The Cross of Iron (39 page)

‘Say what you will,’ Schnurrbart remarked, ‘the calm in this sector here isn’t going to last another week; I feel it in my piss.’ Four of them were sitting in their quarters, smoking. Krüger spat on the floor and turned to Dorn. ‘If you’re smart, you’ll clear out. If Ivan starts getting nasty here, we’re done for. Don’t be silly. By the time the training course is over the war will be over too, and when the war is over it won’t matter a damn to you whether you were an officer or a private.’

‘I cannot reconcile that with my conscience,’ Dorn said. ‘Conscience!’ Krüger puffed contemptuously. ‘When you’re a stiff you can stick your conscience up your arse. You’re married, aren’t you?’ Dorn nodded silently. ‘Well, then what is there to consider? Think of your wife. You have some children too?’ Dorn nodded again. Krüger turned to Schnurrbart, who was sucking vigorously at his pipe. ‘What do you say to such an idiot? Has a wife and children and refuses to leave this rat-trap because he can’t “reconcile it with his conscience” to be one of Adolf’s officers.’ 

‘He’s mad,’ Schnurrbart said quietly.

‘Insane,’ Anselm agreed. He was sitting on a wooden box, a harmonica in his hands.

They all looked at Dorn who sat with drooping head and did not answer them. It was late evening. In the east the front continued to rumble; for seconds at a time the sky was bathed in red light. Schnurrbart asked a question: ‘What is your wife’s name?’

Dorn raised his head. ‘Maria.’

‘And the children’s?’

‘Betty and Jürgen,’ Dorn murmured.

Schnurrbart nodded. He removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke in an oddly hoarse voice. ‘If I had a Maria and a Betty and a Jürgen, I would seriously ask myself whether I had the right to determine for myself alone what was to become of me and of them. That’s what I’d think about, and to hell with my so-called conscience.’

Krüger looked at him with admiration. ‘You sound like a preacher, but you’re right.’ He turned to Dorn again. ‘It doesn’t matter to me what you do. Principles are neither here nor there. But I’ll tell you this: if you decide to play the hero again, I’m finished with you till the next ice age. Remember that.’

Dorn raised his head dolefully. Everything the men were saying he had considered himself. If it were only a matter of overcoming his distaste for an officer’s career, he might long ago have given in. But there was something else. He made the effort to convey it to them: ‘You make the matter out as more simple than it really is. After all, we have grown used to one another and-’

There was a moment’s silence before Krüger growled: ‘That’s sheer sentimentality. You’re mad, man.’ He waved his arms violently in an effort to conceal his real emotion. ‘I want to tell you something. One of these days every one of us sitting here will be laid out stiff as a poker. What good will it be to you then, eh?’ He leaned toward Dorn and fixed him with a fierce gaze. ‘Not a damn bit of good, that’s what. If you clear out now, at least you won’t have to watch them chop us into mincemeat. And they will, let me tell you.’ To reinforce his declaration he let out a fart so loud that it elicited from Schnurrbart a respectful grunt. Then he stood up. ‘I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow morning the circus starts again.’ Schnurrbart also stood up, yawning. ‘Think it over,’ he said to Dorn. ‘You won’t miss us like your children are going to miss you. Good night.’ He followed Krüger into the house.

As Dorn was about to get up also, Anselm placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hold on a minute, please,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

Although Dorn felt little inclination to converse, he nodded encouragingly. There was a long pause as Anselm pondered how to begin. At last he asked: ‘You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?’ 

‘Yes,’ Dorn answered in surprise.

‘Are you a good Catholic?’

‘I hope so.’

Anselm clasped his arms across his chest. ‘I thought you were, but I wanted to make sure. I’ve been meaning to talk with you for a long time. But now that you may be going away I don’t want to put it off any longer.’

The elaborate preface aroused Dorn’s curiosity. Trying to catch an impression of Anselm’s face in the darkness, he said: ‘By all means tell me what’s on your mind.’

‘It isn’t easy to talk about,’ Anselm stammered. He pulled himself together and went on: ‘You see, I’m Catholic too. Maybe you have a low opinion of me on account of the stories I’ve told about women and so on.’

Dorn shook his head. ‘We all have our weaknesses,’ he said quietly.

