Hirschland glanced around. There was no one else in the cellar. "Are you going?" he whispered. Graeber breathed again. "Yes," he said. "Could you—here is the address—could you tell them at home that everything's fine with me?"
"Why? Can't you write them that yourself?"
"I do, I do," Hirschland whispered. "Always. But they don't believe me. My mother doesn't believe me. She thinks because—"
He broke off and offered the scrap of paper to Graeber. "Here is the address. If a member of my company comes— then perhaps she'll believe it—do you understand? She thinks I wouldn't dare—"
"Yes," Graeber said. "I understand." He took the paper and laid it in his pay book. Hirschland brought out a package of cigarettes. "Here—for your trip—"
"Why?"
"I don't smoke."
Graeber looked up. That was right. He had never seen Hirschland smoking. "Well, fine," he said, and took the package.
"And don't say anything to them about—" Hirschland motioned toward the front. "Just that we're resting.'.'
"Of course. What else would I say?"
"Good. Thanks."
Hirschland left quickly.
Thanks? Graber thought. Why thanks?
He found a place in an ambulance car. The car full of wounded had slid into a ditch in the snow. The man beside the driver had been pitched out of his seat and had broken his arm. Graeber was being taken along in his place. The car followed the road marked with stakes and wisps of straw, circling the village in a wide curve. Graeber saw the company standing in formation in the town square in front of the church. "They have to move up to the front," the driver said. "They're going into the line. Man, where do the Russians get all that artillery?"
"Yes—"
"And they've got plenty of tanks, too. Where do they all come from?"
"From America. Or Siberia. They're supposed to have a lot of factories there."
The driver made his way around a truck that was stuck. "Russia is too big. Too big, I tell you. One just gets lost in it."
Graeber nodded, and drew a blanket around his boots. For a minute he seemed to himself like a deserter. The company was standing darkly on the village square; but he was driving back. He alone. The others were staying here and he was driving back. They had to go to the front. I've earned it, he thought. Rahe said so, too. So why do I think about it? Isn't it just that I'm still afraid someone will come after me and take me back?
A couple of kilometers farther they found another car with wounded that had slipped off the road and was stuck in the snow. They stopped and checked over their stretchers. Two men had died. They unloaded them and in their places took on three wounded from the other car. Graeber helped to load them. Two were amputees; the third had a face wound; he could sit up. Those left behind cursed and screamed. They were stretcher cases for whom there was no room. They felt the terror of all wounded men: to be overtaken by war at the last moment.
"What's the trouble?" the driver asked the chauffeur of the car that was stuck.
"Broken axle."
"Broken axle? In the snow?"
"A man once broke his finger picking his nose. Hadn't you heard that, you novice?"
"Sure. At least you're lucky it's no longer winter. Otherwise all of them would freeze to death."
They drove on. The driver leaned back. "It happened to me two months ago. I was having trouble with the transmission. Making very slow time. The fellows on the stretchers froze solid. Couldn't do a thing. Six were still alive when we finally arrived. Hands, feet, and noses frozen, of course. Getting wounded in the winter in Russia is no joke." He got out a piece of tobacco and bit off a chew. "And the ambulatory cases! They were all along the road on foot. At night in the cold. Tried to storm our car. Hung on the doors and running-boards like a swarm of bees. Had to kick them off."
Graeber nodded absently and looked around him. The village had disappeared behind a snow bank. There was nothing left but the sky and the plain through which they were driving westward. It was midday. The sun shone dimly behind the gray. The snow glittered wanly. And suddenly something in him broke, hot and headlong, and for the first time he felt that he had escaped, that he was driving away from death; he felt it and he stared at the track-marked snow disappearing yard after yard under the wheels, and yard after yard it was safety, safety toward the west, toward home, toward the incredible life beyond the rescuing horizon.
The chauffeur jostled him while changing gears. Graeber jumped. He felt in his pockets and brought out a package of cigarettes. They were the ones from Hirschland. "Here—" he said.
"Merci," the driver replied without looking. "I don't smoke. Only chew."
CHAPTER V
THE branch-line train came to a stop. A small camouflaged station stood there in the sun. Of the few surrounding houses only ruins remained; in their place barracks had been erected with roofs and walls painted in protective colors. A number of railroad cars stood on the tracks. Russian prisoners were transferring freight. The branch line at this point joined a main line.
The wounded were carried into one of the barracks. Those that could walk sat hunched on rough-hewn benches. A few more men on leave had arrived. They kept together and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. They were afraid of being noticed and sent back.
It was a weary day. Wilted light played tag over the snow. From a distance came the hum of airplane engines. It did not come from the air; probably there was a concealed airfield' nearby. Later a squadron took off over the stationand began to climb until it looked like a flight of larks. Graeber dozed. Larks, he thought. Peace.
