The Constant Soldier

by William Ryan

  ‘I haven’t seen Hubert in eight years – but he never struck me as the type to end up as a partisan, Herr Zugführer.’

  Brandt heard the lie in his voice. What else could he be, after all? Everything had been taken from him by men like Weber. But he needed to say something.

  ‘That’s not all, Brandt. When we brought him back here, we searched a bag he had with him. We found these.’

  Weber reached inside his top pocket and pulled out four civilian identity papers. He placed them on the table like a black-jack dealer laying down a winning hand. Bobrik’s black-and-white face stared up at the ceiling. Brandt said nothing.

  ‘He must have got them from the bodies, Brandt – don’t you think? Which means he must have been involved in the ambush. What other explanation could there be? Of course, you were also present at the ambush.’

  Brandt’s confusion wasn’t feigned.

  ‘You think I set up the ambush? Did Hubert say this?’

  Neumann shook his head in the negative.

  ‘The Pole has said nothing – even though Weber here roughed him up a bit. No, I don’t think the mayor really thinks you were responsible for the ambush, Brandt. Although how the Ukrainians managed to get their hands on false civilian papers is a concern.’ Neumann appeared relaxed about the situation, even while Brandt could see Weber’s face was turning darker.

  ‘And I’d like to know whether the four I’ve just sent off had them as well. Of course, if you had bothered to search the Pole at the checkpoint, Weber, you might have found these then and been able to ask the guards about them when they came through. They’ve probably deserted, of course.’

  ‘Who is to say they have deserted?’

  Brandt took advantage of the mayor’s moment of confusion to reach across for Bobrik’s identity card. He held it close to the candle. The quality of the forgery was poor – even a rudimentary check would pick it out as suspicious. The paper felt wrong.

  ‘When did you arrest Hubert?’ Brandt said, letting his hand drop to his side. ‘Was it before or after the guards went through?’

  ‘You’re asking the questions now? Don’t you think I see what you’re up to? There was only one survivor from the ambush. You. And then your childhood friend shows up with papers from the dead men.’ The mayor picked up the letter Brandt had brought back down the valley. ‘For all we know this letter is another trap. He probably wants to lead us into another ambush.’

  Neumann reached out to take the orders from Weber.

  ‘They look genuine enough to me. Anyway, all you have to do is walk across the dam. You’ll be doing that soon enough. As I recall, Brandt was reluctant to go with the Order Police – and couldn’t have known about the search in advance. So I think the idea that he set up the ambush is ruled out.’

  Brandt held up Bobrik’s identity card.

  ‘I have to ask again, Herr Zugführer. When did the guards pass through the checkpoint and when did you arrest Hubert?’

  The mayor banged the table with the flat of his hand, knocking over his wineglass, which was fortunately empty. It rolled across the table towards Neumann.

  ‘I’m asking the questions here,’ the mayor growled. ‘Me.’

  Neumann righted the glass.

  ‘Except I’d like to know the answer as well, Weber. If you don’t mind?’

  Neumann leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers across his chest, his gaze moving between Brandt and the mayor. He seemed to be enjoying himself now.

  ‘They came through a few minutes after we arrested him.’

  ‘Going in the same direction?’

  ‘Not that it makes any difference. But yes.’

  Brandt placed Bobrik’s papers back on the table.

  ‘I heard a rumour that Lensky was involved in criminal activities. Black marketing, that sort of thing. My guess is he sold these papers to them. They must have met along the road to make the exchange. These papers were unwanted.’

  Neumann clapped his hands.

  ‘There you are. I told you, Weber. A simple coincidence and a misunderstanding.’

  Brandt touched the bandage that covered the side of his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t shoot my own ear off for anyone, Herr Zugführer. And Bobrik was a friend of mine, if you remember. My own uncle died in the ambush. I helped my aunt bury him yesterday. And, as for my loyalty, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve already given half my body to the Fatherland. Now, do you mind if I go and get my dinner, Herr Zugführer?’

