The Stalin Front

by Gert Ledig

  Soloviev had stood next to him, blinking his eyes, the way he always did. Was about to say something to him. He could see it from his eyes, his mouth. His whole face told him. But then he hadn’t said it, his eyes had just grown round with shock. As if he had trodden on a piece of glass with bare feet. Not too alarmed. No expression of fear. A disagreeable surprise, nothing too terrible. And it was like that that he had received death. Zostchenko didn’t know where he was hit. Soloviev sat down. Not quite like a man sitting down, but not like a man wounded either. Surprised, but content. He was already dead.

  Zostchenko had watched everything, surprised and incredulous. How a man could die like that. Unprepared. Not even finish what he was thinking, or say the words his lips were forming. Where was the conclusion, the high point? Strange that the question should have come to him from Soloviev. Others had died as well. Before his very eyes. Strangers, just as strange to him as the Red Army fellows who stood around him, waiting. Waiting for what?

  It was time to stand up, to make his way through the wire. Towards the layer of haze. Barbed wire. A fine drizzle . . . Just like the other time . . .

  Murmansk. The harbour. The dock with iron posts and barbed wire. A soldier in the fog. His rifle barrel sparkled with raindrops. He himself, a little boy, wet through and shivering. But he was a soldier, and couldn’t quit his post. Over there, in the whitish haze, the other man. Chill wind off the sea. Far off, the dull boom of a foghorn. Up and down, beside the barbed wire. A little boy in a sailor suit, playing soldiers, dreaming, soaked, going home with a temperature. Mama undressed him. Mama didn’t ask. Mama held his hot little hand, and looked at him. The little boy didn’t want to be left alone. He pressed Mama’s hand to his lips. He clasped it hard, and Mama waited till he fell asleep . . .

  Zostchenko climbed over the last loop of wire, his Siberians at his side. His boots sank into the marsh. He stuck to the ground, only advanced slowly. Brown puddles. Green patches of moss that hadn’t received any shelling . . .

  . . . The cemetery at Murmansk. Brown puddles. His shoes sank into the mud. Mama’s black coffin, covered by a moss-green drape. Four men with indifferent expressions. The bearded priest. Strangers comforting him. Mama, dear Mama. Take me with you. Don’t leave me . . . Mama didn’t hear him. All that was left: a heap of loose earth . . .

  Loose earth. Zostchenko saw craters, saw the shot-up machine-gun nest. He saw as through a pane of glass. He climbed into the trench, trod on a board. In front of him a crate with open lid. Munitions belts spilling out of it . . .

  . . . On the wet platform. In front of him lay his suitcase, with open lid. Clothes spilling out of it. Lots of strangers. Everyone stared at him as he stood by his suitcase. Somebody laughed. No one helped him cram the things back into his suitcase. Then the train approached deafeningly. People start to mill around. He wants to pack up his things quickly. Gets a shove. Everyone surges forward. No one takes care. A little boy in a washed-out sailor suit tries to stoop to his suitcase. Is swept away. His clothes are trampled underfoot. A mucky boot-heel drills into Mama’s photograph . . .

  Zostchenko hurried along the trench. Stepped over dead German soldiers. Behind him Lieutenant Trupikov. A narrow sap opened up, in the direction of the hill. Zostchenko emptied a magazine of his submachine gun into it. In front of him a shot-up tank dangling over the trench. The sap changed direction. A form huddled on the ground. Had its hands up above its head. Zostchenko took aim. His fingers were lame. He let Trupikov take care of it. Trupikov’s pistol barked out. The German soldier in front of him collapsed, hands still extended in surrender. Trupikov passed the signal pistol to Zostchenko. A purple flare went up, and a shower of stars came down . . .

  . . . But when the shooting star fell through the leaves and on to the forest floor, then it wasn’t a shooting star any more, but a little white tunic with gold-feathered wings. The child took the tunic, and lo, the child became an angel. It didn’t feel the cold any more, and nor was it alone any more either. It floated up to join the other angels in heaven. God had called it home, just as He calls all people with pure hearts home. And that’s why you should watch that your heart remain pure . . . Mama turned off the lamp, and in the darkness, kissed him on the mouth . . .

