Part Four
The officers and soldiers waiting to direct us were not particularly agreeable, and the military police, with their badges glistening damply in the fog, were downright unpleasant.
All organizations have police, and some of them must be fine fellows. However, we wanted to forget the police at Romny, and on the retreat from the Don, to preserve some of the joy we felt at being back in the West.
We tramped along, herded by a couple of fellows in a sidecar covered with mud. They didn't bother to line us up in threes, but let us walk any way we liked, almost as if we were out for a stroll-which was a pleasant variation of usual practice. Maybe they knew what a hard time we'd had, and had decided to give us a break. Now that we were out of it, maybe everything was going to be all right. The sidecar forced us to increase our pace. We went on for about a mile and a half, stumbling through the mud and splattering our companions, to arrive finally at a big camp, where the men who'd crossed ahead of us were already waiting. It was dark and a fine rain was falling. We could see the barbed wire gleaming with wetness. Two soldiers with machine guns under their arms waved us through a makeshift entrance. Then we stopped, and the sidecar drove rapidly away. We stood where we'd been left, surrounded by barbed wire, not knowing what to think.
We tried to tell ourselves that this was just how things happened in the army, and that this welcome seemed excessively cold because we were fresh from the hell of Konotop. They were probably making us wait so that they could take us straight to clean, comfortable barracks, where we would sleep and regain our strength. Or perhaps they were getting our passes ready. This last idea filled us with joy, and annihilated the liquid mud, and the rain, and the barbed wire, which in reality held us prisoner.
We waited for about two hours. A second group of new arrivals joined us. The rain had become heavier, and we were all streaming with water. Quite nearby, we could see a row of huts with firm roofs and weather-tight windows, to which men were being sent in groups of twenty. We waited expectantly, certain that we were living through the last of our miseries. The fellows who went into the huts weren't coming out again. They must already be sleeping on soft beds, the lucky bastards.
An hour later, it was my turn, along with nineteen others. There were two noncoms and a lieutenant in our group. We went into the building, which had its own generator and was brightly lit. Our state of extreme filth suddenly made us feel awkward. Military men of all ranks and military police were sitting facing us behind a row of long tables. An obergefreiter came up to us, yelling as in the old days at training camp. He told us to get over to the tables to be screened. We should be ready to produce on demand the papers and equipment entrusted to us by the army. This reception only increased our sense of astonished unease.
"First, your documents," an M.P. shouted across the table.
The lieutenant, who was directly ahead of me in the line, was being interrogated.
"Where is your unit, lieutenant?"
"Annihilated, Herr Gendarme. Missing or dead. We had a hard time."
The M.P. said nothing to this, but went on leafing through the lieutenant's papers.
"Did you leave your men, or were they killed?"
The lieutenant hesitated for a moment. We were all watching in frozen silence.
"Is this a court-martial?" The lieutenant's voice was exasperated.
"You must answer my questions, Herr Leutnant. Where is your unit?"
The lieutenant clearly felt caught in a trap, as did we all. Very few of us could have answered that question with any precision.
He tried to explain. But there is never any point in explaining to an M.P., their powers of comprehension are always limited to the form they wish to fill.
Further, it appeared that the lieutenant was missing a great many things. This fact obsessed his interrogator. It didn't matter that the man in front of him was effecting a miracle simply by staying on his feet, and had lost at least thirty pounds since entering the army. The M.P. only noted that the Zeiss field-glasses, which are part of an officer's equipment, were missing. Also missing were a map case, and the section telephone, for which the lieutenant was responsible. In fact, the lieutenant, who had managed to save only his life, was missing far too many things. The army did not distribute its papers and equipment only to have them scattered and lost.
A German soldier is expected to die rather than indulge in carelessness with army property.
The careless lieutenant was assigned to a penal battalion, and three grades were stripped from his rank. At that, he could think himself lucky.
The lieutenant's eyes were wild, and he seemed to be fighting for breath. He was a pitiful and terrifying sight. Two soldiers dragged him off to the right, toward a group of broken men, who'd been dealt with in the same way.
Then it was my turn.
I felt stiff with fright. I pulled my crumpled documents from an inside pocket. The M.P. riffled through them, throwing me a reproving look. His bad temper seemed to soften somewhat at the sight of my apprehensive, mortified face, and he continued his inventory in silence.
Fortunately, I had been able to reintegrate with my unit, and had saved the scrap of white cardboard which stated that I had left the infirmary to take part in an attack. My head was swimming, and I thought I was going to faint. Then the M.P. read off a list of articles which ordinary soldiers like myself were supposed to carry at all times. The words rolled off his tongue, but I didn't catch them quickly enough, and didn't immediately produce the items still in my possession. The M.P. then treated me to a certain German word, which I was hearing for the first time. It appeared I was missing four items, including that fucking gas mask I had deliberately abandoned.
My pay book was passed from hand to hand to be inspected and stamped. In my panic, I made an idiotic move. Hoping to gain favor, I produced nine unused cartridges from my cartridge belt. The M.P.'s eyes lit on these like the eyes of an alpinist who spots a good foothold.