  ‘He has a point, Weber. More than one point, as it happens.’

  The mayor looked confused.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  Neumann patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘Very little makes sense when you think about it, that’s what I’ve discovered. Bring up some more wine while you’re down there. And Weber, admit you’re wrong about him.’

  The mayor squeezed his eyes shut, as if concentrating. He put his hands on either side of his head, squeezing hard.

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m wrong.’

  Neumann looked across to Brandt and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s a difficult time, Weber. We’re all under great pressure.’

  ‘All the same,’ Weber said, placing his hands on the table, ‘Lensky will be executed in the morning.’ There was a stubborn jut to the mayor’s chin that suggested further discussion was pointless. Not while he was in this state, anyway. Brandt pushed back his chair.

  ‘If those are your orders, Herr Zugführer – they will be followed.’

  ‘That’s decided, then,’ Neumann said. ‘Now, let’s get more wine and talk about happier things.’

  ‘May I go and see him?’ Brandt asked. ‘Lensky? He was a friend of mine.’

  The mayor seemed not to have heard, staring instead at his splayed fingers that radiated out on the table’s surface like two puffy stars. Neumann smiled.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, Brandt,’ Neumann said. ‘Do you?’

  Brandt shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he couldn’t care less.

  ‘After all,’ Neumann continued, ‘visiting a condemned man will be depressing. We should be joyful this evening.’

  Neumann’s amusement seemed false to Brandt.

  ‘As you say, Herr Obersturmführer.’

  ‘Make sure you bring up the good wine, Brandt.’

  Brandt nodded his agreement.

  The kitchen was empty – the boys had left their bowls and cutlery piled beside the scullery sink, still streaked with the remnants of their meal. It looked untidy but Brandt no longer cared. He lifted the cover from the pot and sniffed at the stew. It smelled good and he needed to eat something. He would sit with them upstairs and he would drink with them and, later, when they were asleep, he would see what could be done about Hubert. He could feel the weight of the key to the bunker in his pocket.

  In the cellar, Brandt filled a wicker basket with bottles of wine. He didn’t understand it. How could Hubert have been so stupid as to get himself caught? Especially now, so close to the end. He found he was breathing hard, like an athlete who had run a race. He leant against the cellar wall for a moment to recover. He was tired, that was all. He picked up the basket of bottles, forcing his legs to carry his weight, feeling how heavy his feet were.

  ‘Herr Brandt?’ Wessel was sitting at the long kitchen table, a bowl in front of him – a spoon in his mittened fingers.

  ‘Yes, Wessel?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know. The mayor has ordered that anyone approaching the bunker should be shot. Jünger asked him what that meant and he explained that meant anyone. Any of us. The SS Obersturmführer. And, most especially, you.’

  87

  IT WAS IN THE early hours of the morning that they reached the village. The place looked deserted from a distance – snow had piled up against doorways and obscured paths – but they had learned hard lessons in other villages and towns that had appeared to be uninhabited. The infant
ry scouts dismounted and made their way forward. They would reconnoitre before the tanks exposed themselves to narrow streets and overhanging windows.

  They found no Germans – although it was as though the inhabitants had just gone out to fetch something, and might be back at any moment. In some houses the tables were set for a meal. In others the fireplaces were filled with wood and kindling, needing only a match to flame into life. The sense of calm didn’t extend to every house, however. Some had been broken into, the contents ransacked. Lapshin had them park their tanks in front of the steepled church and posted sentries on the village outskirts while they waited for Headquarters to tell them what to do next.

  ‘We’ll be here for a while, with luck. So take the chance to warm up. Make some food. Have a wash, if you’re so inclined.’ Lapshin smiled, his teeth white in his smudged face. ‘But leave the engines running – just in case. One man from each crew stays on watch with their tank. Understood?’