  The trench divided. A wide sap led back; a narrow trench, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through, forked right. Ahead, a machine gun was hammering away. Zostchenko took the right fork. He had to get round the back of the enemy gun. That was his duty. Trupikov led a detachment on along the sap. Zostchenko followed the windings of the trench, between damp, lofty earthen walls . . .

  . . . The bare lofty walls of the orphanage. The corridor had lots of corners in it. Water oozed out of the whitewashed walls. He had to walk alone through gloomy passages. His heart fluttered. He panted for breath. Shadows clawed at him. But he had to walk on. The male nurse had said so. Blows and punishments make men out of little children. Fear of pain, fear accomplishes much. Fear preserves order. Fear without end. The little boy walked barefooted on the cold stone flags. Above him the dormitories with three hundred children. Three hundred freezing little bodies on straw mattresses. Three hundred orphans hungry for love. The little boy had to walk, because he had been ordered to . . .

  The trench had collapsed. Shells had flattened the walls. Zostchenko climbed up out of it. His uniform was sticky with sweat. He stood panting in the haze, on the shell-ploughed earth. All round him the cratered field. In front of him in the fog the chattering enemy machine gun. He is exactly behind the gunner. If it weren’t so foggy, he could shoot him now. The mists part. He can see the labyrinth of the trenches. In all the places where he had run along the trench, he can now see green helmets moving. Little round pots going by, as at a shooting-stall . . .

  . . . Round targets were pulled past on wires. Green targets, with a black circle in the middle. A hurdy-gurdy squeaked and scratched. Cadet Zostchenko shot at the targets with an air-rifle. Next to him stood a girl with black hair. Sparkling eyes, pouting mouth. Cadet Zostchenko didn’t hit anything, because he was too excited. The girl Sonia laughed. He blushed. His uniform stuck to his skin. The girl led him away. Her hand was cool, the hand of a woman . . .

  Back where Zostchenko had climbed into the trench, men were surging forward. They formed up into a row that emerged from the fog. Pairs of Red Army men were lugging tree trunks, staggering under the weight. They dropped them into the soft marsh, and vanished again into the fog by pairs. A silent mime. A rhythmic coming and going: a carpet for the tanks. The carrying detail’s task had been performed. The monsters came ploughing up. The first tank slashed open the wet ground, rolled on to the uncertain timbers. Behind it the forms of others. They felt their way on to the trunks. Crept cautiously forward. Already the first had reached the trench, had solid ground under its caterpillar tracks. And the second. The third in line started to teeter. Its tracks churned up the trunks. Some flipped up into the air. Zostchenko heard the splintering of wood. Chain links ground on emptiness. For seconds. Then the tank sank. Its gun barrel tilted up. Frantic revolutions of the tracks, grabbing for grip. The tank dug itself a grave, sank ever deeper into the marsh. Only the muddy turret now was above ground. The black colossus sank. Its twin exhausts spat out a last stream of mire. The tank immediately behind followed it into space. The third too was unable to help itself. The gonging tone of colliding steel plates. Three tanks drowned in the marsh. Shreds of fog drifted past. An eerie, blotted picture. Only two of the black monsters remained, slicing wildly across the labyrinth of trenches, towards the hill . . .

  . . . Two people. The girl Sonia, a woman, really; and cadet Zostchenko, who was a Captain. Not even the war was able to separate them. Was she still lying in the straw, in the stables, among the low, steaming horses? . . .

  From out of the haze something flashed in his direction. A hot ray laid open his hip. He jerked backwards, his fingers cramped, agony on his face. Why could he not hear the machine gun any more? A shadow flew at him. Tou
gh, dirt-encrusted fingers throttled him. His shocked eyes opened on a grimace. Warm breath struck his face and knocked him back. Which was the greater – the searing pain in his hip, or his fear? He didn’t know the answer.

