The waning moon was barely visible that night. There was about sixty to eighty feet between the guards, and they were forbidden to speak to one another. Time slowed to a crawl. After a few uneventful hours, Karl’s senses were abruptly sharpened when he spied something crawling behind the barbed wire fence. He listened, suddenly tense, hoping an animal had blundered between the two fronts. Food was scarce, so an animal of any kind made for a good meal.
If only his heart would stop hammering in his chest. His eyes scanned the muddy wasteland. Nothing moved. Soon he began to relax again. He stamped in place to keep his feet warm but never stopped scanning for him—that’s what they called the enemy: “him.” They never referred to them as the British, the French, Canadians, or Australians, but simply “he” or “him.”
A figure rose into a half-seated position less than seventy-five feet away.
“Grenade,” Karl screamed, though the person had yet to throw anything.
Karl reacted swiftly. He felt the give of his trigger and watched as a bullet from his Mauser M98 bore into one of the man’s shoulders, spinning his torso around before he dropped to the ground. The wounded man stumbled to his feet, still determined to toss his grenade into the trench. Karl loaded his rifle and pulled the trigger again. This time, his shot blew the top of the man’s head off along with his helmet, which flew several feet before skidding across the frozen mud with the same clatter as a pan lid falling on the floor.
The man had managed to pull the latch on the grenade, which rolled out of his hand. Karl ducked as it exploded, and judging from all the screaming and groaning that ensued, he knew there were others out there. Other silhouettes stood and ran for cover, but a volley of machine gun fire to Karl’s right ripped at the stumbling bodies. The following day he saw the corpses of eight British soldiers on the other side of the barbed wire. When he later wondered aloud why they’d attacked with eight men, Ernst guessed they’d been trying to bring captives back for interrogation.
The second time Karl had taken someone’s life had been much easier, even though it was in hand-to-hand combat. During the German spring offensive in 1918, he had jammed his bayonet deep into the chest of a Frenchman. It was as if a barrier inside him had been broken. “Once you’ve taken one life, it’s easier to take another,” an officer had told them before they’d been sent to the front in 1916. What was his name again? It didn’t matter anymore—he died shortly afterward—but whatever his name was, he’d been right.
“Do you think they’ll attack today?” The Blacksmith startled him out of his daydream.
“What?” Karl said absentmindedly.
The Blacksmith repeated his question.
“No, they would’ve already set off their fireworks display.”
Usually you knew when the enemy would attack because he would initiate a massive artillery bombardment several hours before in an effort to weaken their defensive position. Karl saw no sign of an imminent assault on that early dawn.
Ernst pulled a cigarette from his nearly empty case. He managed to light it, then passed it around. It was the waiting time. Karl knew he should enjoy the waiting because it meant that no one was dying, but everyone hated it. The waiting time was like a good friend you took for granted but missed as soon as he was gone.
Suddenly it was as if the entire world exploded around them. The earth shook; the sky rained down metal, gravel, and rock; and the air grew thick with smoke.
“They’re coming!” the Blacksmith shouted unnecessarily.
Advancing behind the cover of tanks and mist, the British opened fire on the trenches and the German artillery positions. An infernal series of grenade explosions erupted all around, and a dense cloud of gas began to spread over the trenches.
“Let them come.” This was the lieutenant’s first actual confrontation with the enemy, and his words lacked conviction.
“Weber, gas mask!” Karl signaled to his friend while strapping on his own.
Weber gazed at him blankly, his eyes glassy. Though the bell indicating a gas attack had sounded, he evidently didn’t understand the order. Weber began to cough, and Karl abandoned his position to search feverishly for Weber’s gas mask.
“Damn it,” he mumbled as Weber crumpled up, gasping for breath.
The lieutenant lifted his gas mask for a moment. “Back to your position, Strangl!” he shouted, gesturing with his rifle.
