Glad of an excuse, Bertin got up. ‘If we won’t be getting any sleep tonight, I think it’s best if I ask Süßmann for a bed now and lie down for an hour. A man needs his rest.’
‘Not an easy life for an educated man,’ the priest mused, when the door had closed behind Bertin. ‘I’m constantly surprised by how well our Jews adapt to military life.’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’ asked Kroysing. ‘They do what everyone else does and often a lot better. They want to prove themselves to us. And, anyway, I know of no more war-like book than the Old Testament with all its fire and brimstone.’
The priest skilfully parried the mildly antagonistic subtext he discerned in this remark with a general observation: trench warfare had dispelled many prejudices, not just those against Jews. Had there not at one time been doubts about the value of soldiers from industrial areas? And now? And now, agreed Kroysing, townsmen, especially from the cities, were the backbone of the defence. They were less afraid of machines than country lads. The latter had perhaps provided the best human material in the first year of the war, but the trench war required more adaptable men of nimbler intelligence.
‘And on the topic of country areas, Lieutenant,’ interjected Father Lochner abruptly, ‘what’s gone wrong between you and Captain Niggl?’
Kroysing leant back. ‘Surely he must have told you, when he asked you to mediate,’ he growled.
‘We had a chat,’ the priest replied, kneading one of his hands with the other. ‘He gave the impression of being a man deep in struggle. He said you two disagreed about your poor brother, that you thought the captain had maltreated or abused him.’
‘Is that all he told you?’ Kroysing asked, his expression unchanging.
‘Yes. Or at least, I took no more from what he said. Those Bavarians are all from farming stock. They speak in such a way that you can read a great deal or very little into what they say, depending on how familiar you are with their customs.’
Kroysing lit a cigarette and threw the match into the squashed shell case: ‘Let’s suppose he was fibbing. How does that square with the respect he has for you as a clergyman and the eternal punishment he may be lining up for himself?’
Father Lochner gave a frank laugh. ‘I was a curate for two years at Kochl at the foot of the mountains. I didn’t get to know the people there very well. That would’ve taken a lifetime. But I did learn a few things. No one lied to me in holy confession, especially as they only had to speak in generalities, but they thought it was extremely clever to lie to me day-to-day whilst still availing themselves of my spiritual office.’
‘Excellent,’ said Kroysing. ‘So, you’re not biased, as I feared.’
‘Oh no,’ said Father Lochner expansively, lapsing into Rhenish. ‘That’d be nuts – mad, I mean. Man is a frail creature. Catholics simply have the advantage over you of knowing about original sin and being able to compensate for their fragility through our sacraments and the Church.’
Kroysing listened to the gentleman’s clever chatter with a grim delight that he concealed. Had Niggl really represented their dispute to the priest in such a harmless way? It was possible. Field chaplains got bored, and the cleverer they were, the more bored they got surrounded by the ossified commanders and clowns at headquarters behind the lines. Father Lochner might very well have ventured over to Douaumont on a motorbike for a bit of a change, without asking for a compelling reason. Perhaps sorting out a quarrel between two officers was an interesting opportunity for a former theology student. Well, he might find things surprisingly intense at Douaumont.
‘What do you think about the story of King David and his field captain Uriah, Father Lochner? Excuse me asking so directly.’
The priest started. ‘It was murder,’ he said. ‘Shameless, premeditated murder over a woman. A mortal sin, and the House of David had to atone for it. Even the grandson from that union lost the majority of his realm, despite David’s remorse and the deeds of Solomon.’
‘I see,’ said Kroysing casually. ‘So what temporal and eternal punishments will be visited upon the Niggl dynasty? For I’m pursuing the captain for that same sin. The only difference is that the woman is not called Bathsheba but “The Third Company’s Reputation”.’
Father Lochner sat stiffly on his chair. ‘You must make yourself very clear, Lieutenant, if you want to make accusations of that kind.’
Kroysing was glad to have sickened the other man’s happiness. ‘Wanna do and can do,’ he said in Berlin dialect, opening a drawer and taking out two pieces of paper. He gave the larger piece of paper to the field chaplain and asked him to read it.