"You were retreating?"
"Ja, Herr Unteroffizier."
"Why didn't you try to defend yourself? Why didn't you fight?" he shouted.
"Ja, Herr Unteroffizier."
"What do you mean-ja?"
"We were ordered to retreat, Herr Unteroffizier."
"God damn it to hell!" he roared. "What kind of an army runs without shooting?"
My pay book came down the line. My interrogator grabbed it, and riffled the pages for a moment. His eyes traveled from the filthy, tattered page to my face.
I followed the movement of his lips, which might be about to assign me a penal battalion-to the life of a prisoner, to forward positions, mine clearing, infrequent leaves always confined to camp, so that the word "liberty" lost all meaning, and the cancellation of mail.... I held back my tears with difficulty.
Finally the M.P.'s rigid fingers handed back my liberty. I had not been assigned to a penal battalion, but my emotion overwhelmed me anyway. As I picked up my pack, I sobbed convulsively, unable to stop. A fellow beside me was doing the same.
The crowd of men still waiting stared at me in astonishment. Like a miserable tramp, I ran past the line of tables and left by a door opposite the one we'd entered by. I felt that I had disgraced myself.
I rejoined my comrades, who were standing in the rain in the other part of the camp. They weren't resting on the soft beds we'd dreamed of before coming to this place, and the rain streaming down their shoulders and backs was another hope disappointed.
However, despite the slap in the face we had just received from our grateful country, we could still count ourselves lucky.
Three days later, we learned that the day after our crossing, with six or seven thousand of our men still waiting on the east bank, the Russians had attacked. They were probably discouraged by their failure to retake Kiev, where the heavily outnumbered German Army was fighting desperately, and had decided to clean up the pockets still occupied by the Wehrmacht. Twenty-four hours after our group left, our comrades on the east bank were suddenly dazzled by the flares that flooded their temporary encampments with brilliant light.
The lookouts in the shallow trenches scratched into the hills overlooking the river, who were supposed to provide an illusion of protection, watched the shouting hordes of Russian infantry flood down to the river. These soldiers quickly realized they would never be able to stop that irresistible tide, and succumbed to a moment of absolute panic. Some ran, through the deafening explosions of Soviet rockets which drowned out our spandaus and light mortars. The Russians, driven by expectations of victory and by the exhortations of the people's commissars, pushed forward regardless of the cost.
The cost was enormous. Each German projectile seemed to hit home. But Ivan continued his inexorable advance. On the mud landing stage from which I had embarked, panic gave way to madness. One of the rafts, which was loading up as usual, was swamped by a human flood. The few who managed to keep cool heads shouted for calm, and sometimes even used their guns. In the grotesque, trampling rush, mooring ropes gave way, and the raft drifted out a few yards, shuddering under the weight of the mob which had overrun it. Hands trying to grip the edges of the raft were trampled and crushed by heavy boots. On the landing stage, friends were fighting each other. Some of the officers committed suicide. The raft moved out another couple of yards, and then suddenly tipped away from the bank like a child's toy. A loud cry mingled with the sound of the approaching battle, and two hundred terrified men floundered in the water, clinging together or trying to swim. A great many sank and drowned instantly.
At that moment, Ivan appeared at the crest of the hills, having swept the defenders aside. Drunk with excitement, the Russian soldiers dropped to the ground on one knee, and picked off Germans as if they were clay pigeons at a fair. A few Germans, white as ghosts, fired back with their F.M.s, but their numbers were so small the Russians scarcely noticed them. Several thousand others were running, screaming, trying to get away, and dying as they ran. The Russians also fired at the men in the water who were trying to swim, using flares to light the darkness.
An hour after they had appeared on the skyline, the Russians reached the river. There were a few more scattered shots, but their victory was complete. A third of the remaining German troops were taken prisoner, and for the rest everything was over. Their military responsibilities had come to an end, and they would never again be victimized by military police.
At the reception camp, we stood in the rain a little longer, and then three blacked-out trucks appeared to collect us. Despite the appalling road and the overload which threatened to burst the slatted sides, fifty soldiers wrapped in sacking were piled onto each truck with all their equipment. I was stuffed into one of these human ant heaps: that is to say, one leg was buried in the swarm, while the other dangled out. I was astride the back flap, but there were other fellows hanging on for dear life who were almost entirely outside the truck. We rolled off through the quiet night. I felt completely disoriented, and hadn't the faintest sense of our direction.
An hour later, we drew up to a group of buildings, which first appeared as a vague, blurred mass in the dim, bluish light. We realized that an unusual rush of activity was taking place all around, and then gradually perceived that we were looking at a row of structures bordered on both sides by tree-lined roads jammed with innumerable vehicles. There were troops everywhere, on foot or arriving and leaving on high-speed motorcycles, and many officers and M.P.s. The trucks jerked to a sudden halt, and we were told to get off. Although we still understood that we'd been saved, we were beginning to feel that we'd had enough. We were famished and dropping with sleep.