The tanks rolled right over the barbed wire fences, rendering them useless, and all around Karl soldiers were falling victim to the intense barrage. Two German soldiers crawled out of the trench and raised their hands in surrender, but a machine gun salvo blasted through their chests. Things didn’t go any better for those who chose to scramble up the back of the trenches to flee the melee. The noise—the machine gun fire, the explosions, the tanks, the planes—was deafening, and coupled with the gas masks they wore, shouting orders was impossible. The British were well prepared, and they’d struck the German line of defense where it was weakest.
The bullets peppered the edge of the trench relentlessly. Karl and Ernst manned a machine gun position and answered the fire with their MG 08, which sprayed projectiles across the field of battle until there was a loud click.
“We’re out of bullets,” Ernst screamed, pointing down at the empty wooden box.
“I’ll get some more,” Karl shouted through the noise.
Normally it took four soldiers to man the position, but the Blacksmith was gone, and Weber had an excuse. The machine gun wasn’t supposed to stay quiet for long because the attackers would exploit the weak point as soon as they realized it had gone silent.
Karl sprinted down the narrow pathway, trampling over several of his dead and wounded companions, who were getting pushed deeper and deeper into the mud. The Blacksmith sat against the wall drawing rattling breaths, a gaping hole in his temple. Karl couldn’t believe he was still alive with such a wound. The pop of handheld weapons mixed with the screams of the wounded, and the medical unit ran about in a confused frenzy, not knowing where to start. Karl grabbed the ammunition from an abandoned machine gun and dashed back. He couldn’t help but notice that the Blacksmith had sunk into the mud with the others. As he returned to his position, he saw the lieutenant, who had turned his back to the battle.
“Drop your weapons,” the officer roared, lifting both hands above his head.
“Listen to the lieutenant, he’s right. This is pointless,” shouted Konrad. The others followed their order.
Damned cowards, Karl thought before a rifle butt struck his jaw and he fell to his knees.
“Get up.” The soldier thumped Karl roughly with his gun.
Slowly, Karl stood. His head ached, and his legs wobbled beneath him. Ernst clutched him in an effort to steady him.
The British marched their prisoners across no-man’s-land, which had once again grown colorful. The Brits had lost many men, and the dead lay everywhere. Dismembered limbs clung to what remained of the barbed wire fence and were scattered across the battlefield.
Once the prisoners were corralled, many of them dropped to the ground in exhaustion or sat down listlessly. Karl glanced around at the others. Filthy and reeking, with sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, they all looked like old men—though few were older than twenty. He himself had only recently turned twenty, and he was exhausted, hungry, and defeated.
He didn’t see Weber or Konrad. The lieutenant sat a few feet away staring vacantly into space. He was smeared in blood, but Karl couldn’t tell if he was wounded. He’d urinated in his pants and was shivering despite the heat of the rising sun.
“Kleist, are you injured?” Karl whispered as quietly as he could.
The lieutenant slowly turned his head. Tears trickled down from his eyes, washing the grime down his cheeks in two thin stripes. He looked away.
Ernst pulled a cigarette from his case, the last one. He’d been saving it, no doubt to celebrate a victory, but now he would use the strong tobacco for consolation.
“G
ive me your case,” Karl said.
Ernst handed it to Karl, who rubbed it on the filthy sleeves of his greatcoat. He looked at it, using the case as a mirror, but he didn’t recognize the man he saw.
“What will they do to us?” Ernst asked softly.
“I have no idea, but I’ve heard they treat their prisoners well.”
“Even if the prisoners have shot their friends?”
“We can only hope.”
A soldier next to them began to sob uncontrollably. The sensory overload could cause a man to lose his mind. They’d seen and heard too much to ever be normal again. If they wanted to maintain their sanity, they would have to fill their minds with something other than the horrors of war. He thought of Ingrid. If he made it back to Germany, he would marry her.
