The Turncoat

by Siegfried Lenz

  “Things…in…themselves”—Milk Roll was having trouble deciphering his own words—“are innocuous…But…with…the…It’s no use, Walter, it’s just too dark. Did you understand what I meant?”

  “And how,” said Proska. “But the mosquitoes are really bad. I could barely listen. How long does a letter take to reach your mother?”

  “Twelve days. How about yours?”

  “Sometimes four, sometimes fifteen.”

  “How can that be?”

  “No idea.”

  “I hope this letter doesn’t take any longer to get home than usual. The day after tomorrow, I have to go to Tomashgrod. I’ll mail the letter from there. Do you have anything you’d like me to—”

  “I think you can forget that.”

  “What?”

  “Going to Tomashgrod. You can’t.”

  “Why not? I want to mail the letter from headquarters.”

  “It’ll take you a long time to find headquarters. It’s not there anymore, it’s gone.”

  “Did Willi tell you that?”

  “No. He doesn’t know it yet. If he knew, he’d be easier to deal with.”

  “So who told you?”

  “A squirrel.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, Wolfgang. Wanda told me. You know who she is. Not so long ago she came walking along here, in this same exact place. You wanted to shoot her, don’t you remember? If you’d shot her, we wouldn’t know what was going on.”

  “You met her and talked to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she said the battalion headquarters had been transferred?”

  “They pulled out. Didn’t lose a man. We have no more soldiers in Tomashgrod.”

  “Then we’re done for, Walter. Then I can take this letter and—”

  “Don’t tear it up,” Proska said, interrupting Milk Roll. “Give it to me, I’ll hold on to it…We’ve been done for from the start, Wolfgang. As long as we hang around in this marsh, we’re done for.”

  “I’m curious to see the last act.”

  “You shouldn’t be, kid. You’ll get knocked down and you’ll stay down and you’ll never be able to get up again. The final act is the simplest in the world.”

  “At least I still have my rifle.”

  “So what? What does that mean? Come on, give me the letter.”

  Wolfgang handed him the letter and heard Proska’s fingers fold it a couple of times and stick it in a pocket.

  “It won’t be so easy for them to get me, Walter. My father took a bullet in the head. That’s his business. Me, I’d rather take a shot in the back.”

  “You’re thinking about running away?”

  “Yes, and as soon as possible.”

  “But that wouldn’t do you any good.”

  “People always say that at first.”

  “Believe me, Wolfgang, running away makes no sense whatsoever. Where would you go? There’s the river. Marsh on both sides, and them behind you. You wouldn’t get far.”

  “I don’t care. But before I go, I’ll introduce a few of them to some lead.”

  Proska laid his heavy hand on Milk Roll’s shoulder and pressed down on his collarbone. They heard the river licking at the bridge’s concrete pillars and stretched their necks to listen to the weary rustling of the reeds, whose sound reached them from the other bank.

  Milk Roll wanted to stand up.

  “Stay down,” said Proska. “If you weren’t so excited, you’d know you’re talking nonsense.”

  “Do you have a cigarette, Walter?”

  “I thought you didn’t smoke.”

  “I’d like to try it.”

  They each lit a cigarette.

  Proska said, “Things won’t get as bad as all that. I believe we’ll receive some help.”

  “Who are ‘we’?”

  “You and me.”

  “And who’s going to help us?”

  “Wanda.”

  “The girl you met?”

  “Yes. I know she’s got good connections.”

  “With death?” asked Wolfgang ironically.

  “Now that’s enough,” said Proska. “You know, we were together in the reeds. She took off her clothes without saying a word.”

  “Well, well. But what’s she supposed to tell us about?”

  “Do you like the cigarette?”

  “Ugh. No, damn it. I’m going to put it out. But what do you get out of it? Here, you can finish it later. That stuff’s awfully hard on your throat. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Your trachea must be made of lead.”

  “Of steel, like a tank.”

  “Bulletproof?”

  “Bulletproof.”

  “Really, Walter, what do you want with my letter? Why shouldn’t I just tear it up? There’s no point in keeping it. I don’t think we’ll be passing any mailboxes.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Let me tell you something, Wolfgang. I’m still here. You can count on me in every way. I’ve already told you that. Just don’t worry, we’ll get out of here. Leave it to me.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “Not yet. Up to now, we had no idea how things were going to go.”

  “When the war’s over, Walter, I—”

  “It’s not over yet. For us personally, for you and me, maybe it’ll be over soon.”

  “Are you thinking about being taken prisoner?”

  “Among other things.”

  “The only other possibility is death.”

  “There’s a third one.”

  “And that is?”

  “Quiet,” Proska ordered suddenly. He pushed himself off the ground and remained in a squatting position. “Do you hear anything?” he asked.

  “No. Is there someone by the bridge? Shall I take a look?”

  “Stay down…There, there it is again. Sounds like someone’s running between the rails.”

  “I’ll teach him how to do a somersault,” Wolfgang murmured, caressing the bolt of his rifle.

  “What’s wrong with you? You weren’t like this before. Are you scared? There, look over there! That’s a man. Now he’s about to jump down the embankment.”