We had to wait for another half hour before someone came to take charge of us. The rain fell steadily. Was it raining anywhere else? Was it raining in France? I tried to think of my house and my bed. Where were they now? In which direction? But I could only summon up confused and fragmented memories of the life I had left behind. My only world was the vast anonymity of Russia, which seemed to be engulfing all of us, absorbing entire regiments, so that even their names vanished.
Finally, a noncom came over to us. Our group leader handed him our papers, which he examined with a dimmed flashlight. Then he ordered us to collect our gear and follow him. At last, we entered the shelter of a roof, an amenity to which we'd grown so unaccustomed that we stared at it as if it were the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
"You'll be sent to your units later," shouted the noncom, who, like the rest of us, seemed to have had just about enough. "While you're waiting, try to get a little rest."
He didn't have to repeat himself. We explored the darkness of the but with our pocket flashlights, and discovered that it contained a couple of benches and four or five large tables. Everyone stretched out where he could, making pillows of the nearest leg, or buttocks, or boot. The discomfort seemed unimportant beside the fact that at last we were out of the rain. Some fellows began to snore immediately. Others tried to pretend they were somewhere else. Despite our harsh reception, we all had a sense that from now on everything would go better, and that once again life was offering its possibilities. We all thought of the leave we would surely be getting, which was now only a question of patience.
However, soldiers fresh from the front cannot indulge the luxury of daydreams. The accumulated lack of sleep gripped our temples like an iron band. Like people suffering a serious illness, we dropped swiftly from consciousness into deep sleep.
We probably slept for a long time. It was broad daylight when a burst of noise suddenly woke us. Then a long blast of a whistle ordered us to our feet. We were all filthy and horribly crumpled. If the Fuehrer had seen us, he would either have sent us all home or had us shot.
The noncom who had waked us looked at us with an expression of surprise. Perhaps he too had never imagined that the German Army could be reduced to such a state. He spoke to us, but I no longer remember what he said. I was still only half awake, and understood that he was talking, without really listening to him. We gathered that we were to prepare for departure. We were going to be returned to our units.
One of the huts had been fitted with showers, but so many men were waiting that we clearly had no chance of getting inside. Instead, we were given some empty gasoline vats full of hot water. However, we all felt too exhausted to want to wash. Our days of training, when we were appalled by the smallest spot on our tunics, seemed very far away. Our concern had shifted from hygiene to something far more urgent. Furthermore, it was bitterly cold, and no one wanted to take anything off-not even the sacking draped over our shoulders.
I was so cold I was shivering, and I wondered if I was getting sick again. We had to go outside for food, and lined up like a column of tramps beside the field kitchen. A cold east wind was blowing damp patches of fog in from the river. Two cooks emptied large ladles of hot soup into our chipped and filthy mess tins. We had been expecting the usual ersatz, but it seemed that the time for that had long gone by. As a special gesture, they were serving us eleven-o'clock soup early. The burning-hot mixture made us feel much better.
A hauptmann stared at us as he walked by, and then turned back, obviously looking for our unit leader. The lieutenant who filled this position got up and walked over to him.
"Kamerad," the captain said, "you and your men have been given this opportunity to clean up. I think you should make the most of it."
"Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann."
The lieutenant ordered us over to the vats, which were standing under the eaves of one of the huts. We looked enviously across at the fellows who were going to get into hot showers. At least three hundred men were waiting for an experience which seemed like a blessing from heaven, so close to the front.
Those at the front of the line had more or less undressed, and were scratching the lice which had settled in a ring at the belt line, when we were suddenly ordered to prepare for immediate departure. For me, at least, this was a reprieve. Stripping in that icy air had begun to seem impossibly difficult. I much preferred to keep my lice relatively warm between my gray under-vest and my stomach, which was rumbling with hunger.
I was certainly ill again-I no longer had any doubts.
I couldn't stop shivering, and felt cold right down to the soles of my feet. We piled into the open trucks, overloading them as usual. But no one com plained. No matter how squashed we were, it was better than walking. However, I was soon caught in a grotesque predicament.
The trucks rolled off down a road which the rains had transformed into a swamp. The truck behind us gave off two sprays of liquid mud as steady and uniform as the sprays of a municipal fountain. I was strangely reminded of the retreat from the Don. Was Russia nothing but a vast sea of mud? As always, we were driving toward a northern horizon marked by dark forests. The echoes of occasional explosions drifted to us on the wind, but they didn't sound serious. The sky was overcast and threatened rain.
Huddled between two companions, I swayed to the slow rhythm of the trucks struggling through the mire. I felt more and more uncomfortable and ill. My lips and face seemed to be burning, and the slightest motion of the air felt like ice against my skin. My stomach was griped by a brutal pain, which traveled outward through my body, in waves of violent shivers. At first I thought this must be an after-effect of the hard times we'd been through, especially as I had never entirely recovered from my illness at Konotop. I knew that I must look more cadaverous than ever. My intestines were twisting themselves in knots. Naturally, no one gave a damn, and besides I was certainly not the only one with a pain in my gut. Then my pain became so imperative that I tried to double over, despite the crowding and all my gear.
