She coughed and struggled for breath. When he carried her back to the bench, she lay utterly defeated in his arms. He set her down, picked up the paper and pencil, and flashed the light into her face. Water was dripping from her hair down her forehead and on to her hands. ‘That was unnecessary,’ he said quietly. ‘You might have spared us both the unpleasantness. In bed you were superior to me, but not here.’ He placed the paper in her lap again and put the pay-book under it for a hard surface. ‘If you don’t sign, I’ll duck you again—and for good this time, believe me.’ He watched as she signed her name with trembling hands. When she was finished, he took the paper and the pay-book and carefully pocketed them. Then he switched out the flashlight. ‘You may go now,’ he said.
She did not stir. ‘You may go,’ he repeated sharply.
Unsteadily she got to her feet. She looked up at him. ‘You’re going to report me,’ she said tonelessly.
He nodded.
‘God,’ she stammered. ‘God, what am I going to do?’
He shrugged. Slowly she turned away. He watched as she walked off, her wet skirt clinging to her long legs, her head bowed, shoulders twitching. He felt no pity at all. For a while he stood staring across the water. Then he reached into his pocket, took out the sheet of paper and held it close to his eyes. In spite of the wavery handwriting the name was quite legible. Annemarie Baumann. He was struck by the realization that he had never known her surname. For only a moment he hesitated. Then he tore the paper into tiny scraps and tossed them into the water. He watched them being carried out on the waves, dancing and scattering until they vanished from sight. Then he set out for his quarters. He recalled a phrase he had once read somewhere: that the person who could not forgive carried his unhappiness across his own shadow. He thought about this for a while as he lay in bed, but could not quite understand it.
Next morning as he strolled through the town he saw across the street a nurse was coming in his direction. He recognized Gertrud immediately and crossed the street. When she noticed him, her steps swerved; she seemed to wish to pass him by. He blocked her way and said: ‘I wish I were meeting you for the first time now.’
She stood still, the corners of her mouth quivering, but when she spoke her voice was cool and distant. ‘You will have to accept things as they are. Wishes don’t undo what is done.’
By daylight her face seemed even better-wrought than he remembered, and he suddenly realized that she was lovely—more than that, she was beautiful. His hands felt awkward and he thrust them into his jacket pockets. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said quietly. ‘But what is done can sometimes grow or diminish in importance, as one likes.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘I see things as they are, not as I might like to see them afterwards.’
He listened to her voice with delight, and smiled. ‘You are a person with principles. But just between the two of us, wouldn’t you rather like to see our first encounter as different from what it was?’
‘I was speaking generally,’ she replied coolly. Her face flushed slightly, like a glacier at sunrise.
‘If I were a woman,’ he said genially, ‘I would never talk in generalities.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘As for the Pilsner in your canteen, my compliments. I’m going to drop in this evening. Will you be there?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘I won’t drink more than one bottle.’
‘I would recommend a water cure for you.’
She walked swiftly past him. Somewhat taken aback, he watched her until she was out of sight among the trees. Then he set out for his quarters, thoughtful and a little sad.
Notes: Chapter VII
* On the highway to Tuapse
a battalion is marching.
And that is all that’s left
of our division.
We had a glimpse of Tuapse
and cleared out again,
like Napoleon long ago.
VIII
STAFF SERGEANT FETSCHER had worries. He sat in his office staring grumpily out of the window without the slightest awareness of the brilliance of the spring day. At irregular intervals a low, long-drawn-out rumble broke the noonday quiet, and each time he raised his head uneasily, cursed at length and relapsed into gloomy brooding. At last he got up and went out. He gave a wide berth to several ugly craters that had meanwhile appeared in the street and walked slowly toward one of the buildings. As he approached he noticed a group of men busy digging a hole behind the wall of a house. They raised their heads expectantly.
‘You’d better stop,’ Fetscher said morosely. ‘You have to go back up front tomorrow morning.’
‘So soon?’ Pasternack exclaimed. ‘I thought we had a full week back here.’
