The Cross of Iron (38 page)

From the windows of the houses light flowed upon the dark yards. Steiner turned his steps toward the beach. Like a barrier of black clouds the mountains towered up against the sky. They seemed to be staring westward, breathlessly, where the last embers of the day rent the heavens. Steiner shuddered. He felt an acute need to talk to someone, to make contact with some human being and he was pleased when he saw Towhead coming towards him. At the sight of Steiner, he hailed him excitedly, ‘There you are!’ and broke into a run. ‘I’ve got her, I’ve got her all organized for you,’ he said excitedly.

‘Got whom?’

‘Anne,’ Towhead said hastily. ‘You know-’

At the mention of the name Steiner started. He gripped the boy’s shoulder hard and whispered tensely: ‘Anne? Who is Anne?’

‘The breasty one,’ Towhead said eagerly wrenching away. ‘She’s right on my heels.’ Although the moon was overcast, it was possible to see a long way down the beach. Steiner noticed a figure approaching and recognized the white uniform of a nurse.

‘Listen, I don’t want-’

‘Have fun.’

Before Steiner could finish, Towhead had freed himself and was running off into the night. Slowly the nurse came up to Steiner. He pulled his cap down low over his forehead. It’s crazy, he told himself, there are a million girls named Anne. But when he heard her voice, he suddenly began to tremble. He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and flashed it full in her face. She closed her wide, dark eyes, but her mouth was smiling. ‘Turn out that light,’ she raised her hand to her dazzled eyes. ‘I can’t see.’

Without a word he switched off the flashlight and thrust it into his pocket. ‘Do you study all girls so thoroughly?’ she asked. Her voice was flat and rather common. Turning his face to one side, he murmured: ‘Excuse me. I always like to see who I’m dealing with.’

She gave a cooing laugh. ‘Are you satisfied?’ He glanced quickly to the right and left. Then he nodded. He reached out so fast that before she could make a move to defend herself, he had pulled her close to him. His face was right above hers. She was still smiling. He took off his cap, quietly stuck it into his coat pocket, and said: ‘Good evening, Anne.’

Her smile froze.

‘And how I’m satisfied!’ he said. He laughed hoarsely, dangerously and held her more tightly. ‘Nothing is lost,’ he said. ‘Nothing is lost and the past is never so dead that we may not meet it again.’

She tried to pull away. Her face was twisted into an ugly grimace and she groaned under the hard pressure of his arms. Suddenly she went limp and sank to her knees. He let go of her and she slid slowly to the ground. He stooped over her. She lay still, with face averted, her mouth open and twitching. My God, he thought, my God. It still seemed to him that he was dreaming. But this was no dream, this was reality. He closed his eyes. Thirteen months had passed, more than a whole year since....

He straightened up, and saw that her eyes were open and fixed on his. ‘Get up!’ he ordered harshly. His voice was so imperative that she obeyed at once. She made no resistance as he led her to a bench a few yards away. ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly. He sat down beside her. For the moment he did not know what he ought to do. The meeting had come too unexpectedly. With unsteady hands he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. For a while he stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette, until he heard suppressed sobs at his side.

‘Tears, Anne?’ he said. ‘Why? More to the point if you’d done your crying last time.’

She turned toward him and spoke with unbending fury: ‘You brute!’

He laughed, liking her courage. ‘Is that what I am?’

‘Yes,’ she said violently. ‘You always were a brute. You don’t know how to treat a woman.’

‘When a woman forces her way into a man’s bed,’ he said coldly, ‘she must expect something of the sort. Sooner or later she’ll find herself lying alone in it, or be thrown out the other side. That’s the fate of all whores,’ he added brutally.

She quivered. He noticed it and grinned. ‘You didn’t used to be so sensitive about words,’ he said. ‘You’re slipping, Anne.’

As she made a move to spring to her feet, he gripped her arm hard. ‘Stay here; we haven’t finished with one another yet.’ He tossed the cigarette away. ‘You know how that little romance started. I didn’t want it. I grant you that I learned something from you. But all there was to learn I found out the first night, and I knew there wasn’t any more.’ He laughed cynically. ‘A man can’t forgive himself for his clumsiness with his first woman, especially when she’s as experienced as you. I told you what I thought of you that third night. Two nights were enough to bring me to my senses again.’