The fellow beside me noticed my restlessness, and leaned his hairy face toward me: "Take it easy, friend.... We'll soon be there." But he clearly had no more idea where we were going than I did.
"I've got a hell of a pain in the gut."
"And this is a hell of a time to crap."
Suddenly, I realized what was the matter with me. My stomach was churning with increasing violence and threatened to explode. I certainly couldn't stop a military convoy because my guts were about to turn inside out. I had to laugh at my predicament despite my shivers and cramps and salivating mouth. But I also had to try to think of a solution. The convoy was now in the middle of a forest, where there was no reason to stop. And, even if we came to a camp, I couldn't just leave my group the moment we arrived, without any apparent motive. If I did that, they might even shoot me as a deserter.
But could I hold out much longer? I tried desperately to think of something else, but failed. My pains increased, and I broke out in gooseflesh.
Finally, my gut simply opened.
"Move over a little, fellow," I said, grimacing. "I've got terrible diarrhea, and I can't wait any more."
The truck was making a lot of noise, and no one seemed to hear me. I shoved with my elbows, and shouted louder. The fellows on either side of me moved back about four inches, but paid no further attention. I could feel myself blushing with embarrassment. I tried to undo my clothes, jostling one of my neighbors.
"What's the hurry?" he said. "You'll be able to crap when we get there."
"But I'm sick, damn it."
He muttered something and moved one of his feet, although there was really nowhere to put it. No one laughed; in fact, everybody seemed entirely indifferent to my plight. I struggled desperately with my clothes, but in the cramped space, encumbered with all my equipment, I was unable to free the lower half of my body. Finally, I realized there was nothing I could do. My bowels emptied, pouring a stream of vile liquid down my legs. No one seemed even to notice my condition, which left me in a state of indescribable misery. My stomach was knotted with pain, and I collapsed into a stupefied torpor which prevented me from appreciating the ridiculous aspects of my situation. In fact, the situation was not particularly funny. I was really seriously ill, and my head was spinning and burning with fever. This was the first attack of a chronic dysentery which has plagued me ever since.
Our journey continued for a considerable time, during which I suffered two further attacks of uncontrollable diarrhea. Although my state of filth was scarcely aggravated by these eruptions, I would gladly have exchanged ten years of my life for a chance to clean off and fall asleep in a warm bed. I was shaken by alternate fits of shivers and burning heat, and the pain in my intestines grew more and more intense.
After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at our new camp, and I was dragged from the truck for roll call. My head was swimming, but, although fainting would have guaranteed the quickest route to the infirmary, I struggled to remain conscious. Somehow, I managed to stay upright among my comrades, each preoccupied with his own fate. However, my ghastly appearance did not escape the attention of the inspecting officer, and my gasping replies to his questions interrupted the regular rhythm of roll call.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked.
"I'm sick ... I ... I . . . " I was barely able to stammer a reply, and saw him only as a blurred and shifting silhouette.
"What's bothering you?"
"My stomach . . . I have a fever ... Could I please go and wash, Herr . . ."
"Take him to the medical service as an urgent case," continued the officer, speaking to a subordinate.
The latter stepped forward and took me by the arm. Someone was actually trying to help me! I could hardly believe it.
"I've got acute diarrhea, and I have to clean off," I groaned as we tottered off.
"You'll find everything you need in the sanitary block, Kamerad."
At the infirmary, I stood in line behind some thirty other men. The pains in my abdomen tore at my entrails with an intensity which made me scream. I knew that my gut was about to pour out some more filth. I staggered from the line, trying to make my step firm, and followed the signs to the latrine. When that series of intestinal explosions was finished, I hesitated before pulling up my revolting trousers. Although I was in an incredible state of filth, I noticed that my excrement was streaked with blood. I went back to the infirmary to stand in line for another half hour.
Then my turn came. One after the other, I peeled off my nauseating rags.
"My God, what a stink," exclaimed one of the orderlies, whose outlook was probably identical with that of the motto over the gate of our training camp: EIN LAUS, DER TOD!
I looked at the long table where members of the sanitary service were sitting like judges. The only plea I could possibly make was guilty. "Dysenteric diarrhea," muttered one of the judges, obviously shocked by the shit which ran down below my knees.
"Get to the showers, you pig," the other said. "We'll look at you when you're clean."
"There's nothing I'd like better. You don't know how long I've been dreaming of a shower."
"Right over that way," said the first fellow, who was clearly anxious to be rid of me.
I threw my coat over my bony shoulders, and went across to the showers. Luckily, no one was there but a bewildered-looking boy who was scrubbing the floor.
"Any hot water in the showers?"
"Do you want hot water?" His voice was gentle and friendly.
"Do you have any?"
"Yes. Two big vats for 16th Company laundry. I could let you have some, though. The showers only run cold."