‘So did I,’ Fetscher growled. ‘Commander’s orders. You’re going to be assigned to the battalion headquarters.’
Krüger climbed out of the hole and shook the dirt from his clothes. ‘Those bastards,’ he griped. ‘They promise us a week of rest and send for us after three days.’
The rest of the men angrily tossed their tools aside. ‘What does Meyer say about it?’ Schnurrbart asked.
Fetscher shrugged. ‘How should I know? It wouldn’t matter anyhow.’ He turned to Dorn, who was cleaning his glasses. ‘They want to see you, too, about officers’ training. Triebig wants to talk to you.’
Dorn opened his mouth to reply; then appeared to change his mind and said nothing. Hollerbach grinned. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Before long you won’t know us.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Dorn said curtly.
Krüger lit a cigarette. ‘If we had only known,’ he said to Fetscher, ‘you would have had to dig your bunker yourself.’
Fetscher shrugged regretfully. ‘Not my fault,’he said. ‘Besides, the bunker was meant for you, not for us. You know we have our own.’
Krüger turned to the others. ‘Don’t matter much whether we’re here or at battalion HQ. Since Ivan’s got the range it’s getting uncomfortable here. I wonder what we’re supposed to do there.’
‘Same thing,’ Fetscher said.
‘You mean dig bunkers?’ Kern asked.
‘Yes.’
‘But they already have theirs,’ Anselm said.
Fetscher grimaced. ‘The commander thinks he needs a deeper one.’
‘He’s got the jitters,’ Schnurrbart sneered.
Fetscher looked disapproving. ‘That’s his order and that’s all there is to it.’ He turned to go.
‘What’ll we do now?’ Schnurrbart called after him.
‘Whatever you like for the rest of the day. Do up your uniforms.’
Back at his desk, Fetscher sat down, sighing, and turned unhappily through a sheaf of papers. For the tenth time that day he told himself that there must be some special significance to it when a battalion commander asked for the personal papers of a platoon leader. Two days ago Stransky had called him up and ordered him to send Master Sergeant Steiner’s service record book up to the battalion command post. He had sensed trouble at once, and his feeling had persisted even though the papers were returned the following day. Of course Stransky now knew that Steiner had once been broken. Fetscher had long known all about this black mark on Steiner’s record, and had formed his own opinion about it. But he had guarded his knowledge carefully and had made sure the incriminating papers never were seen by anyone else. Why Stransky’s knowing should disturb him so acutely, he could not say. He wondered whether he ought to write to Steiner about it. Then he realized that the letter would reach Gursuf too late. He could only let things take their course, and be prepared for a talk with Meyer, who would certainly get wind of the matter before long. Cursing again, he tried to concentrate on the papers in front of him. But the work went miserably. Two hours later, when he left the house to find the clerk, he had with him the recommendation for Krüger’s promotion to corporal.
‘Say what you will,’ Schnurrbart remarked, ‘the calm in this sector here isn’t going to last another
week; I feel it in my piss.’ Four of them were sitting in their quarters, smoking. Krüger spat on the floor and turned to Dorn. ‘If you’re smart, you’ll clear out. If Ivan starts getting nasty here, we’re done for. Don’t be silly. By the time the training course is over the war will be over too, and when the war is over it won’t matter a damn to you whether you were an officer or a private.’
‘I cannot reconcile that with my conscience,’ Dorn said. ‘Conscience!’ Krüger puffed contemptuously. ‘When you’re a stiff you can stick your conscience up your arse. You’re married, aren’t you?’ Dorn nodded silently. ‘Well, then what is there to consider? Think of your wife. You have some children too?’ Dorn nodded again. Krüger turned to Schnurrbart, who was sucking vigorously at his pipe. ‘What do you say to such an idiot? Has a wife and children and refuses to leave this rat-trap because he can’t “reconcile it with his conscience” to be one of Adolf’s officers.’
‘He’s mad,’ Schnurrbart said quietly.
