“Is he asleep?” Willi asked.
“Yes.” Willi unpacked the rations and arranged everything neatly in two piles. “Three days’ supply,” he said. For each man there was a whole loaf of bread and a large sausage, its wrapping paper wet with the moisture oozing from it. For each man there was slightly less than half a pound of butter, eighteen cigarettes, and three rolls of fruit drops.
“Nothing for you?” Andreas asked.
Willi looked at him in surprise, almost offended. “But I’ve still got my ration cards for sixteen days!” Strange to think that all that hadn’t been a dream, all those things Willi had talked about during the night. It had been the truth, it had been the same person as this man facing him now, smoothly shaven, the quiet eyes holding no more than a modicum of pain; the same person who was now standing in the shade of the fir tree and, very carefully, so as not to spoil the creases, pulling on the pants of his black Panzer uniform. Brand-new pants that suited him down to the ground. He now looked every inch a sergeant.
“There’s some beer here too,” said Willi. He unpacked three bottles of beer, and they set up Willi’s carton between them as a table and began to eat. The blond fellow did not stir, he lay there on his face as many a dead man lies on the battlefield. Willi had some Polish bacon, white bread, and onions. The beer was excellent, it was even cool.
“These Polish barbers,” said Willi, “they’re tremendous. For six marks, everything included, they make a new man of you, they even shampoo your hair! Just tremendous, and can they ever cut hair!” He took off his peaked cap and pointed to the well-contoured back of his head. “That’s what I call a haircut.” Andreas was still looking at him in amazement. In Willi’s eyes there was now something sentimental, some sergeant-like sentimentality. It was very pleasant eating like this as if at a proper table, well away from those army huts.
“You fellows,” said Willi, chewing and clearly enjoying his beer, “you fellows should go and have a wash, or get yourselves washed, makes you feel like a new man. You get rid of everything, all that dirt. And then the shave! You could use one.” He glanced at Andreas’ chin. “You could certainly use one. I tell you, it’s tremendous, you don’t feel tired any more, you … you—” he was groping for the right word—“all I can say is, you feel like a new man. You’ve still got time, our train doesn’t leave for two hours. We’ll be in Lvov this evening. From Lvov we take the civilian express, the courier train, the one that goes direct from Warsaw to Bucharest. It’s a terrific train, I always take it, all you need is to get your pass stamped, and we’ll see to that,” he guffawed, “we’ll see to that, but I’m not letting on how!”
But surely we won’t need twenty-four hours to get from Lvov to that place where it’s going to happen, thought Andreas. Something’s wrong there. We won’t be leaving Lvov as early as five tomorrow morning. The sandwiches tasted marvelous. He spread the butter thickly on the bread and ate it with chunks of the juicy sausage. That’s really strange, he thought, this is Sunday’s butter and maybe even part of Monday’s, I’m eating butter I’m no longer entitled to. I’m not even entitled to Sunday’s butter. Rations are calculated from noon to noon, and starting Sunday noon I’m not entitled to any more butter. Perhaps they’ll court-martial me … they’ll lay my body on a desk before a tribunal and say: He ate Sunday’s butter and even part of Monday’s, he robbed the great-and-glorious German Wehrmacht. He knew he was going to die, but that didn’t stop him from eating the butter and bread and sausage and candy and from smoking the cigarettes. We can’t enter that anywhere, there’s no place to enter rations for the dead. We’re not heathens, after all, who place food in graves for their dead. We are positive Christians, and he has robbed the positive-Christian, glorious Greater German Wehrmacht. We must find him guilty.…
“In Lvov,” Willi laughed, “that’s where I’ll get that rubber stamp, in Lvov. You can get anything in Lvov, I know my way around there.”