  The house they chose hadn’t even been locked – the owners had left the key in the door. They found a ham in the larder and a sack half full of potatoes. Polya lit the stove and put water on to boil. She stretched. Then scratched. They could all do with a wash.

  Upstairs she could hear Avdeyev moving from room to room, looking for his souvenirs. All she wanted to do was lie down in a bed and sleep – she could barely keep her eyes open, she was so tired. But she was hungry too.

  There was water in the tap and so she washed her face and hands with a piece of American soap Lapshin had found for her at Headquarters, surprised to see her own pink skin coming through the grime.

  ‘Well, Polya?’

  She turned to see Lapshin leaning against the doorway, and though he smiled at her, even in the candlelight she could see that he was just the same as she was – exhausted.

  ‘Will we have time to sleep?’ she asked.

  ‘They may ask us to push on.’ He ran his hands up and down his grime-shiny tunic. ‘I thought I had some cigarettes.’

  ‘I have some,’ she said, offering him the cigarette case in her pocket as though it were her heart.

  ‘Good girl. Thanks.’

  When Avdeyev came back down he had two summer dresses slung across his arm and a pair of women’s shoes.

  ‘For Katya,’ he said, smiling. ‘Unless you want them, Polya?’

  She imagined herself wearing the dress after the war, walking beside a riverbank – a towel under her arm – going for a swim. It was a foolish thought. She shook her head.

  ‘Not for me, brother. Parcel them up for Katya – there’s paper in the sitting room. I saw it on the desk.’

  She turned away to tend to the food, rubbing a hand over her eyes to take the moistness out of them. She was just tired, that was all. Her arms ached and her back ached and her head was out of sorts. There was a comfortable chair in the corner but if she sat down in it, she’d never get up.

  ‘You look the worse for wear, Little Polya.’

  Lapshin had come to stand beside her, washing his hands in the sink then dipping down to wet his face.

  ‘You don’t look the best yourself, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.’

  Lapshin scrubbed at his cheeks and chin – but he was just moving the dirt around. She passed him the soap.

  ‘The men won’t recognize me.’

  She smiled and he took it from her.

  ‘Only a short time now, Polya, I think,’ he said as he began to wash his face once more.

  ‘Till when?’

  ‘Till the end. All we have to do is last a little while longer. Then we can go back home – pat ourselves on the back for a job well done and forget all about it.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  She tried to smile, but her lower lip had a mind of its own, and she could feel it curling over on itself.

  The shame – a tear rolled down her cheek.

  Lapshin reached over and smudged it away, his thumb gently pushing her mouth up into a smile as he did so. His brown eyes, so kind and true, looked into hers. Right down into her soul.

  ‘We’ll see this war out together, Little Polya,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You and me. And then we’ll talk. Maybe we’ll see out more than just this war? What do you say?’

  She could say nothing. Except that her hand had reached up, of its own accord, and taken his. Now his fingers were wrapped around hers. She sucked at her teeth, getting some air into her chest – because if she didn’t she might pass out.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. She wanted to say more, a lot more – but her chest was too tight. There was no air in her for words. All she could do was try to smile – and even that not very well.

  ‘Is there any string?’ Avdeyev said, coming back into the kitchen. He stood there as they turned to look at him, their hands still entwined. He looked from one to the other and smiled – a big, hearty smile.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Comrades. I’m sure the string is out here. Somewhere.’

  §

  Later, a motorbike roared into the village, just as they put the food on the table, and someone began to call out for the battalion commander. Lapshin went out to see what it was about. Polya shared a glance with Avdeyev – there was no need for discussion. They began to eat as quickly as they could. Sure enough, when Lapshin came back in, his expression was grave.

  ‘Let’s eat as we go, Comrades. There’s a dam that Division wants secured first thing. We’re going over the hills. We have a Polish guide to show us the way.’

  88

  THE HAND THAT shook Brandt’s shoulder was tentative. As if it expected to be punished for its transgression. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock.

