I spent a large part of that fateful day in
a state of statistical hypnosis, confidently calculating the
time needed to make a tank and a landing-craft, and
deciding in the end that spring would be the time and
I would not be here at Easter. Looking back, I thought
that my four months had been easily passed and I was
not dismayed by the consideration that they would
now be doubled. The essential, though I did not know
106
it consciously at the time, was to have a boundary
which would make time finite and comprehensible, but
my sagacious self also let it be hinted that if I chose a
date so far ahead, I would placate Providence and per-
haps have my impotence in the matter proved by being
delivered almost immediately. I began to watch the
moon diligently through my good pane of glass, so that
I could anticipate the higher and the lower tides.
Little moments of wonder were interspersed among
all this sorcery. Being apart from the celebration of
Christmas, I was able to see more comprehensively the
picture of millions of people being happy on one par-
ticular day. I could see them all, spread out over the
world, unable to see each other, not all of them, per-
haps, happy but all moved by the same necessity for
happiness, from children ecstatic with their miraculous
stockings, to old solitaries escaping for a moment with
shy gifts and reluctant greetings.
Was it only a tradition, kept with the aid of a calen-
dar and the advertisements of shops, that led to this
outburst? Four hundred million Chinese did much the
same at their New Year; in what were they different?
Was the difference important or the likeness, the tradi-
tion or the joy? Even if one creed were better than an-
other, it did not follow that the rejoicing was better on
that side, because so few people really understood a
107
creed. So rejoicing alone appeared enough. Perhaps the

human race was saved if it could be happy once a year,
even without belief.
This was a Friday, and when the Toad appeared
alone on duty and in his best uniform, I understood that
we would have a week-end of three days. I would sooner
have had the company of the noise of prison business
than the cold silence, but I felt that the God of Wrath
had been dispelled again, and with my new calculations
to absorb me the day was soon gone and the next term
opened.
108
vw" Chapter Nine
Tue pays between Christmas and Easter are as

alike as drops of water, uniformly bleak and uneventful,
as if winter had wiped the character from them as ora-
tory wipes it from a crowd. New Year's Day itself is
only a mimic, and often a tired one when it has been
properly brought in. The rest follow each other in ob-
scurity, claiming none of our attention and defying the
worthy enthusiasts who tried to brighten them with St.
David and St. Patrick and the mysterious Lady Day.
Probably I had chosen Easter as my new horizon be-
cause it was the first feature to be seen across this twilit
desert.
Left to itself, nature follows the lead, and each person
and animal and plant is reduced by winter to its small-
est limits, living as nearly within itself as it can do while
time takes a brief holiday from the rhythm of succes-
sion. Blizzard and storm hustle the restless into shelter,
frost orders them into the torpid comfort of the heavi-
est blankets, and the monotony firmly rebukes distrac-
tion and allows mind and body to chew fatly on their
109
cud. Hibernation is a blessing which we have almost

circumvented in our whimsical way.
At Fresnes, of course, the passage of these days
seemed less benign than nature had intended. The cli-
mate was not tempered by our blankets, which soon
proved their ersatz origin, and the monotony was not
stillness but itching impatience for the first sign of that
interminably distant spring which would warm us and
bring our rescue nearer. Instead of warm somnolence we
had cold and pinched anxiety. Each day’s soup con-
vinced us that we could not live on stuff so thin, and
each night we faced our beds with reasoned pessimism,
like sailors castaway in an arctic sea. But each morning
we survived to watch our small skies for the approach
of clemency, and we listened for familiar sounds of
life as children listen for their parents’ voices late at
night.
Yet the season would not be quite denied. The pit-
tance of diversion, which had been in the humming of
summer and the windy bustle of autumn, was gone.
The endless walking up and down had to be interrupted
more and more often by intervals of sitting or lying
tightly wrapped, head and all, in the blankets, when, in
concentrated immobility, a little time of warmth could
be achieved. (With practice, I could maintain a state al-
most of anaesthesia for perhaps half an hour at once.)
And at such times the mind was more detached and
110
calmer even than when oscillating absently over a pair
of plodding feet; and memory found only rare excerpts
from the nameless winter days of other years, because
they, too, had been an immersion rather than a meas-
ured flow and not broken up by incidents.
On the other hand, I found a new activity, which was

more enervating but seemed more useful than prome-
nading. My straw mattress was filled with oat-straw, and
I found that many of the oats had been left over from
the threshing. I decided to eat them and spent many
hours collecting, husking and amassing them in a little
pile. When this seemed to be a small mouthful (perhaps
twice a day if I worked hard), I ate it with due cere-
mony, thinking a little smugly that God helped those
who helped themselves.
Such glib quotations were becoming habitual to me.
I did not understand nor consciously believe them, but
they emerged spontaneously, like clichés overheard a
thousand times and dismissed as often, flitting in and
out with the familiarity of accustomed residents, appro-
priate to the inclination of my thoughts, but coming
to them as no more than decoration. Yet they provoked
me to meditation.
My religious education (if it can be called that) had
been so conducted as to make it resemble an algebra
11]
class as much as possible. Neither subject seemed worth

learning at that age unless it were given a rigorously
down-to-earth and practical significance; the dead lan-
guages were endowed with more of both beauty and
narrative interest. God was given a place corresponding
to the zero on the right hand of an equation, an unex-
plained but convenient symbol of which the manipula-
tion could produce solutions as required; and various
generalities, such as sin, were introduced as occasion
demanded but with as little clarity as the square root of
minus one.
Later, when the world widened and my faculties were
busy sampling it, religion and algebra were consigned
to the same limbo of dismal text-books. Algebra re-
mained a handy way of measuring stair-carpets, and reli-
gion kept vaguely pointing upwards, available as an
occasional reference-system for the weighing of behay-
iour.
I have heard it said that the Jesuits can preach to any
kind of person, from a farm-hand to a physicist, and suit
their words to each and all, while other preachers can
only make themselves understood to their own kind.
We were taught as befitted grandsons of Victorians
and the heirs, willynilly, of Cromwell; and we acquired
a code of rules for our conduct which should help us
to be good servants of our country. It drew some colour,
no doubt, from the New Testament, but it was not in
Li?
substance more authentically Christian, or religious in
any way, than the similar codes of Spartans and Per-
sians, Japanese and Teutons. The points of detail and
of ritual differed, and circumstances produced different
particular results, but the essential conception of nobil-
ity was fairly universal, and, as Professor A. N. White-
head pointed out, even the wheeling rooks have their
ritual. It was a good code, exhorting us to honesty, co-
operation and self-sacrifice, but it was useful only to a
free and active man, with goals to reach and responsi-
bilities to carry. I wished I had followed it more strictly
while I was free, but goals were futile now and my last
responsibility was past. I was passive, motionless; and a
code of behaviour has no bearing on that condition.
The other recollections of my scriptural days were
no more helpful. There were the everlasting Don’ts of
Moses, the primness of St. Paul, the starchiness of vicar-
age teas and the tart recriminations of schoolmasters
who donned gowns on Sundays.
Then there was “religion,” which was not part of the
lesson but which underlay it tacitly, an unmentionable
which was only rarely blurted out by an unfortunate
text or a stray visiting preacher. It seemed to be a posi-
tive aspect of Christianity and a stumbling-block, con-
cerning people who did good things while the normal
population simply avoided doing bad, precluding enjoy-
ment and being the special function of monks. Any
113
man, I presumed, who became devoutly religious should

honestly become a monk. The logic is not uncommon,
because a convention to that effect has reigned long
enough to pass almost without question; and many of
us would add, not the converse, that the monk is a reli-
gious man, but the corollary, that because the monastic
life is impracticable to all but a few, so must religion
be forbidden to ordinary men.
From my cell, I could accept this reasoning with con-
viction, for the thought that I should spend the rest of
my life with no better home could not be entertained.
It was, I thought, not better, but a matter of no choice
that I should die an unconverted sinner and take my
chance with the judgment rather than condemn myself
outright to such an existence. If solitude and frugality
were the monk’s portion, then let him have them. I
wanted the world, sinful or pure, as long as there was a
square meal left in it and room to kick my heels.
I have mentioned how I was given paper. Sometimes
it consisted of old newspapers torn up, sometimes of the
pages of books, and, depending on the corporal who
issued it, I would get a few sheets or a small book at one
time. I now had a series of pages from books which
had evidently been sent by charitable societies for our
spiritual refreshment but which had been turned by
the Germans to the baser use, and from them the last
pages of a book about St. Francis of Assisi were im-
ie
pressed firmly in my mind. The passage described with
an almost voluptuous insistence the joy of contemplat-
ing the saint’s impoverished life and particularly the
dusty garbage which he ate from his bowl.
I suspected that the author preferred to take his pleas-
ures vicariously and I drew in effigy a well-nourished
friar dropping unctuous verbiage on sore souls from
whose troubles he was himself majestically protected.
No man, I felt, who had experienced the reality could
write such tartufhan nonsense. I could leave Puritania
without a backward glance, but not change it for a mon-
astery. Wherever I looked, this Christianity was marked
by a Dickensian darkness and a thinness of lip and a
voice which called for suffering and yet more suffering.
Were all these things pleasing to a God of Love?
I was afraid that if I had the choice between good
living and asceticism I should choose the former, what-
ever the consequences, but I regretted that such a
choice should be unavoidable. Hope, alone and unrea-
soning, had led me to expect that there was room for
belief in the kindly things of the Gospel, but since
apparently Wrath held the balance, I should have to
abandon hope.
It would not be abandoned, but the subject was too
confused in my mind for me to inspect it further. For-
tunately, the passions are good governors of the intel-
lect, bringing it back to firm ground when it takes flight
115
from gravity; and as even the purest mathematicians

