英文小说连载《朗读者The Reader》Part 2 Chapter 14
I DECIDED TO go away. If I had been able to leave for Auschwitz the next day， I would have gone. But it would have taken weeks to get a visa. So I went to Struthof in Alsace. It was the nearest concentration camp. I had never seen one. I wanted reality to drive out the clichés.
I hitchhiked， and remember a ride in a truck with a driver who downed one bottle of beer after another， and a Mercedes driver who steered wearing white gloves. After Strasbourg I got lucky； the driver was going to Schirmeck， a small town not far from Struthof.
When I told the driver where I was going， he fell silent. I looked over at him， but couldn’t tell why he had suddenly stopped talking in the midst of a lively conversation. He was middle-aged， with a haggard face and a dark red birthmark or scar on his right temple， and his black hair was carefully parted and combed in strands. He stared at the road in concentration.
The hills of the Vosges rolled out ahead of us. We were driving through vineyards into a wide-open valley that climbed gently. To the left and right， mixed forests grew up the slopes， and sometimes there was a quarry or a brick-walled factory with a corrugated iron roof， or an old sanatorium， or a large turreted villa among tall trees. A train track ran alongside us， sometimes to the left and sometimes to the right.
Then he spoke again. He asked me why I was visiting Struthof， and I told him about the trial and my lack of first-hand knowledge.
“Ah， you want to understand why people can do such terrible things.” He sounded as if he was being a little ironic， but maybe it was just the tone of voice and the choice of words. Before I could reply， he went on： “What is it you want to understand？ That people murder out of passion， or love， or hate， or for honor or revenge， that you understand？”
I nodded.
“You also understand that people murder for money or power？ That people murder in wars and revolutions？”
I nodded again. “But . . .”
“But the people who were murdered in the camps hadn’t done anything to the individuals who murdered them？ Is that what you want to say？ Do you mean that there was no reason for hatred， and no war？”
I didn’t want to nod again. What he said was true， but not the way he said it.
“You’re right， there was no war， and no reason for hatred. But executioners don’t hate the people they execute， and they execute them all the same. Because they’re ordered to？ You think they do it because they’re ordered to？ And you think that I’m talking about orders and obedience， that the guards in the camps were under orders and had to obey？” He laughed sarcastically. “No， I’m not talking about orders and obedience. An executioner is not under orders. He’s doing his work， he doesn’t hate the people he executes， he’s not taking revenge on them， he’s not killing them because they’re in his way or threatening him or attacking him. They’re a matter of such indifference to him that he can kill them as easily as not.”
He looked at me. “No ‘buts’？ Come on， tell me that one person cannot be that indifferent to another. Isn’t that what they taught you？ Solidarity with everything that has a human face？ Human dignity？ Reverence for life？”
I was outraged and helpless. I searched for a word， a sentence that would erase what he had said and strike him dumb.
“Once，” he went on， “I saw a photograph of Jews being shot in Russia. The Jews were in a long row， naked； some were standing at the edge of a pit and behind them were soldiers with guns， shooting them in the neck. It was in a quarry， and above the Jews and the soldiers there was an officer sitting on a ledge in the rock， swinging his legs and smoking a cigarette. He looked a little morose. Maybe things weren’t going fast enough for him. But there was also something satisfied， even cheerful about his expression， perhaps because the day’s work was getting done and it was almost time to go home. He didn’t hate the Jews. He wasn’t . . .”
“Was it you？ Were you sitting on the ledge and . . .”
He stopped the car. He was absolutely white， and the mark on his temple glistened. “Out！”
I got out. He swung the wheel so fast I had to jump aside. I still heard him as he took the next few curves. Then everything was silent.
I walked up the road. No car passed me， none came in the opposite direction. I heard birds， the wind in the trees， and the occasional murmur of a stream. In a quarter of an hour I reached the concentration camp.