Andreas had only to say one word, only to ask, and he would have found out how and where one obtained the rubber stamp in Lvov. Willi was just itching to tell him. But Andreas didn’t care about finding out. It was fine with him if they got the stamp. The civilian express was fine with him. It was wonderful to travel by civilian train. They weren’t for soldiers only, for men only. It was terrible to be always among men, men were so womanish. But in that train there would be women … Polish women … Rumanian women … German women … women spies … diplomats’ wives. It was nice to ride on a train with women … as far as … as … where he was going to die. What would happen? Partisans? There were partisans all over the place, but why would partisans attack a train carrying civilians? There were plenty of leave-trains carrying whole regiments of soldiers with weapons, luggage, food, clothing, money, and ammunition.
Willi was disappointed that Andreas did not ask where he could get hold of the stamp in Lvov. He wanted so badly to talk about Lvov. “Lvov,” he cried with a laugh. And since Andreas still did not ask, he launched out anyway: “In Lvov, you know, we always flogged the cars.”
“Always?” Andreas was listening now. “You always flogged them?”
“I mean, when we had one to flog. We’re a repair depot, see, and often there’s a wreck left over, often it’s a wreck that’s not really a wreck at all. You just have to say it’s scrap, that’s all. And the superintendent has to close both eyes because he’s been going to bed all the time with that Jewish girl from Cernauti. But it isn’t scrap at all, that car, see? You can take two or three and make a terrific car out of them, the Russians are terrific at that. And in Lvov they’ll give you forty thousand marks for it. Divided by four. Me and three men from my column. It’s damn dangerous, of course, you’re taking a hell of a risk.” He sighed heavily. “You sweat blood, I can tell you. You never know whether the fellow you’re dealing with mightn’t be from the Gestapo, you can never tell, not till it’s all over. For two whole weeks you sweat blood. If after two weeks there’s been no report and none of the bunch have been arrested, that means you’ve come out on top again. Forty thousand marks.” He took a drink of beer with obvious enjoyment.
“When I think of all that stuff lying in the mud around Nikopol. It’s worth millions, I tell you, millions! And not a bloody soul gets a thing out of it, only the Russians. You know,” he lit a cigarette, savoring it, “now and again we could flog something that wasn’t so dangerous. One day a spare part, another day a motor or some tires. Clothing too. They’re keen as hell to get hold of clothing. Coats, now … they’ll fetch a thousand marks, a good coat will. Back home, you know, I’ve built myself a little house, a nice little house with a workshop … for … for … what did you say?” he asked abruptly. But Andreas had said nothing, he shot him a quick glance and saw that his eye had darkened, he was frowning, and that he hurriedly finished his beer. Even without the beard, the old face was there again … the sun was still shining golden above the towers of Przemysl on the River San, and the blond fellow was stirring. It was obvious he had only been pretending to be asleep. Now he was pretending to wake up. He stretched his limbs very deliberately, turned over, and opened his eyes, but he didn’t know that the traces of tears in his grimy face were still plainly visible. There were proper furrows, furrows in the grime as on the face of a very little girl who has had her sandwich pinched on the playground. He didn’t know this, maybe he had even forgotten that he had been crying. His eyes were red-rimmed and unsightly; he really did look as if he might have venereal disease.…
“Aaah,” he yawned, “I’m glad there’s some grub.” His beer had got a bit tepid, but he gulped it down thirstily and began to eat while the other two smoked and very slowly, without the least hurry, drank vodka, crystal-clear, wonderful vodka unpacked by Willi.
“Yes,” laughed Willi, but he broke off so abruptly that the other two looked at him in alarm; Willi blushed, looked at the ground, and took a big gulp of vodka.
“What was that?” Andreas asked quietly. “What were you going to s
ay?”
Willi spoke in a very low voice. “I was going to say that I’m now drinking up our mortgage, literally our mortgage. You see, there was a mortgage on the house my wife owned when we got married, a small one of four thousand, and I had been meaning to pay it off now … but come on, let’s drink, prost!”
The blond fellow also didn’t feel like going into town to some barber, or to a washroom in one of those army huts. They tucked towels and soap under their arms, and off they went.
