Forgotten Soldier (51 page)

Was I going to be the last German soldier left in that damned shack? I knew that at least one other comrade was hiding somewhere. I felt even more caught in a vise of terror and danger than I had at Belgorod. I bit my lips to keep from screaming. Our men outside were pressing in, about to blow the building apart, while inside the Russians were perched in the rafters as silent as spiders. From where I lay, I could see nothing. Suddenly I heard a scratching noise behind me, somewhere between a haphazard pile of objects and an upright support. I froze as still as the large glazed pipe behind which I was hiding. The uproar outside prevented me from distinguishing anything clearly. I tried deliberately to extend my hearing beyond the limit of its capacity, and caught a series of scratching sounds, some very faint, some a little louder. I held my breath until my lungs were on the point of bursting, and tried to stop the pounding of my heart. My brain was teeming with horrible possibilities. I saw myself dead or a prisoner of the partisans, who would use me in an attempt to escape from our noose. I was overwhelmed with an intensity of panic greater than anything I had ever felt before, which was suddenly replaced by a savage passion of self-preservation. Trembling with terror and rage, I abruptly stopped thinking.

Some supplementary sense informed me that danger had drawn very close.

Had I been a millionaire, I would have staked my entire fortune on the certainty that someone was moving on the other side of the barrier which concealed me. I felt very much alone and desperate and determined to defend myself at any price. Suddenly I saw a man no more than five yards from me. I felt my skin crawl. Then a second man appeared behind him, crawling toward a pile of sacks. Although they had both been in shadow, I had seen enough to recognize civilian clothes. The one nearest me was wearing a large cap. His silhouette remains indelibly stamped on my memory. He was tall and looked strong. He froze for a moment and appeared to be inspecting the shadows. Then he moved a few steps away from me. As slowly and silently as sand running through an hour glass, I raised my gun until it was pointing at him. I knew that there was still one bullet left in the barrel, so I didn't have to move the bolt. Tightening every nerve, I tried to suppress the trembling which made my gestures uncertain. I knew that at the slightest sound the other fellow would let me have it. Luckily, there was plenty of noise outside, which divided his attention. My gun was now level, and my finger lay nervously against the trigger. Then I hesitated for a moment. It isn't easy to kill a man in cold blood, unless one is entirely heartless or, as I was, numb with fear. The man changed his course a little, and began to move slowly toward my hiding place. His companion was scarcely visible now, and must have been some twenty yards away from us.

I could hear the man breathing as he approached. For a moment, perhaps, he distinguished a figure crouching in the shadows, or glimpsed a dull metallic gleam. For a tenth of a second, perhaps, he hesitated. Then a sudden glow of brilliant light blinded him, and he collapsed in the dust, his belly torn open by the shot fired from the weapon which still quivered in my sweat-drenched hands. The other Russian had run off, leaving his companion dead at my feet. I felt as if my skull enclosed a black void, and that a nightmare enclosed me, like a fever. As the noise outside grew louder, I felt myself sinking into a pit of unimaginable depth. I was torn between the desire to flee and my paralyzing fear. I stared at the corpse lying face down on the ground in front of me. I couldn't really believe I had killed him, and waited for the tide of blood which would soon begin to seep from beneath his body. Nothing else mattered to me. The weight of the drama which had just occurred was so overwhelming that I could only stare at the motionless body.

Suddenly a piece of the wall collapsed. The soldiers outside had managed to pull off a section of corrugated sheeting, and the glare of full daylight somehow diminished the importance of what had happened. The sight of other German soldiers entering the building snapped me from my lethargy. I even distinguished the S.S. captain, who had just joined them, ducking down behind a piece of crumpled metal. He was facing me, at a distance of about twenty yards.

"Anyone still alive in here?" he shouted. I waved a hand, and he saw me. I knew that there was still at least one Russian in the building, and I didn't want to attract too much attention to myself. Another German, who must have been as terrified as I was, shouted from somewhere deeper in the ruins: "Over here, Kameraden. I've got a wounded man, too."

