The Stalin Front

by Gert Ledig

  ‘Retreat in progress, Colonel!’ Now they knew he was a loon. They smiled acidly. That was all they needed. The ground was burning under their feet. But careful, this man was dangerous. He gave every impression of not being afraid. Their eyes met in agreement. They didn’t really have the foggiest what his game was. A deserter? You could find thousands of them here! Either the order from High Command was three days old, or the man was hiding something from them.

  The Colonel wasn’t hiding anything from them. Orders were orders, whether they were ambiguous or not. As far as he was concerned, with the moment he had set foot in the local headquarters, an official process had begun. Now everything would go by the book. By the letter. First of all, the regulations. He was like an old spinster, detached from reality, browsing through old love letters. Reaching down into his briefcase, opening the rulebook. Even the frowsty smell here reminded him of the smell of Courtroom Number Three.

  ‘The list of prisoners, if you please.’ He turned to the NCO of the Military Police, who was leaping about like a well-trained hunting dog.

  His hidebound officiousness drove the two officers to despair. The Cavalry Captain had a car parked outside. He had only popped in to pick up an alibi. From his place by the window, he watched his driver, who was shifting uneasily about on his seat. Any second, the man was capable of driving off without him. He tried to give him a discreet signal. An inquiring glance from the Colonel pinned him down. The signal turned into an idle drumming of his fingers on the window sill.

  It seemed to the Colonel that he had known more dignified assessors in the past: ‘May I have your names, please?’

  They stammered like schoolboys. Now they were stuck in the local HQ, any hope they might have had of sneaking off was dashed. Feverishly, they looked for an escape. The hammering of the machine-gun outside drove them on. But every idea they might have had failed faced with the unflappable calm of the Colonel. He was just now establishing the name of the soldier, after which the word deserter had been written. He had a vague memory of the episode. The preliminary investigation had already been concluded. The case wouldn’t go on for long. Part of him was already thinking about another case, which concerned a half-starved child soldier. In the course of that preliminary investigation, he had formed the impression that the boy had given himself up for lost. Some pathetic story that he’d done it for his mother’s sake. Compassion? Nothing about that in the rulebook.

  ‘Bring in the prisoner!’ ordered the Colonel. The NCO went off, and the Colonel began to explain to his coadjutors what their duties were. They looked at him. Behind the pince-nez jammed on to the red-veined nose, his eyes seemed to be too close together. He gave his blessing: he adjured the officers to exercise justice, regardless of personal feelings they might have. He himself would preside, and be the prosecutor. The Cavalry Captain with the getaway car outside was engaged as the defence. The other was to be the witness. They lowered their heads in acceptance of their lot. The bare room felt like an execution site.

  Bullets were whistling in Emga. Either the Russians were already there, or the Military Police were getting jumpy.

  The Colonel was still reading, it was as though he was regaling them with the Christmas story. The defence had to stick to questions of fact. Where there was no factual basis for a plea, no intervention was possible. The witness should attend to the correctness of the procedure. At the end, he would have to confirm that the trial had been properly conducted. And the sentence was his own personal prerogative. Punishment detail was the likely outcome. And he wanted to do a quick job. The two others exchanged a glance: who would have thought it possible!

  The driver outside the window had spotted his battery commander, and was banging on the broken window.

  ‘Tell him to get lost,’ said Justice. The Captain made a vague and helpless gesture. The man wouldn’t be put off. He walked up and down outside the window. He had known his boss for long enough to guess that some sort of higher force was in play here. His manner was like that of a policeman patrolling the street outside a third-class restaurant. Each time he passed, he threw a glance inside. Distracted, the Colonel began to stumble over some of his lines.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ lied the Captain. In the gloomy light, his blush remained unnoticed. Finally, the NCO came up with the victim. The two coadjutors were alarmed: if he had earned any punishment, he must have already served it. The eyes of the child with the narrow shoulders seemed to transfix them. They seemed to know everything. The Cavalry Captain remembered the episode with his burning vehicles. He had shouted out: ‘Torch!’ and that was enough to finish him off. At least thirty men in his company had been witnesses to the fact. He saw their staring eyes. They were petrified. But he had only done what they wanted him to do. His command had freed them from the fetters of discipline. They had lit the bundles of straw with the glee of savages, then scattered to the four winds. Anyone wanting to settle old accounts – and there were some old accounts in his company too – just needed to give this story a bit of an airing. And then it would be his turn. That Justice in front of him, he was just slavering for such cases. He knew nothing of fear. Nothing of certain humiliations. The most wretched life is still a present full of promise. Where is the man foolish enough simply to throw it away? At such moments you feel longing: for a crust of bread, a Lord’s Prayer, a drink of water. The boy with the dull eyes seemed to stare right through him. Perhaps punishment wasn’t the worst thing as far as he was concerned. If God wanted, he might even survive that . . .