have sometimes to grope for a solid hand-rail, so my
stomach, the faithful beast, offered me an earthly refuge
whenever my thoughts became unsafe. They did not
often reach great heights, for hunger is no aid to con-
centration, and my only source of thought was my mem-
ory—not wise memory, as Carlyle spoke of, working
with wise oblivion, but a palette from which emerged
an untidy kaleidoscope of image and association, divert-
ing but seldom constructive.
And if sometimes I believed that I had been thinking
intelligently, it was only to find a greater perplexity be-
yond, to which I could no longer bring my wits to bear.
Then my stomach resumed its errand of mercy, and I
dreamed of old meals. Thought was like the stone of
Sysiphus and wistful lunacy the symbol of contentment.
Indeed, I felt less sane after these weeks than ever
before, and my condition was not improved when a bell
suddenly started to toll the hours. It was a disaster of
truly great proportions. The bell was cracked and made
a dreadful sound of pain and ugliness, a note without
thythmic frequency, against all the laws of nature. It
also multiplied the days, for instead of two periods of
waiting, from dawn to soup and from soup to nightfall,
there were now twenty-four, each one as long as ever.
The bell never told of progress, never gave a sudden
surprise by announcing that the day was farther gone
116
than I had thought. Indeed, it seemed to preface every
stroke by a sarcastic “it’s only . . .” Then the same
jinx which had inspired the mechanism to move took to
tinkering with it, and the quarter-hours started to sound,
in one, two and three notes, each one obscenely dis-
cordant from the others, until finally slapstick replaced
comedy, and the hours and quarters clanged out wit-
lessly at intervals of five, ten, or a hundred minutes,
sometimes two or three in succession.
When the toneless and unmeasured beating of the
clapper came across the night, its dissonance sharpened
by the cold, and woke me in the small hours from my
precious sleep, it could twist my brain like a dentist’s
drill; and when it stopped its first movement I was so
anxious not to hear the next that I was unlikely to go
to sleep again. At last, as suddenly as it had started, it
became dispossessed of its devil and we had silence
again. But for weeks afterwards I listened nervously
for it to return.
One day, towards the end of winter, while I was husk-
ing oats, the Toad caught me unawares through the
peep-hole, stormed furiously in and asked me what I
was doing.
“Essen,” I said; “gut!” And he, for once dumb-
founded, screwed a short forefinger in his temple and
withdrew, muttering, leaving me to my peaceful hus-
bandry.
iy
Perhaps he was right, for either the raw and ancient

oats or the official food smote me with some kind of
dysentery as the spring arrived. It was a nauseating dis-
ease and the more exasperating for its apparent ability
to live on nothing. For a few days I suffered it in silence,
wondering from what copious hidden springs it drew its
restless poisons, but one morning I reported it to the
corporal who delivered the morning paper, not because
I relied on him to attend to it but because I could live
with it no longer, like a man who hides lice for a while
with instinctive shame, but afterwards finds himself
forced to share his embarrassment with others.
My plight stirred an unexpected sympathy in the cor-
poral, or perhaps it was only the horror which disease
inspires in Germans, and he produced a medical orderly
who, in turn, prescribed charcoal and starvation. He
gave me a little heap of charcoal balls, like duck-shot,
which were sweet and crunchy. I ate them gladly as an
addition to the ordinary diet, but the command to eat
nothing else fell on deaf ears, for he might as sensibly
have told me to stop breathing. I could feel acutely that
the bread, especially, was sour and an irritant, but wis-
dom had once again to bow before appetite. The dys-
entery lingered for a few weeks and then suddenly
disappeared, probably from exhaustion.
118
vw Chapter Ten
SPRING was announced by a blackbird, who chose

a platform close outside my window and sang loudly and
tempestuously of hope and love and the freedom of the
new earth. I told myself stories in the same tenor, in
tune with the spirit of the season, so that the blackbird
became Sullivan to my Gilbert. But when I remem-
bered, seeing the window and its bars between me and
the sun and air, that his world was real and mine a
shadow, I wished that he would seek partnership else-
where. Then, one day, I was let out for exercise.
The prison, as I have told, was composed of three
great parallel blocks of cells. The spaces in between
seemed like canyons, and it was here that the exercise
yards had been built. Along each side of the canyon was
a line of little courtyards, each about ten yards square
and surrounded by walls of overgrown red brick. They
were like miniature Elizabethan gardens, forgotten and
nestling together for company under the towering con-
crete. They were deep in grass and weeds, and the
walls were encrusted with little plants and inscribed
Lite
with salutations, boasts and threats by earlier outlaws

whose language, if not Elizabethan, stemmed straight
from Rabelais. A brick path, buried in the green under-
growth, was laid in a square following the walls, and
along the whole row was a cat-walk from which sentries,
dispelling the illusion, could overlook the inmates.
Fifteen of us were let out at one time. As soon as the
preceding group was safely back, our doors were opened
one by one and, with a good interval between us to
keep us from talking, we were driven downstairs with a
barrage of shouts: “Heraus! Los los! Schnell! Pass aut!
Fresser halten! Los!” The corporals and sergeants of all
the floors, and even the warrant officers downstairs,
took up the senseless din, to marshal our descent and
prevent us from closing to exchange a greeting or a
glance. Only the furtive sentries, with their rifles and
oversized grass slippers, remained silent.
My cell was at the corner of the stairs; No. 238 went
before me and No. 240 after me. The former was sepa-
rated from me by the stairway and meant little to me,
in the sense that the character of our neighbours was
known only in so far as we could interpret their or the
enemy's activity next door. He was too far away for any
trace of his existence to have reached me, and solitude
had so far weaned me from the habit of intercourse,
even the thin intercourse of speculation, that I could
no longer see any relationship with another person un-
120
less it were introduced gradually by a long overture of
common trivialities. So No. 238 remained for ever only
a human back for me.
Even of No. 240, of whom I knew comparatively
much, I can remember little, except that he was young
and grey of face and anxious to talk. He had tried to
involve me in the tapping game and to bribe me with
news (for he was only recently captured) in order to
lure me into conversation and, perhaps, commiseration.
But I had no patience for this pastime, which was tedi-
ous and unreliable and eased none of the real burdens
of confinement, and I had finally given up the pretence
of answering after I learned that a general named Eisen-
hower was on the point of winning the war for us in
the Mediterranean. Having never heard the name, I
assumed it to be German and thought that my neigh-
bour was confusing the issues of the war. After that I
replied to his overtures with a few deceitful knocks to
assure him that I was listening and resumed my pacing
and my own thoughts, which were by now more con-
genial to me than rumours.
As we went downstairs I heard No. 240 shuffle up
behind me and whisper urgently, “Pourquoi tu ne ré-
ponds plus?” But before I could even think of a sensible
answer a lurking sergeant had barked a warning at him
and he had drawn back. Then No. 238 turned into his
courtyard, a back without identity, recorded like a min-
121
ute of some past year on a clock-face, an indistinguish-

able occurrence; and feeling for a moment in myself the
same remote quality of irrelevance, I too turned aside,
and the door slammed and locked behind me.
For all the studied segregation there was a great
whistling and chattering all around, to which the sen-
tries on the catwalk paid but fitful and benign attention.
It was often a surprise and something of a relief to find
that the humbler among our oppressors were prone to
embarrassment rather than to bullying and tried, with
uniform inaction, to avoid our hatred and their masters’
fury at the same time. Now gossip bubbled over.
“What’s your name? When were you arrested?
Where? Why? Did you get a parcel this week? I'll throw
you a cigarette over the wall. The new corporal is in
the artillery and has just come back from Russia.” And
then the inevitable tale of victory.
I listened for a while, finding the voices strange and
delightful in their way, but having no wish to join them.
I wanted to enjoy the newly discovered things about
me and would have preferred to be alone to absorb
the sky and grass and air, so that I felt a faint resent-
ment at the noise and a fear that one of my neighbours
would waste some of my precious minutes by talking to
me, like those people who insist on whispering in con-
certs. But my tongue was securely tied, and perhaps it
122
was better that the new world was kept human in its
due proportion.
The renewing of old acquaintances, and especially of
cherished ones, often begins with a touch of perverse
humour. An oddity will strike the eye before any well-
remembered feature; “what funny shoes,” we will say,
r “I never knew her mouth was crooked.” Under the
cover of a momentary strangeness the urbane sub-con-
scious mind has one wry look before admiration shuts
it out.
So, when the door had shut behind me, the first thing
of which I was conscious was the wall of the opposite
building. I noticed that the shadow which served as my
clock in the morning was cast by an eave of the red-
tiled roof, and that the depth and angle of this eave
were such that the shadow would grow very slowly in
the early hours but quite rapidly as the zenith ap-
proached. I noted, therefore, that I need not be
impatient in the early morning but must guard against
over-optimism towards mid-day. I also noted that such
an observation was in fact of no account, because it
was too early for me to judge the turning-point and any-
way I should always err on the side of impatience, how-
ever precise I became in my time-keeping.
Meanwhile, my feet were recognizing the strange but
well-loved feeling of treading on soft turf, and my eyes
and nose were engaged in their own rediscoveries of life.
123
Although I was in the canyon, the enormous sweep of

the sky was overwhelming, and the light coming from
all directions instead of through a window gave every-
thing a startling brilliance. Perhaps best of all was the
careless way of the growing grass, short here, long there,
facing in all directions, and with dandelions spreading
darker patches waywardly where their seed had dropped.
An abandoned plot, it would be called; in England
someone would be told to plant cabbages in it; but to
me it was Arcadia. (“I guess it is the handkerchief of
the Lord,” said Walt Whitman.) I walked around it,
avoiding the brick path which had no business there,
and felt the air, suddenly warm and throbbing, pouring
life into me as it did into the grass.
And knowing that the time would be short, I tried to
store it all in my mind, to imbue myself with it as a
proof against my cell, as I might drink rum before leav-
ing a sinking ship. But it would not be captured. The
clatter and shouting started again and the doors were
opened, and I wondered whether to take my last look
at the sky or at the grass. I picked a small snail off the
wall to serve as a companion and as a memorial. Then
we resumed our shuffling back to the third floor.
Back in my cell, I put the snail on the table and tried
to recall the sensations of outside. But they would not
come back, and I spent the rest of the morning frus-
trated, concentrating on smells and sights and feelings
124
which would not come of their own selves now that the
physical forms in which they travelled were excluded.
When the soup came, I gave the snail little pieces of
cabbage, but they did not seem to strike its fancy. It
stayed for one night, but disappeared during the second.
When it had gone, I told myself that I had been ridicu-
lous in bringing it back with me, but it was company of
a sort, and as it were an emissary from the world of real
life; and its going reminded me of freedom, even sug-
gesting that what a snail obtained so easily might still
be possible for me.
For a few days I waited impatiently to be let out
again. My little sky was no longer enough, and when I
remembered the warmth of the air I realized that I was
still shivering, even though wrapped in a blanket. But
although nothing further happened, I could not live
through the spring without gladness. I did not feel in
duty bound to be happy, as Wordsworth once did; I
could not help it. Now I liked to wake early and listen
to the blackbird singing and think about daffodils and
budding silver birches and what I was doing last spring
and all the springs before, laudator temporis acti se
puero.
The word “love” inevitably occurred to me, but since

