Suddenly a man holding his hands in the air, a civilian, came into the room. On his feet he wore light canvas boots; his trousers were dark blue, and a heavy jacket covered his naked torso.
The corporal’s words died on his pinched lips; had Stani suddenly walked in among them, their surprise could not have been greater.
The man who stood before them with imploring hands was about sixty years old. His forehead was both broad and high, his ears unnaturally large and thin, his chin weak, and his eyes softly glowing.
The drinkers sprang up from their seats. Zacharias took his submachine gun down from a nail, flicked off the safety catch, and aimed the barrel at the stranger.
“What are you doing here?” asked Willi mistrustfully.
The civilian turned around; behind him stood Wolfgang “Milk Roll” Kürschner.
“I picked him up along the way,” he said excitedly.
“He was alone?”
“Yes.”
“Was he carrying any weapons?” the corporal asked.
“No. But he might have tossed them away at the last minute.”
“So, no reason to get worked up?”
“The man speaks good German,” said Wolfgang.
“Where did you find him?”
“Under the railroad bridge. I watched him slowly coming our way.”
“And then?”
“When he was in front of me, at first I wanted to shoot him.”
“And why didn’t you, you big baby?”
“He was standing only four meters from my hiding place. I would have had to shoot him in the back of the head. I couldn’t…”
“And suppose he would have put a couple of new holes in your lily-white ass? You would have said, ‘Thanks,’ right? You must have peat for brains. Wait outside until I call you in again. Got that?”
“Yessir.”
“Then beat it…As for you, my friend,” Willi said inscrutably to the civilian, “you’ll have a seat here with us. And now you’ll tell us a story. But for God’s sake, not a fairy tale. Fairy tales are only good for grownups. And we’re children…Melon!”
“Yes.”
“Give him some strong drink.”
“From my bottle?”
“You are obliged to offer our guest some refreshment. That’s an order! Who taught you manners? Did you grow up inside a gasoline can, or what?”
“All right, all right, I’ll give him a drink…”
“Come on, Gramps,” said Willi, “sit down with us. We honor the elderly. We have a high opinion of the Stone Age, that’s what you used to call it, I think. Here, take the stool in the middle. Right, that’s it. Old bones need to rest. So what’s your name?”
The civilian spoke seriously and with dignity: “My name is Jan Kowolski, and I’m the parish priest in Tomashgrod.”
“You don’t say. Your name’s Jan, and you’re a priest. A soul-catcher, right?”
The corporal took the cup the fat soldier had filled and pushed it over to the old man. “Drink, little brother,” Willi said. “Down the hatch, to the health of our souls. We sure need it. Don’t you want to?”
“I don’t drink,” the priest said.
“Oh, you don’t drink,” Willi repeated cynically.
Poppek, looking at the stranger through glassy eyes, called out triumphantly, “Your Jesus was a boozer too. Don’t you remember Cana, Bible-thumper? If you don’t drink, I’m going to beat your—”
“Quiet!” Willi screamed, laying his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Anyone who assaults this man will have to deal with me. Listen, Switch-switch, or whatever your name is: Did the kid who brought you here do anything to you? Did he hit you or abuse you in any way? Don’t worry, you can tell us. If he did anything like that, he’ll be punished for it.”
“He treated me decently,” said the civilian. “He asked me to come along with him, and that’s what I did.”
“Of course you came along with him. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. So you’re saying he didn’t hit you?”
“No. At first he pressed the barrel of his rifle against my back, but when he saw I wasn’t making any move to run away, he stopped.”
“Hmm,” said Willi. A coughing fit forced him to stand up. His spine formed a curve and his mouth filled with saliva as he hurried to the entrance, leaned—still bending forward—against one of the doorposts, gestured over to the table for someone to help him breathe by pounding on his back, and finally stood up straight while Zacharias’s fists cautiously pummeled him from behind.
“Rust in the lungs,” he said, spat, and went slowly back to his stool.
“So where were we?” Willi asked. “Ah, right: Milk Roll treated you well.”
“Yes.”
