Pasternack shook his head silently.
‘Then we haven’t got a chance,’ Dorn commented tranquilly.
Krüger’s repressed fury erupted all at once. He brought his fist down upon the table with a crash and bellowed: ‘To hell! To the devil with the map. What do I need a map for? I’ll show you my map. Here it is!’ He stooped quickly, picked up his Russian tommy-gun and slammed it down on the table with all his might. Several of the mess-kits were knocked over, spilling the hot tea in all directions. The men jumped back out of the way and Kern, his trousers soaked, called out angrily: ‘You damned half Russian!’ Krüger whirled around, stared at him for a second, then threw himself upon Kern with an inarticulate cry. His body hit Kern’s so hard that Kern was hurled backward across the table.
Cursing, the men jumped aside once more. ‘Stop that!’ Schnurrbart roared. His words were drowned in the tumult.
Kern swung over to the other side of the table, dropped to the floor for a moment, then rose in a flash and received Krüger with a rain of furious blows. They were evenly matched. Their arms moved like windmills; they seemed to be pulling each punch from out of the air. Most of the others formed an enthusiastic ring around the fighters and cheered them on. Dietz backed trembling against the wall and watched the brawl with horror. Each time a fist landed with a dull thud in one of the men’s faces, he closed his eyes and noiselessly moved his lips. When Krüger charged Kern and the two began rolling in a tangle on the floor, he found his voice again. He shouted to Schnurrbart who was standing by watching the fight with a set expression: ‘They’ve got to stop, tell them to stop.’ Schnurrbart nodded. He communicated with Hollerbach by a rapid glance and they cautiously approached the grappling men from both sides. Kern had just heaved himself up off the ground, rolled over on top of Krüger, and was closing his hairy hands around the East Prussian’s neck. Hollerbach and Schnurrbart desperately tried to separate the two, but they could not get a good hold. Finally Schnurrbart attempted to seize one of the thrashing legs, but received such a violent kick in the groin from Kern that he reeled back and crumpled heavily to the ground. As he sat up, face twisted with pain, a hail of bullets from a rat-tatting tommy-gun lashed above their heads.
After Schnurrbart had called out Maag to help unload the wagons, Zoll had been left alone with the prisoners. All the while the men were at work outside, Zoll stood with his back against the door, alertly watching the women. Since there were now nearly thirty people in the relatively small room, it was closely packed. In order to simplify the problem of guarding them, Schnurrbart had ordered the prisoners to sit in rows one behind the other, legs apart and hands on the shoulders of the one in front. They had meanwhile made themselves somewhat more comfortable by using each other as supports for their backs. In the farther comer, her head upon one of the women’s laps, lay the wounded woman. She was still unconscious. Although the prisoners did not yet know what was going to be done with them, their initial fear seemed to have somewhat abated. They talked in whispers, and Zoll was bothered by the feeling that they were making fun of him. He could think of no other explanation for their occasional burst of giggling. Several times he had tried to intimidate them by cursing viciously, but after looking up in curiosity and astonishment they had resumed their whispering. Finally he had given up trying to appear tough.
Towards the front, close to him, sat the solitary male prisoner. In contrast to the others his expression was worried, and Zoll observed him talking steadily to the woman beside him. What the devil was all the chatter about? Zoll wished he could pound him over the head with his machine-pistol. But after all they would be killing the man very soon now. This thought made him feel generous. Let the fellow jabber while he still had the chance. For a while Zoll listened to the flow of the unfamiliar language, feeling irritated with himself for not having learned Russian. He recalled all the tutoring his parents had forced upon him when he came home with poor marks in English and French. Where did all the cramming get you? Half of what you learned you never used, and the other half you forgot. He watched the woman the Russian was talking to. He had noticed her before. Couldn’t be more than twenty, he would guess. Her thin face was rather pretty, and every time she looked up at him with her grey eyes he became restless. Sex-appeal, he thought. Too bad he was not alone with her. His eyes glided searchingly over her figure, which looked promising in spite of the shapeless uniform. Her blouse was stretched tight over high breasts, and Zoll tried to imagine how it would be if he were to unbutton that blouse. What a racket, he thought; here they had all the women they could wish for and weren’t getting anything out of them. To distract himself, he glanced out of the window. The men were still slaving away at the wagons. He saw them dumping ammunition boxes and mortars into the water. They pushed the empty wagon on to the bridge, rammed it into the railing several times until the wood splintered, and the heavy wagon pitched over the side of the bridge. The water splashed high all around it. He grinned with satisfaction. That was one cart the Ivans wouldn’t be using any more. He watched with interest as the men turned to the next wagon. Pleased, he saw Maag wiping the sweat from his brow. Good that Schnurrbart hadn’t sent for him. He could do without an extra detail right now. He felt, to his own surprise, a touch of gratitude toward Schnurrbart. Until now he had always thought of superiors as automatically stinkers. He might as well try to get along with Schnurrbart from now on— wouldn’t do any harm. If Steiner had really gone off, Schnurrbart would be platoon leader. What luck that would be. He had felt enormously relieved a few minutes ago when Schnurrbart came into the room and told them about Steiner. He had hated Steiner from the first day he met the fellow, he reflected. Maybe because Steiner was the only man he feared.