‘Insane,’ Anselm agreed. He was sitting on a wooden box, a harmonica in his hands.
They all looked at Dorn who sat with drooping head and did not answer them. It was late evening. In the east the front continued to rumble; for seconds at a time the sky was bathed in red light. Schnurrbart asked a question: ‘What is your wife’s name?’
Dorn raised his head. ‘Maria.’
‘And the children’s?’
‘Betty and Jürgen,’ Dorn murmured.
Schnurrbart nodded. He removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke in an oddly hoarse voice. ‘If I had a Maria and a Betty and a Jürgen, I would seriously ask myself whether I had the right to determine for myself alone what was to become of me and of them. That’s what I’d think about, and to hell with my so-called conscience.’
Krüger looked at him with admiration. ‘You sound like a preacher, but you’re right.’ He turned to Dorn again. ‘It doesn’t matter to me what you do. Principles are neither here nor there. But I’ll tell you this: if you decide to play the hero again, I’m finished with you till the next ice age. Remember that.’
Dorn raised his head dolefully. Everything the men were saying he had considered himself. If it were only a matter of overcoming his distaste for an officer’s career, he might long ago have given in. But there was something else. He made the effort to convey it to them: ‘You make the matter out as more simple than it really is. After all, we have grown used to one another and-’
There was a moment’s silence before Krüger growled: ‘That’s sheer sentimentality. You’re mad, man.’ He waved his arms violently in an effort to conceal his real emotion. ‘I want to tell you something. One of these days every one of us sitting here will be laid out stiff as a poker. What good will it be to you then, eh?’ He leaned toward Dorn and fixed him with a fierce gaze. ‘Not a damn bit of good, that’s what. If you clear out now, at least you won’t have to watch them chop us into mincemeat. And they will, let me tell you.’ To reinforce his declaration he let out a fart so loud that it elicited from Schnurrbart a respectful grunt. Then he stood up. ‘I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow morning the circus starts again.’ Schnurrbart also stood up, yawning. ‘Think it over,’ he said to Dorn. ‘You won’t miss us like your children are going to miss you. Good night.’ He followed Krüger into the house.
As Dorn was about to get up also, Anselm placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hold on a minute, please,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’
Although Dorn felt little inclination to converse, he nodded encouragingly. There was a long pause as Anselm pondered how to begin. At last he asked: ‘You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Dorn answered in surprise.
‘Are you a good Catholic?’
‘I hope so.’
Anselm clasped his arms across his chest. ‘I thought you were, but I wanted to make sure. I’ve been meaning to talk with you for a long time. But now that you may be going away I don’t want to put it off any longer.’
The elaborate preface aroused Dorn’s curiosity. Trying to catch an impression of Anselm’s face in the darkness, he said: ‘By all means tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘It isn’t easy to talk about,’ Anselm stammered. He pulled himself together and went on: ‘You see, I’m Catholic too. Maybe you have a low opinion of me on account of the stories I’ve told about women and so on.’
Dorn shook his head. ‘We all have our weaknesses,’ he said quietly.
Anselm nodded, relieved. ‘A fellow can talk with you,’ he said in a pleased tone. ‘Anyway, it isn’t half as bad as it sounds; I mean, a fellow likes to boast a bit.’ He laughed abashedly. ‘Of course I’ve done a lot in that field, but it was always just the way things turned out, and after all a fellow is only human.’ Dorn’s continuing silence revived his uncertainty. He scratched his throat and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know whether you as a married man can understand that. But when a fellow gets to a certain age and has no chance to marry, it’s damned hard to get along without it. Or don’t you think so?’
‘Of course it is hard,’ Dorn said, looking down at the ground.
Anselm moved closer, and his voice took on a pleading note. ‘I want you to believe what I say—I’ve always gone to church and to confession gladly, but since the first time I had a girl there was just no sense to it. I confessed it twice. Lord, you should have heard what a pig he made me out to be, talking about irresponsibility and sinful lust of the flesh and so on. He took on like it was high treason, and then I just stopped going, so of course then there wasn’t any sense in going to church any more.’ He fell silent and looked uneasily at Dorn, whose head was still bowed. The topic was not new to him.
