They stand by the wire; often one staggers away, and then another one quickly takes his place in the line. Most of them are silent; only a few beg for dog-ends[218].
I watch their dark figures. Their beards blow in the wind. I know nothing about them except that they are prisoners-of-war, and that is precisely what shakes me. Their lives are anonymous and blameless; if I knew more about them, what they are called, how they live, what their hopes and fears are, then my feelings might have a focus and could turn into sympathy. But at the moment all I sense in them is the pain of the dumb animal, the fearful melancholy of life and the pitilessness of men.
An order has turned these silent figures into our enemies; an order could turn them into friends again. On some table, a document is signed by some people that none of us knows, and for years our main aim in life is the one thing that usually draws the condemnation of the whole world and incurs its severest punishment in law. How can anyone make distinctions like that looking at these silent men, with their faces like children and their beards like apostles? Any drill-corporal is a worse enemy to the recruits, any schoolmaster a worse enemy to his pupils than they are to us. And yet we would shoot at them again if they were free, and so would they at us.
Suddenly Im frightened: I mustnt think along those lines any more. That path leads to the abyss. It isnt the right time yet but I dont want to lose those thoughts altogether, Ill preserve them, keep them locked away until the war is over. My heart is pounding; could this be the goal, the greatness, the unique experience that I thought about in the trenches, that I was seeking as a reason for going on living after this universal catastrophe is over? Is this the task we must dedicate our lives to after the war, so that all the years of horror will have been worthwhile?
I take out my cigarettes, break each one in half and give them to the Russians. They bow, and then light them. Now little points of red are glowing in some of their faces. I find this comforting; they look like little windows in the houses of some village at night, revealing that behind them there are rooms which are havens of safety.
The days pass. One misty morning another Russian is buried; a few of them die every day now. I happen to be on sentry duty[219] when he is laid to rest. The POWs sing a chorale; they sing in harmony and it sounds as if they were hardly voices at all, but as if an organ were playing, far away on the moor.
The funeral is soon over.
In the evening they are standing by the wire again, and the wind blows across to them from the birch woods. The stars are cold.
By now Ive got to know a few of them who can speak German pretty well. One of them is a musician, and he tells me that he had been a violinist in Berlin. When he hears that I play the piano a little, he fetches his violin and plays. The others sit down and lean their backs against the wire-netting. He stands and plays, and often he has that far-away look that violinists get when they close their eyes, and then he strikes up a new rhythm on the instrument and smiles at me.
Presumably he is playing folk songs; the others hum the tunes with him. They are like dark hills, and the humming is deep, subterranean. The voice of the violin stands out like a slim girl above them, and it is bright and alone. The voices stop and the violin remains it sounds thin in the night, as if it were freezing; you have to stand close by it would probably be better in a room out here it makes you sad to hear it wandering about, all alone.
I dont get any Sunday passes because, after all, Ive just had a long leave. So on the last Sunday before I go, my father and my oldest sister come to visit me. We spend the whole day sitting in the Soldiers Club. Where else could we go? We dont want to go to the barracks. In the afternoon we go for a walk on the moor.
The hours drag by; we dont know what to talk about. And so we talk about my mothers illness. Its now definite that its cancer, shes already in hospital and waiting for an operation. The doctors hope that she will get better, but weve never heard of cancer being cured.
Which hospital is she in? I ask.
In the Queen Louisa, says my father.
What kind of a ward?
Public. Well have to wait and see what the operation will cost. She wanted to go into the public ward[220] herself. She said shed have someone to talk to then. Besides, its cheaper.
But then shell be with all those other people. I only hope she can get some sleep at night.
My father nods. His face is drawn and full of lines. My mother has been ill a lot; its true that she has only ever gone into hospital when she was forced to, but for all that it has cost us a great deal of money, and my fathers life has really been taken up by it.
If only we knew what the operation will cost he says.
Havent you asked?
Not in so many words, you cant really you dont want the doctor to turn against you, because he still has to operate on Mother.
