N EXT MORNING, Hanna was dead. She had hanged herself at daybreak.
When I arrived, I was taken to the warden. I saw her for the first time—a small, thin woman with dark blond hair and glasses. She seemed insignificant until she began to speak, with force and warmth and a severe gaze and energetic use of both hands and arms. She asked me about my telephone conversation of the night before and the meeting the previous week. Had I picked up any signals, had it made me fear for her? I said no. Indeed, I had had no suspicions or fears that I had ignored.
“How did you get to know each other?”
“We lived in the same neighborhood.”
She looked at me searchingly, and I saw that I would have to say more.
“We lived in the same neighborhood and we got to know each other and became friends. When I was a young student, I was at the trial that convicted her.”
“Why did you send Frau Schmitz cassettes?”
I was silent.
“You knew that she was illiterate, didn’t you? How did you know?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t see what business the story of Hanna and me was of hers. Tears were filling my chest and throat, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to speak. I didn’t want to cry in front of her.
She must have seen how I was feeling. “Come with me, I’ll show you Frau Schmitz’s cell.” She went ahead, but kept turning around to tell me things or explain them to me. Here is where there had been a terrorist attack, here was the sewing shop where Hanna had worked, this is where Hanna once held a sit-down strike until cuts in library funding were reinstated, this was the way to the library. She stopped in front of the cell. “Frau Schmitz didn’t pack. You’ll see her cell the way she lived in it.”
Bed, closet, table, chair, a shelf on the wall over the table, a sink and toilet in the corner behind the door. Glass bricks instead of window glass. The table was bare. The shelf held books, an alarm clock, a stuffed bear, two mugs, instant coffee, tea tins, the cassette machine, and on two lower shelves, the cassettes I had made.
“They aren’t all here.”
The warden had followed my glance. “Frau Schmitz always lent some tapes to the aid society for blind prisoners.”
I went over to the bookshelf. Primo Levi, Elie Wiesel, Tadeusz Borowski, Jean Améry—the literature of the victims, next to the autobiography of Rudolf Hess, Hannah Arendt’s report on Eichmann in Jerusalem, and scholarly literature on the camps.
“Did Hanna read these?”
“Well, at least she ordered them with care. Several years ago I had to get her a general concentrationcamp bibliography, and then one or two years ago she asked me to suggest some books on women in the camps, both prisoners and guards; I wrote to the Institute for Contemporary History, and they sent a specialized bibliography. As soon as Frau Schmitz learned to read, she began to read about the concentration camps.”
Above the bed hung many small pictures and slips of paper. I knelt on the bed and read. There were quotations, poems, little articles, even recipes that Hanna had written down or cut out like pictures from newspapers and magazines. “Spring lets its blue banner flutter through the air again,” “Cloud shadows fly across the fields”—the poems were all full of delight in nature, and yearning for it, and the pictures showed woods bright with spring, meadows spangled with flowers, autumn foliage and single trees, a pasture by a stream, a cherry tree with ripe red cherries, an autumnal chestnut flamed in yellow and orange. A newspaper photograph showed an older man and a younger man, both in dark suits, shaking hands. In the young one, bowing to the older one, I recognized myself. I was graduating from school, and was getting a prize from the principal at the ceremony. That was a long time after Hanna had left the city. Had Hanna, who could not read, subscribed to the local paper in which my photo appeared? In any case she must have gone to some trouble to find out about the photo and get a copy. And had she had it with her during the trial? I felt the tears again in my chest and throat.
“She learned to read with you. She borrowed the books you read on tape out of the library, and followed what she heard, word by word and sentence by sentence. The tape machine couldn’t handle all that constant switching on and off, and rewinding and fast-forwarding. It kept breaking down and having to be repaired, and because that required permission, I finally found out what Frau Schmitz was doing. She didn’t want to tell me at first; when she also began to write, and asked me for a writing manual, she didn’t try to hide it any longer. She was also just proud that she had succeeded, and wanted to share her happiness.”
As she spoke, I had continued to kneel, my eyes on the pictures and notes, fighting back tears. When I turned around and sat down on the bed, she said, “She so hoped you would write. You were the only one she got mail from, and when the mail was distributed and she said ‘No letter for me?’ she wasn’t talking about the packages the tapes came in. Why did you never write?”
I still said nothing. I could not have spoken; all I could have done was to stammer and weep.
She went to the shelf, picked up a tea tin, sat down next to me, and took a folded sheet of paper from her suit pocket. “She left a letter for me, a sort of will. I’ll read the part that concerns you.” She unfolded the sheet of paper. “There is still money in the lavender tea tin. Give it to Michael Berg; he should send it, along with the 7,000 marks in the bank, to the daughter who survived the fire in the church with her mother. She should decide what to do with it. And tell him I say hello to him.”
So she had not left any message for me. Did she intend to hurt me? Or punish me? Or was her soul so tired that she could only do and write what was absolutely necessary? “What was she like all those years?” I waited until I could go on. “And how was she these last few days?”
