In our line of work, as it were, we hear a lot of names; one name that keeps coming up is that of an Irishman. I won’t commit his name to paper, but the Irishman is spoken of quietly in these circles; I cannot help to note that his name comes up repeatedly. Sometimes his name is whispered in awe, sometimes in bitterness, almost as if it were jealousy that drives the whisperer. People seem to think he is in this for the wrong reasons. Does he care about la résistance? Is he a mercenary? Is he a revolutionary, a hero? A criminal? No one seems to know.
I am here to do my work. I know why I am here, and I do not feel the need to explain my reasons to anyone. We do what we do because we must. I imagine the Irishman feels the same way. He does what he does; who am I to question, or to judge?
I look around the brothel. The man over there, talking to the bartender, might he be the Irishman? Or him, talking to the whore—could it be him? Could it be the bartender? Could it be the whore? Could it be me?
There is a little bit of each of us in all of us. I do not expect you to understand, for you are presumably reading this from a safe place, hopefully far distant. Perhaps you are in the far future, reading this as a historical piece. Who is to know? Not myself, not the whore, not the bartender, and certainly not the Irishman.
Unless you are the Irishman.
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