  “I’ll help him with that,” snarled Wolfgang, aiming his weapon.

  “Are you crazy? Don’t shoot! If you—”

  Blam-blam-blam went Milk Roll’s rifle. The man the bullets were meant for tumbled down the embankment and vanished from sight.

  “One less,” said Wolfgang, and Proska’s heavy hand slammed against his face. He dropped his rifle, started whimpering, and touched his jaw.

  The assistant went into a crouch and crept to the embankment with his finger on the trigger of his weapon. He found a tall man in uniform, lying facedown and not moving.

  “It’s Thighbone!” Proska called out in bewilderment. “For God’s sake…”

  The tall soldier drew up one leg, stood up, and grinned. Massaging his right arm, he said, “Wish you good evening, Proska.”

  “Are you wounded?”

  “Ah, have turned ankle. Why you shoot at comrades?”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “Pjerunje, if you make me kaput, I jump for joy…Was you that shot?”

  “No…My God, you were lucky.”

  “Luck not involved. Was smart, that’s all. If I don’t lie still, you shoot some more.”

  “I didn’t shoot at you, Thighbone.”

  “Who shoot, then? Pikes don’t know to use complicated rifle.”

  “Milk Roll fired at you. The boy’s nerves got the best of him.”

  “Ah, so not bad. If he don’t miss me, then bad.”

/>   They slowly went back to the river.

  “Where are you coming from?” asked Proska.

  “From Tomashgrod,” said Thighbone.

  “What did you do there?”

  “What I did there? Oh, I play priest. I go in church and preach.”

  “Preach what?”

  “I preach this and that…Where is Milk Roll?”

  “We’ll join him in a minute or two. Say, did you see soldiers in Tomashgrod?”

  “Soldiers? No. Only dust, and women and big sticks.”

  “That’s all? How about at army headquarters?”

  “Pjerunje, I go to Tomashgrod as private citizen, not on army duty. Who you two wait for here?”

  “The moon.”

  “He go for swim already? You want to watch him take off undershirt and pants?”

  Proska said, “Can you hear him whimpering?”

  “The moon?”

  “Milk Roll. He got a bite of my fist.”

  “You hit him?”

  “Yes. He can tell you why…Hey, Wolfgang, you know who you shot at?”

  No answer.

  Proska yanked on the tall soldier’s sleeve and whispered softly to him: “He’s probably sulking…I can understand, at his age.”

  The tall soldier stood still and considered. Then he moved his lips close to the assistant’s ear and said, “I disappear now, fast. Wolfgang must not say me hello. When he see who he shot at, he will be sad, maybe even despaired. You understand? He will blame himself.”

  “Suppose he asks me?”

  “Then you say him, he make big marsh bear kaput.”

  “Where are you going now, Thighbone?”

  “To Fortress! Where else? Corporal will be very mad. Ah, schwistko jedno.”

  “Aren’t you carrying a rifle?”

  “Rifle? Ah, cholera, screwup by numbers. Must be on ground around here, close to river. Will make big show tomorrow. Maybe can find gun before. I search morning early. Sun will help.”

  He left Proska standing there and limped back to the bridge, where the deep shadows swallowed him.

  Wolfgang was sitting on the ground and didn’t raise his head when two fingers pulled some strands of his long hair out from behind his ear and threw them in his face. He asked hesitantly, “Walter…did I…did I shoot him?”

  “Yes.”

  “A grown man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he dead? Or…”

  “He is grazing in the heavenly pastures. But calm down, he doesn’t hold it against you.”

  “I’m not angry at you for hitting me, Walter. You shouldn’t assume I am. You know, sometimes I wonder about myself.”

  “I wonder about you too.”

  “Won’t you sit down? Morning won’t be here for a while yet.”

  “We hope.”

  “Is he lying on the embankment? I’d like to go over there. But it’s incredibly hard. It’s awful. The trigger’s so easy to pull, Walter, you don’t expect much to come of it; at least, when I pull a trigger, I never think I could bring a man down. The trigger deceives us by making itself seem tamer than it is. This trigger is a Lucifer, a seducer. As long as the prey is alive and inaccessible, you have an idiotic ambition to see it lying at your feet. But when it’s on the ground in front of you and no longer able to move, then you get furious. So maybe I could give the prey a kick and bring it back to life…I’m not going to the railroad track, Walter. And you?”

  With a sigh, Proska sat down and said, “You don’t need to go there, nobody’s asking you to do that. Your nerves deserted you. You can never let it happen again. If twenty partisans had been in the vicinity, we’d be lounging around with death right now. You were lucky. What was running between the rails was a bear.”

  “There are bears around here?”

  “Probably not that many.”

  “Is one of them lying on the embankment?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you know I shot a bear?”

  “There was a strong odor of bear sweat.”

  Proska smiled to himself and was on the point of telling Wolfgang the truth. He changed his mind, though, because he decided Thighbone’s reservations were well founded.