Through my fever, I saw him as another bastard who'd do a favor for cigarettes or something else.
"I don't have any cigarettes."
"That doesn't matter. I don't smoke."
I stood where I was, considerably surprised.
"Well, then, could you do it right away?"
But the fellow was already hurrying off. "Go in there," he said, pointing over his shoulder to an open cubicle. "You'll be more comfortable."
Two minutes later he was back, carrying two buckets of steaming water.
"Were you at the front?" he asked.
I looked at him, wondering what he was trying to find out. He was still smiling his foolish smile.
"Yes. And I've had enough of it, too, if you want to know. I'm sick and disgusted."
"It must be terrible ... Feldwebel Hulf says that pretty soon now he'll be sending me off to get killed."
I went on with the extraordinary relief of washing off my backside, but looked up at him with some surprise.
"There are always fellows like that, who enjoy sending other fellows out to get it in the neck. What do you do?"
"I was called up three months ago. I left Herr Feshter, and after basic training in Poland was enrolled in the Gross Deutschland."
"That's a familiar story," I thought to myself.
"Who's Herr Feshter?"
"My boss. A little strict, but nice anyway. I've worked for him since I was a kid."
"Your parents sent you out so young?"
"I don't have any parents. Herr Feshter took me straight from the orphanage. There's a lot of work on his farm."
I stared at him: someone else whose luck had been a little thin. He was still smiling. I clutched my stomach, which once again felt as if it might explode.
"What's your name?"
"Frosch. Helmut Frosch."
"Thank you, Frosch. Now I must try to get into the infirmary."
I was preparing to leave when I noticed a short, thickset figure standing in the doorway watching us. Before I could say a word, the man shouted: "Frosch!"
Frosch spun around, and ran back to the wet rag he'd left on the floor. I went out slowly, trying to pass by unnoticed. But the feldwebel in any case was concentrating on Frosch.
"Frosch! You left your work. Why?"
"I was only asking him about the war, sergeant."
"You were forbidden to talk during punishment fatigue, Frosch, except to answer my questions."
Frosch was about to reply when a sonorous whack cut him short. I looked back. The feld's hand, which had just given it to Frosch full in the face, was still raised. I took myself off as fast as I could, as a torrent of abuse poured over my unfortunate companion.
"Bastard!" I shouted silently at the feld.
At the sanitary service, the aide looked at me without enthusiasm. I understood immediately that he was one of these fastidious fellows for whom a day of filthy scarecrows like myself was less than a pleasure, especially as he received no fees to encourage civility. He fingered all my parts, poking me a little all over, and concluded his examination by sticking his finger into my mouth to check the condition of my teeth. Then he added a string of numbers and letters to a card clipped to my papers, and I was sent down the line of tables to the surgical service. Five or six fellows there checked my documents and asked me to remove some of the clothes I'd thrown over my shoulders. A brute who must have been a wild man of the woods in civilian life gave me a shot in the left pectoral muscle, and I was taken to the hospital hut, where there were beds for the officially disabled. My papers were checked once again, and then, like a miracle, I was shown to a bed-which in fact was only a simple pallet covered with gray cloth. There were no sheets or blankets, but it was nonetheless a genuine bed on a wooden frame, in a dry room protected by a roof.
I collapsed onto the bed, to relish its comforts. My head was ringing with fever, and filled with a host of half-realized impressions. I had grown so used to sleeping on the ground that the degree of well being a soft, clean mattress can induce struck me with astonishment. The room was full of cots like mine on which fellows were lying, whimpering and groaning. But I paid no more attention to them than one does to a hotel carpet which is not entirely to one's liking. I felt almost lightheaded with well-being, despite the pain which tore at my entrails. I took off some of my clothes and spread my filthy coat and ground sheet over my body instead of blankets, burying myself in them and in the sense that I had been saved. I lay like that for a long time, trying to control the cramps which knotted my guts.
After a while, two orderlies arrived, carrying a cumbersome piece of equipment. Without a word of warning, they pulled off my covers.
"Turn over, kamerad, and let us have a look at your ass. We want to clean out your gut."
Before I understood what was happening, they had administered a copious enema, and moved on to the next patient, leaving me with some five quarts of medicated liquid gurgling painfully in my distended abdomen.
I don't know anything about medicine, but an enema has always struck me as a strange treatment for someone who is suffering from excessively frequent evacuations. The fact is that two repetitions of this operation enormously increased the misery of the next day and night, which I spent tottering to and from the latrine. This was situated some distance from the infirmary, which meant fighting the strong, icy wind which blew continuously. Any benefits I might have received from this amount of time ostensibly resting in bed were thus reduced to almost nothing.
Two days later, I was pronounced cured, and sent back to my company on rubber legs. My company-the one which had been organized as an assault group-was stationed in the immediate vicinity, only five or six miles from divisional headquarters, in a tiny hamlet which had been half abandoned by the Russian civilian population. Despite my intense joy at reuniting with my friends all of whom were present, including Olensheim-my condition remained as precarious as it had been the day before I went to the infirmary.