“Glad to hear it. Do you think he would have shot you if you had tried to escape?”
“Yes.”
“Well. Thank God. And you were caught by the big bridge?”
“I was passing near it.”
“You were passing near it. Are you sure you don’t want just a sip?”
“No, thank you.” The priest sat there rigid, his hands flat on his thighs; he seemed like a machine, mechanically answering questions.
Willi said, “Did the kid knock you down?”
“No. He jumped out suddenly from behind a buttress and ordered me to put my hands up.”
“And that’s what you did. You were surprised, weren’t you?”
“I was surprised.”
“And your pistol, did you throw it away?”
“I never carry weapons.”
“I know,” said Willi. “Only sticks of dynamite. God works in mysterious ways.”
“I don’t understand,” the priest said softly.
“Don’t worry, I don’t understand it either. But say, would you like a cigarette?”
“I thank you, but I don’t smoke or drink.”
“You take long walks instead, I know. Tomashgrod is far away, isn’t it? You must have started out before noon today. Is that your priest’s suit?”
“I was called to minister to a peat farmer. When I have to go to the country, I always wear old clothes.”
“Which allows you to save on shirts, as we see. Aren’t you cold?”
“It’s warm in the daytime, and when you’re walking—”
“But it’s so easy to stray from the path,” Willi said, interrupting him. “Did your way take you past the bridge?”
“I wanted to avoid a detour.”
“You speak good German. Where did you learn it?”
“I was in Germany thirty-two years ago. I studied there. In Königsberg and Jena.”
“Just listen to this. You probably studied how to make long ways short and short ways long. What do you think about Germany? Tell the truth!”
“I liked it a lot. Königsberg meatballs.”
Poppek cried out, “He was really there! Whoever eats those meatballs—”
“Quiet!” Willi commanded. “What did you like about Germany besides Königsberger Klops?”
“Tilsit cheese.”
“And what else?”
“Kant.”
“What’s that?” Willi asked before draining his cup in one swig.
“A philosopher.”
“So,” said the corporal when the priest fell silent, “that’s what you liked the best. What else do you know about Germany?”
The civilian stayed quiet.
“You probably don’t know there’s a war going on at the moment, do you? The whole world’s trembling before us, even before me, Prussian Corporal Stehauf! And you don’t know that! And I’m sure no one has told you that every now and then one of our trains gets blown up in these parts!”
“I have heard about that,” said the priest.
“Do you have yo
ur papers?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have them on me.”
“Jesus is your identity card. Was that what you were about to say? Say his name, and you get through every checkpoint. That’s what you thought inside your little head, right? But your head was mistaken! A complimentary ticket, you thought, a free ride! Where’s your pistol?”
“I don’t carry a weapon.”
“You want me to make him talk?” asked Poppek.
“You stay in your seat,” said Willi. “This man has told the truth, and those who stand up for the truth have nothing to fear. Do you all understand that? If you’re up to your neck in lies, they’re going to drown you one day. Nothing can be done about that.” Willi turned to the priest and went on: “On your feet, old boy, stand up. You can go wherever you want. You’ve earned your freedom, because you didn’t abuse the truth. So why are you still sitting on your stool? Are you stuck there? Hit the road, my friend, quick quick quick! Before I change my mind.”
The priest rose timidly, staring at the corporal with incredulous eyes.
“Do you want to spend the night here?”
“No, no, sir. I’m going. Many thanks, sir. Good evening.”
Stepping hesitantly, the civilian left.
Willi went to the window and pushed it wide open. He signaled to Zacharias to hand him his submachine gun. Proska sat up in his bed; the other men crowded around the doorway.
The priest was stiffly descending the slope; at the alder bridge, he stopped and with one foot tested the stability of the tree trunk. Apparently satisfied, he drew up his other foot, transferring his weight forward, and started to pick his unsteady way across.
Then the clattering roar of the submachine gun burst the silence; the priest threw up one arm, lost his footing, spun in a circle on one leg—a movement that struck Melon as practically balletic—and plunged into the ditch.
