Forgotten Soldier (74 page)

Our diminished group had been sent to the northern edge of the stronghold, to a beach beside the sea, overhung by moderately high cliffs. We still held the clifftops, in bunkers which had been built facing the sea. However, the Russians had also reached the clifftops at several points, and even though they were not yet there in strength, they had sent out sharpshooters, who controlled the rocky beach along which we were crawling under their fire.

The German positions on these heights were fortified islands, surrounded by the enemy, and living on God knows what. There was no longer any question of the Gross Deutschland Division, or any other division. Everything which could still move in Memel was alive, and anything alive had to be used.

A ragged officer had brought us to this point, where he feared the Russians might break through our rear lines. Although the position was very dangerous, it was at least somewhat less dangerous than the official front. Tanks couldn't get through unless they reached the heights, which we still dominated and weakly defended. For shelter, we used the holes dug by civilian refugees who had waited here for deliverance by sea.

We were in almost constant contact with the Russians. Ivan moved along the length of the coast, peppering us from the cliffs. Sometimes he used mortars. The sandy soil was as churned up as if a harrow had been through it, and we were constantly digging out both the living and the dead. However, in this soft soil, the impact of missiles was usually dissipated. The Russians were just playing with us, but they gave us no respite. If our heads hadn't been empty, they would have burst with exasperation.

Although the cold was cruel, nature had also sent us fog, which was an ally. The Russians had infiltrated our lines, and were sometimes even killed from behind. They were afraid too and were hoping that support from their artillery and tanks would crush once and for all this cemetery where even the dead seemed to defy them. They infiltrated with great caution, and when they thought we could hear them, they shouted insults at us, telling us what they would do to our wives and mothers. They also said they were planning to remove parts of ourselves. Sometimes, too, they sang.

Hals and I listened, with our fingers on our triggers, because they often sang and shouted like that to distract us.

"Ai mayi drougii Germanski,

kak sabatchi ch'olet!

Ya tibai scajou spaciba ouyoudna mamenchka!"

Then they would count. "Listen, German soldiers. You are going to die. Listen: raz, dva, tri . . ."

Then they would let off a volley, while we listened in silence, like antennae destined to pick up all the ignominies on earth.

During the night, two more boats came. At the risk of instant death, a crowd of ragged soldiers ran to board them. We were too far from the shore to get there in time. As the nausea rose in our throats, we stood powerless, trying to calculate our isolation. Every time a boatload withdrew, our defense was weakened to that degree. Nothing could stop Ivan now. As soon as the wave broke, we would run like rats. The long nightmare turned heavily in our minds, and we all trembled uncontrollably.

Hals had lifted his gun to his head. I must have stared at him with enough sorrow to stop him. He turned back onto his stomach, and crushed his face into the ground.

The next day, we were still covered with fog. The front was quiet. Were the Russians preparing something?

Hals and Schlesser had crawled toward the water, toward a smashed car which stood in the spray at the edge of the beach. I joined them, taking maximum precautions. Hals spoke in a half whisper.

"You help us, Sajer. We'll get those inner tubes. Three of them are still good."

"To make floats?"

"Yes. A raft. But be careful. We don't have any tools, so we'll have to use bayonets. Do it like this-but be careful!"

I felt as if a shaft of light had pierced my mind. A raft. We might float for a long time, but this also might be our last chance. We had no tools, and we would have to get the tires off the wheels without lifting them. Trembling with anxiety, we set about this desperate task. The inner tubes had to be full of air, otherwise they'd be no good to us. Pferham came over and joined us.

"You're crazy," he said. "Even if you get the tubes out, they're sure to burst. After all, it's the tire that holds the pressure in."

It was true that we'd been half off our heads for quite a while now. We couldn't give up the idea of escape, and received Pferham's objectivity with ferocious scowls.

"Then let's take the whole wheel," Hals said. "I'm sure they won't float," said Pferham.

"Shut up!" roared Hals. "You stick to your God. Myself, I have more confidence in these tires."