Anselm nodded, relieved. ‘A fellow can talk with you,’ he said in a pleased tone. ‘Anyway, it isn’t half as bad as it sounds; I mean, a fellow likes to boast a bit.’ He laughed abashedly. ‘Of course I’ve done a lot in that field, but it was always just the way things turned out, and after all a fellow is only human.’ Dorn’s continuing silence revived his uncertainty. He scratched his throat and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know whether you as a married man can understand that. But when a fellow gets to a certain age and has no chance to marry, it’s damned hard to get along without it. Or don’t you think so?’

‘Of course it is hard,’ Dorn said, looking down at the ground. 

Anselm moved closer, and his voice took on a pleading note. ‘I want you to believe what I say—I’ve always gone to church and to confession gladly, but since the first time I had a girl there was just no sense to it. I confessed it twice. Lord, you should have heard what a pig he made me out to be, talking about irresponsibility and sinful lust of the flesh and so on. He took on like it was high treason, and then I just stopped going, so of course then there wasn’t any sense in going to church any more.’ He fell silent and looked uneasily at Dorn, whose head was still bowed. The topic was not new to him.

Dorn placed his hand on Anselm’s shoulder. ‘You yourself must know how strong you are.’

Anselm laughed contemptuously. ‘What good does my strength do me if I can’t sleep at night and go crazy when I see a woman. I’ve thought about it often, believe me. It would be different if I could say today that in one year or two I would marry, and if I could begin saving up for a house. But even then it would tear me apart. My body needs it, that’s all, and when I don’t have it I don’t feel human.’ 

Dorn sighed. Without conviction he said: ‘The human body finds a way to cope with it.’

‘I know that,’ Anselm nodded. ‘But you must admit that afterwards it’s only worse. When you get to the point where you start dreaming about it at night, you’re really off your rocker next morning. Besides’—his tone became scornful—‘what is it you dream about? Heaven? Or hell maybe? No,’ he shook his head vigorously, ‘it’s lucky you’re not supposed to take your dreams to confession. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.’

There was little point saying anything, Dorn knew. As he thoughtfully lit a cigarette, he wondered how many men had lost contact with the church on this same issue. He was aware of Anselm’s eyes upon him, and shrugged. ‘I cannot help you,’ he said quietly. ‘I married fairly young and can only sympathize, but not really know how you feel.’

‘But you studied philosophy,’ Anselm said helplessly.

Dorn smiled painfully. ‘Yes, I studied philosophy, but this is a problem you would do better to take to a priest. He will be able to discuss it with you far more sensibly than I can. Try our divisional chaplain one of these days. He is a man with both feet firmly on the ground. Tell him everything, and he won’t just condemn you; he’ll give you some guidance to help you along.’

‘I’ve had enough of all of them,’ Anselm said in disgust.

‘You ought not to say that,’ Dorn replied gravely. ‘Perhaps you ran into a priest who was particularly stern in his judgments. Not all priests are alike. If you feel the need to find your way back, it is always open to you. But in God’s name you must also give up your prejudices.’

‘I’ll think it over,’ Anselm said. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘I’ll stay out a while.’

Anselm said good night and walked off swiftly. Dorn sighed again. He tossed his cigarette away and remained sitting under the clear April sky for a long time. Should he become an officer? The longer he thought about it, the more difficult it was to decide. He recalled his wife’s last letter: that he must not worry and that all were well at home. At home.... He clasped his hands over his knees and lifted his face to the stars. Home, he thought, and felt his eyes filling with tears. It was long past midnight before he went into the house.

They set out early next morning and reached the battalion command post in good time. Schnurrbart went into the adjutant’s bunker to report the arrival of the platoon. Triebig received him in his shirt sleeves, his face lathered and his razor in one hand. He turned his head, annoyed at being disturbed so early. Recognizing Schnurrbart, he asked him to wait. When he had finished shaving, he went outside with Schnurrbart and gave the men their instructions. ‘And be snappy about it,’ he said. ‘The bunker must be ready by tomorrow night. You can ask the signals platoon for tools.’

He beckoned to Dorn and went back into the bunker with him. Offering Dorn a cigarette, he came to the point at once. ‘We don’t want you to feel pressed,’ he said in a friendly tone. ‘But a man of your abilities must know himself where his place is. At any rate I cannot imagine that you feel comfortable in your present situation. We need officers, men who are above average, and I really see no reason why you hold back. In a few days you can be on your way back home, that surely would be a treat for you. Moreover, it’s a chance of getting out of Russia for good. I assure you, I would not hesitate for a moment if I were in your position.’