it did not touch my now tenuous emotions and caught
125
in my memory only the shadows of sadness, I saw it as

a strange word of which I did not know the meaning
and began to dissect and ponder it.
I was at once thrown into confusion by my untimely
and remorseless memory, which reminded me that one
should love one’s enemies. Time and the change of sea-
son had damped the doubts and paradoxes which had
beset me earlier, and I was well disposed to see the
world ruled by kindness. But “love your enemies”
seemed to have no meaning. The idea of loving the
Toad or his minions repelled me almost as strongly as
had the thought of monasticism, and it was abundantly
clear that here was an obscurity in my understanding
upon which, again, nobody had yet cast light.
I did not hate my enemies. I would do what I could
to frustrate their schemes against me, but I would not
be savage with them. If the Toad would go back to Ger-
many and leave my door open, he could go in peace; I
would try to neutralize his unpleasantness, but I would
not harry him to hell. But the Toad and love seemed
to be incompatible terms. It would be easy enough to
couple them in church, especially in the general propo-
sition, an exhortation given in peculiarly suitable cir-
cumstances where outright refutation or even doubt
would be unlikely. For in those peaceable surroundings
the vision of enmity recedes. But does the vision of love
advance? Do we know what we are talking about?
126
We use the word happily of wives and children, food

and old coats, golf and barley sugar: is there any mean-
ing in the word which can be common to our relations
with all these things? Does it represent a single identi-
fable happening? There is no one concept of love, how-
ever many symbols may be invented for it. If you see or
hear the word, it may provoke a variety of memories of
objects or persons with whom it has been associated,
but nothing in all the thought around it can be isolated
and identified as itself. Poets mirror love roughly in
refractory words; philosophers skirt round it in wide
detours; and if more lyrics have been sung than doc-
trines expounded on it, that is no doubt because lyrics
are brief and pleasing and doctrines interminably long.
Yet we never abandon the subject, since our minds,
split between soul and sense, are for ever seeking to
explain intuition by reason and to enjoy reason by salt-
ing it with intuition.
Knowledge is always increasing, and because knowl-
edge comes from inspection and analysis the size of
things known seems to decrease as the number of things
known grows. The words we use multiply, but the
scope of their application becomes more rigidly precise:
as we learn to split hairs we find less use for the old Glad-
stone bags in which we carried wigs; the naturalist of
old has become a sort of mythical and untrustworthy,
even a slightly ludicrous and shameful, forbear of the
127
entomologist, the dendrologist and their brothers. We

divide and divide again and again, yet when we take
stock of the division it may seem that the parts are
not quite equal to the whole. Gilbert White or Mrs.
Loudon could not be copied by a symposium of articles
by subsidiary specialists, however learned each might be.
And, in the matter of practical convenience, conversa-
tion would become well-nigh impossible and deadly dull
if we were obliged to use each word with scientific
exactitude. So, while one side of our nature makes us
dissect the world with the finest scalpels, another draws
us towards unity: we are prosaic and poetic by turns.
I soon found trouble with this conspiracy of oppo-
sites. My paper ration one day produced the last few
pages of a book by Sir James Jeans on Planck’s Con-
stant, translated into French; and although physics had
never reached such a level in my world, I was able after
many days of concentration to understand the argu-
ment, which, I imagine, was set out for novices.
But what held my attention was a remark made by
the author at the conclusion to the effect that Planck
had shown a unit of ultimate atomicity to which no
physical concept could be attached, that, in other
words, the irreducibly smallest measurement in the
physical world was not of a tiny particle nor of a tiny
wave but of something rather weakly called an “action,”
which had no physical form to offer to the mind’s eye.
128
He shaded this observation, which must have been
somewhat perplexing for any professional measurer, by
admitting that it was impossible to say how definite it
would prove. We might, he suggested, have uncovered
only a corner of the picture, and if more were visible
we might see the problem very differently.
Although this was really a commonplace, such as
must be made by every scientist sooner or later to jus-
tify further research, it occurred to me that it described
knowledge. For we are always in one of two conditions:
either we claim to know with assurance, in which case
we are certain to have a successor who will make us
seem ignorant; or, alternatively, we admit that what we
know is imperfect.
The second condition is the more honest, and if we
examine it more closely we may see that there is a
tather even consistency in the ignorance we confess.
Indeed, the nature of learning is like the digging of a
mole. He enters the earth at the point of his choosing
and he digs until he comes up at another point. If we
had moles who dug right through the earth, they would
still come up on the same surface. If the digging, there-
fore, is like our learning, the discovered surface is like
knowledge; there always seems to be an unburrowed
desert around the point of exit, but the available area
is nevertheless limited.
There were many other interesting extensions of this
129
simile: do we confuse mountains and molehills, mistak-

ing our scrabblings of knowledge for the realities of
nature and using the vagaries of nature as demonstra-
tions of our knowledge? And is there perhaps an anal-
ogy between the pattern of these imaginary burrows
and the nature of mathematics? But I let them pass.
The conclusion which I was tempted to draw from it
was that a part of our thought and language concerns
the surface of knowledge, and it is likely that in due
course it may cover the whole surface; but that there
is another part which seems to concern the atmosphere
and the universe beyond the surface and of which we
can have no knowledge in this strict sense; and this is
a part which remains constant in any age, irrespective
of the number of holes that have been dug.
In this second part of our experience, our manner of
communication is hampered by the fact that we use
words which were, so to speak, coined underground,
with the result that all our experience on this level has
something of the status of a family joke; it can be
alluded to but not properly described, and people out-
side the family do not understand at all. Happiness, I
think, is in this class, and love, too, which was, I be-
lieve, defined by the Schoolmen as appetite modified by
happiness.
Fear, on the other hand, seems less elusive. It is as
though fear were a field of grass, with innumerable
130
blades but always beneath us, accessible and palpable;
while happiness and its kin are more like a hidden light
which we know by the scattered stars which catch it but
which we can only know by reflection, aware. of the
source but never seeing it.
Then, in the course of time, we allow some words to
lose their primary significance and to acquire an allusive
value on this upper plane, until, once they are well es-
tablished there, we bring them down again. Love starts
perhaps as some quite fleshly feeling, although cosmic
in strength and in duration; it is sublimated by Plato
and St. John and returns, via the Roman de la Rose,
to Freudian sex and Hollywood. When a word has be-
come so garbled in its direct significance it is difficult
to use it even as an allusion. Meaning, as Swift said of
reason, “is a light rider and easily shook off.”
Having leisure without end, I could spend as much

time on this game of words as the energy of my brain
allowed. If I was the yokel poaching on philosopher’s
preserves, that was no worry to me, there being more
hole than fence around them; but I realized how sadly
ill-equipped I was and often caught myself holding the
most absurd internal dialogues and believing them of
great importance.
If Auguste Comte, as I have heard say, wrote for
13]
forty years only to find that he had repeated Aristotle,

I should confess to having spent more than once forty
hours enthralled by some tautology which the Concise
Oxford Dictionary would have exposed at a glance. I
hankered after books, and still more after paper and
pencil, so that I could dispense with the repetition of
every argument that crossed my mind.
But I enjoyed the pastime and valued it, perhaps in-
ordinately. For I viewed myself as a free man, waiting
for the door to open on a new life. Where formerly each
little wheel and wire which made up the machinery of
life had seemed, in turn, to be the motor fed by the
fickle current of my consciousness, now the detachment
of these months of solitude showed that none of them
was of great power by itself and that all moved in an
intricate movement which was but little disturbed by
my absence or presence. Subjectively, I remained impli-
cated in this movement, but objectively I had been re-
moved from the centre to the rim. And it was because
the rim of the driven wheel is most affected by the driv-
ing that I applied myself with considerable diligence
to its study and to the bringing forth, like Toletanes in
the Frankeleine’s Tale, of my tables
Ful wel corrected,

As ben his centres, and his argumentes,
132
And his proportional convenientes
For his equations in every thing.
If it was no more, it was an exercise which prevented

atrophy. But I must confess that it kindled no love in
me for the Toad, nor for later and more vicious
enemies.
133
yw Chapter Eleven
Sprinc had done its work, and the square of sky

in my window was deepening with the full warmth of
summer. I shivered, ridiculously draped in blankets,
while Paris was full of cotton frocks and new blood
tingled through bodies lazily stretching in the sun. But
my slow body was lagging behind the seasons: although
I knew that Easter was past I dismissed my old impa-
tience from my mind, seeing such promise in the
summer weather that no reservation, with its hidden
pessimism, was now necessary.
From my blind eyrie I could see France in panorama,
field upon field peopled with pickers and harvesters,
with figures busy at spraying the vines and scything the
hay, while symbolic bees buzzed in the remaining space.
Villages on hilltops and towns by riversides had emp-
tied their belongings out into the streets again, and ant-
like crowds of women bustled round them.
And at night, in the warm south wind on lonely
heaths and pastures, quick silent groups were welcom-
ing friends from England and storing the cases of guns
134
and gelignite with which, one day soon, they would
noisily send the Germans on their way. England I could
not see, but I could guess, even be sure, that they had
the troops and the equipment for a landing. Now they
would be planning the time. If they did not come in
June they would spare the harvest and wait until Sep-
tember—the first week in September, so that the land-
ings would be done before the gales came. I could be
patient for three more months.
The prospect was marred only by the thought, which
came to me sometimes when I considered the end, that
I would have done nothing towards it. All my dreams
had been futile. They had burned themselves out and
had not resulted in even the useful movement of my
little finger. Had I done harm? I scoured my memory
of the last interrogation for anything I had let fall, but
was never sure one way or the other, only doubting the
worst.
Then, one morning, the muscle-brained corporal clat-