They were startled into attention by two military policemen. "Papers!"
The M.P.'s were healthy and strong and had the confident bearing of men who are not in danger. Their uniforms were spotless, their weapons polished, and each of them weighed at least twenty pounds more than any,of the men on leave. The soldiers silently brought out their certificates of leave. The M.P.'s examined them methodically before returning them. Then they ordered the pay books to be shown.
"You're to eat in Barracks Three," the older one said finally. "Clean yourselves up. What a sight you arel Do you want to arrive home looking like pigs?"
The group wandered across to the barracks. "These damned spying hounds!" growled a man with a black, stubble-covered face. "Big mouths and a long way from the shooting! Act as if we were criminals."
"At Stalingrad they shot dozens of men who got separated from their regiments," another man said. "Were you at Stalingrad?"
"If I had been at Stalingrad I wouldn't be sitting here now. No one got out of that stew."
"Listen to me," said one of the older non-coms. "At the front you can talk any way you like. But from now on you'd better shut your trap if you know what's good for you. Understand?"
They lined up with their mess pots. For over an hour they had to wait. No one left his place. They were cold, but they waited. They were used to it. Finally they were given a dipper-ful of soup with some meat and vegetables and a couple of potatoes floating in it.
The man who had not been at Stalingrad looked around cautiously. "I wonder if those M.P.'s eat this stuff too."
"Man, you have worries!" said the non-com contemptuously.
Graeber swallowed his soup. At least it was warm, he thought. At home it would be different. His mother would cook. Perhaps even bratwurst with onions and potatoes, and afterwards a raspberry pudding with vanilla sauce.
They had to wait until dark. Twice more they were inspected. More wounded kept arriving all the time. With each new batch the men on leave became jumpier. They were afraid of being left behind. Finally, after midnight, the train was assembled. It had grown colder and the stars hung big in the sky. Everyone haled them; they meant good visibility for the fliers. For a long time now nature had had no significance in itself; it was simply good or bad in relation to the war. As protection or as danger.
The wounded were put on board. Three were taken off again immedia
tely. They had died in the meantime. The stretchers were left standing on the platform—the ones with the dead had no blankets. No light showed anywhere.
Next came the ambulatory wounded. They were carefully checked. We won't get in with them, Graeber thought. There are too many. The train is full. He stared stolidly into the night. His heart pounded. Airplanes hummed above him. He knew they were Germans, but he was afraid. He was much more afraid than at the front.
"Men on leave!" someone shouted finally.
The group hurried forward. Military police were once more standing there. In the afternoon during the last inspection each man had received a slip of paper which he now had to surrender. They climbed into a car. Some of the wounded were already sitting there. The men on leave crowded together, pushing one another. An M.P. shouted commands. They all had to get out again and form up. Then they were led to the next car where there were wounded sitting too. They were allowed to enter. Graeber found a place in the middle. He did not want to sit by the window. He knew what bomb splinters could do.
The train did not start. It was dark in the compartment. They were all waiting. Outside things grew quiet; but the train continued to stand still. They could see two M.P.'s leading a soldier between them. A troop of Russians was moving cases of ammunition. Then came a couple of S.S. men talking together loudly. Still the train did not move. The wounded were the first to begin cursing. They could afford to. For the time being nothing more could happen to them.
Graeber leaned his head back. He tried to go to sleep with the intention of waking up when the train was moving; but he could not do it. He kept listening to every sound. He saw the eyes of the others in the dark. The dim light coming from snow and stars outside made them gleam. It was ngt bright enough to distinguish faces. Only the eyes. The compartment was full of darkness and restless eyes and between them shimmered the dead white of the bandages.
The train gave a jerk and stopped again immediately. Shouts were heard. After a while there was a banging of doors. Two stretchers were taken out on the platform. Two more dead. Two more places for the living, Graeber thought. If only no new ones come at the last minute so that we will have to get out. They all thought the same.
The train jerked again. The platform began to slide past slowly. Military police, prisoners, S.S. men, piles of crates— and then suddenly the plain was there. Everyone was bending forward. They still did not believe it. The train would stop again. But it moved and moved and by degrees the irregular thrusts were transformed into an even rhythm. They saw tanks and cannons. Troops that stared after the cars. All at once Graeber was very tired. Home, he thought. Going home. Oh God, I don't dare rejoice.
In the morning it was snowing. They stopped at a station to get coffee. The station stood on the edge of a small city of which nothing much remained. Bodies were carried out. The train was being shunted. Graeber ran back to his compartment with his ersatz coffee. He did not dare leave it to get bread.
A group of M.P.'s started through the train, picking out the less seriously wounded; they were to stay in the local hospital. The news ran swiftly through.the cars. The men with arm wounds rushed to the toilets to hide themselves. They fought for the place inside. In a fury they pulled each other out at the very minute the door was about to be locked. "They're coming!" someone shouted suddenly from oulside.