Zacharias and Poppek wanted to run to him, but Willi called out, “Stay here! You can pull him out tomorrow morning. I just wanted to make sure the dynamite got soaked.”
“He’s got dynamite?” the fire-eater asked excitedly.
“In his inner jacket pocket. You’ll see for yourselves tomorrow.”
1 Translator’s note: “Dover,” pronounced in German, has the same sound as Doofer, a colloquial word for “fool.”
• FIVE •
Suddenly they could all feel a thick, unyielding fatigue in their bones, and none of them was as enthusiastic as before about seeing the fat soldier swallow fire. That he had received a considerable portion of schnapps for nothing, with no performance in return, was a matter of indifference to them, even though ordinarily they would have attached great importance to it. They became quiet, almost pensive; their gestures lost all pugnaciousness. They made faces as though they were suffering from a shared, invisible, but nonetheless painful disease, an indefinable disease that made them rise above themselves and brought them to the realization that every loud complaint, every superfluous word, every blasted cliché was a sign of their extreme absurdity, and that they did well, and possibly even best, when they kept silent, savored their weariness, and unhesitatingly conformed to the boundless equanimity of the landscape they were living in. This disease was a kind of nostalgia for nothingness, a macabre longing to plunge into remote pools of oblivion, to be no longer there; the men felt heavy and surfeited, a feeling reflected in a coolheaded disdain for death.
Willi walked over to Proska’s bed and said in a neutral voice, “Get ready to go on patrol. Do you have a carbine?”
“An assault rifle,” Proska said, and he swung himself down from his lofty bed.
“Very good,” the corporal opined. “Automatic weapons are more useful here. You’ll go out with little Milk Roll. The kid’s waiting outside. If you fall asleep, you’ll be court-martialed. But I don’t have to explain that to you. Get going.”
Proska got going. He wound the footwraps around his ankles, put on boots and jacket, seized his weapon, and left the Fortress.
Little Milk Roll was sitting on the bench outside.
“There you are,” said the PFC.
“My name is Wolfgang Kürschner.”
“And I’m Proska, Walter…You know the paths we’re supposed to take, right?”
“Paths is an exaggeration. I know how to get there and how to get back. We won’t lose our way.”
“If you’re so confident, I’m sure we won’t. As far as I’m concerned, we may as well leave now.”
The two men entered the mixed-growth forest, entered a boisterously fermenting, matted, and interwoven paradise of fecundity. The alders struck at them and the birches struck at them, and the underbrush grabbed at their legs with ghostly hands. A lush darkness surrounded them, a darkness sated like an Arab after the banquet that ends his fasting; a darkness that could have belched at any moment; a completely different darkness from what one imagines under a nun’s cruel skirts: this darkness was oily and warm, it was the darkness of the marsh forest, and you could have banged your head or your shin against it.
Milk Roll, tired and silent, led the way. Actually, he already had one watch behind him, but he found it pointless to wonder how he came to be on patrol again already.
It occurred to Proska that he hadn’t eaten anything, and while he was considering whether he should go back and grab at least a slice of bread, he collided with the young soldier.
“Is something wrong?” he hissed.
“I don’t know,” the other said. “We have to keep right if we want to reach the railroad. It’s always red hot here.”
“What does that mean?”
“You can’t see, and you’re being seen.”
“Let’s go right then.”
The two soldiers fought their way through the darkness; they stumbled, cursed, and ran into tree trunks, but they made forward progress. They were unobserved, and no one could have prevented them from lying down on the ground to sleep, and in sleep to forget and to overcome fear, which both of them, even though they wouldn’t have admitted it, had in their hearts. But they pressed on, pushed by habit, pulled by Willi’s orders.
Bathed in sweat, they reached the edge of the forest. They were standing on a knoll. Before them lay a marshy meadow, and beyond it they recognized the artificial embankment of the railroad. The rails gleamed like dead metallic worms. Proska sat on a fallen trunk and said, “Don’t you want to rest for a bit?”
Milk Roll sat down next to him. They held their weapons across their laps like children.
“It’s not so dark here,” said Proska. “Do I dare light a cigarette?”