  The Colonel opened the hearing. ‘We have enough evidence,’ he said, rather vainly. ‘But, if only for the sake of process, why don’t you tell us again in your own words what happened. At that morning hour when the attack was due to begin, you were nowhere to be found? Why not?’

  If it had been himself behind the parapet, waiting for the signal, the question might have seemed superfluous. Perhaps the opportunity seemed there, the next man just out of sight. It should have worked. Something got in the way. When he heard them calling his name, it was too late. At that instant, he would have dashed through the hail of bullets with the others, full of dread. A fit of blind bravery could have made a hero of him. Too late. An agent of destiny pushed him over the edge. The cold face with the pince-nez was at once agent and destiny. The ears that went with that face would no longer hear the breaking of his bones.

  In Emga, bullets were whistling. The Colonel seemed to think it was rifle practice. If the boy had just a little common sense, he would draw out the proceedings till the Russians were at the door. Almost unconsciously, the Captain looked out of the window to see his driver starting the car. He wanted to draw his pistol, but he didn’t know who to shoot at. The Colonel, the fleeing driver, or the skinny kid who was to blame for everything?

  ‘Just a second,’ said the Captain, and simply rushed outside. The Colonel had no time to frame a reply.

  The Captain ran round the corner: car and driver were both gone, the street was empty in the hot noonday sun. A couple of wounded men were dragging themselves towards the station. A machine gun stuttered at the edge of the town. Slowly, as though he had only gone out for some air, he turned and went back inside. He walked down the corridor with its whitewashed walls. Past crates full of papers and forms. He stopped for a moment to prop his back against the tall Dutch stove. When he re-entered the room, the Colonel seemed only dimly aware of the fact. In a theatrically raised voice, he was hectoring the boy:

  ‘Do you know what you are? A repulsive offshoot of your mother!’ There followed a stream of abuse, and cold sneers. The soldier’s face crumpled. He muttered meaningless words, raised his hands beseechingly. He directed his deepset eyes towards the two other members of the tribunal. ‘Your mother will be ashamed!’ the Colonel went on. ‘You coward!’

  The Captain winced.

  ‘Tell him what he deserves,’ the Colonel turned to the other two. ‘Tell him,’ he said again,
when he got no answer. They both lowered their eyes. The unworthy scene choked their throats.

  ‘Let him go,’ the Captain suddenly said, on an impulse. He didn’t know where he’d got the courage from.

  The Colonel’s face contorted itself: ‘Is that the word of an officer?’ He seemed to be looking about him for a weapon, to castigate his opponent. ‘I pass the sentence here!’ His voice calmed down. Cool and impersonal. A cold glance brushed the boy. The two coadjutors heard only the conclusion: ‘. . . to death by shooting!’ They froze, as though it had been a judgement on them. The boy stood, impassively. ‘And you will carry out the sentence!’ the Colonel finished. His hand pointed at the Captain. ‘Right now!’ The Captain turned pale.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you! Behind the building, anywhere you like. There’s plenty of room.’ The Colonel acted as though the condemned man were no longer present. ‘I take it you have at least got a pistol?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘I object.’

  ‘Objection declined.’ The Colonel looked around. But he had forgotten he had no audience here. He shuffled together the papers with the various rules and regulations. He nodded to the NCO. A pause. The Colonel got up behind the table. Like a bored onlooker, he turned to face the window. The machine gun was clattering away in the distance. The window jingled. A hole appeared in a pane. A fine hissing sound. The Colonel put his hand up to his face. In alarm, he let it drop. It was red with blood. The two officers saw a mutilated face. Red eyes in a gory mask. The shattered pince-nez. The Colonel crumpled back on his chair. Gurgled. Drool trickled from his nostrils. The bullet had shaved away his lower jaw. He had spoken his last sentence.

  Unmoved, the Captain let him fall to the floor. Only the NCO jumped forward to try to give assistance. The young soldier still stood where he had been, as though nailed to the spot. The machine gun was banging away at the edge of the village.

  The local commandant turned up in the doorway with a couple of men.

  ‘A stray bullet,’ said the Captain.

  The fat Major shook his head. ‘Take him out,’ he ordered the soldiers. The NCO, ever helpful, opened the door. ‘And the judgement?’ asked the Major. He surveyed the young lad. ‘That’s the wrong prisoner,’ he then said with irritation. ‘I always knew that Colonel was a fool. If the army wants to make an example of someone, you don’t start with privates.’ He said: ‘You have to do everything yourself! Half an hour ago, I reported back to HQ, saying the Sergeant had been shot. As an example and a deterrent. Broadcast everywhere. And now this idiot takes on the wrong case.’ He raised his hand in fury. ‘Go on, get lost!’ he shouted at the young lad, who – as though waking from a dream – staggered off. ‘Get out!’ he said to the NCO. And when they were left by themselves, he looked at the Captain: ‘We’re over the worst. A fresh regiment is digging in on the edge of town. They should be able to hold the line!’ His paunch spun round to go, but then he turned once more to the Captain. He said softly: ‘I want you discreetly to shoot the Sergeant.’

