Book Three: 1

It was a forlorn eve, my descent wintry. In that foreign midnight, I sounded the chanceries of doubt as day drove up in an ordinary yellow cab. To my astonishment, I seemed to be blindfolded but the clock —talk     talk— continuing called me, a voice ever stranger in complaint. With my staff I came to the first step, sanguine indeed, and dressed in a well-cut Western suit —quite the best I saw on anybody during my whole stay in that unstable regime. There were people in plots bowing to creation. Please I protested, I had not come to stay, You will go in said Nobody, all will be quiet. I looked down and could see thousands crowding into the grounds —my     my— and climbed into the burial site. Within the twisted rows of graves, the teeth of under, some spoke of hatred and some of hope. Blind, they wept on command, in wheelchairs, on crutches, waving stumps. It was rather haunting— the gates of shadows, the path unlit, and ahead, also dark, an abandoned fortress. Carried along by the crowd, our way lit by flashlights through dim corridors, I said Citizens, no     no. Ahead, a door opened. I recognized the old council sitting round a table, some in religious collars, the atmosphere a court. Chairing the proceeding, a tall, bearded figure uttered a few words in German, for my benefit. He had lived for a time and remarked that I needed to be dealt with. Listening quietly, I tried to avoid any show of emotion. This clearly displeased him. He seemed to expect me to present my own commentary. I said in reply the following, shaken and uneasy, the slim thread of truth but little help . . .