“For years and years she lived here the way you would live in a convent. As if she had moved here of her own accord and voluntarily subjected herself to our system, as if the rather monotonous work was a sort of meditation. She was greatly respected by the other women, to whom she was friendly but reserved. More than that, she had authority, she was asked for her advice when there were problems, and if she intervened in an argument, her decision was accepted. Then a few years ago she gave up. She had always taken care of herself personally, she was slender despite her strong build, and meticulously clean. But now she began to eat a lot and seldom washed; she got fat and smelled. She didn’t seem unhappy or dissatisfied. In fact it was as though the retreat to the convent was no longer enough, as though life in the convent was still too sociable and talkative, and she had to retreat even further, into a lonely cell safe from all eyes, where looks, clothing, and smell meant nothing. No, it would be wrong to say that she had given up. She redefined her place in a way that was right for her, but no longer impressed the other women.”
“And the last days?”
“She was the way she always was.”
“Can I see her?”
She nodded, but remained seated. “Can the world become so unbearable to someone after years of loneliness? Is it better to kill yourself than to return to the world from the convent, from the hermitage?” She turned to me. “Frau Schmitz didn’t write anything about why she was going to kill herself. And you won’t say what there was between you that might have led to Frau Schmitz’s killing herself at the end of the night before you were due to pick her up.” She folded the piece of paper, put it away, stood up, and smoothed her skirt. “Her death is a blow to me, you see, and at the moment I’m very angry, at Frau Schmitz, and at you. But let’s go.”
She led the way again, this time silently. Hanna lay in the infirmary in a small cubicle. We could just fit between the wall and the stretcher. The warden pulled back the sheet.
A cloth had been tied around Hanna’s head to hold up her chin until the onset of rigor mortis. Her face was neither particularly peaceful nor particularly agonized. It looked rigid and dead. As I looked and looked, the living face became visible in the dead, the young in the old. This is what must happen to old married couples, I thought: the young man is preserved in the old one for her, the beauty and grace of the young woman stay fresh in the old one for him. Why had I not seen this reflection a week ago?
I must not cry. After a time, when the warden looked at me questioningly, I nodded, and she spread the sheet over Hanna’s face again.
第二天早上，汉娜死了。她在黎明时分自缢了。
当我赶到时，我被带到了女监狱长那儿。我是第一次见到她，她又瘦又小，头发是深黄色的，戴着一副眼镜。在她没有开始说话之前看上去并不引人注目，但是，她说话却铿锵有力，热情洋溢，目光严厉，且精力充沛地挥舞着手臂。她问我昨天晚上的那次电话和一周前的那次会面。问我是否有预感和担忧，我做了否定的回答，我确实没有过预感和担忧，我没有隐瞒。
"你们是在哪认识的？"
"我们住得很近。"她审视地看着我，我意识到我必须多说些，"我们住得很近，后来就相互认识并成了朋友，作为一名年轻的学生我旁听了对她的法庭审判。"
"您为什么要给史密兰女士寄录音带？"
我沉默不语。
"您知道她是文盲，对吗？您是从哪儿知道的？"
我耸耸肩，看不出汉娜和我的故事与她有什么关系。我眼里含着泪水，喉头哽咽着，我害怕自己因此无法说话，我不想在她面前哭泣。
她看出了我所处的状态。"跟我来，我给您看一下史密芝女士的单人间。"她走在前面，不时地转过身来向我报告或解释一些事情。她告诉我哪里曾遭受过恐怖分子的袭击，哪里是汉娜曾工作过的缝纫室，哪里是汉娜曾静坐过的地方——直到削减图书馆资金的决定得到纠正为止，哪里可通向图书馆。在一个单人间的门前，她停了下来说："史密芝女士没有整理她的东西，您所看到的样子就是她在此生活时的样子。"
床、衣柜、桌子和椅子，桌子上面的墙上有一个书架，在门后的角落里是洗漱池和厕所，代替一扇窗户的是玻璃砖。桌子上什么东西都没有，书架上摆著书、一个闹钟、一个布熊、两个杯子、速溶咖啡、茶叶罐，还有录音机，在下面两层架子上摆放着我给她录制的录音带。
"这不是全部，"女监狱长追踪着我的目光说，"史密芝女士总是把一些录音带借给救援机构里的盲人刑事犯。"
我走近书架，普里莫·莱维、埃利·维厄琴尔、塔多西·波洛夫斯基、让·艾默里，除鲁道夫·赫斯的自传札记外，还有受害者文学、汉纳·阿伦特关于艾希曼在耶路撒冷的报道和关于集中营的科学文学。
"汉娜读过这些吗？"
"不管怎么样，她是经过深思熟虑之后才订这些书的。好多年以前，我就不得不为她弄一本关于集中营的一般书目，一年或两年以前她又请求我给她提供关于集中营里的女人、女囚犯和女看守这方面书的书名。我给现代史所写过信，并收到了相应的特别书目。自从史密兰女士学会认字之后，她马上就开始读有关集中营的书籍。"
床头挂了许多小图片和纸条。我跪到了床上去读，它们或是一段文章的摘录，或是一首诗，或是一则短讯，或是汉娜抄录的食谱，或者从报纸杂志上剪裁下来的小图片。"春天让它蓝色的飘带在空中再次飘扬"，"云影在田野上掠过"。所有的诗歌都充满了对大自然的喜爱和向往，小图片上展现