‘What idea?’
‘That,’ Steiner said impatiently, gesturing at the men.
‘You can see for yourself,’ März replied. ‘Do you imagine we’re going to climb over the fence?’
Steiner stared at him. ‘Does that mean we attack from this point?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Of course,’ März said.
They stood in silence. From the direction of the factory a Russian machine-gun chattered now and then. Further to the south a violent skirmish seemed to be going on. Heavy artillery detonations boomed in unbroken succession. Before the mountains loomed dark clouds of smoke that stretched higher and higher, dirtying the cloudless sky. Steiner looked at the houses across the street. Their white stucco showed ugly wounds; they glistened starkly in the cold morning sunlight. An uncomfortable sensation crawled down his spine. ‘It’s mad,’ he murmured. ‘I hope you realize what our chances are.’
‘I do.’ März nodded indifferently. Steiner looked at the men. They were working away eagerly, as though the fence were the last obstacle between them and a storehouse full of provisions. The thought amused him so much that he laughed aloud. März looked up at him in astonishment. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing. I just thought of something funny.’
‘Of yourself, by any chance?’
‘For once no. I thought of a stupid rat desperately looking for a way into a trap.’
‘That certainly is funny,’ März replied. His face was deadly earnest.
As Steiner started to turn away, the lieutenant gripped his shoulder. ‘Don’t forget the flag. The commander wants it.’
‘He can use it to be wrapped in at his funeral,’ Steiner growled. He went over to his men. They were sitting on the ground about sixty yards away.
‘How’s it look?’ Schnurrbart asked. He held his cold pipe clenched between his teeth. His face looked sunken and weary. Steiner sat down beside him without replying. He leaned his back against the fence and stared across the street. ‘Are we supposed to attack here?’ Kern asked anxiously.
Steiner nodded. Krüger propped himself up on his right elbow. ‘We won’t get across,’ he said definitely. ‘We’ll all be finished in this business, you can depend on that.’
‘Maybe luck’ll be on our side,’ Maag murmured. It was evident from his voice that he did not believe his own words.
Faber said nothing. The machine-gun tucked between his legs, he stared absently at the ground. Suddenly they all jerked at once. Above their heads, so close that they imagined they could feel the wind of their passage, a series of heavy shells swished by and exploded behind their backs in the factory yard. ‘It’s starting,’ Steiner murmured. They turned on their stomachs, pushed the slats somewhat to one side, and watched the barrage. The next round drummed against the factory walls, and they saw the walls burst apart. The building vanished behind a yellow-black cloud of smoke that slowly mounted upward. Ineffective, Steiner thought. The building was solid; there was no reason to think that a dozen holes in the walls would seriously weaken the enemy’s resistance. His glance fell upon a small black beetle that crawled under the fence and disappeared into a tiny hole. He swallowed. We’re too damn big, he thought. As he stared at the ground, aware that he was envying a beetle, he suddenly thought of Anne, and his throat contracted so that he had difficulty in breathing. The hellish report above his head continued. Insanely loud, the shells howled above the roofs, cleaving the air and crashing into the factory. Hooeeee-vumn, hooeeee-vumn. It went on and on. He turned his head and saw beside him Kern’s sallow face. Kern lay on the ground, lips twitching, steel helmet pressed against the fence. Faber was squatting on his heels, the machine-gun clutched in his hands, his eyes shut. Krüger and Schnurrbart were peering through the cracks in the fence at the factory yard, the skin over their cheekbones so taut it seemed on the point of ripping. Maag was on his other side, the freckles on the white skin of his face like drops of blood on snow.