“And make sure your boots are nice and clean too, boys!” Willi called after them. His own boots were indeed shining with fresh polish.
Somewhere down at the end of a track there was a big water pump for the locomotives. It dripped constantly, slowly; a steady trickle of water flowed from it, and the sand all around was one large puddle. It was true, it did feel good to have a wash. If only the soap would lather properly. Andreas took his shaving soap. I shan’t be needing it any more, he thought. Although it’s enough for three months, of course, and it was only “issued” to me a month ago, but I shan’t be needing it any more, and the partisans can have what’s left. The partisans need soap too, Poles love shaving. Shaving and shoeshining are their specialties. But just as they were about to start shaving, they saw Willi in the distance calling and waving, and his gestures were so emphatic, so dramatic you might say, that they packed up their things and dried themselves off as they ran back.
“Boys!” called Willi. “There’s a leave-train for Kovel just come in, it’s running late, we’ll be in Lvov in four hours, you can get a shave in Lvov.…” They slipped their tunics and coats back on again, put on their caps, and carried their luggage over to the platform where the delayed train for Kovel was standing. Not many got out at Przemysl, but Willi found a compartment from which a whole group of Panzer soldiers emerged, young fellows, boys in new uniforms that filled the air with the smell of army stores. A whole corridor became empty, and they quickly boarded the train before the ones who had stayed on it had a chance to spread themselves out with their luggage.
“Four o’clock!” cried Willi triumphantly. “That means we’ll be in Lvov by ten at the very latest. That’s great. Couldn’t have made better time, this glorious delayed train! A whole night to ourselves, a whole night!”
They quickly installed themselves in such a way that they could at least sit back to back.
As he sat there Andreas finally managed to dry his wet ears properly; then he took everything out of his pack and neatly rearranged all the things he had hastily stuffed into it. Now there were a soiled shirt and soiled underpants and a pair of clean socks, the remains of the sausage, the remains of the butter in its container. Monday’s sausage and half Monday’s butter and Sunday’s and Monday’s candy, and cigarettes, to which he was even entitled, and even some bread left over from Sunday noon; and his prayer book, he had lugged his prayer book around all through the war and never used it. He always said his prayers just as they came to him, but he could never go on a trip without it. How strange, he thought, how strange it all is, and he lit a cigarette, one to which he was still entitled, a Saturday’s cigarette, for the ration period from Friday noon to Saturday noon.…
The blond fellow was playing his mouth organ, and the two of them smoked in silence while the train got under way. The blond fellow was playing properly now, improvising, it seemed; soft, moving, amorphous forms that made you think of swampland.
That’s it, thought Andreas, the Sivash marshes, I wonder what they’re doing there now beside their cannon. He shuddered. Maybe they’ve killed each other off, maybe they’ve finished off the sergeant major, maybe they’ve been relieved. Let’s hope they’ve been relieved. Tonight I’ll say a prayer for the men beside the cannon in the Sivash marshes, and also for the man who fell for Greater Germany because he didn’t want, because he didn’t want … to get that way; that’s truly a hero’s death. His bones are lying somewhere up there in a marsh in the Crimea, no one knows where his grave is, no one’s going to dig him up and take him to a heroes’ cemetery, no one’s ever going to think of it again, and one day he’ll rise again, way up there out of the Sivash marshes, the father of two kids with a wife living in Germany, and the local Nazi leader, with a terribly sad expression, took her the letter, in Bremen or in Cologne, or in Leverkusen, maybe his wife lives in Leverkusen. He will rise again, way up there out of the Sivash marshes, and it will be revealed that he did not fall for Greater Germany at all, nor because he mutinied and attacked the sergeant major, but because he didn’t want to get that way.
