Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Bydrivingwithhiswindshielddown,combat-style,CorporalZhopedtoshowthathewasnotoneofthem,thatnotbyalongshotwashesomenewsonofabitchintheE.T.O.
Whenheletgoofhishead,Xbegantostareatthesurfaceofthewritingtable,whichwasacatchallforatleasttwodozenunopenedlettersandatleastfiveorsixunopenedpackages,alladdressedtohim.Hereachedbehindthedebrisandpickedoutabookthatstoodagainstthewall.ItwasabookbyGoebbels,entitled"DieZeitOhneBeispiel."Itbelongedtothethirty-eight-year-old,unmarrieddaughterofthefamilythat,uptoafewweeksearlier,hadbeenlivinginthehouse.ShehadbeenalowofficialintheNaziParty,buthighenough,byArmyRegulationsstandards,tofallintoanautomatic-arrestcategory.Xhimselfhadarrestedher.Now,forthethirdtimesincehehadreturnedfromthehospitalthatday,heopenedthewoman’sbookandreadthebriefinscriptionontheflyleaf.Writteninink,inGerman,inasmall,hopelesslysincerehandwriting,werethewords"DearGod,lifeishell."Nothingleduptoorawayfromit.Aloneonthepage,andinthesicklystillnessoftheroom,thewordsappearedtohavethestatureofanuncontestable,evenclassicindictment.Xstaredatthepageforseveralminutes,trying,againstheavyodds,nottobetakenin.
