People were
saying good-bye to people. Saying good-bye to friends. Saying good-bye to
themselves. We lay and sipped the black evil dull certainly not coffee;
lay on our beds, dressed, shuddering with cold, waiting. Waiting. Several
of _les hommes_ whom we scarcely knew came up to B. and shook hands with
him and said good luck and good-bye. The darkness was going rapidly out
of the dull black evil stinking air. B. suddenly realized that he had no
gift for The Zulu; he asked a fine Norwegian to whom he had given his
leather belt if he, the Norwegian, would mind giving it back, because
there was a very dear friend who had been forgotten. The Norwegian, with
a pleasant smile, took off the belt and said "Certainly" ... he had been
arrested at Bordeaux, where he came ashore from his ship, for stealing
three cans of sardines when he was drunk ... a very great and dangerous
criminal ... he said "Certainly," and gave B. a pleasant smile, the
pleasantest smile in the world. B. wrote his own address and name in the
inside of the belt, explained in French to The Young Pole that any time
The Zulu wanted to reach him all he had to do was to consult the belt;
The Young Pole translated; The Zulu nodded; The Norwegian smiled
appreciatively; The Zulu received the belt with a gesture to which words
cannot do the faintest justice--
A _planton_ was standing in The Enormous Room, a _planton_ roaring and
cursing and crying, "Hurry, those who are going to go.
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