Suddenly his fury returned. He would never forget the expression on the face of the staff doctor, Major Dietrich, who had searched the room, assisted by several nurses and medicos, and had found the watch among his things. The rest had been an ugly dream. The court-martial, the sentence, the countless humiliations that he had undergone up to and all through the period in the penal battalion. At the recollection he clenched his fists, faint with hatred. It had not been a chain of unfortunate accidents; he knew that. It had been rigged from start to finish. He wanted to hear the confirmation from her own lips.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She tried to make it sound genuine, but he heard the waver in her voice and smiled malignantly.

‘So you don’t know,’ he replied softly. ‘Of course you don’t know. You weren’t present that morning—at least not while the comedy was going on. But we have plenty of time now. You’ll remember before this evening is over. In the next room a wristwatch was stolen from a patient. Next morning it was found among my clothes, wasn’t it? There was only one person who could have put it there, Anne, and that was you.’

In spite of the darkness he could see the unnatural wanness of her face. She tried to laugh, but produced so strange and forced a sound that she stopped abruptly. ‘You’re crazy,’ she said at last. ‘Why should I have done a thing like that?’

‘Why?’ He laughed wildly. ‘Because on that third night I told you I was a human being, not a stud horse. That’s why.’

She did not answer. It was gradually growing lighter. The moon had risen above the mountains and seemed to be hesitating before taking the leap over the sea. Steiner took his pay-book out of his pocket, turned through it until he found a piece of paper which he placed on his knee. Then he switched on his flashlight. Anne was watching his movements nervously. As he bent over the paper and began writing with a stubby pencil, she asked: ‘Are you writing me a letter now?’

Her light tone sounded false. He said nothing until he was finished. Then he read through what he had written and nodded with satisfaction. ‘That will do,’ he said quietly, placing the pencil and paper on her lap. ‘Now sign this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Your confession. I want it in writing.’

Suddenly she jumped to her feet and tried to run. But he was prepared. He caught up with her in two strides. She kicked him and pummelled him with her fists. Her blows prompted him to harsher measures than he had intended. He dragged her down to the water, waded in knee deep, and thrust her head under water. Then he pulled her up by the hair and asked: ‘Will you sign now?’

She coughed and struggled for breath. When he carried her back to the bench, she lay utterly defeated in his arms. He set her down, picked up the paper and pencil, and flashed the light into her face. Water was dripping from her hair down her forehead and on to her hands. ‘That was unnecessary,’ he said quietly. ‘You might have spared us both the unpleasantness. In bed you were superior to me, but not here.’ He placed the paper in her lap again and put the pay-book under it for a hard surface. ‘If you don’t sign, I’ll duck you again—and for good this time, believe me.’ He watched as she signed her name with trembling hands. When she was finished, he took the paper and the pay-book and carefully pocketed them. Then he switched out the flashlight. ‘You may go now,’ he said.

She did not stir. ‘You may go,’ he repeated sharply. 

Unsteadily she got to her feet. She looked up at him. ‘You’re going to report me,’ she said tonelessly.

He nodded.

‘God,’ she stammered. ‘God, what am I going to do?’

He shrugged. Slowly she turned away. He watched as she walked off, her wet skirt clinging to her long legs, her head bowed, shoulders twitching. He felt no pity at all. For a while he stood staring across the water. Then he reached into his pocket, took out the sheet of paper and held it close to his eyes. In spite of the wavery handwriting the name was quite legible. Annemarie Baumann. He was struck by the realization that he had never known her surname. For only a moment he hesitated. Then he tore the paper into tiny scraps and tossed them into the water. He watched them being carried out on the waves, dancing and scattering until they vanished from sight. Then he set out for his quarters. He recalled a phrase he had once read somewhere: that the person who could not forgive carried his unhappiness across his own shadow. He thought about this for a while as he lay in bed, but could not quite understand it.

Next morning as he strolled through the town he saw across the street a nurse was coming in his direction. He recognized Gertrud immediately and crossed the street. When she noticed him, her steps swerved; she seemed to wish to pass him by. He blocked her way and said: ‘I wish I were meeting you for the first time now.’ 

She stood still, the corners of her mouth quivering, but when she spoke her voice was cool and distant. ‘You will have to accept things as they are. Wishes don’t undo what is done.’

By daylight her face seemed even better-wrought than he remembered, and he suddenly realized that she was lovely—more than that, she was beautiful. His hands felt awkward and he thrust them into his jacket pockets. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said quietly. ‘But what is done can sometimes grow or diminish in importance, as one likes.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘I see things as they are, not as I might like to see them afterwards.’