Pferham said nothing more, and like the rest of us tried to free the nuts with the tip of his bayonet.

It took us at least two hours to complete the job. We also had to dig away the sand from under the right front tire, as the wreck was lying on its side.

We could hear the sound of heavy mortars in Memel. The ground shook as far out as we were, and it seemed likely that the Russians had taken a big slice of what was left of the town. We no longer dared to think about what might be happening there, concentrating instead on the ridiculous work we had undertaken. Twice we were forced to give it up, and get back to our holes. The Russians were infiltrating all along our positions, crawling through the fog almost everywhere. Hals and I clung to each other in our refuge. For the seventh or eighth time, we had fired almost point blank on Asiatic-looking men, with Asiatic faces. Each time, our Volkssturm shook in our hands, and we trembled with fright.

By evening, the whole city looked like a volcano. Stalin's organs were howling without stopping, loosing a storm of random fire. Our shattered nerves no longer reacted. Everything was at once hazy and luminous. By now there were seven or eight of us fastening belts and boards onto the three tires which would probably never float; seven or eight who would probably be killing each other within minutes, for it was clear that the raft would never hold all of us.

It was ready. Schlesser and Pferham pushed it toward the water. We followed, like wolves afraid of missing part of the feast.

"Wait a minute, I'll give it a try," said Pferham.

We all took a step forward. Pferham looked at us. He knew that if he went too far we would kill him. Our silhouettes wavered against the lights which were consuming Memel, and our eyes followed the movement of the raft as it pitched, half-submerged on the dark water which melted into the night and fog.

As Pferham tried to maintain a balance which every physical law made impossible, he must have prayed to the sadistic God who watched him sink. He didn't jump until the water had risen over his belt, as our safety foundered before our eyes.

The night passed slowly, lit by the huge fires. The beach, from which we stared with enormous eyes, shifted from pink to orange. A very young boy from one of the Volkssturm groups had succumbed to despair. His body remained wedged upright in the midst of our group, most of whom didn't even notice that he had died. Another suddenly stood up and walked off, as if hypnotized by the flames in the south. moving toward Memel in a state which was certainly not conscious. We watched him disappear into the brilliant, unreal half darkness.

The Russians could have taken us by surprise now, without any attempt on our part to intercept them. The horrified faces of the last soldiers in the armies of the East were fixed with fascination on the apocalypse of Memel. At daybreak, the fire over the ruins of the town had turned pale yellow, almost white. We were given no orders or coordinates, and remained where we were, motionless and almost senseless, lost in the hideous solitude.

Toward the middle of the day, Wollers, our leader, said that he was leaving for Memel. He didn't order us to follow him, but we did. Halfway there, we collapsed on the road. Our strength was gone, and the half mile we had been able to stumble was all we could manage.

Somewhere, a short distance to the east, they were still fighting.

How was it possible that any of our men still survived? A heavy black cloud with a red base lay motionless across the whole horizon, and to the south, at the docks, there were other fires. Could anyone still be alive in that place? We lay where we were, prostrate and silent, with our eyes fixed on the enormity of the catastrophe. Hours passed. Our lives were running out, and our eyes had a strange fixity. No one thought of opening the few cans we had left. We knew that any food would taste too bitter, with the taste of Memel.

Once again, darkness covered us, and our motionless group melted into the fog which lay like a winding sheet over Memel, and stagnated on the sea.

Another group of bent men walked slowly by some ten yards from us. They seemed somehow unreal. Were they German survivors still wandering through this little piece of the void which fate still allowed us? Were they Russians? Or were they, perhaps, a dream?

I don't know how long we stayed there. Perhaps for another day and night; no one can be exact about a nightmare. Also, it is a question of no great importance. Some things-like Memel-cannot be measured by any ordinary scale. I still need corroboration to believe that Memel really happened and is not the fantasy of a spell of madness. Describing it as I have done still makes me tremble with horror and suffer again, for even the memory is painful. The tomb of Memel, where no one has ever gone to meditate, will receive my recollections as a humble and discreet a offering.

