XPost: alt.philosophy.objectivism   
   From: mars1933@hotmail.com   
      
   "We take a break at a shady spot to eat. It had not been possible to   
   buy a meal in a restaurant in Angouleme. We did buy some canned goods,   
   bread and wine. We sit by the roadside and eat our bread and sardines   
   and drink a light red wine. As we sit and eat, a young man comes along   
   in a gray suit with no hat and a large bundle over his shoulder.   
   Seeing us sitting next to our car and eating so comfortably, he sits   
   down in the grass on the other side of the road and stares at us.   
      
   After a while I call over to him in French: "Are you hungry?" He   
   eagerly says yes, and comes on over. I look at him in some surprise as   
   my companion slices some bread and opens a can of sardines and I open   
   a small bottle of wine for him. He is of average height and slender,   
   somewhat ragged, but wearing a good pair of shoes. He is tanned by the   
   sun and has dark black, wavy hair. But that is not all that strikes   
   me-the shape of his face is unusual. His eyebrows, his lips, his nose   
   make me wonder where this refugee comes from. At first I say nothing,   
   and he speaks vaguely. He is going to a farmer to look for work, he   
   has no money any longer and comes from Paris. He fled from the   
   Germans. He sits and looks toward the sun. I quietly say to my   
   companion in German: "Is the boy from the colonies? Look at his face."   
      
   His mouth drops and he runs his hand over his eyes as if he were   
   trying to wipe away some ghostly phenomenon. "You are German?", he   
   asks in German.   
      
   Now we are surprised. I answer cautiously: "Yes, we are German," but   
   say no more. After a while my comrade asks: "Where are you from?" The   
   lad answers with an unmistakable accent that proves the truth of his   
   words: "Dresden." He continues immediately: "You still have a car?   
   Didn't they seize it? Didn't they lock you up?" We both look at him in   
   astonishment. We suddenly realize that he is an émigré German Jew, and   
   that he thinks we too are émigré German Jews. We give each other a   
   quick glance and are instantly agreed. We will not tell him who we   
   are. We will take advantage of the fact that we are in civilian   
   clothing and are driving a French car. I say hesitantly: "No, they did   
   not catch us." The young man fishes a sardine out of the can and puts   
   it on a slice of bread. He drinks some wine and, with his mouth full   
   says: "You are clever boys." We both nod. We are willing to admit that   
   we are clever boys.   
      
   We have a lively conversation with the young man, at the beginning of   
   which we have to dodge his questions. He wants to know what sort of   
   passports we have, how we got out of Paris, why we had not been   
   arrested by the Paris police, why the French army had not seized our   
   car, whether we are going to Spain, whether we believe the Germans   
   would let us through, whether we think the Spaniards will let us cross   
   the border. All this he asks quickly and curiously.   
      
   I put an end to his chatter by saying that clever boys have to keep   
   silent, or else they would not be clever. That enlightens him somewhat   
   and we cautiously begin asking questions. How are things going for   
   him? Ah, not well at all. Then he begins a long self-history, full of   
   complaints and self-pity.   
      
   He left Germany with his parents in 1934. His father had an antique   
   shop in Dresden and moved it to Paris. The antique business did not go   
   well in Paris. Why not? First, there were too many antique shops in   
   Paris, and second the people in Paris understood too much about   
   antiques. He looked at us to let us know that it was to his father's   
   advantage that people in Dresden knew less about antiques than people   
   in Paris. After learning this, his parents moved the business to   
   London, but he, the son, stayed in Paris.   
   What did you learn to do?   
      
   Learn to do? Nothing. I worked for a printing firm.   
   Next he shows us his passport, his German passport, probably in the   
   hope that we would do the same. The passport was issued in 1934 and   
   has expired. I ask him: Couldn't you become a French citizen? He nods,   
   still chewing away, and says that he had several chances to become a   
   French citizen. Why didn't he do it? He smiles at us and says: "Then I   
   would have had to serve in the army. I might be dead by now, since one   
   can't always shirk." My comrade says: "I don't completely understand   
   you. You would have had a new fatherland, after all. Or did they want   
   to send you to the Foreign Legion?"   
      
   He makes a contemptuous gesture. "No, I could join the regular army,   
   If I volunteered, I would immediately become a French citizen. I could   
   have joined the Foreign Legion at any time. But you know, a soldier is   
   a soldier. It made no sense." "Well," I say, "things apparently did   
   not go well for you in Paris. Why didn't you move with your parents to   
   London?"   
      
   "You don't seem to know very much," he answers. "Our friends in London   
   told me that if I went to England, I would have to serve in the army   
   there too. I would have had to be a soldier, and didn't want to do   
   that."   
      
   "Hold on, though," I say, and look for a way to speak cautiously so as   
   not to make the young lad suspicious. "If you live in France or   
   England and want to stay there, if you enjoy all the benefits of the   
   country, when you want to have all the advantages, you have to   
   understand that these countries may want you to help defend their   
   borders."   
   He replies in an annoyed tone: "What do you think about me? I have no   
   borders to defend. I am not French, I am not English, I am not German,   
   I am a Jew."   
   My comrade says: "OK, but what was the trouble in Paris? You said that   
   things had not gone well."   
      
   The young lad picks up a stone and tosses it across the road. "You   
   seem to have had things good. Or weren't you in Paris when things fell   
   apart?"   
   We shake our heads to indicate that we had not been in Paris.   
      
   "You probably were hiding in the countryside. Well, I'll stop asking   
   questions. You can take me along for a while. Maybe you can help me   
   out a bit, since you seem to have a lot of money. I could live a good   
   life for a while after the miseries of Paris."   
      
   Now he speaks softly, as if the wheat and the grass around us had   
   ears. "These French are nasty. Things were OK when we got to Paris.   
   But it got worse, and the other workers in the printing firm were   
   unfriendly from the start. I always said that 'France is the land of   
   human rights,' and they laughed and said 'France is the land of the   
   French. You are taking someone else's job. You are here only because   
   the owner is a Jew.' People in Germany always told me that there was   
   no anti-Semitism in France. But they always pestered me and the   
   bureaucrats were always after me when they found out that I did not   
   want to be a soldier. I lived like a dog. And when the Germans   
   attacked they hauled me out of bed early in the morning and locked me   
   up. There were thousands and thousands of our people and it was all   
   over with jobs and freedom, and only those who volunteered for the   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)