tered into my cell and sharply ordered me to collect all
my possessions and follow him. I had become unused
to the dangerous side of life. Footsteps no longer
stopped me in my tracks until they passed, and it was
but rarely that I woke in the morning with the sense
of doom, a sort of self-abdication, which I had made
135
my daily oracle, like Cassandra at Argos, in the early

months. Now I was suddenly jolted back. My stomach
turned over abruptly, and I cursed my illusion and my
disappointment and tried to imagine what was going
to happen, conjuring up pictures of the rue des Saus-
saies and the worse places at which I guessed.
I was put at ease again before my mind had begun to
clear, for the corporal took me along the floor to cell
No. 259 and locked me in again without a word, leav-
ing me to wonder for a while whether I could settle
down here or whether this was the first movement of a
series which would lead much farther. It was character-
istic of the apathy of these men that they never thought
to put us out of our misery of anticipation, although the
slightest effort of imagination must have suggested it
to them. They were content to bark “Komm!” and to
strut grimly behind until the mission was accomplished,
with never another word, unless it was “Los!’, which
was a nervous tick on all their tongues.
It did not take me long to recover my balance, swear-
ing that I would never again let myself sink into such
complacency (but swearing, of course, in vain). And
when I had decided that I had simply changed cells
again I found that the new one, even in the light of a
fine morning, compared unfavourably with the worst of
its predecessors. It was slovenly without being filthy;
the cement round the toilet had crumbled and gave the
136
impression of a dank and mouldering out-house; one
pane of the skylight was missing, and a draught blew
steadily through it; finally, the blankets were torn and
threadbare and the straw-sack strawless. But I had by
now a more dispassionate view of discomfort, and when
I considered the fineness of the day, my good fortune
in still being in the prison and the fact that it was nearly
mid-day, I was able to overlook all these changes for the
worse. The blankets would not be so important in sum-
mer, and the missing window-pane even appeared as a
blessing when I saw how much more immediate was
my contact with the outside world and felt the warmth
and fragrance of the fresh air which eddied through it.
If I climbed on to the table I could see the red tiles of
the building opposite, and this gave me a strange feel-
ing that I had regained my foot-hold on earth, like see-
ing the light suddenly at the far end of a tunnel.
Soon after this my birthday came, and because I had
been lucky in having birthdays properly remembered
by my family and friends, I woke with a silly feeling in
the back of my mind that it would be a most suitable
day for a surprise.
I dismissed the idea quickly enough and passed the
morning in moderate contentment thinking of birth-
days past and particularly of birthday cake. It was a
Wednesday, and the Germans were now treating
Wednesdays as Saturdays, sending the staff on leave
137
for the afternoon and abandoning us to that deserted

silence which made the day seem twice as long and our
state more derelict than ever because these were the
only times when none of the dreamed-of strokes of for-
tune could be delivered for lack of sergeants. When I
heard them thrusting their keys into the locks before
leaving, it was with an habitual relapse into depression
and the fancy that it would, after all, have been com-
forting if I had had a second helping of soup. I would
have felt fuller, on the one hand, and, on the other, my
sense of individuality would have been bolstered, how-
ever implausibly. But my discipline was strong now, and
I was soon back to pacing the floor and telling myself
beautiful stories of the life outside. Once or twice I
teased myself with the suggestion that some little token
now, when ordinary hope was past, would serve to re-
afhrm my knowledge that I was not lost and helpless.
But I brushed it off quickly, knowing its frivolity.
The last shaft of sunlight left my wall, and the deep-
ening of the sky told me that the day was nearly over.
I would tell myself one more story, I said, and then
I would have my moment musical, and it would be
supper-time. But the door burst suddenly open, and a
little red-headed sergeant scampered in in canvas shoes.
Before I could make myself aware of his arrival, he had
snatched the lid of a large biscuit-box which he was
carrying under one arm and had emptied the contents
138
on to my bed. Then he instantly disappeared, and I

heard his rubber-shod footsteps padding down the pas-
sage.
The deus having safely delivered himself of his mes-
sage and returned to the shelter of the machina, the
chorus started its many-voiced comment. Alarm, be-
lated, was followed by confusion, bewilderment, joy
and embarrassment. For my blanket was covered with
biscuits and their débris.
Here was clearly no normal event. In retrospect I can
imagine many reasons for which the feldwebel might
rationally have given me some chocolate, but even to-
day there is no apparent justification for the appearance
of a red-headed sergeant.
No other doors were opened in my hearing; it was
later than the hours of duty even on an ordinary day. It
was just possible that the staff kept a list of prisoners
who received no parcels and made special distributions
of this kind from time to time. But once in ten months?
And one at a time, at this hour of the evening? As a
mystery, it piqued me; but as a happening it rather
confused me. For I was no longer compelled to justify
everything which happened by elaborating a clear and
positive chain of causes leading to it.
I was quite content to accept that whatever came,
came from God’s wish that it should be so, and I had
only a passing interest in the intermediate steps. I had
139
no knowledge of this, in the sense that I knew what

would happen if I pressed the tap, nor was it belief, in
the sense that I believed myself to have been born on a
certain date. It was rather a state or condition, into
which I had passed unwittingly and for no apparent
reason except perhaps that the equilibrium of solitude
would bring anyone near it who was not crippled with
some spiritual rheumatism.
But if I was sure of the authority of Providence, I
had few expectations of providential generosity, feeling
that in most things normality must run its course and
that if I went free from prison I would be able to
count that a mercy big enough to last one lifetime. And
it was for this reason that I was inclined to subdue the al-
most irrepressible temptation to, as it were, drop hints
that this or that small favour would cost little and help
much. Such petty things seemed out of proportion,
even impudent. Therefore I was embarrassed when I
remembered that I had been dallying with idle thoughts
of just this kind to-day.
Meanwhile my gluttony, uninhibited by wonder or
the hesitations of the flimsier reaches of the mind, had
me counting my blessings with meticulous avarice. I
laid the biscuits on the shelf in piles of half a dozen and
found in the end that there were precisely ninety-six,
with the equivalent of another dozen in fragments and
crumbs which I left on the blanket.
140
Then, with the same fastidious prudence which had
always proved a sham in the past but was still called for
by some conservative bogey, I calculated how to ration
them. A dozen a day for eight days or two dozen a day
for four? I crammed my mouth full of broken pieces
from the blanket and decided to be bold. I would not
ration them; if I could eat them all to-day, I would.
They would be a birthday treat and nothing more.
As it turned out, they lasted six days, because I over-
ate with abandon that first evening and my dysentery
came back and left me unable to do more than nibble.
One of my back teeth also gave way towards the end,
and then another, so that until the end of the war I was
obliged to eat like a rabbit with the front pairs.
I reflected, when the shelf was bare, that my appetite
was as tiresome when it was satished as when it was
starved, but this did not prevent me wishing for a more
constant supply, nor did the slight sourness of the re-
flection damp my happiness with what had happened.
I only wondered whether Providence should not have
balanced the diet more judiciously. So much dry food,
I doubted, could not be good without some fat.
For a while nothing happened to interrupt my mild

contentment. Each morning I woke knowing that to-
day would not bring the good news, but that it was
141
coming. I found a new pleasure in my absurd routine.

The manicure made me think of leisurely comfort; the
exercises (now less ambitious) of free exercise; and my
catechism of general knowledge took me roaming
through the world, a world much more beautiful than
the one I knew.
Afterwards, I thought of the clothes I would have to
buy; my taste had become rugged, and I thought only
of the heaviest tweeds and the thickest brogues; and the
unpaid bills which had assumed unaccustomed weight
upon my conscience when I had thought I would never
be in a position to pay them, now became a pleasant
duty to look forward to.
The summer shimmered gently on. As my patch of
sky became misted with the heat there arose a new
loudness in the air. Each day more and more aircraft
came over, and the alarms, which sent the prison staff
securing all the locks and taking refuge downstairs, grew
longer and longer, until, on the Fourteenth of July,
there was what seemed to be a victory parade. Squad-
ron after squadron flew across, and the whole prison was
afire with excitement. I could hear the others singing
the Marseillaise all day long, and I became infected and
sang too.
After this day the parades became regular, and I was
certain that they were the heralds, if not the compan-
ions, of invasion. With one toe on the window-skirting
142
and one hand gripping the flimsy skylight, I climbed
up until I could see the whole sky in front of me and,
if I screwed my head round as far as it would go, some
trees.
From there I saw the formations passing over. I was
not sure how many aircraff there should be in each but
I assumed them to be in multiples of eleven and anx-
iously counted to make sure that none was missing. And
I made vast and carefree computations of the havoc
they were wreaking and pictured regiments in hot pur-
suit across the ruins of enemy divisions.
Little did I guess that when the day came, a year
later, the ruins would be those of Caen and the dead in
them more French than German.
It was clear that the raids and our most transparent
joy at them were making the guards sensitive and surly.
One Wednesday a feldwebel came round and said that
there was to be no singing during raids and that no one
was allowed to look out of the window.
Soon after that I was hanging at my precarious watch-
post looking out into the reddening sky over Ivry. A
raid was just ending, and the anti-aircraft guns were fall-
ing into a cautious diminuendo, when there was a sud-
den vivid flash, like a magnesium flare, just above the
sun. For a moment I did not realize what had hap-
pened; then I saw black smoke and something falling,
and knew that a plane had been hit. Sickly, I watched
143
it flutter, then break in two and flash with a quick pale