Father Lochner slowly pulled on his horn-rimmed spectacles. Then he read Christoph Kroysing’s last letter. His lips moved as he read, and his eyes scanned each word conscientiously, which Kroysing noted appreciatively.
‘You don’t seem troubled by the state of the paper and the writing, Chaplain. The letter was a little stuck together when we received it. You can see the traces in the corner.’
‘Blood?’ asked Father Lochner with a shudder. ‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘But Lieutenant, not wishing to upset you, have you any proof? Captain Niggl – does seem very pleasant. Although one is used to things not being as they seem…’ He let his voice float off.
‘My dear man,’ laughed his companion, ‘surely you don’t still attach any importance to appearances? Haven’t you noticed that power doesn’t agree with a lot of men in the two years you’ve been at this? That your average man needs an average amount of pressure to function normally? Being a member of the officer class places such average men in too rarefied an atmosphere, and the likes of Niggl and his cronies get carried away. Then a travelling wine salesman – or, let’s say, a retired civil servant with a bit of wit – starts to act like King David, except that he cowers behind a stranger’s back when he feels the avenger’s fist on the scruff of his neck.’ And he raised his right hand, curling his fingers into a claw.
‘Tell me what happened,’ said Father Lochner in a haunted voice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two subordinates
MEANWHILE, TWO TIRED soldiers, Süßmann and Bertin, were lying on iron bunks, one on top of the other, in a former guardroom that accommodated 15 men – Kroysing’s sappers in charge of routine work in and around the depot. They were smoking a cigar and talking. Bertin, on the lower bunk, felt quite excited about the forthcoming excursion.
‘Do clergymen give you the willies like they do me?’ he asked. ‘All of them, I mean – even ours.’
‘Seldom clap eyes on them,’ muttered Süßmann.
‘We sometimes do,’ said Bertin. ‘Our company held a Whitsun service about half a year ago before Verdun, and we were all ordered to attend. There was the priest preaching about the Outpouring of the Holy Spirit in our cartridge tent and all around were baskets with yellow and green crosses on the labels.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Süßmann. Bertin didn’t need to tell him that yellow and green crosses denoted two of the three poisonous gases used in shells.
‘In his defence, I believe he was short-sighted,’ said Bertin, not joking.
‘Why?’ retorted Süßmann. ‘Surely the Prussians believe anything that serves the Fatherland pleases God. And we Jews should keep quiet,’ he added in a more serious tone. ‘Our Old God fits right in with this war.’
‘Yes,’ quipped Bertin. ‘I depart in my wrath, and my shadow falleth towards midnight upon Assur, so that the people crawl into caves and Rezin, King of Syria, laments in his palace of Damascus, and I strike the first born of Mizraim in the south, and shake my spear and lance, and like the hooves of the wild ass I trample down the seed of Ammon and the walls of Moab, saith the Lord.’
‘Nice sort of God,’ said Süßmann. ‘Where’s that from?’
‘From my heart,’ answered Bertin. ‘But I could just as easily have made it up.’
‘This is what happens when you hang about with poets,’ said Süßmann absently. He was watching a spider, a large
, black female, who’d spun her web across a ventilator in the corner and was now dashing back and forth, irritated by the cigar smoke.
‘Poets…’ Bertin continued, thinking aloud. ‘No, not poets. Witnesses, writers. The hallmark of a poet is that he uses the full palette of his imagination – inventiveness and artistry. No scrimping on gods and goddesses, and a plausible fiction is better than the truth. But what is needed today in our situation is truth, not plausibility. Think about it, Süßmann. Our company toiled away at Steinbergquell depot for four months and nothing really happened. Then I was sent up to the front, I met young Kroysing on my first day there and he asked for my help. Is that plausible? Could I put that in a fictional story? No. But it’s true. And the truth goes on in that vein. The very next day, no sooner, no later, the lad is killed. The day after that, I go to look for him again so I can take his letter and help him out of the mess he’s in. He’s already dead, and his battalion has got what it wanted. But my eyes have been ripped open, and I’ve been galvanised into action. No, it’s not about poets – for now. As long as the effects of this war continue to shake the world, the survivors will need true accounts. Those who don’t survive will already have given everything humanly possible.’