My close friends, Hals, Lensen, and the veteran, made a special effort over me, and did everything they could to help me get well. Above all, they insisted on pouring large quantities of vodka down my throat -which, according to them, was the only reliable remedy for my complaint. However, my precipitate visits to the latrine continued despite these excellent attentions, and the sight of my bloody excrement worried even the veteran, who went with me on these trips in case I fainted. Twice, on the urging of my friends, I tried to re-enter the hospital, which was inundated with wounded from the battle of Kiev. But my papers, stating that I had been cured, presented an insuperable barrier.
I began to look like a tragic protagonist, made of some curious, white diaphanous substance, instead of flesh and blood. I no longer left the pallet which had been given to me in one of the isbas. Fortunately, a reduced service requirement allowed me to stay where I was. Several times, my friends took guard duty for me and did the other jobs which would ordinarily have been required of me. Everything was going well in the company, which was still commanded by Wesreidau. Unfortunately, we were still in a combat zone, which meant that at any minute we might be sent to some exposed position. Wesreidau knew that I would not be able to function in combat conditions as well as I knew it myself.
One evening, about a week after I'd left the infirmary, I became delirious, and was completely unaware of a fierce aerial battle which took place directly overhead.
"From some points of view, you're really the lucky one," Hals joked.
Hals even went to speak to Wesreidau about me. But, before he was able to explain himself, Wesreidau stood up and smiled.
"My boy, we'll be pulling out almost immediately. They're sending us to an occupied zone at least sixty miles farther west. We'll have a certain amount to do there, but even so it will seem like a holiday after this. Tell your sick friend to hang on for another twenty-four hours and spread the news that we're moving. We'll all be better off."
Hals clicked his heels hard enough to shatter his shins, and burst out of Wesreidau's quarters like a hurricane. He looked into every but he passed, shouting out the good news. When he reached us, he shook me from my torpor.
"You're saved, Sajer! You're saved!" he shouted. "We'll be leaving soon for a real rest." He turned to a couple of fellows who shared the hut with us. "We've got to get all the quinine we can for him. He has to hang on another twenty-four hours."
Despite my overwhelming weakness, Hals's intense joy communicated itself to me, and ran through me like a restorative balm.
"You're saved!" he said again. "And just think: with a fever like yours, they're bound to take you in a hospital-and they won't cut it off your leave either. You are a lucky dog!"
Every time I moved I felt it in my stomach, which seemed to be rapidly liquefying. Nonetheless, I began to collect my things. Everyone around me was doing the same. I put my packet of letters within easy reach. A voluminous backlog of correspondence had been kept for me by the divisional postal service. There were at least a dozen letters from Paula, which greatly eased my illness, as well as three from my parents, full of questions, anxiety, and reproaches about my long silence. There was even one from Frau Neubach. Somehow I found the strength to write everyone, although my fever undoubtedly interfered with the coherence of my messages.
Finally, we left. I was given a place in a small Auto-Union truck, and we drove to Vinnitsa on roads which belonged to the Carolingian era. Our faltering machines almost drowned in incredible quagmires, whose condition was aggravated by the rain. For a while I thought we had reached the notorious Pripet marshes, which were in fact not very far away. We avoided them by driving around them, on extraordinary wooden pavements which seemed to be floating on mud. These uneven roads made of split logs, on which one could obviously not drive very fast, were surprisingly effective in wet weather. However, it took us at least eight hours to travel ninety miles. The weather was cold and bad -snow flurries alternating with violent bursts of rain-but at least this protected us from Soviet aircraft, which were very active at that time.
When we arrived, I was sent immediately to a hospital, along with some six others from my company. Diarrhea was a common complaint at that time, and a group of specialists were able to stop mine very quickly. My friends were stationed some fifteen miles away, and I knew I would rejoin them once I was well.
The doctors had some trouble getting me on my feet again. I was told that because my complaint had not been attacked until late in the day my "intestinal flora" had been severely damaged.
In fact, it was a good two weeks before I was able to eat normally again. Every day I offered my backside to the orderly, who stabbed me as full of holes as a dressmaker's pincushion. Twice a day, the thermometer recorded my fever, which remained obstinately at 100°.
Winter had arrived, and I rejoiced as I watched the snow falling from behind the panes of a heated dormitory. I knew that for the moment my friends were out of danger, and, in a state of blissful ignorance, was unaware that over the whole front things were going from bad to worse. Our paper's coverage of news from the front was limited to photographs of smiling artillerymen installing themselves in a new position, or organizing their winter quarters, and articles which said nothing at all. Hals came to see me twice, bringing mail. He had managed to get himself made a postal assistant, which allowed him to visit me quite easily. He rejoiced at the slightest occasion for rejoicing, roaring with laughter whenever he missed me in a snowball fight. He was just as ignorant as I of the realities of our situation, which would soon involve us in an agonizing retreat, and acquaint us with the depths of horror.