flame against the sun as it dropped behind the trees.
All England seemed in agony before my eyes.
I had not heard the footstep outside the door, nor
the cover of the peep hole sliding up. The door crashed
open while I was still staring through the trees, and the
Toad stamped in. I felt a great wish to wring his neck
at that moment, and he probably perceived both my
thought and its futility, for he cursed me profusely and
at length with a pot-pourri of gutturals, sibilants and
pure explosives; but he did not touch me, and after a
stirring peroration he went out.
I guessed that I had not heard the last of him, and a
few minutes later the bat-eared corporal came in. He
said nothing, perhaps realizing that his master had
spoiled the audience, but laconically hauled my mattress
out of the cell. Then he came back, searched the cell,
found nothing and left me.
The penalty moved me not at all, unless it were to
flippancy. The floor was scarcely less hospitable than
the bed, and I lay down that night with the same appre-
ciation of rude comfort in a righteous cause which is
normally the privilege of those who sleep rarely in camp
beds. In the morning I woke, having slept deeply, and
felt that the goodness of life was unimpaired. But at
midday the soup clattered past my door without stop-
ping. For a moment I thought it had been absent-
144
minded and was about to hammer on the door to call
it back, but it soon became clear to me that this was a
part of the punishment which had, by the nature of
things, been delayed.
I must confess that it was a bleak moment. But the
hardest blow was the thought that if I had no soup, I
would not only have to fill in the twenty minutes or so
which, with delicate spooning, I could spend eating it,
but I would also have to be patient for twice as long:
the days would be doubled. The soup itself, I assured
myself, was of no nutritional value whatsoever, and I
need not fear starvation, especially in summer. It was
a mere insulator which separated the walls of my stom-
ach for a short while. But I was not happy on the first
day. I kept my temper and my bread, but in the after-
noon I decided to go mad until something happened
to restore the situation. I tried to remember pieces
from Shakespeare and shouted them to my four walls at
the top of my voice. But nobody paid any attention.
Perhaps they were too used to madmen to be bothered
with them. And I found, after I had anticked for a
while, that madness was no more to be had for the wish-
ing now than it had been earlier.
On the second day, and the third and the fourth, I
experienced no more than a mild disgruntlement when
I woke to think of a soupless day, and the pang caused
by the passing trolley was short if sharp. ‘he weather
145
was still fine and the planes were still passing over. I
even climbed back to my porch to watch them. But on
the fourth day the soup stopped at my door. once more,
and soon after it the corporal silently dragged in my
mattress.
146
vv Chapter Twelve
My poor opened rather quietly one day, and I

looked up to see the padre standing on the threshold.
He was holding the Bible in one hand, stretched out
towards me, and when I hesitated, he said: ““Would this
be of any use to you?”
I was unable to respond to any interruption of my
meditations without a space to readjust my senses, and
I was neither quite sure what he was offering me nor
certain of my attitude to him. In my confusion, there-
fore, I invited him in. But he shook his head and offered
me the book again so brusquely that I took it; and we
exchanged no further word. He closed the door again,
and in a moment the sergeant came to lock it.
The fact penetrated my mind that not only had I
now enough reading to occupy me for some months but
also the whole text from which so many excerpts had
been stumbling blocks to me was now open to inspec-
tion.
During the next months, the rest of my time in
Fresnes, I read the entire volume more than two times
147
through, with the exception of Leviticus, Numbers and

Deuteronomy, at which I looked only infrequently
and with trepidation. It was in a French translation, and
although the language lacked the magnificence of the
King James version, I found it in some ways easier to
read, if only because the tags were in new clothes and
offered themselves for inspection instead of mere recog-
nition. A good part of the Jacobean phraseology has
been so drummed into childish heads already amply
encumbered by the current language of necessity that it
has become almost parenthetical to many of us and
meant, at least to me, as little as a soldier’s oaths. Some
of it seen in an unfamiliar form, loses its sterility: “Je
vous dis . . .” is less ornamental but more plainly di-
rect than “I say unto you. . . .”
Nevertheless, I was never able to conceive the Bible
as a whole book. The Psalms and the Gospels seemed
to be coherent, since both represented (with a few
psalms excepted) an assertion of the delight in being
a creature of a God who delighted in your being His
creature.
The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats;

and the rocks for the conies.
This was something I had seen and could understand.

148
Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings,
and not one of them is forgotten before God?
This also was of a familiar certainty to me.

But I had at the same time to abstain from any vener-
ation of the historical and prophetic Old Testament,
which, although it was an unsurpassable literary blessing
to me, never became more than history; and even in my
early schooldays I had preferred Thucydides and Herod-
otus. Now the absence of the language which had set
it apart from all the others made it seem barely distin-
guished, and I even doubted whether it was fitted to be
incorporated with the Gospel.
“and ye shall be an execration, and an astonishment,

and a curse, and a reproach. .. .
2?
St. Paul, too, seemed to be making more of the words

of Jesus than there was in them. Perhaps the parts of
his epistles which offended me were directed specially
to the Jews in the special language of their tradition,
as had been some of the sayings of Jesus. But for the
ordinary person it seemed that the menace
“In flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know

not God.”
149
was less patient than the shepherd who went into the
mountains to seek the hundredth sheep. The primitive
idea of sacrifice seemed also to interpenetrate his letters
too persistently.
And who ordained that the Book of Revelation
should be annexed to the Christian texts? Why not
rather Bunyan, or even Blake? The inclusion of the
Book of Joshua, for example, seemed to me to be under-
standable if the Bible had been compiled as a Testament
by somebody who believed that history was necessary
evidence for belief in the irrational. But how was this
curious symbolism to be construed either as evidence
or as an extension of the subject of belief?
These are the two olive trees, and the two candle-
sticks standing before the God of the earth, and if
any man will hurt them fire proceedeth out of their
mouth, and devoureth their enemies: and if any man
hurt them, he must in this manner be killed.
This (lest I should commit the error of offence to

anybody—and I myself might be wiser after the event)
was the impression which I received from a reading of
the Bible which was informed, perhaps with a spirit of
criticism and perhaps under the cloud of some resent-
ment at the evasiveness of my early reminiscences, but
certainly by a desire hearing to understand and seeing
150
to perceive; and by a certainty, moreover, that what
made streams run to the sea would not leave me to eddy
uselessly round a cliff of words.
And then, one day, when the corporal had passed

with the paper, he came back unexpectedly after supply-
ing the next cell and handed me a bundle wrapped in a
large handkerchief. I asked him what it was, but he just
said “Kamerad,” and left me. I untied the handkerchief
and found inside a great assortment of food: hard-
boiled eggs, chestnut preserve, nuts, an apple and sweet
biscuits. It was a feast beyond all my dreams, and I
gazed at it in awe for several minutes. Then I realized
that it was the prisoner in No. 260 who had sent it to
me, although I did not understand the complacency
of the corporal. I went to the wall and started tapping,
but I heard a remote voice saying:
“Come and talk through the tap.”
The plumbing was so arranged that there was a hol-
low between the adjoining corners of our cells, contain-
ing the pipes for our taps and toilets, and by speaking
through the hole which housed the taps we could com-
municate fairly clearly.
I started to say the best thanks I could express, but
my neighbour would hear none of them.
151
“That’s nothing,” he said. “I’ll send you some more

soon, as soon as I get another parcel.”
I asked him how he received parcels, not without
offering myself the illusion that I might be able to make
some arrangement for myself.
“My wife brings me one almost every week,” he re-
plied; “but why don’t you get any?”
I explained that I was English, since this was now no
secret but rather a source of unearned pride; and we
exchanged names. He called himself Bernard, his real
name, as I now know, being Edmond Michelet, who
was later Minister of War. He gave me the latest news
from the Mediterranean, which I found disappointing,
and then asked me why I did not join in the evening
conversations through the windows.
I did not like to admit that the real reason was that I
was so used to silence and so privately engaged in my
own thoughts that I found conversation an embarrass-
ment, so I said that it was too difficult to climb up to
the skylight, which was flimsy and might collapse with
disastrous results. (My earlier experience with this oc-
curred to me also, but I could not mention it.) Bernard
thought little of this obstacle, being a truly French be-
liever in the virtue of conversation, and explained that
if I could not open the window I could probably loosen
one of the panes in such a way that it could be removed
and replaced at will. And I suddenly felt, in the face of
152
this desire for my company, that it would be good,
after all, to be able to talk, and I examined my window
carefully to see what could be done.
The lock was firm and would not yield, but one of
the panes seemed to have been scratched almost free
of putty. It was held in place by four small nails bent
through 270 degrees, and by turning these the pane
would undoubtedly come out. It was easy to turn the
nails, but the glass fitted against the outside of the
frame, and if it were freed it would fall outward on to
the sill and break. But investigation produced its
wonted obstinacy, and I found a piece of wire which
had been wrapped round one leg of my stool for no
apparent reason and, breaking it in two pieces, devised a
system of grapples with which I could lower the pane
forward and return it to its place with some safety.
Meanwhile, Bernard had told the cells above us
,about me, and when I was at last ready to talk I found
a small club waiting for me. Both of the upper cells had
three or four inhabitants, but each was represented by
a single spokesman, that above Bernard by André and
that above me by Michel, who had a deep and powerful
voice with which he bellowed the daily “news” and sang
raucous songs at night.
Although the friendliness of these people made me
glad, I was not at my ease with them. I found conver-
sation one-sided, because I had little small talk, and
153
discursiveness was not encouraged by our method of

shouting through the window. So my part was mostly
said in monosyllables. And between none of us was there
any but the most trivial talk.
The dramatic law might have required an exchange
of noble thoughts among men who neither knew nor
could see each other; but such thoughts as we had were
too deeply conceived to be easily prised loose or too
peculiar to our privacy to be lightly thrown into the
public place. For we had all spent our hours of medita-
tion. So I could see only fleetingly into the characters
of my companions. Of Michel I only knew that he was
cheerful and noisy, of André that he was quiet. Ber-
nard, too, was quiet, but with a potent tranquillity
which enabled him to give encouragement that did not
seem mere brave words. He had anxieties, for he was
married and had numerous children, but he seemed quite
free of inner perplexities, making me resent my own.
I saw Bernard once when we went out for our rare
exercise. He was older than I had imagined, though it
was hard to guess age from a face hidden in dark stub-
ble. He was quite unabashed at taking up our friendship
face to face, waiting for me at the corner of the stairs
as if we had been on the platform at Victoria Station,
in London, and saying something casual about his next
parcel as one might arrange a next meeting while catch-
ing a train. For my part, I found it by no means so easy
ee
to be casual and would have needed much longer before
saying anything intelligible. But our shepherds brooked
no dawdling, and the moment was gone before I could
construe my disordered thoughts into a sentence.
Bernard was not alone in coming to my rescue. His
first contribution came on a Tuesday, and I spent the
whole day eating until at last I felt really full and as
happy as I could imagine possible. A more temperate
man, I thought again, would have shown more pru-
dence and restraint, but I had enough prudence on
ordinary days and decided that anything over the ration
should be eaten as my appetite dictated and not put in
the dismal company of my bread. I was happy for a few
days; then, on Friday, when I am afraid I was beginning
to look forward to Bernard’s next parcel (a greed which
I always repented but could never quite suppress),
Michel called down to me at sunset.
“Heé, Christophe!”
I called back that I was listening.
“This evening,” he shouted, “when it’s dark, you'll
hear me thump on the floor. Go to your window and
we'll let down some food.”
Some organ near my heart rebounded with pleasure
and anticipation, but I was immediately sobered when
I remembered that I could not reach to the bars at the
far edge of the outer windowsill and would never be
able to retrieve anything which hung beyond them. I
155
called back to Michel that I was grateful for his thought-

