The men stepped back with embarrassed smiles； not wishing to spoil the famous runner's bid for victory； but the women yelled； Get back in line！ This is no star parade！
Undaunted； the actress pushed on； a suite of five photographers and two cameramen in tow。
Suddenly a Frenchwoman； a professor of linguistics； grabbed the actress by the wrist and said （in terrible…sounding English）； This is a parade for doctors who have come to care for mortally ill Cambodians； not a publicity stunt for movie stars！
The actress's wrist was locked in the linguistics professor's grip； she could do nothing to pry it loose。 What the hell do you think you're doing？ she said （in perfect English）。 I've been in a hundred parades like this！ You won't get anywhere without stars！ It's our job！ Our moral obligation！
Merde said the linguistics professor （in perfect French）。
The American actress understood and burst into tears。
Hold it； please； a cameraman called out and knelt at her feet。 The actress gave a long look into his lens； the tears flowing down her cheeks。
19
When at last the linguistics professor let go of the American actress's wrist； the German pop singer with the black beard and white flag called out her name。
The American actress had never heard of him； but after being humiliated she was more receptive to sympathy than usual and ran over to him。 The singer switched the pole to his left hand and put his right arm around her shoulders。
They were immediately surrounded by new photographers and cameramen。 A well…known American photographer； having trouble squeezing both their faces and the flag into his viewfinder because the pole was so long； moved back a few steps into the ricefield。 And so it happened that he stepped on a mine。 An explosion rang out； and his body； ripped to pieces； went flying through the air； raining a shower of blood on the European intellectuals。
The singer and the actress were horrified and could not budge。 They lifted their eyes to the flag。 It was spattered with blood。 Once more they were horrified。 Then they timidly ventured a few more looks upward and began to smile slightly。 They were filled with a strange pride； a pride they had never known before： the flag they were carrying had been consecrated by blood。 Once more they joined the march。
20
The border was formed by a small river； but because a long wall； six feet high and lined with sandbags to protect Thai sharpshooters； ran alongside it； it was invisible。 There was only one breach in the wall； at the point where a bridge spanned the river。 Vietnamese forces lay in wait on the other side； but they； too； were invisible； their positions perfectly camouflaged。 It was clear； however； that the moment anyone set foot on the bridge； the invisible Vietnamese would open fire。
The parade participants went up to the wall and stood on tiptoe。 Franz peered into the gap between two sandbags； trying to see what was going on。 He saw nothing。 Then he was shoved away by a photographer； who felt that he had more right to the space。
Franz looked back。 Seven photographers were perching in the mighty crown of an isolated tree like a flock of overgrown crows； their eyes fixed on the opposite bank。
Just then the interpreter； at the head of the parade； raised a large megaphone to her lips and called out in Khmer to the other side： These people are doctors； they request permission to enter the territory of Cambodia and offer medical assistance； they have no political designs whatsoever and are guided solely by a concern for human life。
The response from the other side was a stunning silence。 A silence so absolute that everyone's spirits sank。 Only the cameras clicked on； sounding in the silence like the song of an exotic insect。
Franz had the sudden feeling that the Grand March was coming to an end。 Europe was surrounded by borders of silence； and the space where the Grand March was occurring was now no more than a small platform in the middle of the planet。 The crowds that had once pressed eagerly up to the platform had long since departed； and the Grand March went on in solitude； without spectators。 Yes； said Franz to himself； the Grand March goes on； the world's indifference notwithstanding； but it is growing nervous and hectic： yesterday against the American occupation of Vietnam； today against the Vietnamese occupation of Cambodia； yesterday for Israel； today for the Palestinians； yesterday for Cuba； tomorrow against Cuba— and always against America； at times against massacres and at times in support of other massacres； Europe marches on； and to keep up with events； to leave none of them out； its pace grows faster and faster； until finally the Grand March is a procession of rushing； galloping people and the platform is shrinking and shrinking until one day it will be reduced to a mere dimension…less dot。
21
Once more the interpreter shouted her challenge into the megaphone。 And again the response was a boundless and endlessly indifferent silence。
Franz looked in all directions。 The silence on the other side of the river had hit them all like a slap in the face。 Even the singer with the white flag and the American actress were depressed； hesitant about what to do next。
In a flash of insight Franz saw how laughable they all were； but instead of cutting him off from them or flooding him with irony； the thought made him feel the kind of infinite love we feel for the condemned。 Yes； the Grand March was coming to an end； but was that any reason for Franz to betray it？ Wasn't his own life coming to an end as well？ Who was he to jeer at the exhibitionism of the people accompanying the courageous doctors to the border？ What could they all do but put on a show？ Had they any choice？
Franz was right。 I can't help thinking about the editor in Prague who organized the petition for the amnesty of political prisoners。 He knew perfectly well that his petition would not help the prisoners。 His true goal was not to free the prisoners； it was to show that people without fear still exist。 That； too； was playacting。 But he had no other possibility。 His choice was not between playacting and action。 His choice was between playacting and no action at all。 There are situations in which people are condemned to playact。 Their struggle with mute power （the mute power across the river； a police transmogrified into mute microphones in the wall） is the struggle of a theater company that has attacked an army。
Franz watched his friend from the Sorbonne lift his fist and threaten the silence on the other side。
22
For the third time the interpreter shouted her challenge into the megaphone。
The silence she again received in response suddenly turned Franz's depression into rage。 Here he was； standing only a few steps from the bridge joining Thailand to Cambodia； and he felt an overwhelming desire to run out onto it； scream bloodcurdling curses to the skies； and die in a great clatter of gunfire。
That sudden desire of Franz's reminds us of something； yes； it reminds us of Stalin's son； who ran to electrocute himself on the barbed wire when he could no longer stand to watch the poles of human existence come so close to each other as to touch； when there was no longer any difference between sublime and squalid； angel and fly。 God and shit。
Franz could not accept the fact that the glory of the Grand March was equal to the comic vanity of its marchers； that the exquisite noise of European history was lost in an infinite silence and that there was no longer any difference between history and silence。 He felt like placing his own life on the scales； he wanted to prove that the Grand March weighed more than shit。
But man can prove nothing of the sort。 One pan of the scales held shit； on the other； Stalin's son put his entire body。 And the scales did not move。
Instead of getting himself shot； Franz merely hung his head and went back with the others； single file； to the buses。
23
We all need someone to look at us。 We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under。
The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes； in other words； for the look of the public。 That is the case with the German singer； the American actress； and even the tall