Forgotten Soldier (78 page)

We watched as three brick-red faces beneath unusually large helmets drew closer to us. The owners of the faces appeared to be enjoying their morning outing.

It was my first encounter with Englishmen-the first three. To have fired at these cheerful individuals would have been a criminal act; however, some bastard in our group did fire-twice-at their heads. The car-a jeep-skidded into a panicky half turn which was slow enough to give us ample time to wipe them out.

The old man beside me roared with anger at the young fellow who had just done his duty, explaining that this ill-considered gesture risked bringing in motorized troops to attack us, against which we would have no defense. A startled hauptmann almost intervened, but saw that there was no point, and went back to stand beside his gunner.

An hour later, we heard the sound of several motors to the north of us: the old man's prediction was coming true. A reconnaissance plane flew over, directing the fire with considerable precision to the road beneath our bank. Clinging to the ground like treads, we crawled up the hollow of a small valley, thus escaping some fifty mortar shells, which would have inflicted heavy losses.

The English must have decided that further resistance would be limited to a few isolated shots, and sent four half-tracks after us. We watched with a certain anguish as they climbed over the bank. Two of our men stood up, with their hands raised. The Eastern Front had never seen anything like that. We wondered what would happen next. Would English machine guns cut them down? Would our leader shoot them himself, for giving up like that? But nothing happened. The old man, who was still beside me, took me by the arm, and whispered: "Come on. Let's go."

We stood up together. Others quickly followed us. Hals came over and stood by me without even thinking of raising his hands. We walked towards the victors with pounding hearts and dry mouths. This was the only time I was ever afraid of the Western Allies, and I had provoked the fear myself.

We were roughly jostled together, and shoved into place by English soldiers with vindictive faces. However, we had seen worse in our own army, particularly in training under Captain Fink. The roughness with which the English handled us seemed comparatively insignificant, and even marked by a certain kindness.

In this way, I laid down the arms and insignia of my second country, and the war ended for me and for my comrades.

To humiliate us, they made us stand in the sturdy trucks which brought the relief of their victory to our faltering ranks. The closed, flushed faces of the English continued to reflect their non-comprehension of the smiling remarks which emerged from our famished faces. Hals even received a slap in the face from an English noncom, without much of an idea of what had happened to him. He had simply been comparing our easy ride as prisoners to our forced marches in the East.

Then we met the other allies, tall men with plump, rosy cheeks, who behaved like hooligans, but hooligans who had been nicely brought up. Their bearing was casual, and seemed to be designed to give them the opportunity to roll their hips and shoulders. Their uniforms were made of soft cloth, like golfing clothes, and they moved their jaws continuously, like ruminating animals. They seemed neither happy nor unhappy, but indifferent to their victory, like men who are performing their duties in a state of partial consent, without any real enthusiasm for them.

From our filthy, mangy ranks, we watched them with curiosity. It seemed that we, in the ranks of the defeated, were happier than these children, for whom Paradise itself had no value. They seemed rich in everything but joy-a reassuring spectacle which reconciled us with humanity.

The Americans also humiliated us as much as they could-which seemed perfectly normal. They put us in a camp with only a few large tents, which could shelter barely a tenth of us. Even in prison, the Wehrmacht continued to organize itself. As at Kharkov, or on the Dnieper, at Memel, or at Pillau, or in the black depths of winter on the steppe, space in the tents was reserved for the sick and feeble.

In the center of the camp, the Americans ripped open several large cases filled with canned food. They spread the cans onto the ground with a few kicks, and walked away, leaving the division and distribution up to us. Everyone received a share. The food was so delicious that we forgot about the driving rain, which had turned the ground into a sponge. The packets of powdered orangeade and lemonade seemed the height of luxury, and collecting rainwater in the folds of our jackets to mix with them a gay, even joyous distraction. From their shelters, the Americans watched us and talked about us. They probably despised us for flinging ourselves so readily into such elementary concerns, and thought us cowards for accepting the circumstances of captivity-the distribution of food in the rain, for instance. Wasn't our condition as prisoners enough in itself to make us walk in silence, with that unbearable air which men have when their pride has been damaged? We were not in the least like the German troops in the documentaries our charming captors had probably been shown before leaving their homeland. We provided them with no reasons for anger; we were not the arrogant, irascible Boches, but simply underfed men standing in the rain, ready to eat unseasoned canned food; living dead, with anxiety stamped on our faces, leaning against any support, half asleep on our feet; sick and wounded, who didn't ask for treatment, but seemed content simply to sleep for long hours, undisturbed. It was clearly depressing for these crusading missionaries to find so much humility among the vanquished.

In due course, we were sent on to Mannheim, where we passed through a large processing center.

Hals, Grandsk, Lindberg, and I had remained inseparable through all this, as in our worst moments. We understood only that the war had really ended for us, and had given no thought to the consequences of that fact. Everything was still too new, too much in the present. We knew that the worst was over, and that German ex-soldiers were organizing themselves to facilitate the task of the Allies, who had to count their prisoners and assign them to various jobs. Our men helping with this organization, often in rags, moved through the elegant ranks of the victors, attacking with them the same pressing necessities. Cigarettes were given to the prisoners, who had nothing to offer in return. Some even received chewing gum, which they chewed, laughing, and then swallowed by mistake. Orders were shouted in German, and ranks of men formed and broke up. Were they going to send us back to the line? That wouldn't be possible. A bastard noncom, carried away by the spirit of things, absent-mindedly shouted at a group of prisoners: "Grab your weapons!"

He was answered by a howl of laughter.

This made the Americans angry, and they came outside to shout at us. This struck us as even funnier, but it was clear that we had to correct our attitude. The erring noncom, who suddenly realized his mistake, snapped to attention, expecting a reprimand. Three American officers protested in their language, hounding the delinquent, who was himself overcome with embarrassment.