He suddenly recalled with a surge of rage and shame their arrival that morning. That game he had played with the patches of sunlight had been ridiculously childish. But all the friction with Steiner had been to blame for that. Their nerves were shot, that was all. That bastard had been the last straw.
He had been so deep in thought as he stared out of the window that he had paid no attention to the prisoners. Now he suddenly heard a groan behind him. Whirling around, he scrutinized them suspiciously. They were sitting as still as before. Only in the farther corner, where the wounded woman lay moaning softly, had any of them turned their heads. ‘Quiet!’ Zoll yelled. From somewhere in the room there was a brief burst of giggles. Zoll bit his lips. Damned bitches, he thought; I ought to.... His hand tightened on his gun. Angrily, he looked over the rows of faces. Suddenly he stared. The woman sitting in front of him—the woman the man had been talking to so urgently—was moving ever so slightly. Head bowed, she was fingering at her blouse. The two top buttons were already open, revealing the base of her breasts. Zoll gulped and looked at the man, who sat with eyes closed, apparently dozing. The other women had stopped whispering. Most of them seemed to be asleep, or were sitting with heads drooping, staring at the floor. It was so quiet in the room now that he could distinctly hear Schnurrbart outside issuing orders. Zoll felt a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at his gun, making sure the safety catch was off. When he looked up again, his eyes met the Russian woman’s. She was gazing steadily at him, and had opened another button on her blouse. As he watched her in fascination, she closed one eye in a slow wink, and smiled at him. Zoll held his breath. The thought crossed his mind that there might be some danger for him concealed behind this behaviour, only to be immediately routed by the heady rush of vanity. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to look at the woman impassively. Her thin, rather dirty fingers were busy opening the last button.
Zoll threw a glance out of the window. The men were just shoving the last of the wagons over the edge of the bridge. They stared at the water for a few seconds and then turned toward the house. He heard the heavy tread of their nailed boots mounting the stairs and thumping across the hallway. Then the door was wrenched open and Schnurrbart thrust his head in. ‘Everything all right?’
he asked.
Zoll nodded. Out of the corners of his eyes he observed that the Russian woman was holding her blouse closed and staring vacantly at the floor.
‘I’ll relieve you in a few minutes,’ Schnurrbart said. ‘As soon as Maag has eaten he’ll take over so you can eat.’ His eyes roved over the rows of prisoners. ‘They dozing?’
‘Seem to be,’ Zoll answered curtly. He was furious at the interruption; there was no room in his mind for anything but the wish that Schnurrbart would leave as quickly as possible. But Schnurrbart still delayed. Something about the women’s attitude aroused his suspicions. Queer that they should be dozing, he thought, coming all the way into the room.
‘What do you want?’ Zoll asked impatiently. ‘Everything is all right.’
‘I said the women were to sit and not lie back,’ Schnurrbart answered.
Zoll was aware of the swift fading of all his good resolutions. If Schnurrbart was going to be a shit like Steiner, he would have to set him back on his heels in good time. ‘I don’t know what you want,’ he said angrily. ‘Let them stay the way they are. If any of them lets out a sound, I’ll let her have it.’
Their loud voices had roused the women. They sat up again, throwing anxious looks at the two men.
‘There you are!’ Zoll burst out in a rage. ‘When they’re lying down they’ve got less of a chance to make trouble.’ He turned around and bellowed: ‘Lie down!’