Then there was an abrupt silence. Somewhere a piercing cry rang out. Steiner saw the men jump up, reach for the slats of the fence and tug at them. The big nails in the wood squealed as though several dozen doors were moving on rusty hinges, and the boards thumped to the ground. Then the yard lay before them. Smooth, flooded with sunlight. A slaughtering yard, Steiner thought, and began running. Two hundred steps to the factory. Two hundred ridiculous steps to the grey basalt walls behind which the Russians lay. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs, sweat streaming down his face. He panted. Two hundred steps, twenty seconds. Since Anne plunged over the cliff two thousand years had passed, or was it more? Twenty seconds; it was ridiculous. He heard his breath whistling, saw the scurrying shadows of the men to his left and right, felt biting dust in his eyes and stumbled and ran and gasped. They had covered half the distance when machine-gun fire blazed in their faces. They had taken a hundred steps, and fell to the ground as though they had stumbled over a wire. Within ten seconds the company lay like a writhing, many-limbed animal in the factory yard, and somewhere a man began to scream as though he had three voices. Seconds later a second began, and then another, then many. They lay screaming on the ground, and over them and into them pelted the bullets from half a dozen Russian machine-guns. And then came the artillery fire. The yard was transformed into a forest of darting fountains of smoke, as though the earth had broken open in a hundred places, and the screams of the wounded and dying men were drowned by the garish explosions. Steiner lay two paces away from Kern and stared at the one-time innkeeper, whose right arm stuck up into the air like a post, fingers curiously outspread. Steiner lay beside the dead man, and two paces farther on Maag had his freckled face pressed against the ground as though he had discovered there a shaft leading through the earth, with the blue sky above the Azores on the other side. Steiner lay between the dead men and felt clods of earth raining down on his back, felt the hot breath of steel fragments hissing by, and in his head was nothing but a roaring which made him scarcely hear the infernal din in the factory yard. In the cemetery, he thought, closing his eyes. He heard a voice calling his name, but did not stir. He stayed still, his thoughts flying amid swooping in great circles, and he heard another voice saying: ‘... And none of you will go without his reward...’ But it sounded unreal and remote. It must have been in a barracks yard, he thought. A voice ringing out across a barracks yard in which stood eight hundred men in new uniforms and shining boots. How far away was that? Six million steps and more, and across the factory yard it was only two hundred.
He raised his head and looked toward the road. A hundred paces from the fence, he thought; only half the distance. And he saw several dozen men running in between the detonations of the shells, running, throwing themselves to the ground, picking themselves up and racing on, until they vanished from sight. Suddenly he realized that it had been Schnurrbart’s voice calling his name.
At that he pushed himself up. He pushed himself away from the ground and for a moment stood upright. As he turned around he saw März. The lieutenant came stumbling across the yard, eyes wild, mouth open, arms dangling slackly at his sides, and Steiner heard him shouting. But he could not understand a word, When a shell struck near März, he tipped over as though his legs had been knocked from under him, and Steiner ran toward him. He looked neither to right nor to left and ran over to him. For a second he stared down at him, then slung the man over his shoulder and stumbled blindly through the fire. He ran like a machine, utterly without sensation, eyes closed, thinking: You will all receive your reward. All of you. He tripped over bodies, slid heavily into shell-holes that opened before him, panted through dark clouds of smoke, until suddenly he saw the fence before him. The weight of the lieutenant seemed to increase tenfold. As Steiner ran across the street, his knees threatened to give in. He saw several men in a doorway shouting at him, saw a familiar face as Schnurrbart came running toward him, and then the tons of weight fell from his shoulder and he plunged into the vestibule of a house, where he lay groani
ng and half unconscious. You will all receive your reward, he thought again, and closed his eyes. There was a great stillness within him.
Toward evening Kiesel entered the commander’s room. He found the lieutenant-colonel studying some papers which he quickly laid aside on perceiving Kiesel. His face expressed uneasiness and concern as he asked: ‘Well?’
‘He was lucky,’ Kiesel replied, sitting down. ‘I found him at the clearing station. He had already been operated on and was out of ether when I came. But now he is probably...’ Kiesel glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘At this moment he must be on his way to the ferry. In a few days he’ll be in a hospital back home.’
‘I’m glad for him and for you,’ Brandt said heartily. ‘What do you think your sister will say to that?’
Kiesel stared reflectively at the floor. ‘She will thank his lucky star,’ he replied. ‘His lucky star and Steiner.’
The commander’s head jerked up. ‘Steiner? What about Steiner?’