  The soldier saw that his enemy was no longer stirring. He got up. His bayonet was crimson. He wiped it on the ground, and put it back in its sheath. The tin of fuses that he had been about to open with it lay there in the trench. He looked without comprehension at the twisted form. An officer. Still breathing. Blood trickling out of the wound. A red enamel star flashed on his breast. His helmet had slipped back. Hair stuck with sweat, fingers cramping and taut. Submachine gun under his right arm. The soldier kicked it away. He knew from experience that that was necessary.

  The soldier leaned against the trench wall. His knees shook. Every movement of the enemy officer hurt him. He felt the pain in the man’s hip. He felt like screaming. Without taking his eye off the man’s face, he reached for his carbine. Then the Russian slowly opened his eyes, and at that instant the soldier knew he wouldn’t do it. The man’s eyes looked astonished. They seemed incapable of understanding.

  The soldier lowered his rifle, and propped it against the trench wall. He knelt down, and stroked the hand of the wounded man. The machine gun was still hammering away in the fog. The soldier thrust his arm under the Russian’s head, took him under the knees, lifted him up. Reeling, he dragged himself and his burden back along the trench, in the direction of the machine gun.

  5

  The huts by the roadside were on fire. The wooden roof shingles or thatch glowed to white heat. The house of the artillery colonel, the house in French style, was burning on the edge of the village of Podrova. Even the pump-handle of the well was being licked at by little flames. The tin regimental colours were squeaking in the hot wind. Only the Major’s hut was still cowering and intact, like a little black box, in the smoke.

  The Major was on the telephone. ‘I’m telling you that Podrova’s in flames, even the phone line may break at any moment. The Russian artillery has been ranged on this place for the past half-hour, and low-flying planes are raking us with incendiaries. Now please understand that this isn’t some local initiative, but that the Russian has gone on to the offensive.’

  ‘Schnitzer, my dear fellow,’ replied the voice on the other end of the line, ‘from everything we know about the enemy here at divisional HQ, I assure you that’s out of the question. It’s nothing more than an – admittedly heavy – attack on the blocking position, and, as ever, that blasted hill. The general is of the view that your company will be able to regain control of the situation. He asks that you keep him abreast of developments through me.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping you abreast, as you put it, for the last hour,’ the Major said a little more loudly than necessary, even though the rattle of the fire was coming in through the shattered window panes, and had forced him to raise his voice a little anyway.

  The man on the other end appeared to ignore the volume. ‘Yes indeed,’ he countered, ‘but what you’ve had to say is nothing new. Strong enemy fire on the blocking position and the heights. The barrage moving slowly back, and for the past half-hour it’s been levelled at Podrova. That’s what I’ve been hearing from the infantry, the light and heavy artillery, the observers in your sector, the ack-ack. Now what I want to know from you is: what is your company doing? The blocking position is critical. If that collapses, we’ll have to take counter-measures tomorrow morning.’

  The Major ducked. A low-flying fighter swooped over the roof. Through the engine noise, he heard bursts and spurts of fire along the main street. He kept the receiver pressed to his ear. As though sitting with crossed legs at his desk, he replied: ‘I seem to remember twice having informed you that we have never had direct contact with the blocking position. There is only radio contact with the adjoining infantry position on the right. And there’s silence from them. It takes a runner two hours to get here from the blocking position. Even if one got through, which I would regard as an impossibility, any news he brought would be out of date.’

  The speaker in divisional HQ waited while the line crackled. He cleared his throat: ‘I’m sure your situation is very difficult, but it’s not up to the division to dig you out of trouble. You’ll have to do that by yourself. Once you know more, give me a call.’

  It sounded condescending, impatient.

  The Major bit his lip. ‘I’m perfectly willing to dig myself out of trouble,’ he said sarcastically. ‘But what I want from the ruddy division is permission for the artillery to fire. That’s the only thing I ask of you!’ His voice had acquired an edge of anger. ‘I want my company to get the sense that something’s being done for them. The other three companies have been detached from my battalion and put with other regiments. I have no more replacements. So I want the artillery to return fire. I’m telephoning because I don’t have permission from the division for the artillery to fire. And I’ll keep on telephoning as long as the line holds. I swear. Whether it suits you or not!’