The Russian women looked blank. Zoll strode over to one of them, raised his boot and pushed against her shoulder, tipping her backwards. ‘Lie down, I said!’ he shouted again. This time the others understood. Zoll watched with satisfaction as their bodies sagged to the floor. ‘Don’t you think I can watch them better this way?’ he said to Schnurrbart.
Schnurrbart hesitated uneasily. Finally he shrugged. ‘At any rate you can’t see their faces like this.’
Zoll grinned. ‘What do I need to see their faces for. I prefer their arses.’
'You’re a young pig,’ Schnurrbart growled as he went out. Zoll kicked the door shut behind him and quickly turned toward the Russian woman. She had opened her eyes and was looking at him. Now she spread her legs apart, turning her feet outward, and nodded encouragingly to him. When he did not stir, she spread her blouse open, reached under the grey cloth of her undershirt and pressed her breast upward. Breathlessly, head crooked forward, Zoll watched the white flesh appear over the edge of the shirt He dug his teeth into his lower lip, and his whole body tautened. But he stood still as if nailed to the spot. His eyes hung painfully, lustfully upon the brownish circles of her nipples which rose up tease and hard. When the Russian woman beckoned him with her finger, he could feel that he was losing control of himself. His eyes swept over the heads of the other prisoners, paused upon the face of the man. Although he was lying with closed eyes, just like the women, Zoll’s suspicions revived. But it was crazy to worry, he told himself. The old geezer would not dare try anything. As his gaze turned back to the exposed breast, he feverishly went over the possibilities. Nothing much could happen if he went ahead. Though it would be stinking if another of the men came in. He would have to hurry. But here?
He shook himself. To provide an erotic spectacle for thirty women did not appeal to him. Besides he did not quite trust the sleepy and apparently indifferent man. The fellow might only be waiting for him to lay down on top of the woman. The thought sobered him a little. You couldn’t trust any of this damned pack of Russians. Indecisive, he looked over the rest of the prisoners once more. There was nothing about their attitudes that seemed suspicious. Then he suddenly recalled that the woman who was baring herself had been the very one with whom the man had talked so excitedly. He glowered at her. As though she were guessing his thoughts, she began to smile again, and to push herself along the floor toward him. She moved in such a provocative manner that all of Zoll’s compunctions disappeared. Where could he take her? Finally he thought he had found the solution. He beckoned with a movement of his head. ‘Come,’ he said softly, ‘iddi sudda.’ She hesitated, and he noticed her glance at the man in perplexity for the briefest moment. The man seemed to notice nothing of the byplay between the two. Was he pretending? Again Zoll hesitated for a second. But by now he was in such a state of obsessive lust that he would have killed the man instantly rather than be deterred. ‘Iddi sudda,’ he repeated hoarsely.
The coquettish smile on the woman’s face vanished. When she looked up at him again, he saw fear in her eyes. He grinned. ‘So you’ve decided to be coy,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t go with me, understand, not with me.’ He took one long stride up to her, stooped, grasped her shoulder tightly and pulled her to her feet. ‘Not with me,’ he repeated harshly.
Again he threw a glance at the man, who was still lying with closed eyes. But his face now seemed unnaturally pale. Abruptly, Zoll opened the door and pulled the resisting woman by the wrist out into the hall. Madly, he looked around. From the room behind the door opposite he heard the muted voices of the men. For a few seconds he listened, eyes narrowed, still tightly grasping the woman’s wrist. If they catch me, I’m sunk, he thought. He turned toward the woman and saw that she was trying with her free hand to button her blouse. He grinned. ‘Let that be,’ he said, his hand darting to her breast. The touch increased his excitement. He raised his tommy-gun and wordlessly gestured with it toward the outer door. The woman stared at him, her mouth twitching. ‘Come,’ he said, shoving her toward the door. On the steps she tried to escape. But he had expected this and tightened his brutal grip on her arm. ‘Come,’ he panted, dragging her to the next house. He pushed her up the steps and into the hall. The house was just like the others, a kitchen on one side, a living-room on the other. Both doors were open. He shoved the woman into the room to the right of the hallway. On the floor lay the prisoners’ blankets and equipment. As he laid his tommy-gun down in a corner, the woman suddenly broke loose and ran toward the door. In two bounds he was at her side. He threw his arm around her waist, dragged her back into the room, hurled her to the ground, and fell upon her, panting with exertion and excitement. She tried to defend herself; her small, clenched hands beat against his face, and she began to scream. Had he not been so wild with the desire to possess her, he might have wondered about her contradictory behaviour, and drawn conclusions. But he did not think. When he had stripped her naked, he dragged one of the blankets over her face and smothered her screams. She lay like an animal under him, moaning.
