Youth Without God (8 page)

He then assembled the regiment, and asked if any of the boys had had his suspicions roused. He got no answer.

My eyes were on Z. He stood there, motionless as a stone. Was he carrying that letter in his pocket?

What did it say? I knew I should have to read it, that I should find myself forced to read it. Should I ask him for it straight away? No, that wouldn’t do the trick. He’d lie his way out and take the first opportunity of burning the letter—and then I’d never see it.

Perhaps he’d destroyed it already.

Who could its author have been—a strange youngster who turned up in the small hours, an hour’s distance away from the town? Perhaps he lived in the cottage with the old blind woman. And then it struck me, more and more forcibly, that he must belong to the robber band. The weeds.

Could Z be one of them too?

Nothing for it but to read that letter. My fingers were itching to open it. It became a fixed idea: my mind dwelled on it …

Boom! Boom!

I looked round: the boys were shooting for the first time.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

In the afternoon, R came up to me.

“Sir!”

“Well, R, what is it?”

“I’d like very much to sleep in another tent, sir. The two men I’ve got with me are scrapping the whole time, and you can’t get any sleep.”

“Who’ve you got with you?”

“N and Z.”

“Z?”

“Yes, but it’s always N that starts it.”

“Send N to me at once.”

He went, and brought back N.

“Why d’you spend your time fighting Z?” I asked him.

“Well, sir, he won’t let me get to sleep. If I do, he’s always waking me. He often lights his candle in the middle of the night.”

“Why?”

“To write his silly trash.”

“What does he write, then? Letters?”

“No! He keeps a diary, sir!”

“A diary?”

“Yes. He’s—you know!”

“Why should he be on that account?”

“To keep a diary is a typical expression of egotism and conceit,” he replied.

“I dare say,” I answered—cautiously, for I was almost sure I’d heard this rubbish on the radio.

“Z’s brought a box to keep his diary locked up in.”

“Tell Z I’d like to see him.”

I let N go when Z arrived.

“Why are you always fighting with N?” I asked him in his turn.

I received a startling answer.

“Because he’s a plebeian.”

The rich plebeians …

“He can’t tolerate anybody being a bit introspective. It makes him mad. I keep a diary, you know—it’s locked up in my box—he’s been wanting to smash it lately, so I keep hiding it, sir. It’s in my sleeping-bag in the day-time. At night I sleep with it.”

“And where,” I asked him slowly, “do you keep it when you’re on sentry duty?”

“In my sleeping-bag,” he replied at once.

“And in this book I take it you write up all your experiences?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you see—and hear—everything?”

He flushed.

“Yes.”

Should I ask him now about the letter? No. For already my mind was made up. I would read his diary.

My eyes followed him as he left me.

Introspection—wasn’t that the word he used? I’d read his very thoughts.

SOON AFTER FOUR, THE REGIMENT WAS ON THE march. The “cooks” went too this time, for the sergeant didn’t want to omit anybody from his instruction. It was trenches now—how to dig them, what ground was best for dug-outs, et cetera. His sprained foot had doubled his passion for explaining things.

So that I was the only person left in the camp.

Scarcely had the regiment disappeared into the wood when I let myself into the three youngsters’ tent. I found their three sleeping-bags. On one of them lay a letter—not
the
letter, of course! It was addressed to “Otto N. from (Mrs.) Elizabeth N——” the baker’s wife! I couldn’t resist glancing through it, to see what N’s mother had written.

The next sleeping-bag held nothing hidden. This was R’s. So the box must be inside the third: and then I found it. A thin bluish metal box with a very simple lock. I’d have to try it with a piece of wire.

I was soon successful.

Inside lay letters, postcards, and a book bound in green leather. “
MY DIARY
” was printed on the cover in gilt lettering. On the fly-leaf there was an inscription:

“From Mummy. Christmas 193—.”

Who was Z’s mother? Some official’s wife—or widow, I seemed to remember.

