Chapter 4 - The Search - Grace Hill

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Naguib Mahfouz, Egyptian literature, existentialism, identity, love, relationships, social commentary, cultural norms, social class, personal growth, literary style, literary legacy, literary analysis, literary adaptation, literary criticism, Cairo, modernity, cultural influence, societal expectations, individualism, human nature, psychological analysis, Arab culture, family, urbanization

Episode Transcript

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Chapter four. The sun shone blindlyover the broad, dusty drill field.
The men marched and wheeled about,faced and counter marched in their new olive
drab uniforms, and thought of home, those that had any homes to think
about. Some who did not thoughtof a home that might have been if
this war had not happened. Therewere times when their souls could rise to

(00:24):
the great occasion, and their enthusiasmagainst the foe could carry them to all
lengths of joyful sacrifice. But thiswas not one of the times. It
was a breathless Indian summer morning,and the dust was inches thick. It
rose like a soft yellow mist overthe mushroom city of forty thousand men brought

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into being at the command of anation's leader. Dust lay like fine yellow
powder over everything. An approaching companylooked like a cloud as it drew near.
One could scarcely see the men nearby, for the cloud of yellow
dust everywhere. The water was badthis morning, when every man was thirsty.
It had been boiled for safety,and was served warm and tasted of

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disinfectants. The breakfast had been oatmealand salty bacon swimming in congealed grease.
The boy in the soldier's body wasvery low. Indeed, that morning the
man with his disillusioned eyes had cometo the front. Of course, this
was nothing like the hardships they wouldhave to endure later, but it was
enough for the present to their unaccustomedminds, and harder because they were doing

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nothing that seemed worth while, justmarching about and doing sordid duties. When
they were all eager for the frayand to have it over with, they
had begun to see that they weregoing to have to learn to wait and
be patient, to obey blindly.They who never had brooked commands from any
one, most of them not evenfrom their own parents. They had been

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free as air, and they hadnever been tied down to certain company.
Here they were all mixed up,college men and foreign laborers, rich and
poor, cultured and coarse, cleanand defiled, and it went pretty hard
with them. All. They hadcome a bundle of prejudices and wills,
and they had first to learn thatevery prejudice they had been born with or

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cultivated must be given up or laidaside. They were not their own.
They belonged to a great machine,the great perfect conception of the army as
a whole, had not yet dawnedupon them. They were occupied with the
unpleasant details in the first experimental stages. At first the discomforts seemed to rise

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and obliterate even the great object forwhich they had come, and discontent sat
upon their faces. Off beyond thedrill field. Whichever way they looked,
there were barracks the color of thedust, and long, stark roads,
new and rough the color of thebarracks, with jitneys and trucks, and
men like ants crawling furiously back andforth upon them, all animated by the

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same great necessity that had brought themen here. Even the sky seemed yellow
like the dust. The trees weregone, except at the edges of the
camp, cut down to make wayfor more barracks in even ranks like men.
Out beyond the barracks, mimic trencheswere being dug, and puppets hung
in long lines for mock enemies.There were skeleton bridges to cross, walls

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to scale, embankments to jump over, and all everything was set awful,
all of drab color, till thesouls of the new made soldiers cried out
within them for a touch of scarletor green or blue to relieve the dreary
monotony, sweat and dust and grime, weariness, homesickness, humbled pride.

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These were the tales of the firstdays of those men gathered from all quarters,
who were pioneers in the first camps. Corporal Cameron marched his awkward squad
back and forth through all the variousmaneuvers, again and again, giving his
order in short, sharp tones,his face set, his heart tortured with
the thought of the long months andyears of this that might be before him.

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The world seemed most unfriendly to himthese days, not that it had
ever been overkind. Yet always beforehis native wit and happy temperament had been
able to buoy him up and carryhim through hopefully. Now, however,
hope seemed gone. This war mightlast till he was too old to carry
out any of his dreams and pullhimself out of the place where fortune had

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dropped him. Gradually, one thoughthad been shaping itself clearly out of the
days he had spent in camp.This life on earth was not all of
existence. There must be something biggerbeyond. It. Was insane and sensible
to think that any God would allowsuch waste of humanity, as to let
some suffer all the way through withnothing beyond to compensate. There was a

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meaning to the suffering, there mustbe. It must be of prepper ration
for something beyond, infinitely better andmore worth. While what was it?
And how should he learn the meaningof his own particular bit? John Cameron
had never thought about religion before inhis life. He had believed, in
a general way, in a godor thought. He believed that a book

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called the Bible told about him andwas the authentic place to learn how to
be good. The doubts of theage had not touched him because he had
never had any interest in them.In the ordinary course of events. He
might never have thought about them inrelation to himself until he came to die.
Perhaps not then. In college hehad been too much engrossed with other