Vladimir Ignatiev heard the screams as he ran toward the bridge, and his heart contracted. Poor Ninotchka, he thought, tears streaming down his face, poor little Ninotchka. From the window he had watched the German pushing her into the empty house, and then he had made his break for freedom. Any moment as he ran he had expected to hear the crackle of the German’s guns, their shouts, but there had not been a sound. Now he was racing across the bridge, and the forest reached out green hands toward him; the forest cried: ‘Run faster, Vladimir Ignatiev.’ Then he was in the shelter of the tall trees. He panted, stumbled over roots, fought with flailing arms and legs through the dense undergrowth, until he came out on the road again. For a few seconds he paused, panting for breath; then he ran on. But, as he rounded a bend in the road, he stopped, as horror-stricken as though hell had opened before him. His heart pounded against his ribs and his gasping breath seemed to have become boiling water that seared the inside of his chest.
A dozen paces away from him sat a German. It was the one he had spoken to in front of the house. The German was sitting with his back against a tree, apparently lost in thought. Vladimir Ignatiev did not dare to move. He stood with arms dangling, his thoughts tumbling over one another like skittles when the wooden balls struck them square in the centre. The forest had lost its friendly aspect; the trees stared threateningly down at him. ‘Holy Saint Basil!’ Vladimir Ignatiev whispered. Under his heavy wadded jacket he began to sweat; perspiration poured down over his forehead, burned in his eyes. The German did not move. But if he turned hi
s head just a little, it would all have been for nothing. All of it, including the screams of Ninotchka who had sacrificed herself to make his flight possible. It must not, it must not have been in vain. Vladimir’s parchment-like face tightened. He clenched his fists. He must kill the man, must seize his gun and make off for Krymskaya. Now, at once. As he got set to spring, he saw the German stand up abruptly, pause, and then stoop for his gun. At that moment he threw himself like a falling tree upon the German’s back and pulled him to the ground.
Although the attack was a complete surprise, Steiner reacted instantly. Even as he fell he managed to half turn his body, and recognized the Russian. As the Russian’s hands clasped around his throat, Steiner doubled up, reached over his shoulders and pressed his finger-tips into the man’s eyes. The Russian let out a piercing scream; his grip relaxed. Like a weasel Steiner rolled over on his side, continued to roll across the road, and jumped up. He saw the man taking a tremendous leap into the bushes, rushed toward the spot where he knew the tommy-gun must be, stumbled over a tree-root and fell flat on his face. Although he recovered almost at once, he had lost precious seconds. As soon as he had laid hands on the gun, he raised it and fired blindly into the undergrowth until the magazine was empty. But when he raised his head and listened into the sudden silence, he could hear the retreating sounds of breaking branches. In a moment these were swallowed up in the depths of the woods, and the silence closed over him like deep water.
For a second Steiner stood motionless, listening still. He was so clearly aware of the hopelessness of pursuit that he did not even attempt it. To hunt down one man in these impenetrable woods would take a whole company. As he brushed out his clothing, he smiled grimly. Leading a platoon, he thought, took more stuff than Schnurrbart had in that little brain of his. Served the talkative bastard right; let him get out of this mess now. He bent over to pick up his pack, which he had lost in the fight, and as he did so a piece of paper fell out of his coat pocket. He froze. The map, he thought, the map’s with me. Slowly he reached out for the piece of paper. Without the map Schnurrbart couldn’t possibly find his way to the battalion. Furious, he stared blankly into the green woods, cursing his own taciturnity; he should long ago have told the men where the new positions were located. At the very least he might have informed them that the detour around Krymskaya was possible only from the north; on the south of the city they would run into swamps. The longer he considered it, the more apparent it was that taking the map with him was not in the game. Schnurrbart had to have as good chances to make it as he would have had. Yet if he returned now to bring the men the map, they would not so easily let him go off again. Most of all he feared the way they would look at him. And what would Krüger say, or Hollerbach, or Dietz? What would he read in Dorn’s eyes? Yet there was no help for it; they had to have the map. What he did next would have to depend upon the situation he found when he returned to the platoon.
Cross of Iron Page 14