The first entries Z had made were about a Christmas-tree. I turned over a few pages and came to Easter. In this first section, something had been written every day, but later, only every other day, and then at intervals—every fifth or sixth. Suddenly I came upon the letter.

A crumpled envelope. No stamp, no address.

Now to read it, at last! Quickly!

“Can’t come to-day. To-morrow at two. —
EVE
.”

Just that.

Eve? I know who Adam was—Z.

And now I had to peep into the diary.

Wednesday
.

Arrived at the camp yesterday. Everything very jolly. It’s evening now, couldn’t get down to write yesterday, everybody fagged out with putting up tents. We’ve got a flag too—and an old fool of a sergeant who can’t see when we’re taking the rise out of him—we’re quicker. Thank the lord we hardly ever see our form-master. He’s always going about with a doleful face, and he doesn’t care two hoots about us. N’s another fool. Now he’s yelling at me for the second time to put out the candle, but I’m not having any or I’d never get this diary filled in and I want memories for my life. This afternoon we did a super march, right to the foot of the mountains. On the way we came across cliffs with a number of holes in them—caves. All at once the sergeant raps out an order, spread out and advance through the brush towards an imaginary enemy, which he pointed out to us hidden behind a ridge and armed with heavy machine-guns. We spread out, leaving a pretty good space between each of us, but the brushwood grew thicker and thicker and soon I couldn’t see right or left, I was cut off, I’d lost my bearings. Then I came to one of the cliffs, with a cave in it. I think I must have gone round in a circle—and there was a girl standing in front of me. A darkish blonde with a red blouse. Where the dickens could she have sprung from? She asked me who I was. I told her. She had two chaps with her about my age, both barefooted and very ragged. They didn’t look too friendly. The girl told them they could go, and she’d show me the way back through the brush. I was jolly glad. She
came with me. I asked her where she lived and she told me, in the cliffs. But on the Army map I had there was no house marked round here anywhere. The map’s wrong, I thought. We came to the edge of the brushwood and I caught a glimpse of the camp in the distance. She stopped and said she must turn back now and she’d give me a kiss if I wouldn’t tell a soul I’d seen her. Why? I asked her. Because she didn’t want it known, she said. I told her that was all right, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek. That wouldn’t do, I told her, a kiss is only a kiss on the lips. She did it and put her tongue in my mouth. I told her she was a pig, what did she mean by that. She laughed and gave me another one. I pushed her off. She picked up a stone and threw it at me. If it had caught me on the head—! I told her she might have done for me. She said that wouldn’t trouble her. They’d hang you, though, I said. She said it wouldn’t matter much. Suddenly I felt—well, scared. She told me to come near her. I didn’t want to be a coward, I went. She suddenly took hold of me and kissed me again, with her tongue in my mouth. I got furious. I grabbed a branch and laid into her. I struck her on the back and on the shoulders, but not on the head. She didn’t scream or anything. She collapsed. There she was lying on the ground. I was terrified. I thought she might be dead! I went up to her and touched her with the branch. She didn’t move. She just lay there as if she were done for. I wanted to run, but then I saw through her game—she was pretending. Her eyes were blinking up at me. I went near her again. She wasn’t dead. I’ve seen a few dead
people, and they look quite different. When I was seven, I saw a dead policeman and four workers. Some strike was on. You wait, I thought! You wanted to give me a start, but you were too quick. I gently slid my hands under her coat and then pushed it up. She had no knickers on. Still she kept as quiet as a mouse—but not I, by now. Then suddenly she jerked herself up and pulled me down on her madly. We made love. Just near by was a huge ant-heap. After, I promised I’d tell nobody I’d seen her. She ran off then. I forgot to ask her her name.

Thursday
.

