Forgotten Soldier (22 page)

The infirmary was in the same building as the Kommandantur. We even spoke with the Kommandant, who was outraged that soldiers from the Gross Deutschland should have to go without socks. He sent an official statement of indignation to the Akhtyrka camp for failing to provide properly for new troops. Those who wished medical attention were sent to the infirmary, where their feet were washed in basins of warm water to which chloroform had been added. This had an extraordinary effect, easing our pain almost at once. We were each given a small red metal box of cream for coating our feet before setting out on a march. But we still had no socks.

Those of our group who had not gone to the infirmary were looking into the prospects for the rest of our journey. The Kharkov-Kiev line ran through Romny, with daily trains in both directions. Our disappointment therefore was great when our two feldwebels announced that we wouldn't be leaving for at least two days. All available space on trains moving toward the front was reserved for essentials, and on returning trains emergencies were given priority over soldiers on leave. Rumors multiplied among our group of five hundred anxious men for whom each hour counted. People spoke of leaving for Kiev on their own-thumbing a ride on one of the convoys, or sneaking onto a train on the quiet, or stealing some Russian horses. Some even spoke of doing the journey on foot-150 miles, which would take at least five days, even with forced marches. As all of these were really out of the question, we decided it would be better simply to stay where we were.

Old hands groaned: "I can tell you, we'll just sit here and watch our passes expire. We've got to get out of here. Who says we'll leave in two days? We'll probably be right where we are a week from now; so fuck the whole damn mess-I'm clearing out!"

My feet were still feeling too sensitive even to think about a march-no matter how pressing it might be. Hals and Lensen were in the same state. So, for better or for worse, we had to wait in Romny without any idea of what to do, or even where to sleep. The police were always after us, telling us to move on: it was useless to try to explain to them-the bastards weren't interested. In the Ukraine-that paradise for troops on leave-they had rediscovered all the exasperating authority they exercised in peacetime. Anyone rash enough to argue with them risked having his pass torn up in front of his eyes. We saw this happen to one poor devil about forty years old. The gendarmes kicked his pack like some kind of football, and the fellow remarked in an angry voice that he had just spent six months fighting in the Caucasus, and felt entitled to a certain amount of common courtesy.

"Traitors!" shouted one of the horrible cops.

"Traitors who ran away from the Russians and lost Rostov! They should send the whole lot of you back to the front, which you never should have left in the first place!"

And he ripped the poor man's pass into shreds before his horrified eyes. We thought he would break down and howl. Instead, he threw himself on the two cops, knocking both of them flat. He was gone before we could recover from our stupefaction. The furious cops picked themselves up, swearing to have the man shot. We took ourselves off in a hurry, before they had the chance to turn their guns on us.

Two days later, we left for Kiev after all, crammed into a train which was also loaded with cattle. But we didn't care about traveling in comfort. We were interested only in getting to Kiev, which-several months before its destruction-was still a beautiful city.

In Kiev, we felt that we had been saved, that the war no longer existed. The city looked beautiful, and was full of flowers. People were going quietly about their ordinary, everyday occupations. White street cars edged in red moved through the brightly dressed civilian crowds of the pleasant town. Everywhere, troops in trim, brushed uniforms were walking with Ukrainian girls. I had already liked the look of the town in the winter. Now all my agreeable impressions were confirmed. I would gladly have ended the war right there.

From Kiev, we had no trouble finding a train leaving for Poland. Our journey was vivid and colorful. We left in a crowded civilian train and, mixed in this way with ordinary Russian people, had more of a chance to become acquainted with them than at any time during the war. Our train of oddly assorted carriages rolled for hours along a track that crossed the empty expanse of the Pripet marshes. The Russians, who drank and sang nonstop, offered drinks to all the soldiers too, and the noise throughout the journey was almost beyond belief. At the occasional station stops, people got on and off, and the most outrageous jokes were cracked amid shouts of laughter. The women made even more noise than the men. Hals put on a gourharitchka for a short time. We passed in this way from the Ukraine into Poland, arriving after two and a half days in Lublin, where we had to change trains. At Lublin there was also a meticulous police inspection, and we were ordered to go to the camp barber for haircuts before departure. However, our anxiety about missing the train was so great that we decided to take what seemed like an enormous risk-which succeeded. Hals, Lensen, and I managed to walk out past the military police with our hair untouched by any shears. This proved to have been a risk well worth taking, as without it we would surely have missed the train.