“I wouldn’t. The second they see a spark, they shoot.”
“They’re apparently very enterprising, the folks around here.”
“And unpredictable. I sometimes think they keep us alive just to torment us.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Proska. He tried to make out Milk Roll’s face.
“There are seven of us. There are probably more than a hundred of them. They shouldn’t have any problem smoking us out of the Fortress. They’ll probably do it one of these days. I’d just like to know what’s stopping them from doing it now.”
Proska was silent for a while, and then he said, “You seem resigned to the idea that you’ll never get out of here alive. So why do you stay in this godforsaken place?”
Milk Roll answered, “My father was killed in battle near Warsaw. My mother’s worried about me, but if I were to desert, she’d die. Maybe I stay here for her sake. You’ve been at the front, and when you’re there, you have little or no opportunity to think about running away. It’s different here.”
Proska said, “We have to stick it out. But the sight of this Willi person makes me want to do the opposite. There have been times before when I was on the point of going AWOL. But something always forced me to come back.”
&nbs
p; “It’s this so-called duty,” said Milk Roll contemptuously. “They’ve shot us up with the stuff, like dope. They use it to make us crazy and dependent. They give us a refined injection of duty serum to get us good and loaded. When someone around us plays a few notes on the fatherland flute, a hundred listeners get red, thirsty throats, all at the same time, and they cry out for some national consciousness schnapps! That’s the way things are. Then toasts are drunk and oaths are sworn, and you’re in the trap.”
“Are you a student?” asked Proska.
“Yes—and then there’s this obedience. Consider Stehauf, who’s just a stupid, nasty guy. He can do whatever he wants to you. I can’t take it anymore, Walter. If he keeps tormenting me the way he’s done in the last few weeks, I’m going to disappear.”
“What did he do to you?”
“He got drunk while I was on patrol, and when I came back, he made me wade through the latrine, not once, no, but four times. Thank God Thighbone was close by. He got furious and grabbed his submachine gun and fired off a barrage over our heads. That put a scare into Willi, and he ran into the Fortress.”
“He’s a prick,” Proska said. “If he tries that with me, I’ll lay him out. Were you there when he shot the priest in the back?”
“I was outside. I saw the man fall into the ditch.”
“Stehauf said he had some sticks of dynamite in his coat pocket.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he did.”
Proska slowly stood up, plucked at the soaked seat of his pants, which was stuck to his skin, and said, “If I stay here another month, I’ll stop being normal. Then we can make a break for it together. I don’t know why I’m here anymore either. I’m waiting for the coup de grâce, but why? For who? For my sister, Maria? She’s doing fine. Maybe right now, as we speak, she’s lying in her goose-feather bed with my brother-in-law and letting him knead her thighs with his torn-up hands. For Rogalski? He’s my brother-in-law. If I wasn’t around anymore, everything would be going just as well for him as it is now. And Hilde? She’s the woman I sometimes…well, you know what I mean. Who knows who she’s undressing for tonight? For Germany? What is Germany, what can that be?”
“Right,” said Milk Roll, almost panting with excitement. “What is this Germany they stuff our ears with? Danton declared you can’t carry your fatherland away with you on the soles of your shoes. I can! Do you understand that? Germany isn’t a cloud of incense, it’s a thing you can taste, feel, cut. I can carry my fatherland away under my shirt, and if they shoot the life out of my head, then there just won’t be any Germany for me anymore. Don’t misunderstand me: of course there’s a country where I was born, a country I especially love. I love it because I know its highways and byways, because it’s locked up in my heart. But I wouldn’t let myself get gunned down for some highway or byway, like my father. He actually spoke of ‘Duty’ and ‘Willingness’ and spouted all the rest of that rhetorical poison they drip into you. You understand me, Walter? We’re Germany too, it’s not just those others, and since we’re Germany, it would be complete idiocy for us to sacrifice ourselves for Germany, that is, for ourselves. That would be just like a bear cutting a slice off his own haunch and starting to eat it, even though he’s in great pain, and all the while he keeps persuading himself that he must make sacrifices.”
The Turncoat Page 7