Hamburg, Germany, November 10, 1938
He sidled up close to Ingrid. She lay with her back to him, her hair smelling freshly washed. He imagined her climbing out of the bathtub, a towel wrapped like a turban around her head. Imagined her slathering her body with lotion, her legs gleaming from the aromatic ointment, her hands gliding along the curve of her breastbone and down her belly. To many, Ingrid was a mystery, but Karl loved her small oddities, from her outward-facing belly button to her dry sense of humor. He inched closer to her.
He slipped his hand under the wide sleeves of her nightgown and found his way to her breast. He caressed it, then nipped it softly, the way she loved. He traced her perfect shape, worked his way farther, and enclosed his hand around her other breast. He pinched her nipple between his middle and ring fingers. He could feel her skin pimpling with gooseflesh. When she pressed herself against him, heat radiated from her inner thighs to his groin. His finger slid along the edge of her panties. He carefully forced the blue silk aside and entered her. He pushed in as far as he could, and though the edge of her panties rubbed against the shaft of his penis, he didn’t pay it any attention. He thrust slowly and deeply, as Ingrid pushed back against him. He pulled her nightgown up to her shoulders and ran his hand along the arch of her back; it was smooth and muscular, but still somehow soft. They made love languidly, taking their time. Ingrid’s small, soft moans and scent brought him to a swift climax, and he came with an extended groan. She always told him he sounded like a hungry bear waking from its winter hibernation. She rolled over and gave him a wet kiss before turning her perfect back to him once more.
“Good night,” she said sleepily.
She fell asleep immediately. Karl couldn’t relax; his thoughts resisted his desire for sleep. Whenever he recalled the war, his thoughts would inevitably return to the one that was imminent. Because it was coming—and it put Karl in a difficult position.
Why was he thinking about this at all? He already knew the answer. For a long time, he’d imagined that he would have a difficult decision to make, but he’d already made his decision. He’d made it in an English POW camp back in 1918. It was then Karl determined that, should Germany ever go to war again, he would fight. So he would have to fight, even if that meant fighting for the Nazis. He wouldn’t be fighting for them anyway, but for Germany. He would stand by his decision. If Germany called, he would answer.
Gerhard hung his coat on a hook in the narrow hallway. He brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink. Then he went to his bedroom, undressed, and laid his clothes on a chair. From his wardrobe he removed a clean shirt, a cardigan sweater, and a pair of pants, which he set on another chair. He’d come to think that going to bed was pointless; he rarely slept well. He crawled under the heavy duvet, sighed loudly, and then his mind began to roam. He hated lying alone in bed, because then his thoughts had free rein, and that meant they circled around Emma, even though it had been more than seven years since she’d passed.
He often imagined himself standing in the harbor. He’s carrying a suitcase. He has foregone clothes for his notes, but wherever the big steamer is taking him, he will have enough money to be properly outfitted. The gangway creaks under his wavering steps. Halfway up the gangway he turns, bidding Hamburg farewell. But he catches sight of them on the pier. They are both present. One waves. She’s beautiful and whole. Her body is full of life, and once again he feels the forgotten desire. The other is just weeks before her burial. He glances up at the smokestacks that are issuing thick columns of smoke into the sky. The engine’s exhaust system causes the entire ship to vibrate. Everything’s ready for departure. They’re just waiting on him. He hesitates. Deliberates without words. His feet are stuck in place. He hears the splash of his suitcase as it breaks through the surface of the water. He walks back to the pier. The journey was only a dream, and that’s all it could ever be. He’d promised Emma that they’d always be together. A promise he intended to keep, even though that now meant it would be in the grave.
Tuberculosis had claimed her. The disease had snuck up on her. At first she’d tried to hide it, but eventually she began leaving a trail of bloody handkerchiefs around the apartment. In February 1931 her body gave up. In her final months she’d been isolated from the world at a sanatorium, and when Gerhard visited her, a glass window partitioned them. He remembered the stench. The clinical odor mixed with rot. Patients in decline and medicinal products. Emma’s thin hand on one side of the cold glass and his against the other. An impenetrable wall preventing a married couple from having a meaningful farewell. From here he could do no more than glimpse the remnants of the person he loved.
