North by Louis-Ferdinand Céline Page A

Bois de Boulogne . . . look . . . seven . . . eight stations . . ."
    I show him . . . I fill him in . . .
    "We take it at the end of Schinderstrasse . . . no, not that one! . . . Unterdenlinden . . . the next one!"
    "Okay . . . but what about Ivan?"
    "We'll tell him we're coming right back . . . going to the police, they want to inspect our suitcases . . ."
    "You're the boss . . ."
    "Got it, Lili?"
    With her I don't have to worry, she seldom opens her mouth, except to Bébert in his bag, a word or two . . . their private conversation . . . here we are on the stairs . . . and on the sidewalk . . . we haven't met a soul . . . no Ivan! . . .
    "Hey, Le Vig, did you look?" ;
    "Where?"
    "Under the beds!"
    "Sure . . . Nothing! . . . but say! they could have been listening!"
    "Right . . . but now watch your step!"
    At the window I ask for three tickets to Grünwald . . . their métro is like in Paris . . . corridors, stairways . . . one more . . . Big crowd like everywhere else in Berlin, people that don't know why they should take this street or that one . . . this corridor at the end? or this one? . . . they bump into, each other . . . they collide . . . bitte! bitte! pardon me! every language! Lili begs pardon . . . so does Le Vig . . . I'm not going to stop one of these lost souls to ask him which way to Grünwald . . . right or left? . . . where we change? is this the right platform? . . . will we see the train coming? . . . it must be written someplace! . . . ah, a sign! . . . enormous! . . . at least a hundred stations on it! in red and neon! . . . the whole mob under it, searching, mumbling . . . finding! . . . not finding! . . . bitte! pardon! versegoul!  °  Teufel! stepping on each other's feet! studs, hags, brats! . . . bitte! a lot of them hardly know how to read, just pretend . . . would somebody else read it for them? they've lost their glasses . . . Sub-Hebraics, Semi-Latvians, Triestines, Africano-Czechs . . . they used to know but they've forgotten . . . and what language? . . . forgotten how to read every time the world around them went ass over end, change of presidents, different frontier river, different frontier mountain, ever since Sarajevo, you can imagine! . . . canals, corridors, and oil wells! . . . what a binge! . . . and now these names . . . which one is right? . . . ten times they've gone wrong! . . . they've passed whole nights and days on benches in at least twenty stations . . . no worse than anyplace else . . . better than outside . . . "Kraft! donnerwetter! ach! merde!" A few expatriates from Asnières with only a smattering of Boche, but the carloads of insults from Outermost Mongolia, the Scandinavian choctaw, the lager lingo . . . where do they come from? . . . fields and factories, all overt . . . a lot of them wiped out by Vlasov's army. . .these people . . . don't tell me that Europe is a hoax! . . . ach! bitte! which platform? . . . but first they've got to find their shoes . . . Platform 5? . . . 6? . . . us, it's Grünwald! I'm very patient, but enough's enough . . . I'd said I wouldn't ask . . . I see a lady guard with a raspberry-colored cap . . .
    "Bitte! pardon me! . . . Grünwald!"
    "Hier!  Right here!"
    I don't know if she's heard me . . . maybe . . . anyway here comes thunder . . . out of the tunnel! a volley of pebbles!
    "Let's go!"
    It stops . . . we're not the only ones shoving in . . . the whole crowd under the big sign . . . they don't care where they're going . . . they coagulate . . . they rush . . . looks like New York from five to six . . . got to get in . . . twenty times more than the car can hold . . . the passion they put into it . . . the violence . . . you could cram in all Berlin . . . plus enormous bundles . . . and the City Hall . . . and the schools! into a single car! the pneumatic doors close . . . ooooh! . . . we shrivel up, we melt into one solid mass . . . worse than Paris at République . . . or Lilas . . . once you're in there's no use thinking . . .