I make no appeals to humanity, and cry for no vengeance. Except for these lines I remain silent, because I have lost my power of discretion. I have also learned, in my solitude, that there is no power more unalterable than the power of forgiveness.

At some point, we became aware of sounds from the sea. Every sound from the sea could still mean life. We stood up and listened: the noise, which was scarcely audible, was muffled and heavy, like an idling engine. And then there was the sound of voices-at first, blurred and incomprehensible. We walked out into the water, scarcely aware of its touch. Through two bursts of thunder, we caught some words.

"Hier Windau! Hier Windau!"

They were asking about Windau, a city farther to the north. A boat with all its lights out was lost in the fog. The voice kept on calling. It was probably coming through a megaphone. We trembled, and shouted as loud as we could, with what was left of our strength: "Windau!"

We had all run into the water, like madmen. The first shock revived us for a moment. We went on shouting, as the water reached our chests. Some men stumbled and fell, and then staggered to their feet again, still shouting. Soon the water was up to our chins. We thought we would pull off our clothes and swim. Then the vague outline of the boat emerged from the fog, and we shouted again. The boat scraped against the sand and stopped.

Half drowned, we went out to meet our salvation. Swimming, floating, sinking, and surfacing again, we reached the sides of the boat. We could just make out the men leaning over the side-sailors, who were throwing us lines and nets. They were asking us questions, but no one answered. We were all hanging on to anything that was thrown out to us, gasping and imploring. I thrust my fingers into a hole whose edge was encrusted with rivets. My fingers, half dead with cold, gripped like claws. Everyone was shoving and pushing for a rope or net.

The icy cold of the water began to break my will. Stiff with suffering, I kept my hold and fought against losing consciousness. An empty cigarette package floated from my pocket and lay on the water some inches from me. I stared at it to fix my wandering attention, and as I stared, my vision grew hazy.

Everything had become painless, and I scarcely felt the arms which were pulling me on board. They put me down on the deck, beside my exhausted companions. We were nothing but a shapeless, soaking mass, like a huge mound of wet sacking. Through my semi-consciousness, I realized they were passing around cups of boiling hot tea, which I swallowed down to the peril of my inner organs. My motionless gaze remained fixed on the flaming Prussian coast.

I no longer have any clear memory of what happened next. I don't really understand why we didn't die of exposure on the deck. Perhaps the sailors rubbed us to keep us warm.... I can only remember one thing clearly: the roar of the war coming from the land dominated all the sounds of the boat and of the sea.

Later, the boat arrived at Pillau, where we got off. On trembling legs, surrounded by a flood of refugees, we reached a first-aid station, where our physical condition was checked. A multitude of wounded men were sitting or lying all around us in huge open sheds. The little port seemed filled with a sense of feverish agitation and urgency. If the war had not yet arrived, it was nonetheless very close. We sensed its imminence, and could hear its thunder to the northeast.

CALVARY

Pillau, Kahlberg, Danzig, Gotenhafen-Our Last Battle

We stayed at Pillau for about three weeks. We had been declared unfit for service at the front, as we were all more or less wounded, and otherwise in a state which deserved treatment in a sanitarium.

Our liquefied brains were no longer able to grasp what was happening to us, or what was asked of us. However, although we were not in a condition to function under fire, this did not mean that we were exempted from service. The staggering flood of refugees which had poured into Pillau did not allow anyone who still had two arms and two legs to remain idle.

Along with others whose wounds were more serious than ours, we were absorbed by the first-aid organization which was trying to help the civilians waiting to leave, in the face of almost insuperable difficulties. All of these people had lived through a hideous exodus, and the horror of what they had seen was still impressed on their emaciated faces. There was also a swarm of wounded men, soldiers from Konigsberg and Cranz, lying about wherever they could. This was often outdoors, in the intense January cold, which sometimes cut short their sufferings. Boats were still putting into Pillau, and leaving filled with people; three-quarters of each load was civilian, the rest, wounded soldiers.