Emma had been filled with courage and joie de vivre, but even standing up had become an immense obstacle. She’d been beautiful, very beautiful, and that was how he chose to remember her. Her long, dark hair pinned back in a bun, her kind face with its small upturned nose, and the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks beneath brown eyes sparkling with life. A life that slowly leaked away, a face that had become an unrecognizable mask of skin stretched taut over her skull, and a few remaining tufts of hair that she no longer had the energy to fix. Her eyes had, in the end, implored him not to come, so he visited her only when he knew she would be sleeping.
She was the only woman he’d ever loved. And the only woman who had loved him. Sure, he’d held hands with Hanna Zickler, but that was during the years of innocence. He wasn’t a man women loved, not like Karl, who’d always been the object of women’s adoration. They found him handsome and charming when he, in his man-of-the-world style, expounded on a subject that was only of any interest because it was coming from him.
Emma had thought Gerhard was interesting. At first he’d had a hard time believing that her interest was sincere, but gradually, as he got to know her, he saw that she was genuine in all that she did. He liked the man he was when he was with her. They talked for hours; she asked questions and he answered. He asked questions and she answered. They’d laughed and danced—even though he was a terrible dancer. They’d made love and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. That was how he remembered it. But the woman he missed so terribly had never existed. It was as if someone had taken an eraser and wiped out parts of his memory. Blotted out the arguments, removed the constant nagging doubts about how much she loved him, and obliterated all the heartache with Laura, their daughter. He knew that his memories were an idealization of all that was good.
After her death, he had moved out of the big apartment in Eimsbüttel. The small apartment in Neustadt was a better fit for him, and from his office window he had a view of the tall tower on St. Michael’s Church. The office became the center of Gerhard’s life. He eventually pushed his bed into the room so that he could throw himself into his work as soon as he opened his eyes on the days he didn’t lecture. In 1937 he’d published his first book, an algebra textbook, which had taken him four years to write, and now he’d begun jotting notes and creating an outline for his next one. His central thesis was that numbers were the starting point for everything. A kind of mathematical creation story. The idea was taking shape in his mind, and he looked forward to finally getting started.
He thought of his childhood. He and Karl had gr
own up in Hamburg. As the sewing factory grew, the Strangl family had slowly risen from the lower middle class into what could be called the upper class. Reinhardt had been strict and uncompromising, and he approached fatherhood the same way he approached his business. Their mother had been soft and indulgent, and later they would often say that she had been everything a mother should be. When Karl returned from the war, it was expected that he would train in his father’s company—though he’d never been asked—and Karl did so out of a sense of duty. Whether Gerhard would join the family business had never even been discussed. A decision he greatly valued, actually. While the other healthy, strong boys—as Reinhardt described them—were out playing in the yard after school, Gerhard sat, to his father’s great dismay, in his room doing calculations or reading books. He found numbers and letters to be good company, and they’d stayed by his side through thick and thin throughout his childhood. In the end, the straightforwardness of numbers had attracted him more than the secretive nature of letters. Not that he didn’t like letters, words, and language, but the meaning of numbers was immediately clear, while letters had a way of hiding the actual, the essential. That was why he had chosen mathematics over literature for his livelihood. Even the most complicated number combinations were logical to Gerhard.
The bed creaked when he rolled over. Thinking of his father didn’t help. So he turned back to thoughts of his book. That was better. Maybe that’s why he wrote—to flee from his thoughts? Finally his swirling, busy brain came to rest, and he fell asleep.
It took him a long time to register the knocking on his door, despite the fact that the person on the other side was doing his utmost to make his point. He picked up his black horn-rimmed glasses from the nightstand and noted the strip of light that had found its way into the room through a slit in the curtains, though he’d tried to pull them closed. He went into the hallway, still uncertain whether someone had really knocked or it was just a lifelike dream that had wrenched him from his sleep. A voice removed all doubt.
Winter Men Page 6