fulness but explained why I could not be its beneficiary.
“Took at your bed,” was his reply, made with the
calm certainty of a seer, “and you will find that one of
the crosspieces is loose. It will be long enough to reach.
But mind you come to the window as soon as you hear
my signal.”
I looked under the mattress, and the second of the
iron slats proved to be loose. It was also hooked at one
end. Whether it was an accepted trick of the prison
which Michel, with his superior resourcefulness, had
already found out, or whether he was guessing and rely-
ing on my ingenuity to loosen a bar if he was wrong,
I never knew. Certainly it was the ideal tool for the pur-
pose.
About an hour after dark, the most terrifying crashes
broke out over my head. All four of the denizens of the
cell must have taken part, and I was a little doubtful
whether so much advertisement would not bring sen-
tries running from far and wide to frustrate our plan.
But it would have been impossible to trace the sound
in that building except from very close at hand, and we
had a warning system of knocks which gave warning of
a sentry on his rounds. This did not provide complete
safety on our floor, because a sentry might double back,
and a single man would not always notice him. But
nobody disturbed us this time.
156
I opened my loose pane and at once saw a bulky
handkerchief slowly drop to the level of the sill. I
shouted that it was down and hooked the string with
my iron bar, hauling the packet in, emptying it and
then giving the signal to haul it up again. The whole
operation lasted a few seconds, and as I put my pane
back into place I shouted my thanks.
“Bon appetit!” came the reply.
Some days later, Michel called down again and said
he would repeat the performance that evening. It would
be better this time, he said, and recited a long list of
eggs, marmalade, biscuits, chocolate and I forget what
else. I was inclined for a moment to make a conven-
tional protest and to tell him not to send me more,
but it seemed on reflection to be neither sincere nor
friendly, so I contented myself with thanks which were
halting but genuine. Spoiling by these unseen brethren
had refurbished my appetite with a fancy for sweet and
tich things which it had long forgotten, and I spent the
rest of the day looking forward to a night of gluttony.
This time, however, all was not well. The thumping
brought me to my window, hook in hand, water in
mouth, and I peered up for the descending bundle. It
came jerkily into sight, and Michel called to ask if it was
low enough.
“Another metre and a half,” I told him.
157
There was another jerk, and then the bundle sud-

denly fell like a plummet past me and out of sight.
“Have you got it?” asked Michel.
“No,” I said, though I could hardly speak. “It’s
fallen.”
Michel swore, and we all shut our windows quickly;
and I went to sleep after I had worn myself out with
fury and with eating chocolate in my imagination.
Early the next morning, the Toad marched in with
his two corporals and a young and pleasant-looking feld-
webel who was plainly one of the senior prison staff.
The corporals went to the window and tried the lock,
while the feldwebel asked me outright whether anybody
had tried to pass me a package. He was so forthright
and candid in manner that I was for a moment tempted
to treat him likewise. It would have been a relief after
so many months of caution and deceit. But I was not
the principal in the affair, so I simply answered “No,”
with not too much surprise nor yet too little.
“So,” he said, looking at me with the same directness
and with no trace of malignity. “Perhaps I should ask
the people above you whether they tried.” And he
added inconsequentially: “They have enough for them-
selves.”
I said that it would not be of much use to me unless
he were to open my window, and he laughed loudly
158
without saying anything further. He went to the win-
dow and looked round it, while my pulse quickened,
and then he clicked his tongue, glanced at me with a
kind of quizzical satisfaction and said:
“Tm afraid the dog got it.”
Then they all left, and I heard no more of the epi-
sode, but I was quick to relay the gist of it up to Michel,
who escaped as lightly. There was, after all, a German
with a sense of proportion.
After this, André took a hand in my nourishment. It
was more difficult, because he had to swing across to me
on a long line; and I was by now becoming embar-
rassed, because I wondered whether I was not becoming
something of a beggar. But the whole episode was soon
closed. One night I fumbled. The pane of glass pivoted
round the nail which held one edge, my hook slipped
on the other edge, and nothing was left but smithereens.
The Toad saw the damage in the morning, and there
was a noisy scene in which my role was silent but not
unruffled. The bat-eared corporal was sent for and with
hammer, nails and muscle matched his master’s verbal
pleonasms and made sure that the window which had
never been opened in the past would remain closed in
the future. Then a prisoner was brought under guard to
replace the broken pane. I watched him carefully, to see
where he placed the nails, for the putty was easy to cut
159
through with my piece of wire, but I knew at the same

time that the scope of that ruse had been exhausted,
and any lingering ambition to renew it was finally
quashed when I was again deprived of soup for three
days.
160
eu Chapter Thirteen
MEANWHILE, Bernard left us. The Germans

hauled in their nets in August and were filling the pris-
ons with a mixed catch of maquisards, innocent by-
standers and petty felons. But the prisons were full, so
the earlier victims and the condemned were sent to
Germany to make room. There was a great coming and
going in Fresnes, and every day we heard the sounds of
departing exiles.
The window-shouters had let us know of their omni-
science what was astir, but I saw no portent in it until
Bernard left. He was called with almost no warning to
collect his things and go below. It was said (and rightly,
in the event) that the convoy was bound for Saar-
brucken, nominally a transit camp, but one of the worst
in the whole system and a grave for many. When he
told us of what had happened the air outside our little
group of windows became suddenly still with horror, as
if we were for the first time aware that we were not the
audience but the players of a tragedy and that our friend
161
was no mere voice in the chorus but the first target of

the Furies to be swallowed up. We bade him goodbye
with hollow words, and he went cheerfully.
Bernard’s cell was occupied again within the hour,
but the days of my emergence were almost past, and I
retreated once more into true solitude, only rarely
broken. The threat, now declared, of being sent to Ger-
many made me cherish my isolation so much that reluc-
tance to go back into a world of change and movement,
of collision and interruption, grew stronger than simple
exasperation at the prospect of moving away from lib-
erty, which seemed a natural course for my perverse
destiny to choose.
Experience had shown me the irony with which fate
treats would-be rivals, and if ever I allowed the thought
of going to Germany to depress me to the point of re-
volt, I had a vision of the liberation of France, in which
everything would be freed but the prisoners, who had
dreamed of it through the hours month after month,
and who were lost among the endless forests and hills
of Germany. It seemed as perversely appropriate and
inevitable as the marriage of Oedipus, and was beyond
argument or protest. But the movement, the mingling,
the doing of things ordered, the replying to questions
asked, the need to notice, listen, talk, comply, accom-
modate, reveal, conceal, the effort of reaction and voli-
tion for the sake of mere survival—the return, in short,
162
to reality and society, but in their worst aspects, made
me shrink into my cell as if I would lose myself there.
For a little while yet there was hope that it would not
happen. The air raids continued, and there was a hub-
bub and a tension in the prison all day long which held
the promise of great things impending. But nothing
happened, and soon September was gone; and I knew
that there was the whole winter in which to reach my
turn for deportation. But this cloud, like the others,
quickly retired below the horizon and only reappeared
at intervals, as if to prevent or punish an excess of com-
placency.
At the same time, I had a more practical preoccupa-
tion with the coming winter, which would find me at a
yet greater disadvantage than the previous year. The
process of physical degeneration had taken a strange
turn, as if to reculer pour mieux sauter, since, although
my neck and arms remained as scraggy as those of a
plucked fowl, my legs were beginning to swell slug-
gishly from the feet upward. I only noticed them after
the blight was well advanced, and when I saw two
great fat white knees, like that “woman whom nobody
loves,” I thought with dismay that I might just as well
become a monk if they were to remain thus, since the
most loving eyes could not but be repelled by them.
Less disgusting but more disturbing was the realiza-
tion that the shivering which I had noticed as abnormal
163
in the spring had continued throughout the summer,

even on the warmest days. When I considered this I
wondered whether the winter would not at least bring
on pneumonia. Knowing nothing of physiology or medi-
cine, I considered the problem for a while in a scientific
spirit, but a fortunate accident turned my ingenuity
to more fruitful ends before I perceived that I was wast-
ing it.
Of my two blankets one was brown and the other

grey, the former a veritable rag, the latter thicker and
still large enough to wrap round me. It so happened
that while I was considering a formula for combining
their two warmths into the most efficient whole, I no-
ticed a small sliver of glass lying on the window-frame.
It was no doubt a relic of my summer freedom and had
escaped notice in the dust. It had a sharp edge, and I
had no sooner picked it up than I realized that I had
all the elements of the tailor’s trade ready to my hand.
The glass would serve as shears, my little pieces of wire,
unused since I mishandled them on the window, would
bend into serviceable needles, and the blankets would
provide both cloth and thread. It struck me at the same
time that the smaller blanket would be more useful if
it were converted into some shape which would lie
164
closely round me, and I conceived the idea of making
a waistcoat of it.
I did not know at the time that the penalty for work
of this kind, called sabotage, was death, but I recognized
that the mutilation of prison stores, however dilapi-
dated, would scarcely be approved, and I therefore de-
cided that the design of the waistcoat must be such that
the blanket would retain its roughly rectangular shape
after the necessary cutting, so that elegant curves and
wasted snippets would not attract attention. The pa-
tern was thus of the simplest contrivance. Three strips
girded the chest, and two supported them over the
shoulders; sewn together with thread from the same
blanket, they composed what I considered to be a gar-
ment.
I spent a few weeks making it, sitting on the bed
facing the door and working behind my raised knees,
so that my industry could not be seen from the peep-
hole; and when it was finished in elementary form I
added buttons, a collar and patch-pockets and then dis-
guised its primitive design by the deceitful embroi-
dering of false seams in thread from the grey blanket.
As may be clear from this description, I was proud of
my product, but I none the less wore it under my
shirt. Not only was concealment wise, but when I
shivered I wriggled and the rubbing of the rough wool
165
on my skin gave me the tactile illusion of warmth. It