Dorn placed his hand on Anselm’s shoulder. ‘You yourself must know how strong you are.’
Anselm laughed contemptuously. ‘What good does my strength do me if I can’t sleep at night and go crazy when I see a woman. I’ve thought about it often, believe me. It would be different if I could say today that in one year or two I would marry, and if I could begin saving up for a house. But even then it would tear me apart. My body needs it, that’s all, and when I don’t have it I don’t feel human.’
Dorn sighed. Without conviction he said: ‘The human body finds a way to cope with it.’
‘I know that,’ Anselm nodded. ‘But you must admit that afterwards it’s only worse. When you get to the point where you start dreaming about it at night, you’re really off your rocker next morning. Besides’—his tone became scornful—‘what is it you dream about? Heaven? Or hell maybe? No,’ he shook his head vigorously, ‘it’s lucky you’re not supposed to take your dreams to confession. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.’
There was little point saying anything, Dorn knew. As he thoughtfully lit a cigarette, he wondered how many men had lost contact with the church on this same issue. He was aware of Anselm’s eyes upon him, and shrugged. ‘I cannot help you,’ he said quietly. ‘I married fairly young and can only sympathize, but not really know how you feel.’
‘But you studied philosophy,’ Anselm said helplessly.
Dorn smiled painfully. ‘Yes, I studied philosophy, but this is a problem you would do better to take to a priest. He will be able to discuss it with you far more sensibly than I can. Try our divisional chaplain one of these days. He is a man with both feet firmly on the ground. Tell him everything, and he won’t just condemn you; he’ll give you some guidance to help you along.’
‘I’ve had enough of all of them,’ Anselm said in disgust.
‘You ought not to say that,’ Dorn replied gravely. ‘Perhaps you ran into a priest who was particularly stern in his judgments. Not all priests are alike. If you feel the need to find your way back, it is always open to you. But in God’s name you must also give up your prejudices.’
‘I’ll think it over,’ Anselm said. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘I’ll stay out a while.’
Anselm said good night and walked off swiftly. Dorn si
ghed again. He tossed his cigarette away and remained sitting under the clear April sky for a long time. Should he become an officer? The longer he thought about it, the more difficult it was to decide. He recalled his wife’s last letter: that he must not worry and that all were well at home. At home.... He clasped his hands over his knees and lifted his face to the stars. Home, he thought, and felt his eyes filling with tears. It was long past midnight before he went into the house.
They set out early next morning and reached the battalion command post in good time. Schnurrbart went into the adjutant’s bunker to report the arrival of the platoon. Triebig received him in his shirt sleeves, his face lathered and his razor in one hand. He turned his head, annoyed at being disturbed so early. Recognizing Schnurrbart, he asked him to wait. When he had finished shaving, he went outside with Schnurrbart and gave the men their instructions. ‘And be snappy about it,’ he said. ‘The bunker must be ready by tomorrow night. You can ask the signals platoon for tools.’
He beckoned to Dorn and went back into the bunker with him. Offering Dorn a cigarette, he came to the point at once. ‘We don’t want you to feel pressed,’ he said in a friendly tone. ‘But a man of your abilities must know himself where his place is. At any rate I cannot imagine that you feel comfortable in your present situation. We need officers, men who are above average, and I really see no reason why you hold back. In a few days you can be on your way back home, that surely would be a treat for you. Moreover, it’s a chance of getting out of Russia for good. I assure you, I would not hesitate for a moment if I were in your position.’
Dorn hunched his shoulders in torment. Although he had scarcely closed his eyes during the night, and had been turning the matter about in his mind the whole night through, he had not yet been able to decide. Triebig talked with him a while longer and spread out a number of papers on the table. ‘All you need do is sign. Naturally you will be given some leave first and can be back home with your family for Easter.’
‘I don’t know,’ Dorn murmured, staring at the papers.
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