  ‘Schnitzer, stop playing silly buggers.’ The line crackled again. ‘It’s three in the morning. On your account, I woke the general’s orderly, and he relayed your request to the general. And I told you what he said. But that’s not to say that I can wake the general every time you call. You don’t know what things are like at HQ. You see things from your particular point of view. You’re in the thick of things. But here . . .’ the voice in the earpiece came out much louder, in a scream, but that was the fault of the line, ‘here everything is as per normal! I can’t break with protocol for you.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Major icily. ‘In that case I just have one question!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Am I talking to divisional HQ, or is this a lunatic asylum?’

  ‘What’s that?’ The voice suddenly sounded as though it was coming through a wall.

  ‘Never mind.’ The Major hung up. The room was lit up by the brightness of the conflagration. A shadow stood in the doorway.

  ‘What do you want?’

  A light whining in the air deepened to a hum. Something whooshed and whistled over the roof. The shell burst smack in the middle of the village street.

  ‘What do you want?’ the Major repeated. A shower of earth rained down on to the roof.

  The Sergeant saluted, as though he’d been summoned. He took a couple of steps forward from the doorway, into the lit-up room.

  The Major stared at the man as if he were an apparition. ‘Sergeant!’

  ‘Yes, Major?’

  ‘What’s happening at the blocking position?’

  The Sergeant hesitated. The Major saw his face twitch. He reached a bottle off the table, and held it out to him.

  ‘Here, have a drink before you go any further!’

  A voice on the village street moved nearer, wailing: ‘Ambulancemen! Ambulancemen!’

  The man passed the house. The Sergeant set the bottle to his lips. Drank in greedy gulps. Firelight flickered across his face. It was a long time before he set the bottle down. Then he looked at the Major – vacantly, as though he had nothing to say.

  ‘Well?’ The commander couldn’t repress his curiosity any more.

  ‘The Russians are attacking,’ said the Sergeant, as if that explained his presence here.

  The Major hesitated. He was still waiting for his report. When the Sergeant persisted in his obdurate silence, he tried to prompt him:

  ‘What does your commanding officer have to say?’

  ‘Well . . .’ The Sergeant looked round the room, and started to sweat.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ asked the Major.

  ‘No . . . well, maybe . . . yes.’

  ‘Your nerves are shot,’ said the Major. ‘Well, that’s true of every one of us.’ Like a doctor, he put out his hand and took the Sergeant’s wrist, felt his hot pulse. He touched the cool watchcase. ‘All right now, just a few details please. Get a grip on yourself. You’re bringing the very first account from the blockin
g position. Is the company holding out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied the Sergeant pathetically. There was an explosion outside. A blast of air ripped through the room. The beams creaked. When the smoke cleared, the window frames lay shattered on the floor. A confusion of maps and papers and shards of glass. The Sergeant was crouching on the ground.

  ‘Did you catch some of that?’ asked the Major.

  The Sergeant got to his feet. He said: ‘Report from the company, sir. Following intense artillery preparation, the enemy moved against the blocking position. The company is holding out, but reinforcements are urgently required.’

  The Major looked at him piercingly. ‘Come on, man, we’re not on manoeuvre!’ He swished his hand through the air. ‘For God’s sake, what is the Russian strength? Are they attacking with tanks? Have we enough ammunition, how heavy are our losses? Whatever you saw before you left, tell me.’ The Major corrected himself: ‘And tell me – what time actually did you leave?’

  The Sergeant flinched: ‘My watch stopped.’

  The Major shook his head. From outside, a voice called: ‘Where’s the assembly point?’

  The Major leaned out of the window: a roughly bandaged head. Further back in the smoke was another man propped on a stick, with an arm in a sling.

  ‘What unit?’

  The man with the head wound saw his shoulder tabs. He straightened up: ‘Infantry regiment Hartmann. Light machine-gunner.’