was a source of warmth and comfort to me until 1945,
when a young Russian so flattered my craftsman’s pride
with his unbounded admiration that I gave it to him.
Sewing, if Dr. Johnson had but known it, concentrates
the mind even more wonderfully than an anticipated
execution, which, for my part, had rather distracted it.
As a moribund, I was like a ship tossing between Scylla
and Charybdis; as a tailor, like a small canoe paddling
from Hong Kong to Valparaiso.
When I became a working man again and literate,
I reordered my routine, keeping the morning manicure
and mental work-out for sentimental reasons, because
I was used to them, but abandoning all but the lightest
of physical exercises. I walked much less, too, and in-
stead spent most of the morning reading my Bible and
the light hours of the afternoon sewing. Then for two
or three hours in the evening I had the choice between
walking up and down or sitting and trying to solve what-
ever problem had occurred to me.
On reading the Bible, I had been persuaded that it
contained certain internal contradictions which could
be summed up as the conflict between Wrath and
Love. Since the far-off Sunday when I had first recalled
the fatted calf I had been almost unconsciously staking
my reason—and at least my hope—to the authority
of the parable, but in face of so many contradictions it
166
seemed unreasonable to do so. God could not be Shep-
herd and Scourge at once, and the wrathful God of the
Bible was not a Shepherd coaxing stray sheep with His
crook, but a bad-tempered and sometimes unfeeling one
belabouring His flock as it were without cause. The
acerbity of His temper was even reflected in some pas-
sages of the Gospels. I noticed, too, in this newly critical
mood, that events seemed to tally as well with this dual
account as with any other; more than one set-back had
driven me to the verge of renouncing hope. But hope
had in the meanwhile been displaced by firm conviction,
inarticulate and incoherent but unyielding; and the seem-
ingly insoluble antagonism between belief and reason
threatened to explode in insanity.
But again insanity failed to keep its promise of ac-
commodation, and I solved the whole problem by
realizing simply that I had not understood what I was
reading, or rather that I had only understood a part. My
earlier theory of allusions, of family jokes, seemed to
fit the reading of Scripture as well as the understanding
of abstract nouns. For if Scripture was concerned with
the relationship of man to God, it was dealing with the
irrational, and communication between one man and
another about the irrational is a matter of allusion and,
yet more, of chance. What was then more likely than
that a single man’s appreciation of a vast composition
like the Bible would depend, as it were, on the kind of
167
family he belonged to and, therefore, the kind of joke

he understood? I found that I responded to some, but
not all, of the Christian allusions, while the menaces
and the pessimism and the obscure passages struck no
chord in me. With that I was passably content. The
problem had become as one of taste: not to be dis-
puted.
I was worried, too, by the old notions of “evil” and
“sin,” which had been so integral a part of what I had
been taught about religion. It was not enough to dislike
them; they were so firmly accepted and (or because)
so constantly repeated that they had also to be dis-
posed of on grounds which I could conscientiously ad-
mit. I had understood evil, perhaps because of my idle-
ness, to be as it were an element, and an absolute at
that, but it was now clear to me that if, as I believed,
the only absolute was God, and good by definition,
there could be no such thing as evil: all it could be
was an epithet meaning “less than Good.”
Perhaps that is all it ever has meant in the scholarly
world, but in my ordinary little world there had been
built around the “principle of evil” a whole ethic which
could not be other than misleading, a polar system of
values which began, perhaps, simply as an everyday
simplification but which had grown into a fixed and
general theory. An adjective, by being for centuries
attached to every variety of imperfection, had been
168
insidiously promoted to rank above Creation. And with
what result? Fear, inhibition, moral despair and, above
all, such preoccupation with the negative that men had
no energy left with which to look positively after what
was good. The Devil is only a dark glass.
I wished to replace this old polar system of value—
the good of every kind faced with its evil opposite—by
a scale which would all be positive degrees of good. The
polar system seemed like a balance, with two different
weights, used to demonstrate gravity. Our demonstra-
tors said: Gravity is all on the side of the heavier and
against the lighter; but I would rather have it that Gray-
ity works upon the entire system, and particularly on
the pivot of the balance. There is no critical mark to
the right of which is Good and to the left Evil. Life is
not a gloomy and impossible grey, as moralists would
have it, to be sorted into black and white: all its aspects
form a spectrum, of which the greater part is hidden
to a single pair of eyes, but which all originates from a
single source. To suppose that there are contrary prin-
ciples of light and darkness, or good and evil, is as pre-
sumptuous as to deny the existence of infra-red light
on the grounds of its invisibility.
Such a change in the scale of values does not entail
much revision of the grosser forms of judgment. ‘Things
and actions will still be good or bad. But it does accom-
pany a change of attitude: pessimism becomes optimism,
169
and the good of life is no longer overshadowed by its

imperfections. Henceforth, the tiniest window bringing
light will always dominate the bleak and oppressive
walls and the dangerous passages beyond them. And
we will fight for what we love instead of pursuing what
we hate.
Sin was the active and human form of this old evil,
and it appeared to be an act of the will. Men are rep-
resented as coming to a forked road and, before they
reach the cleft, performing some act which is quite
independent of any mechanistic choice imposed by cir-
cumstance or contingency. This act, as I remembered
it, was called the exercise of free will, and according
to the direction it imposed the man sinned or was good.
But I both disliked this theory, on the grounds of its
conformity with the principles of opposite good and
evil, and doubted it on the grounds of logic. For this
notion of free will seemed to be a premiss stated a priori,
from which the nature of sin was deduced as required;
the whole theory rested upon an arbitrary assumption
that human choice is a metaphysical cause of human
action, or, if not metaphysical in the strict sense, then
at least independent of any other factor that affected
the person. But is such an assumption either obvious
or necessary? Do we have any knowledge that makes
it likely? Day after day I had faced a simple choice:
would I or would I not eat my bread before the ap-
170
pointed time? Each day the balance was tilted this way
and that by a melee of pros and cons. I want to eat
because my stomach is empty and is sending urgent sig-
nals to my brain; I don’t want to eat because my mem-
ory is sending equally urgent warnings of hungry and
sleepless nights; early training bids me be strong in
virtue, and experience bids me be strong in prudence.
Sometimes one side gains the advantage, sometimes the
other. Does eternity balance on such frivolities?
Every choice is offered by some fortuitous occasion,
which sets in motion a battery of reflexes built up in-
voluntarily (in respect of any given occasion) ; and it
seems unnecessary to elevate a process, which can so
readily be conceived as rational and mechanical, to
the status of a cardinal metaphysical function.
If, however, the alliance of sin and free will is un-
done, some substitute must be found. For the idea of
life as a purely mechanical process appears intuitively
as fantastic and, in the realm of reason, is rebutted by
the very existence of so universal a notion as that of
responsibility. And it was this word and the French
term for “free will’—libre arbitre—which suggested
that everything I had learned concerning the human
act had suffered an immense distortion from a small
but fundamental misconception: it was held that the
quality of an act was determined by an act of volition
which supposedly preceded it, whereas I now believed
17]
that conscience of the value of any action was essentially

reflective and could only be made crudely to precede
the action by a process of forward imagination, in its
turn an act of reflection.
At this small discovery all the paradoxes of the free-
dom of human beings over against the omnipotence of
God dissolved. The paradox, as I thought it, of free will
in an ordained creation was no longer necessary for the
justification of the idea of merit; that which sup-
posed the influence of a principle opposite to God dis-
appeared.
This anxious dilapidation of the old remembered
traditions, until only the corner-stone remained, had
to be followed by some new construction. Only a mystic
can be satisfied by the bare immaterial summit of the
arch; ordinary rational men, even the most distracted,
require a coherent edifice reaching up from the ground
of every-day experience. I was not equipped to under-
take such a work of building, but I tried to visualize
the outlines of the problem.
I believed that many of the problems of concept
could be solved by supposing an analogy of the relation-
ship between the facts and the laws of physical science.
Laws describe an abstract order, but the facts, although
they follow the laws, are always less precise. The level
of experience seems always to be separated from the
level of abstract order by some coarseness of actuality.
172
In a similar way, we inhabit the outskirts of beauty,
seeing its aspects, but always at a distance or, as it were,
through a haze, and never entering quite into the heart
of it. And if abstract order and beauty can be perceived
in the world of things, why should they not underlie the
world of men?
I used to imagine that the soul of a man was like a
little whiff of invisible gas, which was supposed to be
released when he died. So I could not say that I believed
in the soul. I now proposed to myself that every man
was doubled by an abstract expression of himself, on
the analogy of a physical occurrence being doubled by
a mathematical expression. But I named this abstract
self “genius,” probably in order to avoid the associa-
tions of the word “soul.” It would have form of its
own kind and balance with its surroundings, and the
two halves of the diptych would be separated by factors
of coarseness and obscurity.
Ethics could then be seen in terms of the symmetry
between a man and his shadow. Conscience was the
awareness of the need for symmetry; regret was no
longer the cringing of a frightened criminal but the
pain of a dislocated limb or the sorrow of an artist be-
fore a spoiled canvas; repentance and forgiveness could
be understood. Only the rough calculus of humdrum
morality would use the hesitant or precipitate choices
of each hour.
173
This is a difficult and incomplete account of a pre-

occupation which lasted many months. Without the
means of writing or of discovering what other people
had thought, I could not save myself from rambling and
from a certain eclectic dogmatism.
Words and ideas wandered slowly in an untidy
scrawl across my brain, a kind of Brownian movement
of particles in the mental fluid. The pattern of the move-
ment was obscure, tending always to the limits of ab-
straction and blurred by the great fog of ignorance for
which I had no lamp. Much of it was nonsense; much
of it took me to Americas already thickly populated by
earlier Columbuses; but I was happy with it for a while.
In my earlier metaphor, I was content to be a mole,
delighted that the surface of the earth was so great that
there was no chance of my covering it all, careless of
where I dug, and cheered by the occasional twinkling
of a star. All I asked was the freedom and space to dig
in.
Sometimes, as the winter deepened, I felt the cold