We arrived at Poznan in the middle of the night, and were received by a very efficient center. We were given tickets for the canteen and the dormitory, and told to be at the office in the morning to have our passes validated. The office was open from seven to eleven, but we were warned to be there no later than six, as there was usually a queue.

This struck us as somewhat strange. In effect it meant that troops arriving in Poznan at 11:05 in the morning had to wait until the following day before they could continue their journey. I think this arrangement was probably motivated by a desire to keep men under army control even when they were theoretically on leave. In this way, a cancellation order could be sent east while the troops were waiting. By contrast, the office which processed returning troops was open twenty-four hours a day.

We spent what was left of the night in a comfortable dormitory which reminded me of the barracks at Chemnitz, and were at the office for passes by six the next morning. There were already some twenty men ahead of us, who must have spent the night on the spot, and by seven there must have been at least three hundred. The self-important bureaucrats who ran the place took their own time verifying our documents, while we stood in agitated silence. The police standing by the door were ready to cancel the leave of anyone foolish enough to lose his temper.

When our papers had been stamped, we were sent across the courtyard into a large hall where our uniforms were inspected. We were given the opportunity to polish our boots and brush our clothes beforehand, and one might almost have believed that there was no mud in Russia! Then, a final, charming detail: women soldiers distributed packages of choice foods wrapped in paper covered with eagles and swastikas, and inscribed: "A Happy Holiday to Our Brave Soldiers."

Sweet, sensitive Germany!

Hals, who would have been capable of killing himself for a cup of beef broth, rolled enormous eyes. "If we'd only had something like this at Kharkov!"

We felt profoundly moved by these attentions. A package of sausages, jam, and cigarettes seemed generous repayment for our endless nights in the stone-cracking cold, and our wanderings through the mud of the Don Valley. Hals and I set off for Berlin, bearing our gifts. Lensen left us to travel to his native Prussia.

In Berlin, we were once again reminded of the war's existence.

Around the Silesian station, and in the Weissensee and Pankov districts, many buildings had been reduced to rubble, in the first stages of the city's destruction. But otherwise the active, busy life of a capital metropolis went on as usual.

In Berlin, which I was seeing for the first time, I was reminded of a promise I had made. I had promised myself to go see Enrst Neubach's wife. She lived with his parents in the southern part of the city. I explained this to Hals, who advised me to postpone the obligation until my return trip. But I knew very well that I would never be able to bring myself to leave home a day early, and that my parents would try to hang on to me until the last moment. Hals understood this, even though he tried to persuade me to do something else. He didn't want to lose any time either, and left for Dortmund as soon as he could, making me promise to come to see him.

I would have done better to listen to the voice of wisdom, speaking through my friend. My journey came to an end the next day, in the flames of Magdeburg, and I had to stay in Berlin, a city entirely unknown to me, where I had to work hard to make myself understood.

Still carrying my pack and gun, which were beginning to feel very heavy, I set out to try to find the Neubachs' house. Fortunately, I was still able to read the scribbled address I had found among my poor friend's papers. But should I try to get there by subway, or by bus? As I really didn't know where I was going, I decided to proceed on foot, which would at least give me the chance to look around; the idea of walking across the city still seemed normal at that time. However, I didn't want to stray too far afield, to walk west when I should have been walking south. I had noticed a sign, BERLIN SUD, which must be roughly correct. I passed two cops who gave me a long, cold stare when they noticed the spectacular package of a soldier on leave. I saluted them as required -one had to salute those bastards as if they were army officers-and went on my way.