‘If it were not for Steiner he would have lain there and bled to death. Steiner carried him back. März told me about it himself.’
‘Can you guess what I am thinking?’ Brandt asked softly.
When Kiesel said nothing, he turned and slowly approached his adjutant. ‘I am thinking of what would have happened to März if I had accepted your recommendation and transferred Steiner. I can’t help thinking of that now.’
‘I have already thought of that,’ Kiesel said.
Brandt looked down at him. ‘Do you still remember what you said about providence?’
Kiesel nodded silently. For a while Brandt stood motionless, looking over his head into a corner of the room. Then he returned to his chair and sat with head bowed.
Kiesel looked over at the tall windows. The ruins of the city towered into a fiery sky. The light of the setting sun flooded in through the window panes, casting bars of brightness on the intricate pattern of the rug. He watched as the sunlight neared the wall, flowing over the white-painted wood of the baseboard and almost imperceptibly crawling up the wallpaper. On an antique chest stood a plaster bust of Lenin staring pop-eyed at the leggy china-closet on the opposite wall, in which a delicate Biedermeier tea service was arrayed. Rendezvous of the centuries, Kiesel thought, feeling an odd sense of grief. The commander picked up a sheet of paper and raised his head. ‘Captain Morlock was here.’
Kiesel raised his eyebrows expectantly. Captain Morlock was Chief Operations Officer of Division. He seldom came down to the regiment; when he did, it was always on something of special importance. Controlling his curiosity, Kiesel waited. He watched Brandt consult the sheet of paper again. Finally he thrust it into a drawer which he carefully locked. ‘Top secret, for commanders only,’ he said tersely.
Kiesel regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes. Then he said: ‘We’re evacuating.’ It was not a question, but a statement.
‘How do you know?’ Brandt asked.
‘A guess. It’s been in the air a long time.’
Brandt nodded wearily. ‘The day is still secret.’
‘And why are we attacking?’ Kiesel asked.
‘Camouflage tactics. As long as we keep on attacking the Russians won’t expect us to evacuate the bridgehead. It has to be done, senseless as it seems.’
‘When do you think we’ll go?’
‘Today, tomorrow, the day after.’ Brandt shrugged. ‘We’re waiting for the cue. The evacuation has been prepared down to the last detail. What bothers the big brass is the unexpected invasion of the Russians in Novorosisk. They think it important for that to be cleaned up first.’
‘We’re too weak,’ Kiesel said.
Brandt, who had been pacing the room, paused in front of an engraving in a gilded frame on the wall. He stood studying the print for a moment. Then he turned toward Kiesel again. ‘Morlock holds the same opinion. But we dare not leave anything untried. There’s too much at stake. According to information reaching Division, the Russians have been concentrating their strength for months. It’s going to be a race with time, and everything depends upon whether we can carry out the step-by-step evacuation as planned. Novorosisk is the first monkey-wrench in the machinery.’ He went to the table and leaned over the map. ‘Vogel has reached the waterfront. Körner is still fighting around the centre. Stransky is stuck in front of the factory, while his first and third companies are brawling with the Russians somewhere and sending alarming radio messages. My picture of it is beginning to be quite a mess.’
Kiesel stood up and looked over his shoulder at the map. ‘What is Stransky going to do?’
‘I’ve ordered him to occupy the factory after dark. Triebig will lead the second company’s attack. Let’s hope they have more success than they did this morning. As long as the Russians hold the factory they’ll be able to keep their little bridgehead on this side. There seem to be four or five warships in the harbour.’ ‘Hopeless,’ Kiesel murmured. He asked a few more questions, which Brandt answered laconically. After a while they sat down at the table again and discussed the situations of the other battalions.
‘Körner worries me most,’ Brandt remarked, rubbing his chin. ‘He hasn’t advanced a yard and on both sides has exposed flanks which...’ He was interrupted by the urgent shrilling of the telephone. ‘That may be Körner now,’ he said eagerly, answering. Then he frowned and looked up. ‘It’s from Vogel. What.. He fell silent and listened intently. Kiesel saw his features stiffen. He laid back the receiver and spoke dully: ‘Vogel is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Kiesel changed colour.
