In mid-afternoon, troop movements were detected in front of the military government building. However, right away, those who question everything made their voices heard: Was there any indication, any particular sign of aggression in those movements? Could one deduce that something really serious was afoot, or were they simply routine drills? Barely accustomed to army maneuvers, the engaged citizens (who’d now lunched, met in the café, and made their leisurely way to the military government building) hadn’t a clue how to interpret them; they could all agree on that. A black car, with a black pennant, drove up at 4:32. An officer got out. From that distance, most of the engaged citizens, who’d been conscientious objectors, were unable to define his exact rank. Was he a general? A captain-general? A lieutenant-general? Or a mere lieutenant? Would it have given them a clue, had they known? It obviously wouldn’t have, and this made them even more irate—anger they directed at themselves on this occasion. They thought that the two sentries (doing their duty on either side of the main entrance, in concrete boxes with green-tiled domes) saluted him particularly respectfully, but people weren’t unanimous about that. Once the officer had entered the building, the car drove off. Did its immediate departure denote anything serious, or on the contrary, was it a positive sign? At 6:32, a demonstration of engineering workers in overalls walked up High Street and into the square. The demonstration had been called the previous week, complied with all the legal requirements, and was, thus, totally authorized. Once again, the rumor mill found fresh proof in the fact that none of the powers-that-be (whether civilian or military) had banned it: if it had been banned, it would have been a sign, an acknowledgement of the anomalous situation. They could agree on that. Consequently, they let the demonstration go ahead, and some 150 individuals (a hundred, according to the report filed by the municipal police) marched to the West Bridge, without hindrance: there they dispersed peacefully, heading home or to the nearest watering-holes. Suddenly, at 7:13, the same officer who had alighted from the car a few hours earlier came out of the military government building. However, he was now in the company of another officer of a different rank, but again those present couldn’t determine what his rank was due to the aforementioned gap in their knowledge. The car (the same one from earlier in the afternoon; a citizen with a fine memory had memorized the license plate number) was waiting for them.
It would be a tense night. The hours passed slowly. The engaged citizens twisted and turned sleeplessly in their beds. How could they sleep when they felt so anxious? Radio stations still weren’t broadcasting classical music and the television kept to its scheduled programs: a competition with couples who’d broken up and the next chapter in a television drama, which that night revealed that one of the characters was a homosexual.
Calm in the night. Carousing in bars, the early morning din of the trash collectors. At half past six the shutters at the kiosks started going up. At 10:00 a.m. (barely twenty-four hours after this had all begun!), the first cannonades were heard. Twenty-one, to be precise. There we go. The engaged citizens immediately went out into the street; some sought shelter in the nearest subway stations, mingling with less conscious citizens who were apparently continuing their normal daily lives. After the twenty-one cannonades, silence. The midday television news reported that the prime minister of an economic, political, and military power of the highest level had arrived in the city that morning. This visit provoked contrary opinions among the aware citizenry. Some believed the visit was an excuse to cover up the cannonades they had heard that morning (on the pretext that they were in his honor). Others reckoned the visit wasn’t gratuitous or innocent (nothing is, never ever) and that the great power was attempting either to mediate in the conflict (sheer effrontery) or help one side (absolutely intolerable interference, whichever side they were trying to help). In the afternoon, the first casualties were announced: a five-a-side rugby game in the Olympic Stadium ended with seven injured when supporters of both sides fought a pitched battle on the terraces. Shortly afterwards, it was evening, anguish, and nighttime. The pattern was repeated, day after day, for weeks, with small variations that introduced fresh doubts, fresh evidence, and fresh uncertainties. The drama didn’t lie in the number of deaths (so well concealed as to seem non-existent), the distraught families (these were few in number, prompted by motives unrelated to the conflict), the homes abandoned, or hunger (these had been a factor for years) as much as in the withholding of breath, the wild hypothesizing, and the futile attempts to find out what was really happening. They spent months weighing up new hypotheses and finally found themselves back where they had started: awash in what they themselves ironically dubbed a sea of disinformation. And not the slightest expression of solidarity from any other country, far or near. They found this cold-shouldering by the outside world even more depressing.
Would that war last forever? There’d been one that had even lasted a hundred years that the history books still debated with a sickening indifference. They needed another ninety-eight to equal that war. Humanity’s ability to adapt is admirable. Faced by these rather bleak prospects, parents opted to enlighten their offspring and prepare them for life in such conditions. Generation followed generation, and the parents of the engaged citizenry passed the arguments that were necessary for survival in that unending war on to their children, the first being to keep quiet and adopt an outlook of complete indifference, like every other citizen.