They were both startled when the blond fellow abruptly broke off playing; they had been swathed, wreathed about, in those soft gentle misty melodies, and now the web was torn. “Look,” said the blond fellow, pointing to the arm of a soldier standing by the window and smoking a pipe, “that’s what we used to make back home. Funny thing, you see so few of them, yet we used to make thousands.” They didn’t know what he was talking about. The blond fellow looked confused, and he blushed as he faced their puzzled eyes. “Crimea badges,” he said impatiently. “We used to make lots of Crimea badges. Now they’re making Kuban badges, they’ll soon be handing those out. We used to make the medals for blowing up tanks too, and years ago the Sudeten medals with the tiny shield showing Hradshin Castle. In ’thirty-eight.” They continued to look at him as if he were talking Greek, their eyes were still puzzled, and he reddened still further.
“For God’s sake,” he almost shouted, “we had a factory back home!”
“Oh,” said the two others.
“Yes, a patriotic-flag factory.”
“A flag factory?” Willi asked.
“Yes, that’s what they called it, of course we made flags too. Truckloads of flags, I’m telling you, years ago … let’s see … in ’thirty-three, I think it was. Of course, that’s when it must have been. But mostly we made medals and trophies and badges for clubs, you know the sort of thing, little shields saying: ‘Club Champion 1934,’ or some such thing. And badges for athletic clubs and swastika pins and those little enamel flags to pin on. Red-white-and-blue, or the French vertical blue-white-and-red. We exported a lot. But since the war we’ve only made for ourselves. Wound badges too, huge quantities of those. Black, silver, and gold. But black, huge quantities of black. We made a lot of money. And old medals from World War I, we made those too, and combat badges, and the little ribbons you wear with civilian dress. Yes …” he sighed, broke off, glanced once more at the Crimea badge of the soldier who was leaning on the window and still smoking his pipe, and then he started to play again. Slowly, slowly the light bgean to fade … and suddenly, without transition, twilight was there, welling up stronger and darker until evening swiftly came, and you could sense the cool night on the threshold. The blond fellow went on playing his swampy melodies that wafted dreamily into them like drugs … Sivash, Andreas thought, I must pray for the men beside the cannon in the Sivash marshes before I go to sleep. He realized he was beginning to doze off again, his last night but one. He prayed … prayed … but the words got mixed up, everything became blurred.… Willie’s wife in her red pajamas … the eyes … the smug little Frenchman … the blond fellow, and the one who had said: Practically speaking, practically speaking we’ve already won the war.
This time he woke up because the train stopped for a long time. At a railway station it was different, you turned over with a yawn and could feel the impatience in the wheels, and you knew the train would soon be under way. But this time the train stopped for so long that the wheels seemed frozen to the rails. The train was at a standstill. Not at a station, not on a siding. Half-asleep, Andreas groped his way to his feet and saw everyone crowding around the windows. He felt rather forlorn, all by himself like that in the dark corridor, especially since he couldn’t spot Willi and the blond fellow right away. They must be up front by the windows. It was dark outside and cold, and he guessed it was at least one or two in the morning. He heard railroad cars rumbling past outside, and he heard sol
diers singing in them … their stale, stupid, fatuous songs that were so deeply buried in their guts that they had worn a groove like a tune in a record, and as soon as they opened their mouths they sang, sang those songs: Heidemarie and Jolly Huntsman.… He had sung them too sometimes, without knowing or wanting to, those songs that had been sunk into them, buried in them, drilled into them so as to kill their thoughts. These were the songs they were now shouting into the dark, somber, sorrowful Polish night, and it seemed to Andreas that far off, somewhere far away he would be able to hear an echo, beyond the somber invisible horizon, a mocking, diminutive, and very distinct echo … Jolly Huntsman … Jolly Huntsman … Heidemarie. A lot of cars must have passed, then no more, and everyone left the windows and went back to their places. Including Willi and the blond fellow.
“The S.S.,” said Willi. “They’re being thrown in around Cherkassy. There’s another pocket there or something. Pickpockets!”
The Train Was on Time Page 6