‘They caught the battalion staff,’ Brandt said. ‘Suddenly broke in from the back of the house. Nobody knows where they came from.’ He leaned forward, probing Kiesel’s pale face. ‘What are we going to do when we lose the war?’
The question was such a bolt from the blue that Kiesel started. He shrugged wearily. ‘Start life all over again,’ he said softly.
A dark frown passed over the commander’s face. ‘You may, but not I. I’m too old to start life all over again.’ His big head drooped. ‘It’s no longer worth it.’
‘There are ways,’ Kiesel murmured without conviction.
‘Certainly.’ Brandt nodded absently. ‘Certainly there are ways. Being a salesman, for example. Going from house to house and door to door. Can you imagine it?’
Kiesel did not reply. Several painful minutes passed, until Brandt laughed harshly. His whole body stiffened. ‘Perhaps we are thinking further ahead than is really necessary. There are other solutions. A hero’s grave, for example, or Siberia, or the National Committee. What do you think about that?’
Kiesel saw mingled rage and anguish in his face, and something of the commander’s hopelessness affected him. ‘I would prefer the first,’ he answered.
‘That surprises me,’ Brandt replied loudly. ‘I would have thought the last.’
Kiesel felt that he was looking for a quarrel, and shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me. That would be an escape into self-deception, and in the long run you can’t go on deceiving yourself.’ ‘What about your ideology?’ Brandt asked scornfully.
Kiesel looked down at his cigarette and remained silent. When the commander drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, he raised his head. His voice was cold as he spoke: ‘I’ll put it this way: in principle I can’t enjoy a full dinner when others sitting beside me are hungry, especially when they wear the same uniform and have sworn the same oath as I have.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Brandt said. His face relaxed. ‘There is no excuse for the Committee,’ he said harshly. ‘They call upon our men to desert, although they know perfectly well what is awaiting them on the other side. Filthy scoundrels.’ He fell silent and began kneading the skin above his cheekbones.
To divert his thoughts, Kiesel spoke of Steiner. ‘I’d like to find out his home address. März asked me for it.’
‘Fetscher will have it,’ Brandt growled. ‘Staff Sergeant Fetscher.’ He was scarcely paying attention, and quickly turne
d the conversation back to personal matters. ‘I’ve never thought about that before,’ he went on. ‘But for several weeks now it’s been weighing on me. I really don’t any longer see what I’d do with myself if I should take off this uniform today.’
‘You’re still a fine figure of a man,’ Kiesel said cautiously.
Brandt laughed twistedly. ‘You mean I might marry again? Are you mad? I was forty when my wife died. Twelve years have passed since then, and I’ve become an inveterate bachelor. Don’t bring that up.’ He lit a cigarette and tossed the match to the floor, where it went on glowing and burned a hole in the rug. They watched it without moving. Their eyes met, and Brandt laughed bitterly. He pointed to the ugly black spot in the vivid design of the rug and said: ‘If I were a married man, I wouldn’t do that sort of thing. But I’m too old to adjust to domesticity. Too old and full of idiosyncrasies.’
‘You would have to find the right woman,’ Kiesel replied.
‘That happens only once. You know that as well as I. Why haven’t you ever married?’
It was a challenge that struck Kiesel to the quick. He bristled as he said: ‘Don’t you know?’
‘Yes, I do know. There’s more talk about you than you have any notion of. The division is full of gossip about it. If what they say is true, you were studying for the ministry until you got mixed up with some girl, who later threw you over. Is that so?’
‘They are well informed,’ Kiesel replied coldly.
‘You should expect that,’ Brandt said. ‘You may think me tactless for saying it to you so bluntly. But I’m not one for this damn beating around the bush. When I talk with somebody, I want him to know where he stands. You’ve escaped into the uniform just as I did, and now that we are probably on the point of losing our uniforms, we’re right back where we once were. And I tell you frankly, I don’t look forward to it.’
Kiesel regarded him expressionlessly. ‘You can shoot yourself,’ he said brutally.
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