"Don't move yet," the captain shouted back. "We're going to clear out the rest of the Popovs."

He had just spotted the dead man, lying almost at my feet. We heard the sound of an engine, which was rapidly growing louder. From my hiding place, I could see a black machine-gun carrier rolling across the snow. A moment later, it was thrusting through the hole in the wall, with an S.M.G. pointing from its turret. A powerful headlight lit up the shed, and soldiers crouched beside the vehicle were aiming their guns at the interior. The beam of light passed over me for a moment, and a shiver ran down my spine. I could almost imagine the faces of the waiting Russians, contorted with terror. In the doorway, beside the two German bodies, I could see other German soldiers regrouping.

The hauptmann shouted: "Surrender, or we'll shoot you down like rats!"

There was no answer. Then a cry of terror rang out from the dimly lit rafters, like the cry I had fought back in myself a few moments before. The heavy machine gun began its slaughter. Each explosion echoed through the shed as if it would blow it apart. The bullets themselves were explosive and ripped open the roof, letting in new streams of daylight. All the German soldiers outside were firing into the rafters, where some fifteen Russian terrorists were still hiding. I doubled over onto the floor, and pressed my hands against my ears, trying to deaden the sound. Directly overhead, I could hear Russian machine guns. Once again, there were bloodcurdling screams, and a body fell to the floor with the heavy thud of a quarter carcass thrown down onto the butcher's block. The S.M.G. demolished the rest of the roof, and full daylight flooded in, destroying the partisans' last hope of invisibility and escape. Another fell to the floor as the rest began a frantic attempt to scramble away through the twisted metal supports overhead. Some dropped to the floor, others clung to the rafters. In the end, all were killed, and our deaths on the train were avenged. The place filled with German soldiers, and I was able to leave my hideout. I was covered with dust, and even found pieces of debris between my belt and my coat.

We marched back to the village singing:

Märkische Heide,

Märkische Sand,

Sind des Märkers Freude,

Sind mein Heimatland.. . .

We were still the masters, and no one under heaven could judge us.

The S.S. took over the few prisoners who had surrendered before the massacre and loaded them into their trucks, which then drove off down the road that had brought us here. We were ordered to fall in by threes, By the time we reached the village, the crowd that had watched us leave was gone, which was a relief.

The S.S. task force gave each of us a slip of paper to explain the delay in our return to our units. We were advised to rejoin the wrecked train immediately. No one regretted leaving that place, with its miserable memories. Unfortunately, a final spectacle, as depressing as anything we'd seen in the shed, was unfolding just as we marched by. A firing squad was performing its duties. Four consecutive salvos rang out, each one disposing of four partisans. Their bodies were left on the snow, and the squad marched back to the village. Not one of us said a word. At least a hundred of our soldiers had been summarily killed in the derailment and the disintegration of some of the cars. An officer spoke to us briefly about the tragedy we'd just witnessed. The partisans were held responsible for everything that had happened. Also, partisans were not eligible for the consideration due to a man in uniform. The laws of war condemned them to death automatically, without trial.

We spent the night on the motionless train. I was able to sleep only fitfully and with difficulty. Each time I closed my eyes, I was caught in a hideous nightmare. A huge stone rose up in front of me, and from beneath it a flood of dark, blackish blood flowed toward my feet, burning them as it touched.

The next day was piercingly cold. We joined another train which came to our rescue farther down the line, and settled down to listen to the penetrating clang of the wheels on the rails. We stared out at the tundra, buried under deep snow. From time to time the monotony was broken by a distant horizon marked by pine-covered hills. Once again, the vastness of this countryside, untouched by any human life, filled us with a sense of constraint. The idea of space, the conception of immensity, could not be more perfectly expressed than by this scenery designed for giants. Could anyone possibly control this country? Could we? Could the N.K.V.D.?