When I had been in the hospital for about three weeks, I was given some marvelous news. I was told to go to the office to be checked for discharge. There an orderly inspected me, and told me that, since I was making a good recovery, he was going to authorize a leave for me.
"It occurs to me," he said, "that you would rather complete your convalescence at home than here in the hospital."
I replied that I would, restricting myself to mild assent, lest I offend that kindly angel with excessive exuberance. As a result, I found myself with a ten-day pass-a little shorter than the first one-which would go into effect as soon as it had been stamped. I thought immediately of Berlin and Paula. I would try to get permission for her to go with me to France. And, if that was impossible, I would stay in Berlin with her.
Despite the weakness, which still limited me severely, I was overjoyed. I got ready in record time, and left the hospital -grinning broadly. I also wrote a note to my friends, excusing myself for not having visited them before I left. I thought they would surely understand.
My polished boots moved noiselessly across the snow as I walked to the station. I was so overflowing with happiness that I even nodded and spoke to the Russians I passed on the way. My linen and uniform had been cleaned and mended, and I myself felt neat and new. I forgot my bygone sufferings, and felt only gratitude to the German army and to the Fuhrer for having made me into a man who knew the value of clean sheets and a watertight roof, and of friends who had nothing to offer but devotion, and offered that without reserve. I felt happy once again, and ashamed to have been despairing and afraid. I thought back, from a great distance, to some of the hard times I had experienced during my youth in France, which had sometimes made me think sourly of life. But was there anything that could sour me now? What disappointment could possibly darken things for me? Perhaps if Paula suddenly told me she no longer cared for me? ... Yes, perhaps that.
But I felt as though I were now cured of a great many things. During some of my worst moments, I had imagined certain personal disasters -the death of my mother, for instance-and told myself that I could accept even that, if only the firing would stop. I had asked the pardon of every supernatural power for harboring such thoughts, but was prepared to pay that price if it would cut short the carnage by even a little.
The war seemed to have turned me into a monster of indifference, a man without feelings. I was still three months short of eighteen, but felt at least thirty-five.
Now that I have reached that age, I know better.
Peace has brought me many pleasures, but nothing as powerful as that passion for survival in wartime, that faith in love, and that sense of absolutes. It often strikes me with horror that peace is really extremely monotonous. During the terrible moments of war one longs for peace with a passion that is painful to bear. But in peacetime one should never, even for an instant, long for war!
The station was at the end of a cul-de-sac. In front of the esplanade, which took the place of a platform, three wide-gauge Russian tracks ran for a short distance, and then were regrouped into two switchings. A third section of the track vanished after five hundred yards, without any apparent reason. The soft snow deadened all noise and made everything still uncovered look cold and black.
A few wagons and a few empty boxes lay scattered across this peculiarly empty place. Beside the principal station building stood a neat pile of boxes marked WH. Inside, next to a hot stove, four or five Russian railway-men sat absolutely motionless, as if they had died of boredom. There was no sign of a train in any direction, except for a large stationary locomotive, which appeared to be near death after a century of hard use. I no longer remember the name of the place. Perhaps it didn't have one, or perhaps the signboard had been stuck off in some odd corner so that we Europeans shouldn't catch sight of its unreadable characters. The prospect of a train passing through seemed as remote and uncertain as the first day of spring.
Despite the slip of paper in my pocket entitling me to a leave and warming my whole being like a glowing stove, I suddenly felt extremely lost in this huge, heavy country. Instinctively, I went to the main station building, where the Russian railwaymen had seemed more profoundly sunk in inertia than any postal worker in France. I knew that it would be almost impossible for me to make myself understood because, even if one of them knew some German, I still spoke it so badly that my fellow soldiers were often hard put to it to make me out. I walked past the door several times, hoping that someone would see me through the pane of glass set in the heavy wood, and give me some information. As no one moved, I pressed my nose against the glass. Inside, I could see four railwaymen identifiable only by the filthy armbands they wore on their sleeves. Otherwise, they were just civilians, and seemed paralyzed by inertia. Not one so much as looked in my direction. I was astonished to see a gray-haired soldier sitting beside them, apparently infected by the same immobility. I looked again, to make sure I wasn't dreaming, but there it was-a soldier of the Reich fast asleep beside four citizens of occupied Russia. Outraged, I shoved violently against the door, and entered the room, where a heartwarming heat instantly inflamed my cheeks. I clicked my heels as loudly as I could, and the noise resounded like a gunshot through the calm heat of this remarkable place.
The Russians started, and slowly stood up. My half-countryman and fellow soldier only shifted one of his legs. He looked about fifty.
"What can I do for you, Kamerad?" he asked, like a shopkeeper greeting a potential customer.
I stood there for a moment, astounded by such casualness.
"Well," I said finally, becoming more German than the Germans, "I'd like to know when the train to the Fatherland will be coming through. I'm going home on leave."
The other soldier smiled and slowly stood up. Then he walked toward me, bracing himself against the table, like a rheumatic.
"So you're going home on leave, young fellow?" His voice sounded as though it might break into laughter at any movement, which irritated me.
