They Call Me Carpenter | Page 4

him I saw that he had me marked. He
pointed a finger into my face, shouting in a fog-horn voice: "There's a
traitor! Says he was in the service, and now he's backing the Huns!"
I tried to have nothing to do with him, but he got me by the arm, and
others were around me. "Yein, yein, yein!" they shouted into my ear;
and as I tried to make my way through, they began to hustle me. "I'll
shove your face in, you damned Hun!"--a continual string of such abuse;
and I had been in the service, and seen fighting!
I never tried harder to avoid trouble; I wanted to get away, but that big
fellow stuck his feet between mine and tripped me, he lunged and

shoved me into the gutter, and so, of course, I made to hit him. But they
had me helpless; I had no more than clenched my fist and drawn back
my arm, when I received a violent blow on the side of my jaw. I never
knew what hit me, a fist or a weapon. I only felt the crash, and a
sensation of reeling, and a series of blows and kicks like a storm about
me.
I ask you to believe that I did not run away in the Argonne. I did my
job, and got my wound, and my honorable record. But there I had a
fighting chance, and here I had none; and maybe I was dazed, and it
was the instinctive reaction of my tormented body--anyhow, I ran. I
staggered along, with the blows and kicks to keep me moving. And
then I saw half a dozen broad steps, and a big open doorway; I fled that
way, and found myself in a dark, cool place, reeling like a drunken man,
but no longer beaten, and apparently no longer pursued. I was falling,
and there was something nearby, and I caught at it, and sank down
upon a sort of wooden bench.

IV
I had run into St. Bartholomew's Church; and when I came to--I fear I
cut a pitiful figure, but I have to tell the truth--I was crying. I don't
think the pain of my head and face had anything to do with it, I think it
was rage and humiliation; my sense of outrage, that I, who had helped
to win a war, should have been made to run from a gang of cowardly
rowdies. Anyhow, here I was, sunk down in a pew of the church,
sobbing as if my heart was broken.
At last I raised my head, and holding on to the pew in front, looked
about me. The church was apparently deserted. There were dark vistas;
and directly in front of me a gleaming altar, and high over it a stained
glass window, with the afternoon sun shining through. You know, of
course, the sort of figures they have in those windows; a man in long
robes, white, with purple and gold; with a brown beard, and a gentle,
sad face, and a halo of light about the head. I was staring at the figure,
and at the same time choking with rage and pain, but clenching my
hands, and making up my mind to go out and follow those brutes, and
get that big one alone and pound his face to a jelly. And here begins the
strange part of my adventure; suddenly that shining figure stretched out
its two arms to me, as if imploring me not to think those vengeful

thoughts!
I knew, of course, what it meant; I had just seen a play about delirium,
and had got a whack on the head, and now I was delirious myself. I
thought I must be badly hurt; I bowed my reeling head in my arms, and
began to sob like a kid, out loud, and without shame. But somehow I
forgot about the big brute, and his face that I wanted to pound; instead,
I was ashamed and bewildered, a queer hysterical state with a half
dozen emotions mixed up. The Caligari story was in it, and the lunatic
asylum; I've got a cracked skull, I thought, and my mind will never get
right again! I sat, huddled and shuddering; until suddenly I felt a quiet
hand on my shoulder, and heard a gentle voice saying: "Don't be afraid.
It is I."
Now, I shall waste no time telling you how amazed I was. It was a long
time before I could believe what was happening to me; I thought I was
clean off my head. I lifted my eyes, and there, in the aisle of the most
decorous church of St. Bartholomew, standing with his hand on my
head, was the figure out of the stained glass window!