Yes, I think bitterly, thats the way we are, the way poor people are. They dont dare ask the price, and worry themselves half to death about it instead; but the others, the ones who can afford it, its perfectly natural to them to settle the price beforehand. The doctor isnt going to turn against them in any case.
The dressings afterwards are so expensive, too, says my father.
Doesnt the sickness fund[221] pay anything towards it? I ask.
Your mother has already been ill for too long.
Have you got any money, then?
He shakes his head. No, but I can do some more overtime.
I know what he means: hell stand at his work-table until midnight and fold and glue and trim. At eight in the evening hell eat some of that far from nourishing stuff they get on their ration cards. After that hell take a powder for his headache and carry on working.
To cheer him up a bit, I tell him a few stories that come into my mind, army jokes and so on, where a general or a sergeant gets dropped in it.
Afterwards I see them both to the station. They give me a pot of jam and a parcel of potato pancakes that my mother managed to cook for me.
Then their train leaves and I walk back.
In the evening I spread some of the jam on a pancake, and eat a few. I dont enjoy them. So I go out to give the pancakes to the Russians. Then it occurs to me that my mother cooked these herself, and that she was probably in pain when she was standing over the hot stove. I put the parcel back into my pack and only take two pancakes over to the Russians.
IX
Weve been travelling for a number of days. Then the first aircraft appear in the sky. We roll along past transport convoys. Guns, guns. We change to the field railway. I try to find my regiment. Nobody knows exactly where it is at the moment. I stay overnight somewhere, draw my rations somewhere in the morning, and get a few vague instructions. And so I set off on my way again, with my rifle and pack.
When I get to where the regiment is supposed to be, the place has been shot to pieces and there isnt anybody there. I find out that we have been turned into a so-called flying division, one they can send wherever things are hottest. I dont like the sound of that. People tell me about the large-scale losses that we are supposed to have suffered. I ask about Kat and Albert. Nobody knows anything about them.
I carry on searching, wandering about all over the place. For one night, and then for another, I have to camp out like a Red Indian. Then I get definite news, and I am able to report to the guard room by the afternoon.
The sergeant keeps me there. The company will be back in two days and theres no point in sending me out. How was leave? he asks. Good, eh?
Yes and no, I reply.
Right, right, he sighs, if only you didnt have to go away again. That always mucks up the last half good and proper.
I hang about until the next morning when the company gets in, grey, dirty, ill-tempered and gloomy. Then I jump up and push in amongst them, looking around theres Tjaden, Muller blowing his nose, and there are Kat and Kropp. We put our palliasses together. Im feeling guilty, though there isnt any reason why I should. Before we turn in I bring out the rest of the potato pancakes and jam, so that they can have some too.
The two outside pancakes are a bit mouldy, but they are still edible. I take these myself and give the less stale ones to Kat and Kropp.
Kat chews and asks me, I bet these are from your mother?
I nod.
Theyre good, he says, you can taste where theyre from.
I could almost weep. I dont know myself any more. But things will get better again here with Kat and Albert and the others. This is where I belong.
Youre in luck, whispers Kropp just before we go to sleep at last, theres word that we are being sent to Russia.
To Russia. Theres no war there any more.
In the distance there is the thundering of the front. The hut walls rattle.
Suddenly it is all spit-and-polish[222]. Every five minutes we have to parade. We are inspected from all sides. Anything torn is replaced with something decent. I get hold of a spotless new tunic. Kat, of course, manages a whole new uniform. The rumour starts up that peace is coming, but the alternative rumour seems more likely, that were being transported to Russia. But why would we need better gear for Russia? Then at last it filters through to us: the Kaiser is coming to review the troops. Thats why there have been so many inspection parades.
For a week you might have thought that we were in training camp, because there is so much work and drill going on. Everyone is bad tempered and edgy, because we are not keen on all this spit-and-polish, and even less so on parade-ground marching. Things like that annoy soldiers even more than being in the trenches.
At last the moment arrives. We stand to attention and the Kaiser appears. We are curious to see what he looks like. He paces along the parade line and Im a bit disappointed; from his pictures I had imagined him to be bigger and more powerful, but mainly to have a great booming voice.