The city seemed beautiful, but serious and well organized. The bombing had only recently begun, and in Berlin affected only the districts immediately around the railway stations. In this large, imposing town, with its austere houses set off by sumptuous, intricate railings, everything seemed to be regulated by a precise, organized rhythm: no raucous crowds or parents pulling down their children's pants to let them pee. Men, women, children, bicycles, cars, and trucks-all seemed to be moving at an even, regular pace toward a precise destination, with a rhythm that seemed conscious and assertive, and designed to avoid any dissipation of energy. It was all very different from Paris, for example. Undue haste seemed out of place, and my legs seemed to fall instinctively into the accepted tempo of the city. To stop moving without good reason would have seemed strange. The huge machine which the regime had set in motion for the cause was turning, and this was evident even in the gestures of the little old lady who was walking just ahead of me, and whom I stopped to ask for directions. Her neat white hair was impeccable, like the streets and the railings and the edges of the sidewalks. The sound of my voice seemed to call her back from some distant daydream.

"Excuse me, gnadige Frau," I said, feeling somewhat embarrassed, as if I were speaking in a theatre where the play had already begun.

"Could you give me some directions'? I am going to this address." I showed her my scrap of paper, which really looked like something pulled out of a waste-paper basket.

The old lady smiled, as if she had seen an angel.

"It's very far, young man," she said in a gentle voice which suddenly reminded me of my childhood. "It's very far. You must go to the Tempelhof autobahn. But it's really very far."

"That doesn't matter." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You really ought to take a bus. It would be much easier for you." "That doesn't matter," I repeated, like someone in a dream. In fact, I couldn't think of the German words for anything else. This woman's obvious goodness, after so much loud-mouthed bullying and malignity, moved me even more deeply than the exhausted men at Outcheni.

"I don't mind walking. I'm in the infantry," I finally said, smiling.

"I know," she said, smiling even more tenderly than a moment before. "You must be used to walking. I'll go with you as far as the Schloss von Kaiser Wilhelm. From there, I'll be able to explain to you." She walked along beside me. As I didn't know what to say, the burden of the conversation fell on her.

"Where have you come from, young man?"

"From Russia."

"Russia's a big country. What part were you in?"

"Russia's very big, yes. I was in the South, around Kharkov."

"Kharkov!" she said, giving the name a very German sound. "I see. Is it a big town?"

"Yes. It's big."

For my kindly companion, Kharkov was clearly nothing more than a name which there was no particular need to remember. For me, Kharkov meant a city which had lost its life. If it had ever been a big town, it was now only a heap of rubble, crowned by a cloud of dust, smoke, and fire. It was also the sound of cries and moaning one shouldn't hear in towns. It was a long corridor of stiffened corpses we had to drag out into the air, and three Bolsheviks tide to a fence, with their guts spilling from their bellies.

"My son is in Briansk," the old lady remarked, clearly hoping for news of the front.

"Briansk," I repeated in a thoughtful tone. "I believe that's in the central sector. I've never been there."

"He tells me that everything's going quite well. He's a first lieutenant in an armored division."

"A lieutenant!" I thought. "An officer!" The opinions of a private soldier must have sounded ridiculous.

"Were things difficult in your sector?"

"Things were pretty hard, but they're better now. I'm on leave," I added, smiling.

"I'm really happy for you, young man," she said, and her voice sounded as if she meant it.

"Are you in Berlin to see your family?"

"No, gnadige Frau. I'm going to see the parents of a friend."

A friend! Ernst: a corpse.

What friend was I tramping along like this for? The old woman was beginning to get on my nerves.

"A friend from your regiment," she said, sharing my pleasure at being on leave. I felt like knocking her onto one of those intricate railings full of spikes.

"Where do your parents come from?" she asked.

"From Wissembourg, in Alsace."

She looked at me with surprise.