‘What about me?’ a voice boomed from above, echoing off the ceiling. ‘I’ve already given everything humanly possible. I was actually dead. Shell splinters from our own hand grenades were whistling past my ears. It’s a miracle I survived. Shouldn’t I be able to call it a day?’
‘My dear Süßmann,’ said Bertin soothingly, ‘no-one expects any more of you.’
‘Thanks for the get-out,’ the thin, boyish voice snapped in the gloom. ‘That’s not what I was asking. I was asking if the whole business makes any sense. Is it worth it? That’s what I want to know. Will we at least get a decent new society out of all this appalling fumbling and fidgeting – a cosier home than the old Prussian one? A boy starts to think a bit when he reaches 16. By 17 he begins to imagine he knows how his future might turn out. I keep asking myself what the point of it is. How did it start, where will it lead and who’s benefiting from it?’
Bertin lay there, shocked. Shouldn’t he be the one asking these questions? But he’d given himself over entirely to the present now. He took what came, lived with it, abandoned himself to it. The devil only knows why I was naïve enough to confuse what is with what should be, he thought. I never used to do that; now I do. Perhaps I’ll understand later.
‘If my thoughts were all as harmless as that, things would be fine,’ Süßmann continued. ‘But there are a couple of things I haven’t been able to get out of my mind since I told you my story about the explosion. I picked your Sergeant Schulz’s brains about it yesterday. He maintains that secured shells, even French ones, only explode in certain special circumstances. But that explosion was a really big deal. Floors split down to the drains. Windows ripped out. That impact that threw us all against the walls. If it wasn’t the shells in the empty gun position, what was it?’ He became introspective for a moment, like someone who is turning a debatable point over and over in his head and therefore can’t converse. ‘Don’t think I’m just wallowing in my exciting past. Perhaps the vigilant French concealed a stack of mines so they could blow their own fort to bits if need be? And then our doughty Bavarians touched one off with flame thrower oil, flares and hand grenades. Brr,’ he shuddered and got down suddenly from his bed, appearing pale-faced at Bertin’s side. ‘I wouldn’t want to go through that again. What if we’re walking on a loaded mine and any idiot could accidentally make the contact and blow us to bits?’
Bertin sat up and looked into the desperate eyes of this 19-year-old with a man’s strength of judgement and suddenly shivered. ‘Sit down, Süßmann,’ he said soothingly. ‘Assuming that’s true, then you’re just as much at risk when you’re asleep as when you’re awake. You and your comrades at the front whom we’ll be crawling over to later. Does it really change your situation? I don’t see that it does. It makes it a shade worse, but what does that matter to a man like you?’
‘Hmm,’ said Süßmann, eyes to the ground, searching for caches of explosives under the layers of concrete. ‘Nicely put, but you’re just a visitor here.’
‘That’s not the point,’ countered Bertin, ‘I get the feeling I’m meant to record something of your sufferings and great deeds for the coming generation. It’s not just by chance that we met, you with your story to tell and the Kroysings with theirs. There’ll be more lies told about this war than about any other international conflict. It’ll be up to the survivors to tell the truth, and some of those who’ve something to say will survive. Why not you? Why not me? Why not Kroysing? Whether there’s a stack of explosives or not, Süßmann, you’ve already been through enough. Death never calls twice.’
Süßmann stuck his lip out defiantly. Then he laughed and clapped Bertin on the shoulder. ‘And I thought we didn’t have any decent field rabbis. You’re wearing the wrong gear, Bertin.’
Bertin laughed too. ‘My parents would gladly have made a rabbi out of me, but I read too much and had too many doubts. A clergyman must believe the way that priest in there with the lieutenant believes in his cross. And I don’t believe.’
Süßmann breathed more easily. ‘And yet you talk about destiny and being in good hands. You’re not much of a sceptic, Reverend Bertin,’ he said almost tenderly. ‘It’s amazing what words can do. Now I almost believe too, by which I mean believe it’s worth battling on here and that the men we’re going to visit at the front aren’t completely mad.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘…will sign.’