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things to listen to the arguments orto be influenced by the general atmosphere of
unbelief. He had been a boywhose inner thoughts were kept under lock and
key, and who had lived hisheart life absolutely alone. Although his rich
wit and bubbling merriment had made hima general favorite where pure fun among the
fellows was going, he loved torough house, as he called it,

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and his boyish pranks had always beenthe talk of the town, the envied
of the little boys. But noone knew his real serious thoughts. Not
even his mother, strong and selfrepressed like himself, had known how to
get down beneath the surface and communewith him. Perhaps she was afraid or
shy now that he was really allalone among all this mob of men of

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all sorts and conditions, He hadretired more and more into the inner sanctuary
of self and tried to think outthe meaning of life from the chaos that
reigned in his mind. He presentlyselected a few things that he called facts
from which to work. These wereGod hereafter death, these things he must

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reckon with. He had been workingon a wrong hypothesis all his life.
He had been trying to live forthis world as if it were the end
and aim of existence. And nowthis Warhouse had come, and this world
had suddenly melted into chaos. Itappeared that he and thousands of others must
probably give up their part in thisworld before they had hardly tried it,

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if they would set things right againfor those that should come after. But
even if he had lived out hisordinary years in peace and success, and
had all that life could give him, it would not have lasted long seventy
years or so. And what werethey after they were passed? No,
there was something beyond or it allwouldn't have been made this universe, with

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the carefully thought out details working harmoniouslyone with another. It wouldn't have been
worth while. Otherwise there would havebeen no reason for a heart life.
There were boys and men in thearmy who thought otherwise, who had accepted
this life as being all among thesewere the ones who, when they found

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they were taken in the draft andmust go to camp, had spent their
last three weeks of freedom drunk becausethey wanted to get all the fun they
could out of life that was leftto them. They were the men who
were plunging into all the sin theycould find before they went away to fight,
because they felt they had but alittle time to live, and what

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did it matter? But John Cameronwas not one of these. His soul
would not let him alone until hehad thought it all out, and he
had come thus far with these threefacts, God, death, a life.
Hereafter he turned these over in hismind for days, and then he
changed their order death a life hereafterGod. Death was the grim person he

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was going forth to meet one ofthese days or months on the field of
France, or Italy or somewhere overthere. He was not to wait for
death to come and get him,as had been the old order. This
was war, and he was goingout to challenge death. He was convinced
that whether death was a servant ofGod or the devil, in some way,

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it would make a difference with hisown personal life hereafter. How he
met death. He was not satisfiedwith just meeting death bravely, with the
ardor of patriotism in his breast,as he had heard so many about him
talk in these days. That waswell so far as it went, but
it did not solve the mystery ofthe future life, nor make him sure

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how he would stand in that otherworld to which death stood ready to escort
him. Presently, death might bevictor over his body, but he wanted
to be sure that death could notalso kill that something within him which he
felt must live forever. He turnedit over for days and came to the
conclusion that the only one who couldhelp him was God. God was the

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beginning of it all. If therewas a god. He must be able
to help a soul in a timelike this. There must be a way
to find God and get the secretof life, and so be ready to
meet death, that death should notconquer anything but the body. How could
one find God? Had anybody everfound him? Did anyone really think they

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had found him? These were questionsthat beat in upon his soul day after
day as he drilled his men andwent through the long hard hours of discipline,
or lay upon his stratick at nightwhile a hundred and fifty other men
about him slept. His mother's secretattempts at religion had been too feeble and

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too hidden in her own breast tohave much of an impression upon him.
She had only hoped her faith wasfounded upon a rock she had not known,
and so her buffeted soul had nevergiven evidence to her son of hidden
holy refuge where he might flee withher in time of need. Now and
then, the vision of a girlblurred across his thoughts, uncertainly, like

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a bright moth hovering in the distance, whose shadow fell across his dusty path.
But it was far away and vague, and only a glance in her
eyes belonged to him. She wasnot of his world. He looked up
to the yellow sky through the yellowdust, and his soul cried out to
find the way to God before hehad to meet death. But the heavens

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seemed like molten brass. Not thathe was afraid of death with a physical
fear, but that his soul recoiledfrom being conquered by it. And he
felt convinced that there was a wayto meet it with a smile of assurance,
if only he could find it out. He had read that people had
met it that way. Was itall their imagination, the mere illusion of

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a fanatical brain. Well, hewould try to find out God. He
would put himself in the places whereGod ought to be, and when he
saw any indication that God was there, he would cry out until he made
God hear him. The day hecame to that conclusion was Sunday, and
he went over to the Y mc A auditorium. They were having a

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Merry Pickford moving picture show there.If he had happened to go at any
time during the morning, he mighthave heard some fine sermons and perhaps have
found the right man to help him. But this was evening and the men
were being amused. He stood fora few moments and watched the pretty show.
The sunlight on Mary's beautiful hair asit fell glimmering through the trees in