The crowd dispersed. Two pushed their way into the same toilet and slammed the door. Another who had fallen in the fracas stared at his splinted arm. There was a small red spot growing larger. A third opened the door that faced away from the platform and clambered painfully out into the blizzard. He pressed himself against the outside of the train. The rest kept their seats.
"Shut the door," someone said. "Otherwise they'll know at once what's happened."
Graeber pulled the door shut. For a moment through the eddying snow he saw the white face of the man who was clinging below.
"I want to get home," said the wounded man whose bandage was bleeding. "Twice I've been in one of these damn field hospitals and each time right out to the front again, without any leave at all. I want to get back home. Tve earned it." '
He stared with hatred at the healthy men on leave. No one answered. It took a long time for the patrol to arrive. Three men were going through the compartments while outside a couple of others watched over the wounded who had been told to stay. One of the examiners was a junior field surgeon. He glanced swiftly at the certificates of the wounded. "Get out," he said indifferently, already examining another slip.
One of the men did not get up. He was small and gray. "Out, grandpa," said the M.P. who accompanied the surgeon. "Didn't you hear?"
The man stayed where he was. He had a shoulder bandage. "Out! Get out!" repeated the M.P..The man did not move. He kept his lips pressed together and stared straight ahead as though he understood nothing. The M.P. stood straddle-legged in front of him. "Do you need a special invitation? Stand up!"
The man went on as though he had not heard. "Stand up!" snorted the M.P. "Can't you see a superior is talking to you? Man, do you want to be courtmartialed?"
"Take it easy!" said the young surgeon. "First take it easy." He had a rosy face without eyelashes. "You're bleeding." he explained to the man who had been fighting at the door of the toilet. "You must have a fresh bandage. Get out."
"I—" the man began. Then he saw that a second M.P. had entered and together with the first had taken hold of the gray soldier by his uninjured arm. They were lifting him. The soldier emitted a thin shriek without moving his face. The second M.P. now seized him around the hips and pushed him out of the compartment like a light package. He did it impersonally, without brutality. The soldier did not go on shrieking either. He disappeared into the herd outside. "Well?" asked the young surgeon.
"Can I go on with the train when I've been bandaged, Captain?" asked the bleeding man.
"We'll see about that. Possibly. First you must be bandaged."
The man got out with a face full of misery. He-had addressed the junior surgeon as captain and even that had not helped. The M.P. tried the door to the toilet. "Of course," he said contemptuously. "Nothing else ever occurs to them. Always the same thing. Open up!" he commanded. "At once!"
The door opened. One of the soldiers came out. "You're a sly one, aren't you?" growled the M.P. "Why did you shut yourself in there? Trying to play hide and seek?"
"I have diarrhea. And I believe that's what a toilet's for."
"So? Just at this moment? Am I supposed to believe that?"
The soldier pushed back his coat. The Iron Cross first class hung there. He looked at the M.P.'s chest, which was empty. "Yes," he replied calmly. "You're supposed to believe that."
The M.P. got red. The doctor intervened. "Get out, please," he said without looking at the soldier.
"You haven't looked to see what's the matter with me."
"I can tell that from your bandage. Get out, please."
The soldier smiled thinly. "All right."
"Well then, we're through here, eh?" the surgeon asked the M.P. nervously.
"Yes, sir." The M.P. glanced at the men on leave. Each of them was holding his papers in his hand. "Yes sir, all through," he announced, and climbed out after the doctor.
The door of the toilet opened silently. A lance-corporal who had been inside slipped out. His face was steaming with sweat. He slid down on a seat. "Has he gone?" he whispered after a while.
"Seems so."
The lance-corporal sat for a long while in silence. Sweat ran down his face. "I'm going to pray for him," he said finally.
Everyone looked up. "What?" one of them asked incredulously. "You're going to pray for that swine of an M.P.?"
"No, not for the swine. For the man who was with me in the toilet. He told me to stay there; he would fix things up. Where is he?"
"Outside. He fixed things up all right. He made the fat pig so mad he didn't look any further."
"I'm going to pray for him."
"Oh, al
l right, pray if you like."
"Yes, definitely. My name is Luettjens. I'm certainly going to pray for him."
"All right! Now shut up. Pray tomorrow. Or at least wait until the train has started." someone said, bored.
"I'm going to pray. I have to get home. I'll not get any leave to go home if I'm put in the hospital here. I must get to Germany. My wife has cancer. She's thirty-six. Just thirty-six last October. Four months in bed already."
He looked at them one after the other with tormented eyes. No one said anything. It was too common a matter.
An hour later the train went on. The man who had climbed out the door had not shown himself again. Probably they had grabbed him, Graeber thought.
A Time to Love and a Time to Die Page 6