and hunger so strongly that I assured myself that
I would have to go to Germany at once, since it could
only be less intolerable, but I was soon comforted by
some new problem. And when my waistcoat was fin-
ished, I found myself at a loss for a physical occupation.
174
I could not easily sit still for very long, but walking was
now too energetic a distraction to be continued end-
lessly as in the old days. I added every useless embellish-
ment to my handiwork of which I could think, but
there was not unlimited scope, and I also needed it for
its original purpose.
Then a sergeant came in one day with a prisoner
orderly and asked me whether I would like to make
cellophane envelopes for bandages, a simple matter of
folding and glueing. I rather pedantically began to re-
fuse, on the grounds that I would not work for the
enemy, but the orderly saw my intention and assured me
that it was quite proper and that the work was con-
sidered neutral by the Red Cross. This excuse was
enough for me to seize the chance of an unexacting
pastime, and indeed it was hard to see what more sinis-
ter purpose could be served by such flimsy little bags;
so I agreed.
I discovered that I am a bad maker of cellophane
envelopes. My folds were never quite straight, my glue-
ing too generous, and my output negligible. For the first
few days, the sergeant came round and patiently ex-
plained my shortcomings, surprising me because he
took such trivial and voluntary work as seriously as if
my life depended on it. When I showed no improve-
ment he became fussy, although he once brought me
an extra piece of bread as if to encourage me to greater
175
things (or perhaps out of pure kindness, for he was a

good man); but I at last became exasperated by his
care for a precision which could not in my mind have
the least importance, and I told him that I would do no
more. He took it with the best humour, seeming re-
lieved at the departure of a bad workman.
An Englishman came to No. 258 a few days before
Christmas. I heard him calling me through his window
and answered rather perfunctorily through my skylight,
because I was happier without any intrusion and be-
cause talking through the skylight was a wearisome task.
But he was so cheerful that I felt it would be surly of
me not to respond to his friendliness. So I discovered
who he was and that he had been transferred to solitary
from a cell where he and his companions had bribed a
guard to give them a German uniform. They had been
found out, but when I listened to his story, which
amused him endlessly, I reproached myself seriously
with having remained supine for so many months with
hardly a thought of attempting to escape.
Christmas opened with a barrage of greetings from
No. 258, in more yeasty spirits than ever. Then my old
sergeant from the top floor came round, and he, too,
wished me a happy Christmas. He asked me if I wanted
to attend Communion. I said no, and later regretted it,
and finally did not regret it. The sergeant came again
later bearing an enormous parcel from the Red Cross,
176
containing all manner of sweetnesses. Then, when the
soup came, a little packet was handed in with it: a piece
of cooked pork from my neighbour. I feasted and was
happy.
No. 258 was moved again soon afterwards. Many
months later he was killed in Poland.
I resumed my peripatetic ways, but with a growing

feeling of expectancy. The idea of leaving still filled me
with horror, but I knew, with a sure intuition which
made obstinacy vain, that it was time to go. This is the
only fit expression, because it was the phrase which came
to my mind at the time. As long as my brain worked,
solitude served a purpose, but I could see that it was
slowly exhausting the fuel with which it had started,
and if it stopped from inanition I would have nothing
left but cold and hunger, which would make short work
of me. Metaphysics was not enough: it is an exercise,
weakening rather than nourishing; and the brain requires
food of real substance. Dieu t’a fait pour l’aimer .
and He provided senses and a whole perceptible creation
to that end.
But I was reluctant to leave. If my door was opened
and I was told that I could go quietly wherever I liked,
I would have gone with joy, but probably to some place
where I knew nobody and would be able to remain
177
aloof. But I could imagine the noise and promiscuity of

a camp, and it repelled me.
I knew that so many months of solitude, though I
had allowed them to torment me at times, had been in
a sense an exercise in liberty. For, by absolving me from
the need either to consider practical problems of living
or to maintain the many unquestioned assumptions
which cannot conveniently be abandoned in social
life, I had been left free to drop the spectacles of the
near-sighted and to scan the horizon of existence. And
I believed that I had seen something there. But it was
only a glimpse, a remote and tenuous apprehension of
what lay behind the variety and activity of life, and I
was afraid that I would lose sight of it as soon as I was
forced to turn my attention back to my immediate
surroundings.
Also I had built up a kind of security. The cell
door was a battlement behind which I practised habits,
and however futile they were they had become familiar
from long and unvaried usage and represented an ele-
ment of stability which was more desirable than even a
hopeful hazard.
Nevertheless, the end came punctually. A sergeant
came one morning and ordered me downstairs. I went
unhappily, forgetting that I had once resigned myself
and hoping only that I would soon be back.
178
On the ground floor I was put in a cell where there
were already three other prisoners, all young and with
their sociability quite unimpaired. They asked me all
the ritual questions: who was I? how long had I been
there? why was I arrested? And I answered with my own
mixture of truth and untruth, although the muscles of
my face rebelled, as if frozen with anaesthetic. I was
willing to reciprocate their friendly curiosity, but could
not, for I had no interest in their origins. I was only
concerned with what they thought, but I could not
broach the subject because I thought it quite probable
that if I opened my mouth I should show myself to
be mad. I therefore listened to their chatter and tried
to recapture what evidently must be normality.
_ This cell and my companions in it were the threshold
to the world of people and activity just as the cell in
the rue des Saussaies had been the threshold to the
world of solitude. My companions knew in some de-
vious way where we were going: Royallieu, near Com-
piégne, and then to Germany; and I could hear the
bustle and shouting outside as the convoy was collected
and made ready. But I could not foresee what this new
world would be like. I could only look back to the thin
faith I had acquired in my cell and know that it was
to be put to the critical experiment, with my judgment
distorted and weakened by more stresses than it could
vg
compensate at once, paralyzed like a man at a railway

junction with trains rushing towards him from all direc-
tions.
Then one of the Frenchmen gave me a cigarette, and
the door opened, and we left.
We were formed up and marched into buses, which
took us to Compiégne during the afternoon. I sat next
to a Belgian dentist, who rejoiced in the temporary
name of Pills. He had married in 1940, but after only
ten days had sent his wife to Canada for safety and had
not seen or heard from her since. Yet he showed no
bitterness or doubt that after this last endurance he
would be able to fetch her back and start again. I tried
to talk to him and succeeded a little, but constantly
had to check my tongue for fear of uttering some im-
possibility. There was a Belgian priest with us, too, and
I wanted to try my questions out on him, but uncer-
tainty overcame me.
I was mostly intent, however, upon seeing the world.
The brown fields and grey skies of winter and the gaunt
black trees were ineftably beautiful to me. My eyes
could not adjust themselves to seeing such great spaces
clearly, and the impression they gave me was not un-
like that of a Chinese landscape, a beautiful haze broken
by sparse but suddenly vivid detail. If the bus had
stopped and let me out, I would perhaps have sat for
hours on end gazing at some quite ordinary meadow.
180
But the bus went on, and I was left bewildered by so
vast and wonderful a scene.
We arrived at Compiégne near nightfall and were
crowded together in a shed to spend the night there on
the floor. The heaped and jostling bodies oppressed me,
and the shouting and singing made me long for silence.
But silence and privacy were gone; an episode was
ended. Solitude, with its mysteries and adventures,
had passed over me like a wave and washed back into
the spreading ocean of the past, while the next sea, cold
and clamorous, already mounted.
University of Tulsa,
McFarlin Library,
Tulsa. Okla.
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, awa

uedvRRatry OF TUL Lumen

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 52-13993

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES

For no thought is contented. The better sort,

As thus—Come little ones; and then again—

a ; Phys (eae oft

a ie Mot ine a el » sulwene ees

Tuts BooK should have been a diary. That form

ful thinking, I can only give the account I think true

Ir 1s coop to be allowed to share another man’s

turns to go back to his cell, he wonders whether to take

IN THE HEADQUARTERS of the Security Police, at

tion of the lungs to use some other gas than oxygen, a

suspicious character, yet endowed with a respectability

others cautious, preferring to make sure by telephoning

saying, “Lisez.” I saw that these were the prison rules,

I] sOON LEARNED that variety is not the spice,

known. In it my fears, joys, sorrows and relief were those

dwelling-place which chilled the heart as no fungoid

Wishfulness came easily after I had taken the meas-

events we master them; therefore it is the irrevocable

Of the following days I remember little: in particular,

tinguishable only by such rare incidents as from time

higher. After the: zenith there was a period when I had

I felt that a stronger character would have managed

To shorten the morning lap of this daily marathon,

was keeping my brain in working order by saving it from

The whole of this programme, which required great

I had. Generally, we were given torn and ancient sheets

Hunger was always in the background. As soon as

only a single giant appetite to disturb it. All the pres-

I took the soup slowly, drinking the water first and

for the most part harmless souls, if gruff. The sergeant

and put away the thought of hunger. But sometimes

As it grew dark a new activity stirred around the

I could not make him do so I learned his system and

For THREE WEEKS the Germans made no move

in Sancerre would see why they were being asked about

fully trained, I knew enough about the mechanism of

they must, they would merely have to persist in order

suasion. And I was beyond the reach of either stick or

Such thoughts as these flitted uneasily through the

an early death. But he will also hope, and in particular

me and the Prodigal Son, for I had defied my parents

ON THE MORNING of the fourth Tuesday a ser-

in front of me. Romance was gone, but I could touch

so to speak, true, while I was a degree removed from

Although I passed six times through the entrance of

series of defeats. I believed every word and more, and

As I watched the three of them and tasted delicately

know it already. There is worse than this to follow if

high priest at his side. But I had chosen this opening

brigade at that time, but although I knew nothing of it

I hoped there was no farmer of that name who would

he was almost kindly as, staring wide-eyed at my altered

THE NEXT MORNING found me more hopeful

raw food, which reminded me of bags of uncooked oat-