"A fine time to take a vacation!"
"When will there be a train?"
I was hoping to cut short the conversation I knew was coming.
"You have a strange accent. Where are you from?" Unmasked again! I felt sure that I was blushing.
"I have French relatives," I said, almost angry. "My father . . . in any case, I grew up in France. But I've been in the German army for nearly two years now."
"Are you French?"
"No. My mother is German."
"In cases of that kind it's the father who counts, though."
He was getting angry, too.
"Look at that," he said to the Popovs, who apparently hadn't understood a word. "They're even taking French kids now."
"What time will there be a train?"
"Don't worry about trains. Hereabouts, they come when they can."
"What do you mean?"
"There's no timetable, you know. What do you expect? This is no Reichsbahndienst."
"But after all . . . "
"Trains come through from time to time, naturally-but you can never predict them."
He smiled and gestured vaguely.
"Have a seat here with us. You've got plenty of time."
"No. I haven't got plenty of time. I've got to get out of here. I'm not going to sit here gassing with you."
"Suit yourself. If you'd rather walk around outside and get cold ... Or you could hike over to Vinnitsa. Trains go through there more regularly. Only I warn you-it's forty miles through thick woods, infested with the friends of these fellows here," he nodded toward the railwaymen, "who aren't exactly in agreement with Adolph, and who might very well put an end to your leave."
He looked at the Russians and grinned. They smiled back, without any idea why. . . . .
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Partisans, for God's sake!" "You mean those bastards are around here, too?"
This time, it was his turn to be astonished.
"Of course ... and in Rumania too, and in Hungary, and Poland. Maybe even in Germany." I was flabbergasted.
"So sit down, young fellow. It's a big mess that really has nothing to do with you, and you shouldn't be mixed up in it at all. It would be crazy to get killed just for the sake of a few hours. I managed to get hold of some real coffee, and it's here in this kitchen, nice and hot. There's a fellow at the commissary with a good heart, who's just about fed up with this war himself."
He came back carrying a big army coffeepot.
"We drink enough coffee here to send us right up the walls," he said, looking at the Popovs, who were still smiling.
I felt somewhat disconcerted.
"Would you mind telling me what your job is?"
"Hell!" he said in irritation. "I'm supposed to be guarding that pile of boxes"-he nodded at the neatly stacked crates outside-"and these poor fellows here. Who the hell do they think I am? Nearly sixty years old, and they bring me here to play sentry. I spent thirty years of my life working for the railways in Prussia and Germany-and this is the thanks I get. Specialization-that's what it is. No useless efforts. Everyone in his place. An efficient force. Sieg Heil! I can tell you-I'm fed up!" By the time he was finished, he was shouting. He slammed the coffeepot down on the table. We might have been in a Paris bistro. I felt as if the world had suddenly turned upside down.
"That coffeepot is army property, and you just took it," I said, clinging to the thread of my first idea.
The fellow looked at me, and slowly put down a cup, which he filled with steaming liquid. Then he held it out to me.
"Here, young fellow. Drink this."
There was a moment of silence, and then he began talking again in a calm, serious tone which one could interrupt only with difficulty.
"Now, you listen to me, my boy. I am fifty-seven years old. I fought in the cavalry in '14-'18, and was a prisoner in Holland for two years. Now it's been three and a half years since they put me back in the army again. I have three sons fighting on three of the fronts which our beloved country has decided to defend. I am an old man, and even if I once felt fiery about political principles which have long since been altered by time, the politics of today leave me cold, and I don't give any more of a damn for them than I do for this coffeepot. So drink in a little of the heat it offers you, and take this chance to forget for a few minutes that you're mixed up in all this mess."
I looked at him, astounded.
"I'm not a spiess, or an officer, or the Fuehrer, but only an old railway worker who was forced to change uniforms. Sit down and relax and drink your coffee."
"But what you just said is outrageous. After all, every minute of the day soldiers are dying for our country, and . . ."
"If our country needs something from me, I'll postpone my retirement for a couple of years."
"But ... but ... "
I felt as if I were choking. I couldn't find the words to express the intensity of emotion which German idealism created in me. I had already suffered a great deal from the war, but couldn't conceive a life other than the one assigned to me. I felt that this man was somehow missing the point, and that I was unable to express it adequately. Perhaps I was too young to understand it.
"I don't agree with you at all!" I shouted, beside myself with rage. "If everyone thought the way you did, nothing would be worth anything! Your way of thinking strips life of all its meaning!"
His gun was lying in the corner of the room.
"Your friends might pick that up," I said, nodding at the gun, and then at the Popovs.
"Did that ever occur to you?"
I thought he was going to throw me out. But his attitude was inconsistent. Perhaps he was a little afraid of me.
"I'll take the coffeepot back when we're through with it," he said with a bitter laugh.
"Would you like a little more?"
I held out my cup, feeling pleased with myself for putting a fellow soldier back on the right track.
I waited for more than nine hours, and had almost given up hope, when at last a train arrived and took me away.