A short while later, the prisoners were moving in long lines past a health inspection. Some were sent to a hospital, others to -an endless series of offices from which a recruiting service would send them out to take part in the first efforts at cleaning up a country in ruins. Control and verification commissions then studied each case. These commissions often included representatives of several Allied armies: Canadians, English, French, and Belgian. My scraps of paper fell to a French officer, who looked up at me twice. Then he looked up again, and spoke, at first, in German.

"Is this the date and place of your birth?"

"Ja."

"Well?"

"Yes," I answered, in French this time.

"My father is French." My French was now almost as bad as my German had been at Chemnitz. The other looked at me with mistrust. After a moment he spoke again in French.

"Are you French, then?"

I didn't know what to say. For three years the Germans had persuaded me that I was German.

"I think so, Herr Major."

"What do you mean-you think so?"

I felt embarrassed, and made no reply.

"What the hell are you doing with this bunch?"

I still didn't know what to say.

"I don't know, Herr Major."

"Don't call me `Herr Major.' I'm not `Herr Major.' Call me 'Mon Capitaine,' and come with me."

He stood up, and I had to follow him. From the ranks of dirty gray-green, I sensed Hals's eyes fixed on me. I waved to him, and called softly. "Bleib hier, Hals. Ich komme wieder."

"Who's that you're talking to?" the captain asked me, irritated.

"Das ist mein kamerad, Herr Kapitan."

"Stop talking German, since you remember French. Come along this way."

I followed him through a series of corridors, suddenly afraid that I wouldn't be able to find Hals again. Finally, we arrived at an office where four French soldiers were talking and laughing with a young woman, who spoke to them in English, I think.

The captain said he had brought along a doubtful case. They put me through an extended interrogation, to which my answers must have sounded far from convincing. My head was spinning, and everything I said seemed to ring false.

One of them-also an officer-called me a bastard and a traitor. As I remained apathetic and absent, they gave up on me, sending me off to a small room on the floor below. For a day and a night they left me there, thinking of my companions in wretchedness, and especially of Hals, who must have been wondering about me. I felt a sinister premonition that I wouldn't see him again, and a feverish restlessness kept me from sleeping.

The next morning, a lieutenant, who seemed in a very friendly mood, came to release me. I was taken back to the office of the day before and asked to sit down. This invitation was so unexpected that the words fell on my ears as if for the first time in my life.

Then the young lieutenant looked through my papers and spoke to me.

"Your story took us somewhat by surprise yesterday. Now we know that the Germans often forced young men with German fathers into their army. If that had been your case, we would have been obliged to keep you a prisoner for a while. However, with you it was the mother, and we cannot detain you. For your sake, I am glad," he added gently.

"We have now liberated you, and this has been recorded on the papers I am handing back to you. You may return to your home, and resume your old life."

"To my home!" He might just as well have been talking about the planet Mars.

"Yes, home."

He paused for a moment, giving me an opportunity to speak, which I didn't take. I couldn't quite grasp what had happened, or find the proper words.

"Nevertheless, I would advise you to clear yourself by signing up for a term with the French Army, and in that way return to normal life in good order."

My expression remained impenetrable. My thoughts above all were with Hals, and I only took in about half of what the amiable officer was saying. "Do you agree?"

"Oui, Mon Lieutenant," I said, only partly aware of my own words.

"I congratulate you on your decision. Sign here."

I signed my name, more interested by the French words than by their significance.

"You will be called up," he said, closing my folder.

"Go home quickly and try to forget this adventure."

I still didn't know what to say. Even the lieutenant seemed to be losing his patience. He stood up anyway, and walked me to the door.

"Do your parents know where you are?"

"I don't think so, Mon Lieutenant."

"Didn't you write to them?"

"I did, Mon Lieutenant."

"Well, then-you must have had answers from them, too. Don't the Boches have a post office?"

"Yes, Mon Lieutenant. They wrote to me too, but we haven't had any mail for almost a year now."

He looked at me in surprise.

"The bastards," he said. "They wouldn't even send you your mail. Go along now. Get yourself home, and try to forget all this as fast as you can."

EPILOGUE

Return

"Try to forget . . ."

In the train, rolling through the sunny French countryside, my head knocked against the wooden back of the seat. Other people, who seemed to belong to a different world, were laughing. I couldn't laugh and couldn't forget.

I had looked everywhere for Hals, but hadn't been able to find him. He filled my thoughts, and only my acquired ability to hide my feelings kept me from weeping. He was attached to me by all the terrible memories of the war, which still rang in my ears. He was my only friend in this hostile world, the man who had so often carried my load when my strength was failing. I would never be able to forget him, or the experiences we had shared, or our fellow soldiers, whose lives would always be linked to mine.

The train rolled on, carrying me minute by minute farther away from all that. If it had gone on like that for days, and carried me to the other side of the earth, it would still have made no difference. My memories would have remained at my side.

Then there was a station. My worn boots, which had tramped across Russia, scraped against the cement platform, and my disillusioned eyes took in the details of a place I knew well. Nothing had changed. The place seemed to be sleeping, although the unexpectedness of my arrival might very well have awakened it. Everything looked as it had; only I had changed, and I knew very well that I would not be able to fit myself in.

I stood for a while, staring at all the details, which seemed to me so small, walking slowly and hesitantly. Then I noticed that two station employees were glaring at me, clearly wishing me gone so they could go about their own business. I was the last person left on the platform. Everyone else had hurried away.

"Let's get going," one of them said. I went over to him with my papers.

"You'll have to show those to the stationmaster. This way."

The stationmaster looked rapidly through my sheaf of documents, and clearly unable to make them out, rubber-stamped the lot.