We’ve got the sentries out now against the robber band. There goes N, yelling again for me to put the candle out. If he does it again, I’ll give him one to remember. I have already. He didn’t hit back. That fool R yelled out, just as if he’d caught it himself. I’m mad I didn’t make a date with that girl. I’d like to have seen her again and spoken to her. This morning, when the sergeant was taking our exercises, I could still feel her against me. I think of her the whole time. It’s only her tongue I don’t like. But she told me you grow into doing that—like speeding when you drive a car—I think it must be something like flying. But flying must be more marvellous still. It’s very solitary, I wish she were here. I don’t think I’d mind if she put her tongue in my mouth.

Friday
.

The day after to-morrow we’re going to shoot. At last. This afternoon, had a scrap with N. I’ll finish
him. R got some of it too. What does the idiot want to stand in the way for? But what’s all that to me? I just think of her all the time, more and more. Last night she came. Just like that, when I was on sentry duty. I was rather scared at first, then I felt fine and was ashamed of being scared. Thank the Lord she didn’t see I was. She smelled of a wonderful perfume. When I asked her how she got it, she said she’d got it in the town, at the chemist’s. I said it must have been jolly dear. Oh, no, she said, it didn’t cost her anything. Then she put her arms round me again. She asked me, What now. I said we’d make love. Should we often, she asked. Yes, I said. Did I think she was a bad girl? No, how could she say that. Because she’d come to me at night. No girl’s a saint, I told her. Then suddenly I saw a tear on her cheek, the moon was shining on her face. I asked her why she was crying. She said because everything looked so gloomy. How did she mean? Then she asked me if I’d love her if she were a lost soul. She said she’d got no parents. When she was twelve she’d got a job as a maid, but the master was always running after her. She’d tried to keep to herself. Then she’d stolen some money to run away, because her mistress was always boxing her ears because of her husband—then she was put in an institution but she escaped and now she lived in a cave and meant to steal everything she could. Four chaps from the town, who’d got tired of painting dolls, were with her, but she was the eldest and the leader. But I wasn’t to tell anybody she was one of them, for then she’d have to go back to the reformatory. She quite upset me and I suddenly felt
she must have a soul. I told her so. She said yes, she was sure, too, that she had a soul. But I mustn’t give her away if while she was with me anything disappeared from the camp. I told her I’d never give her away, we belonged to each other. It’s only me you mustn’t steal from, I said. Then we had to part, as I should soon be relieved. To-morrow we’re meeting again. I know her name now. Eve.

Saturday
.

Great commotion to-day. L’s had his camera stolen. What’s the odds? His father’s got three factories, poor Eve’s got to live in a cave. What’ll she do when it’s winter? There’s N yelling about the light again. I’ll kill him.

I can scarcely wait for the night she comes. I’d like to live in a tent with her, but no camp, all alone. Nobody but her. I’m sick of the camp. Sick of it.

I’ll always be ready for you, Eve, waiting! They shan’t put you back in any reformatory, I swear it. I’ll defend you always.

There’s N again—he’s going to smash up my box to-morrow, just let him try it once. I keep my deepest secrets in it, they’re for me alone. Whoever touches my box shall die.

“WHOEVER TOUCHES MY BOX SHALL DIE.”

I read this last phrase again and I had to smile. Just like boys.

I was reflecting on what I’d read, but my reflections didn’t have time to amount to very much. I heard the bugle from the fringe of the wood. The regiment was nearly home: I must hurry. I slipped the diary back into the box and tried to lock it. I turned the wire this way and that. No good. It wouldn’t click. I’d broken the lock.

They’d be back in a moment now. I put the box, still unlocked, back into the sleeping-bag and left the tent. There was nothing else for it. The regiment had returned.

Z was marching in the fourth row.

You’ve got a girl now, Z, called Eve. And you know your beloved is a thief, and yet you swear you’ll defend her to the last.

I smiled again. These boys!

The regiment halted and dismissed …

And now your innermost thoughts are familiar things to me, I thought. But I couldn’t smile any longer. For I saw the case coming into court—the public prosecutor going over his notes: an indictment for theft and connivance at theft. Adam would have to answer questions, besides Eve. Z would be arrested.