  Milk Roll thought: I fired and missed, thank God. Father would have hit me too. He was like Walter in many ways. Justice doesn’t reside in the fist, it resides in the head. The sense of justice doesn’t depend on the spirit of any individual. Spirit is immortal…So what does death mean to a man who has lived the life of the spirit? At best, nothing. And in any case, a liberation from the profane cares of this world…Which should preoccupy us more, what’s moral, or what’s useful to us? What’s moral isn’t always useful. What’s useful isn’t always moral. Evidence: the theory of the State. Malice, duplicity, and cruelty are unabashedly applied. And many States in that category have a baffling answer ready, an explanation pulled so to speak out of their coat sleeves. They answer: if all people were angels, the State could renounce the use of harsh measures. Diabolical irony. The despots’ dialectic. Can passions be shut up in the chambers of reason? What are laws, really? Structured, controlled brutality…What am I doing here? How did I let myself wind up here without resisting? And why? Because they would have shot me? Duty to the State is a kind of dried exaltation, enthusiasm in tin cans, long-lasting, shippable, absolutely suitable for storage. Two little holes and it starts dripping out already. A State should be as moral as Nature. Its only subjects should be those who are defective in morality or knowledge. Humility as its Constitution. Article One: mercy. The wind as one member of parliament, the earth as another. Who’s really lying out there on the embankment? I saw him fall over. Now I know who I’ll shoot at.

  Proska thought: Who knows what her role is…Good connections, that’s what she has. Good breasts too…I took no precautions. Suppose she’s pregnant?…I could live with her. Would Rogalski be amazed, or what? And Maria! I wonder what they’d say if I should arrive there one day with my Squirrel. My good brother-in-law Rogalski…that thick-headed Masurian. He knows what he wants, you have to give him that. All the other farmers in Sybba had to hand over five or six horses, but he, of course, only two. It wasn’t his fault that Lene got away from him. A wonderful mare, though she sure was a little wild. The farmhand, Schlimkat or something like that, has her on his conscience. God knows how many whiplashes on the head she took from that awful creep. My God, the farmhand really tormented the poor horse. Especially when he harnessed her for plowing. I was glad about Rogalski’s bad temper back then…that time by the lake, the Tatarensee…he watched Schlimkat banging his boot against the horse’s head. My brother-in-law Rogalski is, after all, a pretty decent guy. He went over there and snatched the whip out of the fellow’s hand and beat him half to death with it. But Lene was already ailing, already too far gone. She bit Schlimkat twice. She should have bitten the fingers off the hand he used to beat her with. Lene had plenty enough opportunities to do that. Too bad that animals don’t usually know how to take advantage of opportunities. We’re much better at that sort of thing…If only we could find an opportunity to get the hell out of here…Anyone who makes war his profession is a criminal. The top brass ruling over us from on high, for example. While we’re sitting here in the marsh. We should knock them off, ’cause then we’d have some peace. Then we could all go home. But the Gang that rules us—they’re very hard to get to. They’re dug in, entrenched behind their sentries. The sentries are comrades, true. And if you want to get to the Gang, you have to go through the sentry posts, but they send everyone away. The Gang must be suppressed! Even though some of the sentries must believe in it. I’d be ready to take on that task. With a good conscience, too…If a man goes to bed with freedom, he must defend it by all possible means. Everything’s permitted to him. I wonder how all this is going to turn out…Damn it, what keeps biting me behind th
at knee…”

  Suddenly Wolfgang asked, “Are you asleep?”

  “No, not all the way.”

  “I thought—”

  “Mistake.”

  “I hit him, didn’t I, Walter? I’m sure he’s lying dead on the embankment.”

  “Go over there and see for yourself. Not a corpse in sight.”

  “You got rid of it, right? You hid it!”

  “Go have a look, kid.”

  “I’ll be right back, Walter. Five minutes.”

  Milk Roll crept along the riverbank, beside the old, ironically gurgling water, strained his eyes, looked under the bridge: darkness. Looked over at the reeds: darkness. Looked at the bushes, looked east and west: darkness. Night reigned everywhere, night and its speechless ally darkness. High over the marsh twinkled the steadfastly melancholy, shimmering faces of the stars. Wolfgang looked up at them.

  “Children,” he murmured.

  He bent down and put two fingers in the river water. It was warm. Far beyond Tomashgrod, a shooting star streaked across the sky. A second soon followed, this one with a gleaming trail. Feigned wealth. Ashes. The mosquito air force soared and dove and produced a dull, monotonous music. Close to the ear, the mosquitoes’ hum sounded evil, malicious, like the voice of a tiny, indignant Siren.

  Proska fell asleep. He’d stretched out full length among the bushes, and that was his error. Had he remained sitting, it couldn’t have happened, but while he was wandering in fabulous weightlessness through the grottoes and quarries of sleep, he didn’t notice that five minutes had passed some time ago, that in fact his pocket watch had recorded the passage of four hours, and that Milk Roll was still not beside him. He became aware of that, however, after the river began to breathe and the cool fog of early morning rose up over the marsh. Proska’s hands and back were cold. Nevertheless, he blinked insouciantly into the dawning light, scratched the hollow of his knee, yawned, reached for his steel helmet and his assault rifle—and recalled that there had been two of them on patrol. He sprang up at once and looked around.

  Of Milk Roll there was nothing to be seen. He wasn’t under the bridge, and not by the railroad track either.