At the bar, by the docks, I spoke to a man who wore a cowboy
hat and had a pearl handle revolver in his holster. A thud and
the pretend cowboy hit the floor and the barman ducked behind
his counter. It was an exploding tyre; relieved laughter which was
the same when we sat in the bomb shelter and a plane overhead
dropped its load in parts of the town where local Nazis lived.
Terror begets terror and becomes a psychosis, what we don´t
understand becomes terror and we have to arm ourselves and not
ask tedious questions. I was offered a job at this vibrant place, but
declined, fearing the undelaying panic, that often explodes into
violence, would get me, I would buy a gun, hide it at the top of
the wardrobe and when bad people broke in, rush upstairs, find it,
nervously load it, spill bullets on the floor – reload - shoot myself in
the foot. The man, in the cowboy hat, had just told me he lived in
the freest county in the world.