我决定去奥斯威辛看看。假使我今天做了决定明天就可以动身去的话，那我也就去了。但是，得到签证需要几周的时间。这样一来我就去了阿尔萨斯地区的斯特鲁特侯夫。那是最近的一个集中营。我从未看过任何一个集中营。我要用真实驱逐脑中的先人之见。
我是搭车去的，还记得在搭乘卡车的一段路上，司机一瓶接一瓶地灌着啤酒；也记得一位开奔驰车的司机，他戴着白手套开车。过了斯特拉斯堡之后，我的运气不错，搭的汽车是驶向舍尔麦克的，一个离斯特鲁特侯夫不太远的小城市。
当我告诉了司机我要去的具体地方时，他不说话了。我瞧了他一眼，但是从他的脸上我看不出来他为什么从生动活泼的交谈中突然默不作声了。他中等年纪，细长的脸，右边的太阳穴上有块深红色的胎痣或烙印，一架黑发整齐的流向两边。他看上去好像把注意力集中在了道路上。
延伸到我们面前的福戈森山脉是一片丘陵。我们穿过了一片葡萄园，来到一个开阔的、缓缓上升的山谷。左边和右边的斜坡上是针叶松和落叶松混长的森林，偶尔路过一个采石场，或一个用砖围砌起来的、带有折顶的厂棚，或一家养老院，或一处大型别墅——那里许多小尖塔林立于参天大树之中。有时，我们沿铁路线而行，铁路线时而在左边，时而在右边。
沉默之后，他又开口了，他问我为什么要去参观斯特鲁特俱夫。我向他讲述了审讯过程和我对直观形象的匮乏。
"啊，您想弄明白，人们为什么能做出那么恐怖的事情。"他的话听上去有点嘲讽的口吻，但是，这也许仅仅是声音和语言上的地方色彩。没等我回答，他又接着说："您到底想弄明白什么呢？人们之所以杀人有时是出于狂热，有时是出于爱，或者出于恨，或为了名誉，或为了复仇，您明白吗？"
我点点头。
"有时是为了财富去杀人，有时是为了权力，在战争中，或者在一场革命中都要杀人，这您也明白吗？"
我又点点头："但是…、··"
"但是，那些在集中营被杀死的人对那些杀害他们的人并没做过什么，对吗？您想说这个吗？您想说不存在憎恨和战争的理由吗？'"
我不想再点头了，他所说的没错，但是他说话的口气不对。
"您说得有道理，不存在战争和憎恨的理由，刽子手恨不恨他要处死的人，都要处死他。因为他这样做是按命令行事？您认为，他们这样做是因为他被命令这样做吗？您认为我现在在谈论命令和服从命令吗？在谈论集中营的警卫队得到命令和他们必须要服从命令吗？他鄙视地笑了起来，"不，我不是在谈论命令和服从命令。刽子手没有遵循任何命令。他在完成他的工作，他处死的不是他憎恨的人，他不是在向他们报仇雪恨。杀死他们，不是因为他们挡了他的路或者对他进行了威胁和进攻。他们对他来说完全无所谓的，他们对他来说如此地无所谓，以致他杀不杀他们都一样。"
他看着我说："没有'但是'吗？您说，一个人对另一个人不可以这样无所谓。您连这个都没学过吗？没学过要一致顾脸面？顾人的尊严？生命算什么？"
我被激怒了，但又束手无策。我在搜索一个词，或一句话，一句能让他哑口无言的话。
"有一次，"他接着说，"我看到一张枪杀俄国犹太人的照片。犹太人一丝不挂地排着长队在等着，有几位站在一个坑的边上，他们身后是手持步枪向他们颈部开枪射击的士兵。这事发生在一座采石场。在犹太人和土兵的上方，有位军官坐在墙上的隔板上，跷着二郎腿，吸着一支香烟。他看上去有点闷闷不乐，也许枪杀进行得还不够快。但是，他还是感到某种程度的满足，甚至轻松愉快，也许因为白天的活总算要干完了，而且很快就要下班了。他不恨犹太人，他本是……"
"那是您吧？是您坐在墙上的隔板上，还……"
他把车停下了，脸色苍白，太阳穴上的股清在乱跳。"滚下去！"
我下了车，他调转车头的方式使我不得不急忙躲闪。直到下几个拐弯处，我仍能听见他。然后一切才平静下来。
我走在上坡的路上，没有来往的汽车从我身边开过。我听得见鸟鸣和树木的风声，有时还有涓涓的溪水声。我松了口气。一刻钟之后，我到了集中营。