ENTHRONED ON HIS hard, low-backed wooden stool, Father Lochner no longer looked as happy and confident as he had. ‘Tell me what you want, Lieutenant,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’ll do my best to get Captain Niggl to agree to it.’
Lieutenant Kroysing took a second piece of paper from the table, a small square sheet, and read: ‘The undersigned confesses that, in order to protect the reputation of the Third Company of his battalion and avoid court martial proceedings, he did, in conjunction with the heads of the company, intentionally and systematically precipitate the death of Sergeant Christoph Kroysing. Douaumont, 1916— the date, month and signature to be added.’
Father Lochner stretched his folded hands out in front of him. ‘Merciful Jesus, no man can sign that. It’s suicide.’
Kroysing shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s recompense,’ he blinked. ‘When this paper, duly signed, has been passed to Judge Advocate Mertens in Montmédy, who is working on the files against my brother, then certain wheels will be set in motion, as God sees fit, and Herr Niggl and his men may look for quieter quarters, if service interests permit. But if he does not sign he’ll be staying here in my harmless little molehill, even if his soul turns to buttermilk.’
‘Blackmail,’ cried the priest. ‘Coercion, duress!’
Kroysing smiled genially, a wolfish glint in his eyes. ‘Do as you’re done by, Father,’ he said in a deeply satisfied voice.
Father Lochner thought for a moment, almost as if he were alone. ‘I accept everything,’ he sighed at last. ‘It wasn’t you, Lieutenant, who involved me in this matter. Neither is it your fault that I came here as a harmless field chaplain and now find myself gazing into the most ghastly depths of the human soul. And I cannot just stand there and gaze. I must intervene, take sides, concede that a son of my Church behaved like a common murderer towards your brother, which would have been bad enough if your brother had been your average, common man. However, his letter demonstrates that the Creator had housed within his body a most noble and loveable soul. There can be no recompense for such a loss either for the parents or the brother or the nation. Measured against it, earthly vengeance seems grotesque. I imagine that’s clear to you, though it doesn’t of course diminish your loss. What then do you hope to achieve?’
Eberhard Kroysing wrinkled his tan-lined brow. ‘If we take the impotence of punishment as our starting poin
t, the fact that we cannot recreate that which has been destroyed, we’ll get nowhere. Let’s make things easy for ourselves. I want to cleanse the Kroysings’ reputation, which Captain Niggl besmirched. Why don’t we leave everything else out of the equation.’
Father Lochner exhaled. He didn’t understand himself why he’d sided so firmly with a miserable type like Niggl. I didn’t side with him although he is miserable, he thought quickly, remembering his training, but because his lowly soul needs so much compassion, warped as it clearly is. ‘I knew it,’ he said in relief. ‘It’s always words that stop two reasonable men reaching agreement. Allow me to draft a text that will give your family full satisfaction without destroying Captain Niggl.’ He made to grab a piece of paper and began unscrewing his fountain pen.
But a look from Lieutenant Kroysing stilled his hand. ‘Excuse me, Reverend,’ he growled amiably enough, ‘but I’m with Pontius Pilate on this one when he said, “What I have written I have written”.’ And as the priest pulled his hand back, he continued: ‘I’m a physicist and an engineer. Captain Niggl unleashed a rotary movement against my brother that ended up hurling him tangentially into the void. But that didn’t stop the movement. Now it will seize Niggl himself and hurl him tangentially into the void. Or if you prefer, the balance of things has been disturbed. My brother tipped the scales a little in the direction of good. To compensate for his loss, I’m going to stamp out an adverse element, maybe even three. I hope it may earn me a civic crown,’ he finished, and Father Lochner shuddered at the young man’s savage mastery and sparkling intelligence.
The priest sat up straight and his eyes, small in his plump face, took on the implacable expression of the confessor. He thrust his lower jaw out, and under the electric light his mouth became a moving line. ‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘we are both quite alone here. Our conversation crossed the normal boundaries of a negotiation between two uniformed officers long ago. What I’m about to say puts me in your hands. None of my Church superiors would defend me if you wrote a letter to HQ saying that Field Chaplain Lochner from the Order of St Francis told you what I’m about to tell you. But whit mus be, mus be,’ he added in plattdeutsch.
Outside Verdun Page 19