  ‘Herr Brandt?’

  ‘What is it?’

  He was awake, although he was reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed. Aside from anything else, his mouth tasted of stale red wine and his stomach felt none too good. He had stayed up until late with the mayor and Neumann, drinking, the mayor veering between melancholy and bonhomie and Neumann smirking all the while. He needed to go to the toilet. Then there was the small matter of his ear, which, it seemed, he had been lying on.

  ‘Herr Brandt?’ The young boy’s voice was close to despair.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s something you should see, Herr Brandt. Outside.’

  Brandt resigned himself to his fate and opened his eyes. Fischer. His face close enough that he could feel the boy’s breath on his hand. Brandt looked across the dark room to the window – it was just before dawn, a faint light marking where the curtains had been pulled closed.

  ‘What is this something?’

  ‘There are some men. In the lane. Four of them.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  Brandt was sitting now – he swallowed, disorientated for a moment by the shift in position. He handed Fischer his trousers.

  ‘It will be quicker if you hold these.’

  Fischer looked at the trousers, then at Brandt’s stump. He blinked, his mouth opening with surprise.

  ‘So I can step into them.’

  ‘Of course,’ the boy said after a moment. ‘I don’t know who they are – the men. We didn’t see them come up the lane and we were vigilant, I swear it. No one fell asleep on duty. But Jünger and I found them lying on the side of the lane just now, in the bushes.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘It looks like it. We thought we should get you before we checked.’

  Which was sensible. Brandt walked over to the window, pulling back the curtain. ‘What about the mayor?’

  ‘We thought we wouldn’t disturb him just yet.’

  Because, after all, the mayor shot old men for nothing – who knew what he’d do to children who fell asleep on guard?

  ‘All right, then. Hold my tunic.’

  He wriggled into the jacket Fischer held open for him, bending his knees so that the boy could hold it up as high as his shoulders. He turned to examine the youngster. He seemed less frightened now –
probably relieved that he hadn’t been questioned more closely. Brandt smiled. Not that there was anything amusing about dead bodies lying in the lane, but the boy needed reassurance.

  ‘Well, you might as well give me a hand tying my bootlaces, seeing as you’re here.’

  §

  The men were lying under the low-hanging branches of a tree – their feet pointing towards the guardhouse so that it was possible to see the holes in their socks. Eight legs. Four pairs of feet. Their upper halves were hidden by the lower branches.

  ‘Perhaps they’re asleep?’ Fischer asked.

  Jünger nodded his agreement. The elderly trench helmet Jünger wore shadowed his eyes while most of his face was hidden by a scarf. It was as though he were staring out of a pillbox.

  Brandt shrugged in response. Men didn’t take their boots off to fall asleep in the snow. He was about to lean down to take a closer look when he was distracted by the sound of a beeping horn. He looked down towards the dam and saw an open truck in Wehrmacht grey, filled with what looked like wounded men, wrapped up as best they could be against the cold, passing along the road. It wasn’t only the truck, there were soldiers on the road as well – marching, heads down, their field packs rounding their backs – in amongst refugees.

  ‘They’ve been passing for the last three hours,’ Jünger said.

  Brandt wanted to ask why no one had bothered to come and tell him. If soldiers were retreating up the valley, that meant the Russians were likely close behind.

  ‘Go down and ask them where the Russians are, will you? Find out anything you can. Quickly.’

  He watched Jünger trot off before turning to Fischer, looking at his watch.

  ‘Let’s have a look at these men. Stay back here and keep me covered, just in case.’

  Brandt unclipped the flap of his holster and pulled out his Volkssturm pistol – a captured Soviet revolver. It was reliable, though.

  ‘Hello,’ he said when he was close. His voice sounded uncertain, even to him. As he expected, there was no response. He wondered how many other men had woken up dead this morning, stiff in their trenches, their hands frozen tight around their rifles.