We arrived at Vinnitsa that evening. An air-raid alert had disorganized the traffic, and the station was overflowing with soldiers in long winter coats. At that time, the Gross Deutschland division was partly based in the town, and the military police were able to direct me to its command post. I was surprised by the efficiency of divisional organization. With only the name and number of my company, they were able to give me its precise location. I was horrified to learn that we had returned to the front, and, along with twenty other companies, were occupying a zone some three hundred miles from Vinnitsa. I was given a precise district and the number of the sector. I had mentally prepared myself for a reunion with my friends, huddled around some blazing Russian hearth, discussing my canceled leave and the possibilities of getting it revalidated. Instead, we were destined to meet in some frozen trench, in conditions of misery and danger. This misfortune overwhelmed me with the force of a stupefying blow. I stood, motionless and stunned, in front of the stabsfeldwebel who had just checked my name on the list. He would have paid me no other attention, but was suddenly struck by something about my appearance.

"What's the matter?" he said. "Are you sick?"

I was too numb to think of a suitable answer, so I told him the truth.

"I was just beginning a convalescence leave, Herr Stabsfeldwebel, and it was canceled at Lublin."

"The fatherland is living through a time of serious trial, young man," he answered after a short pause.

"You are not the only one to be deprived of a well-earned rest. The men who have gone through here before you and those coming after you are all in your situation."

I was about to remark that this was in fact my official convalescence when he came on the paper from the S.S. hauptmann.

"I see that you recently distinguished yourself in an encounter with partisans," he said. "My congratulations. I shall include that information in your dossier, and your company commander will undoubtedly promote you."

Despite my nervous exhaustion, I smiled for a moment.

"I am very pleased, Herr Stabsfeldwebel," I said in a semi-sincere, semi-official tone.

"And I am equally pleased for you," he answered, holding out his hand.

I left with some thirty others in the same plight as myself, my mind torn by conflicting thoughts and feelings.

However, we were sent to spend the night in a warm and comfortable house which had been turned into a military dormitory. There weren't enough beds, but every room was heated, and the floors were thickly carpeted. We all slept well, despite our anxiety about the immediate future.

We had all learned to use waiting periods for sleep whenever we could, simply to stop thinking and lapse into unconsciousness. Reflection added nothing to such times except increased awareness of the misery that weighed on the world. Sleep, on the other hand helped in many ways: it blotted out the present, and revived one's strength. It seemed most unfortunate that one couldn't store up a surplus of its benefits to use in future emergencies when sleep would be impossible.

We spent most of that night and the next twenty-four hours asleep or dozing, interrupting our rest only for meals. During the second night, we were finally dragged from our torpor by a noncom who led us to the trucks which were to take us to our positions. The brutal winter cold fell onto our backs with the shock of a poorly regulated shower. Winter had arrived in full strength, coating everything with a bluish glitter. Roll was called, and we boarded the trucks.

Before daybreak, we arrived at a village of huts which had been built by the engineers. We were ordered out of the trucks and offered an ersatz drink which was kept hot through the day in three large kettles. The cold was piercing, and revived all our memories of the previous winter: the shivering mornings, the cold, which became an almost unbearable torture, the impossibility of washing, the lice, and the thousand other elements which made life insupportable. Everything smelled of the war, and every face was stamped with urgent anxiety. Large holes, which suggested air raids, also implied that matters were not entirely under control in this sector.

About fifty of us were rejoining units in sectors separated by as much as forty or fifty miles. We were divided into four groups, each of which was given mail and the supplies requested by particular companies. Then we were shown our approximate routes, and a noncom informed us in a tone of triumph that we would have to cover at least twenty miles.

We began our march, through a chain of long snowy valleys. A network of heavy defenses extended for about a half mile around the center we had just left: anti-tank guns, minefields, which we were careful to avoid, and innumerable nests of machine guns. Beyond us, wild, empty country stretched out into infinity, hardened by winter, and favorable to any kind of hostile surprise. As soon as we left the last line of defenses, we knew we were on ground which belonged to whoever was walking across it at any moment, and which could change hands from day to day. The front in this sector was never precisely drawn, but was more like a piece of lace embroidery, with a multitude of recesses which sheltered ambushes, and encounters more or less foreseen, and unpredictable clashes.