Dorn hunched his shoulders in torment. Although he had scarcely closed his eyes during the night, and had been turning the matter about in his mind the whole night through, he had not yet been able to decide. Triebig talked with him a while longer and spread out a number of papers on the table. ‘All you need do is sign. Naturally you will be given some leave first and can be back home with your family for Easter.’

‘I don’t know,’ Dorn murmured, staring at the papers.

Triebig rose. ‘I’ll give you a few hours more to think it over. Come to see me again around two and let me know.’

Dorn nodded and slowly rose to his feet. ‘I really don’t understand you,’ Triebig said irritably. ‘Anybody else would be overjoyed.’

Dorn suppressed an unfriendly remark, saluted and left.

The men had meanwhile begun their work. They were digging a large rectangular pit somewhat to one side of the other bunkers, in the centre of the orchard. Ten feet deep, the signals platoon leader had said; those were the commander’s orders. As Krüger fiercely wielded a sharply-filed spade, driving it viciously into the tangle of roots in the ground, he poured out a steady stream of curses, until even Schnurrbart had had enough. He straightened up from his stooped position, wiped the sweat from his brow and said: ‘Save your breath, will you. Your grousing is beginning to get on my nerves.’

The others also stopped work and looked reprehendingly at Krüger. But Krüger went right on. ‘Ten feet deep!’ he snarled furiously. ‘Have you ever heard the like of it. This isn’t a bunker, it’s a mine, I tell you. First thing you know we’ll be putting in an elevator shaft. That bastard of a captain is scared shitless.’

He would have gone on railing if Dorn had not returned, looking as if he had seen a ghost. Schnurrbart called out: ‘What’s the matter? Have they been raising a stink about something?’

Dorn shook his head mutely and began removing his tunic. ‘What is it?’ Anselm insisted. ‘Aren’t you going?’

‘Yes, I’m going,’ Dorn replied sombrely.

Krüger grinned. ‘Well, at last you’ve come to your senses. By your face one would think you were going to your own funeral, but you’ll get used to the idea. Once you’re sitting in the train bound for home, you’ll feel better.’

Since Dorn offered no comment and picked up a spade without a word, they resumed their work, and by midday had dug a hole chest-deep. ‘Chow,’ Schnurrbart said, tossing his shovel away.

Stiffly they clambered out of the hole, unpacked the rations they had brought with them, and scattered among the trees. Dorn sat by himself. After a while Anselm joined him and tried to strike up a conversation. But Dorn answered in monosyllables, and Anselm at last fell silent and concentrated on his end of sausage. Although there were some scattered clouds in the sky, the sun burned down on them fiercely. The front was quiet, the silence broken only now and then by the thud of heavy mortar shells or the agitated chatter of a machine-gun. Dorn sat with lowered head, staring down at the ground, like a person who has lost something precious for ever. He forced himself to think of his family again, reached into his pocket and took out his wife’s latest letter. His features softened as he studied the toilsomely drawn letters at the bottom of the paper: ‘Dear Papa come home soon.’

He let his hand drop and chanced to turn his head and look over at the other men. They were lying flat, pressed against the ground. What is the matter, he had time to think, and tried to do as they did. But it was already too late. The earth exploded. The blast knocked him backwards and he lay staring up at the sky. His expression was unchanged; the quiet joy had lingered on his face, though his glasses lay with shattered lenses beside his head.

The black pillar of smoke began to collapse. The torn branches of the trees emerged again, stripped of their leaves, and the men came to life. Faces pale with fright, they sat up. By the side of the crater Anselm and the Professor lay as though sleeping. Schnurrbart was the first to recover; he approached slowly. Seeing the red flesh among the remnants of the Professor’s uniform, he turned away. Then he knelt beside Anselm, who lay on his belly, his fingers dug into the ground. As soon as Schnurrbart turned him over on his back, he let go of him. Anselm had no face left.

The others had come over, too. They stood beside the two dead men, looking down on them in silence. Over at the bunkers men were stirring also. Stransky appeared for a few seconds, glanced over toward them, and vanished into his bunker immediately. A few minutes later Triebig came over. He asked: ‘Dead?’ They nodded. His face was chalky. He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Let them lie there until tonight,’ he said. ‘The supply column can take them back.’ He walked a few steps further on and looked at the shell-hole. Then he turned back toward his bunker.