  A spider’s web trembled in the draught that came through the door. The firing at the edge of town grew heavier. Two tanks clattered past the window. On the square outside, a company of infantry lined up in battle order.

  12

  The pain was burning in Zostchenko’s hip. The foxhole was like a grave. Mistily he saw the tallow light and dark shadows on the walls. Shadows all around. Feverish heat on his skin. He begged for water, and got no answer. One of the enemy soldiers passed him a tin cup: a drop that hissed away on the fire. His throat was rattling. He listened to his breathing: a gurgle. All the wounded were gurgling. Air, air! Surely the grave had to open some time. He rolled on to his side, but that didn’t help.

  ‘Tovarich?’ he asked into the dark. Nothing. The enemy soldiers didn’t understand him. The light burned more dimly. The shadows on the walls started to reach towards him. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. He reached into the filth on which he lay, groped into bloody filth, but the filth at least was cool. That eased the pain. His hand dug itself deeper. He clawed at the wet earth, brushed his lips with his damp fingers. With one hand he stroked his wound. His hip felt dead. Beside him lay a shadow that wasn’t sweating. He found an inert hand in the dark. Pulled it towards his brow. The hand didn’t move. It was cold. Suddenly, he flung it from him with disgust. Fever gripped him harder. The grave was warm. He wanted it cold. The light was dark. He wanted it bright. He gurgled. The shadows in the tomb gurgled with him. Fever came with a white rush. Washed over him. The candle flickered. He felt liquid on his lips, in his throat. He thought he could hear a hissing on his hot gums. A hand brushed against his forehead.

  ‘Have we got control of the heights?’

  The enemy soldier didn’t understand what he was saying . . .

  ‘The heights are strategically important,’ said Zostchenko. ‘The General himself said so. The General knows everything. There are too many soldiers, and not enough heights.’ ‘I’ll give you the heights,’ said a shadow. ‘Thank you.’ He took the heights in his two hands, and carried them to the General. ‘A hero, a hero!’ exclaimed the General. He stood in a steel cage. His voice came out of the cage. It sounded hollow, but it could be heard all over. Around the cage was a protective wall of soldiers. He felt his way carefully through them. He had to be careful of the heights in his hands. The soldiers were bleeding from many wounds. ‘Set down the heights, and stand with your back in front of the hole, so that your body shields me when I take control of the heights,’ commanded the General. He obeyed. The General quickly opened the hole, took the heights, and slipped back into the cage. ‘You are a hero, and I need heroes in the wall of soldiers around me,’ said the General. He obeyed. The enemy charged. ‘Be loyal and die,’ boomed the voice from the cage. The soldiers were loyal, and died. The human wall weakened. ‘I will come to your aid,’ said the General. But the cage did not open. ‘May we live?’ asked the soldiers. ‘No,’ answered the General, ‘you must never break your oath.’ There was hand-to-hand fighting between the soldiers and the enemy. ‘No one is to surrender,’ came an angry voice from the cage. He received a blow. Saw blood flowing from a wound. ‘Let me into the cage,’ he implored the General. ‘Back you go!’ shouted the General. He was afraid of the General. He fought on, but his strength was ebbing away. The enemy broke into the wall of soldiers. The soldiers fell. The enemy came ever closer to the cage. He was swimming in blood. Blood mixed with a stream of tears. An army of children was weeping for the soldiers. The General in his cage covered his ears. ‘Is everyone dead now?’ asked the General. ‘I’m still alive,’ he admitted. ‘Fight till you die,’ commanded the General. Zostchenko crawled among the bodies of the dead soldiers, and didn’t answer when the General asked his question a second time. The enemy knocked on the cage. ‘I surrender,’ said the General cheerfully. He saw him step outside. The General was sweating, because it was hot in the cage. The General left the heights behind. He had forgotten all about them . . .

  Zostchenko couldn’t breathe, and he opened his eyes. There were now two tallow lights burning in the tomb. One of the shadows had been pulled into the light. They started to strip him. His face was in the dark. He was whimpering with pain. They cut his tunic from him. It was stiff with filth. His hairy chest was exposed in the candlelight. In his shoulder was a sharp metal splinter. They tugged it out. The shadow roared with pain. A wave of blood broke through the open wound. Then it became unbelievably quiet. Zostchenko could hear the whisper of the burning candle . . .