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the picture reminded him of the redgold lights on Ruth MacDonald's hair the morning
he left home, and with asigh, he turned away and walked to
the edge of camp, where thewoods were still standing alone, he looked
up to the starry sky. Amusementwas not what he wanted now. He
was in search of something vague andgreat that would satisfy and give him a

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reason for being and suffering and dying. Perhaps he called it God because he
had no other name for it.Red gold hair might be for others,
but not for him. He mightnot take it where he would, and
he would not take it where itlay easy to get. If he had
been in the same class with someother fellows, he knew he would have
wayted no time on follies. Hewould have gone for the very highest,

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finest woman. But there what wasthe use Besides, even if he had
been and he had had every joyof life, here was but a passing
show, and must sometime come toan end. And at the end would
be this old problem sometime. Hewould have had to realize it, even
if war had not come and broughtthe revelation prematurely. What was it that

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he wanted? How could he findout how to die? Where was God?
But the stars were high and coldand gave no answer, And the
whispering leaves, although they soothed him, sighed and gave no help. The
feeling was still with him. Nextmorning, when the mail was distributed,
there would be nothing for him.His mother had written her weekly letter,

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and it had reached him the daybefore. He could expect nothing for several
days. Now. Other men weregetting sheaves of letters. How friendless he
seemed among them all. One hada great chocolate cake that a girl had
sent him, and the others werecrowding around to get a bit. It
was doubtful. If the laughing ownergot more than a bite himself, he

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might have been won in the groupif he had chosen. They all liked
him well enough, although they knewhim very little as yet, for he
had kept much to himself. Buthe turned sharply away from them and went
out. Somehow he was not inthe mood for fun. He felt he
must be growing morbid, but hecould not throw it off that morning.

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It all seemed so hopeless, thethings he had tried to do in life,
and the slow progress he had madeupward, and now to have it
all blocked by war. None ofthe other fellows ever dreamed that he was
lonely, big, husky, handsomefellow that he was, with a continuous
joke on his lips for those hehad chosen as associates, with an arm

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of iron and a jaw that setlike steel, grim and unmistakably brave.
The awkward squad as they wrathfully obeyedhis stern orders, would have told you
he had no heart the way heworked them, and would not have believed
that he was just plain homesick andlonesome for someone to care for him.
He was not hungry that day whenthe dinner call came, and flung himself

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down under a scrub oak outside thebarracks while the others rushed in with their
mess kids, ready for beans orwhatever was provided for them. He was
glad that they were gone, gladthat he might have the luxury of being
miserable all alone. For a fewminutes. He felt strangely as if he
were going to cry, and yethe did not know what about. Perhaps

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he was going to be sick.That would be horrible down in that half
finished hospital with hardly any equipment.Yet he must brace up and put an
end to such softness. It wasall in the idea, anyway. In
a great hand came down upon hisshoulder with a mighty slap, and he
flung himself bolt upright with a frown, to find his comrade, whose bunk

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was next to his in the barracks. He towered over Cameron, polishing his
tin plate with a vigor. What'sthe matter with you, you boob.
There's roast beef and it's good cook. He saved a piece for you.
I told him you'd come go inand get it quick. There's a letter
for you too in the office.I'd have brought it, only I was
afraid I would miss you. Here, take my mess kit and hurry.

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There's some cracker jack pickles too littlesweet ones stepped lively, or someone will
swipe them all. Cameron arose,accepted his friend's dishes and sauntered into the
mess hall. The letter couldn't bevery important. His mother had no time
to write again soon, and therewas no one else. It was likely
an advertisement or a formal greeting fromsome of the organizations at home. They

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did that about Fortnightly, the RedCross, the Woman's Club, the Emergency
Aid, the Fire Company. Itwas kind in them, but he wasn't
keen about it just then. Itcould wait until he got his dinner.
They didn't have roast beef every day, and now that he thought about it,
he was hungry. He almost forgotthe letter after dinner, until a
comrade reminded him, handing over athick, delicately scented envelope with a silver

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crest on the back. The boysgot off their kidding about the girl he'd
left behind him, and he answeredwith his old, good natured grin that
made them love him. Letting themthink he had all kinds of girls for
the dinner had somewhat restored his spirits, but he crumpled the letter into his
pocket and got away into the woodsto read it. Deliberately. He walked

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down the yellow road up over thehill by the signal cor tents, across
Wigwag Park to the woods beyond,and sat down on a log with his
letter. He told himself that itwas likely one of those fool letters the
fellows were getting all the time fromsilly girls who were uniform crazy. He
wouldn't answer it, of course,and he felt a kind of contempt with
himself for being weak enough to readit, even to satisfy his curiosity.

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Then he tore open the envelope halfangrily, and a faint whiff of violets
floated out to him. Over hishead, a meadow lark trilled a long
sweet measure, and glad surprise suddenlyentered into his soul. End of Chapter four