He listened to her voice with delight, and smiled. ‘You are a person with principles. But just between the two of us, wouldn’t you rather like to see our first encounter as different from what it was?’ 

‘I was speaking generally,’ she replied coolly. Her face flushed slightly, like a glacier at sunrise.

‘If I were a woman,’ he said genially, ‘I would never talk in generalities.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘As for the Pilsner in your canteen, my compliments. I’m going to drop in this evening. Will you be there?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘I won’t drink more than one bottle.’

‘I would recommend a water cure for you.’

She walked swiftly past him. Somewhat taken aback, he watched her until she was out of sight among the trees. Then he set out for his quarters, thoughtful and a little sad.

* On the highway to Tuapse 

a battalion is marching. 

And that is all that’s left 

of our division. 

We had a glimpse of Tuapse 

and cleared out again, 

like Napoleon long ago.

STAFF SERGEANT FETSCHER had worries. He sat in his office staring grumpily out of the window without the slightest awareness of the brilliance of the spring day. At irregular intervals a low, long-drawn-out rumble broke the noonday quiet, and each time he raised his head uneasily, cursed at length and relapsed into gloomy brooding. At last he got up and went out. He gave a wide berth to several ugly craters that had meanwhile appeared in the street and walked slowly toward one of the buildings. As he approached he noticed a group of men busy digging a hole behind the wall of a house. They raised their heads expectantly.

‘You’d better stop,’ Fetscher said morosely. ‘You have to go back up front tomorrow morning.’

‘So soon?’ Pasternack exclaimed. ‘I thought we had a full week back here.’

‘So did I,’ Fetscher growled. ‘Commander’s orders. You’re going to be assigned to the battalion headquarters.’

Krüger climbed out of the hole and shook the dirt from his clothes. ‘Those bastards,’ he griped. ‘They promise us a week of rest and send for us after three days.’

The rest of the men angrily tossed their tools aside. ‘What does Meyer say about it?’ Schnurrbart asked.

Fetscher shrugged. ‘How should I know? It wouldn’t matter anyhow.’ He turned to Dorn, who was cleaning his glasses. ‘They want to see you, too, about officers’ training. Triebig wants to talk to you.’

Dorn opened his mouth to reply; then appeared to change his mind and said nothing. Hollerbach grinned. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Before long you won’t know us.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Dorn said curtly.

Krüger lit a cigarette. ‘If we had only known,’ he said to Fetscher, ‘you would have had to dig your bunker yourself.’

Fetscher shrugged regretfully. ‘Not my fault,’he said. ‘Besides, the bunker was meant for you, not for us. You know we have our own.’

Krüger turned to the others. ‘Don’t matter much whether we’re here or at battalion HQ. Since Ivan’s got the range it’s getting uncomfortable here. I wonder what we’re supposed to do there.’

‘Same thing,’ Fetscher said.

‘You mean dig bunkers?’ Kern asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But they already have theirs,’ Anselm said.

Fetscher grimaced. ‘The commander thinks he needs a deeper one.’

‘He’s got the jitters,’ Schnurrbart sneered.

Fetscher looked disapproving. ‘That’s his order and that’s all there is to it.’ He turned to go.

‘What’ll we do now?’ Schnurrbart called after him.

‘Whatever you like for the rest of the day. Do up your uniforms.’

Back at his desk, Fetscher sat down, sighing, and turned unhappily through a sheaf of papers. For the tenth time that day he told himself that there must be some special significance to it when a battalion commander asked for the personal papers of a platoon leader. Two days ago Stransky had called him up and ordered him to send Master Sergeant Steiner’s service record book up to the battalion command post. He had sensed trouble at once, and his feeling had persisted even though the papers were returned the following day. Of course Stransky now knew that Steiner had once been broken. Fetscher had long known all about this black mark on Steiner’s record, and had formed his own opinion about it. But he had guarded his knowledge carefully and had made sure the incriminating papers never were seen by anyone else. Why Stransky’s knowing should disturb him so acutely, he could not say. He wondered whether he ought to write to Steiner about it. Then he realized that the letter would reach Gursuf too late. He could only let things take their course, and be prepared for a talk with Meyer, who would certainly get wind of the matter before long. Cursing again, he tried to concentrate on the papers in front of him. But the work went miserably. Two hours later, when he left the house to find the clerk, he had with him the recommendation for Krüger’s promotion to corporal.