  He had bolted the door from inside. The barracks was asleep. Only the sentry was still patrolling up and down the corridor. Light brushed over the icon. A spider crawled over the wall. The hundred lights of the cathedral were reflected in the window panes. They were showing a new film in the nave. Now the spider was sitting on the icon. It looked as though she was admiring the wonder of glass and gold. The red and green pansy-coloured pearls. The mysterious cross, that was like the marking on the spider’
s back. It pulled in its legs. Remained motionless. He knelt down, in the way he’d been taught to do as a child. ‘Lord, give me a sign,’ he prayed, ‘just a tiny sign to indicate that You are really there. There is mystery and infinity around You. Show me, make something happen. Forgive me for my doubts.’ He folded his hands, and looked down at them. His hands looked unfamiliar to him. There was no sign. The icon did not move. The candles slowly burned down. The sentry paced slowly along the corridor. He looked to check the bolt on the door. The bolt was firm. He had nothing to fear. When the knock came, his heart stopped. He didn’t dare to budge. Knelt down, as though crippled. ‘Why won’t you answer?’ asked the voice – it was the voice of the Commissar, not the sentry! ‘I can see a light in there, what are you doing with candles? Is there something the matter with the electricity supply?’ The Commissar rattled the door handle. ‘Let there be a miracle now,’ he prayed. He glanced around the room. He was looking for a place to hide the icon. It was hopeless. The cupboard didn’t have a door. The pallet bed was too high over the ground. Four bare walls. No hiding place for God. The rancid smell of tallow hung in the air. The electric bulb in its rusty socket hung implacably down into the room. The Commissar was knocking loudly. He had to open. When he got up, his joints cracked. He pushed back the bolt. The door leapt open. ‘Oh,’ exclaimed the Commissar in surprise, ‘an icon.’ Candle flames played over his leather coat. He was waiting for a collision of two worlds. ‘An icon,’ repeated the Commissar in disbelief, and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. It was as though they were sharing the secret together. The Commissar pushed the cap back on his head. ‘May I touch it?’ he asked. He didn’t understand what was happening. He was expecting abuse and mockery. ‘We had one of those too,’ said the Commissar in a voice full of awe, and tenderly he stroked the picture. ‘I – it’s only because it’s a work of art,’ he stammered. ‘It’s more than that.’ The Commissar’s peaked cap threw a huge shadow on the wall. The spider drew itself together for an attack, and dropped like a pebble to the floor. The Commissar stroked the icon. He crushed the insect under his toecap. ‘Where are your parents living, Comrade?’ ‘They’re both dead.’ ‘A memory, eh?’ The Commissar was referring to the icon. ‘I’ve had it for twelve years,’ he admitted. ‘Twelve years ago, I was in China.’ The Commissar began to reminisce: ‘In China, they worship idols!’ The Commissar puffed out his cheeks, as if to show what an idol looked like. He had to smile. ‘Don’t laugh! Do you know what he looks like?’ ‘He? Who?’ ‘God.’ ‘I – I don’t believe in God.’ ‘But you’re afraid of him.’ ‘No – definitely no,’ he tried to deny. ‘Damned bloody fear,’ said the Commissar, and hung the icon back on the wall, turned the light on, blew out the candles. They were standing in the light of the bare electric bulb. The atmosphere of warmth and home was gone. ‘Sometimes it grips us, and we don’t know why,’ said the Commissar, a little pompously. He wiped his brow, as though he had just emerged from a boiler-room. ‘You can keep it there. There’s no rules against it.’ He tried frantically to ward him off: ‘Honestly, it doesn’t mean anything to me. I told you I just keep it because it’s valuable. Like a gold ring, or something.’ He stalled. Looked up at the icon. In the electric light, he saw what an inferior piece of work it was. Worthless glass beads. Kitschy face. His attitude to the icon began to change. To see it hanging there on the whitewashed wall, it was just the imitation of a superstition. He felt offended. ‘What’s on your mind?’ asked the Commissar. Then he walked up to the wall, took the icon down, started to turn it over in his hands undecidedly. The Commissar stalked across the room thoughtfully. He felt warned by his cunning smile. He said: ‘It’s nothing but a form of propaganda.’ ‘Quite so,’ affirmed the Commissar. He went up to the window, and opened it in the very instant that the cathedral lights went out. ‘I’m not going to subject myself to its influence any more,’ he said. Took the icon, and threw it out of the window. It plummeted down like a shot bird, smacked down on the barracks yard, and broke in pieces. He took a step back, and looked at the Commissar: ‘Satisfied?’ The Commissar responded: ‘I am – but what about God?’ In his leather coat, the Commissar looked like a bronze statue. ‘His icons are up there,’ and he pointed out of the window, up at the stars. ‘You’re more dangerous than I suspected,’ said the Commissar furiously, and banged the door shut after him, plaster dust trickled on to the floor . . .