The Commissar (28 page)

‘With a lot of sweatingand whispered cursing the Pioneers had managed to get the coffin up out of the hole again, so it could be let down properly with whirling drums and ranting bugles. Ta-ta-ta-ta! But there was no luck being handed out that day. The bugles were frozen stiff and all that came out of them was some hoarse noises, like owls make. They frightened the cemetery crows nearly to death.

‘The Chief-of-StafF whispered something viciously, and the poor musicians got orders to swop their bugles with hand-grenades an’ rifles. Off to the front for them, too!

‘Well, they Finally got hold of some warm bugles, that could be played on, and down went my general into the cold ground to the tune of “
Alte Kameraden
”
*
. Everything looked as if it was going all right, until some dope of an infantry Leutnant wanted to rub his hands together because the rope was chafing him.

‘BANG! came the hollow sound, and the box tipped up on its end down in the hole. The worst part was that the end came unjointed, and there was my general’s pale face starin’ up at us complainingly out of the bust-up coffin. The most amazing thing was our monocle, that it still remained in his eye. It must have been good glue I’d used.

‘Some of the top-hat and black veil brigade crossed themselves, and the Padre General gave the Staff Padres a rol-lockin’ as if it was their fault the coffin’d broken up.

‘Down the Pioneers had to go into the hole again to get my general out, while the coffin was repaired. We laid him out on top of a granite memorial of some place or other where German blood had been poured out in rivers.

‘Three carpenters from the Engineers under the command of a Field Works Supervisor came dashing up in a
Kübel
. They splashed out slush all over the
pickelhaubers
, the polished tin-hats and the silk cylinders. First the supervisor had to make a drawing. This was done all very shipshape and to scale, while the procession stood around dancin’ up and down on their freezing toes. Most of ’em had lost their burial faces by now, and just looked thoroughly browned-off. Still it was a funeral nobody who took part’d ever forget.

‘I laid a blanket over my general. He looked that cold lyin’ there on the granite slab in dress uniform without a cape. I saluted him. Our monocle glittered and it was as if I felt a heavy blow on the top of my head. It must have been my dead general giving me an order.

‘Finally the supervisor was finished making his plan, and the carpenters could get on with the repairs to the goodbye-box.

‘While the infantry musicians rattled away on their drums they piloted my general back into his last quarters, and suddenly I realized what it was that was annoying him. I’d forgotten to
sing
! Oh, Hell! I thought and off I went to the head of the oak coffin where they’d placed the sword of honour and the cushion with the medals back in position again. And then I started off, and sang all five verses about
Death rushin’ off on his black steed. It raised quite a bit of a commotion. Yes, even the leather-coated lot slunk a bit nearer. Everybody stared. The tin hats, the
pickelkaubers
, the black veils an’ the silk toppers. I reckon they thought I’d gone off my head, but to be perfectly honest I don’t think I sang it too badly, even though it had to go through a cloud of
Slivovitz
, and I may have swayed on my feet a bit now and then.

‘The Adjutant and his
mensur
scars were standing there ready to jump on me, but I got through the five verses all right. When I’d got through ’em I managed to wait with the next swig of
Slivovitz
till I’d saluted and reported to the open coffin.

‘“Orders executed, Herr General,
sir
!”

‘Then I did a half turn in proper regimental fashion, and saluted the Adjutant and all his scars.

‘“God’s Peace!” I said.

‘You should’ve seen his expression. His scars wriggled like a load of eels. Just fora minute I thought he was goin’ to cut me down with his dress sword.

‘Then I sneaked off, back of a privet hedge, and took a gulp of
Slivovitz
, to get me back to normal.

‘My song caused a bit of a commotion in the big funeral procession.

‘I could clearly hear they were talking about me. There was no doubt I’d gone into first place, with my solo song.

‘“Shovels
up
!” the Chief-of-Staff commanded, but before the Pioneers could start shovelling a G-Staff Oberst went over and whispered in his ear.

‘“Stop!” shouted the Chief-of-Staff. The Pioneers dropped their shovels as if they had become red-hot. The
salut d’honneur
had been forgotten, and up my general had got to come again out of his hole.

‘After a bit everything was ready again, with the exception of the soldiers to fire off the salute. They’d gone off home in the meantime. An orderly doubled off to the grenadier barracks, and after a long, cold waiting period up comes a
squad under the command of a Leutnant.

‘There were a couple more minor accidents. A Gefreiter fell down into the grave, and his rifle went off and wounded a veiled lady. He got sent to the front too. Finally a volley went off with a bang, and down went my general into the hole. The Pioneers started shovellin’ dirt, and it rattled down on to the lid of my general’s coffin.

‘I bet my general’s thinking he’s getting fired on by the enemy, I thought.

‘“Almighty Father! Eternal German God!” sobbed the Staff Padres, “We Germans are yours for ever and ever. Amen!”

‘And at last it was all over. The procession sloshed back through the wet snow. They left their funeral expressions behind them. All they were thinking of was hot coffee, fresh pastry and a drink to wash away all that sorrow.

‘Some of ’em went on their arses on the way down the slippery path, but nobody noticed that but the ones it happened to. The funeral service was over. The leather-coated lot mixed in with the procession to pick up any loose talk that might help the enemy. They didn’t want to get back to
Admiral Schröder Strasse
without somethin’ to report.

‘I saluted a German hedgehog that was sneaking over a couple of graves. “God’s Peace,” I said.

‘Lord, how it did snow, and now it started to blow up too. I got a lift from the Field Works lot. Nobody on the staff’d have me along. I was a pariah!

‘Down at the mouth, I went in to “The Red Duck”, to wet my singin’ organ again, and while I was having a highly treacherous talk to the landlord I suddenly realized my general had disappeared out of my life altogether. Everything was over between us. Never again would he give me a rollorkin’ for washing and ironing the flag, or whatever it was I’d been up to between our trips in the staff-car.

‘The very next day I got my movement orders. The Adjutant came and handed them to me personally.

‘“See you again, Unteroffizier Martin,” he barked,
hypocritically, as I crawled up on the lorry to the other candidates for death who’d made a balls of it at my general’s funeral.’

‘Lord save us,’ sighs the Old Man, ‘there’s not all that ceremony when one of us lot kicks the bucket for the highly beloved Fatherland!’

Letters arrive, and we forget the general’s funeral. There are three letters for the Old Man. His wife, Liselotte, has been promoted to Chief Tram-Driver. It’s a safer job during the air-raids, since there are more shelters close by. When you’re an ordinary tram-driver you’re not always close to a shelter when the bombs start falling. All this talk about alarms going off in good time is nothing but propaganda. Usually the sirens do not start to howl until the bombs begin to fall, and the way they bomb now there is not much chance of reaching a shelter alive. Earlier they just dropped their bombs anywhere. Nowadays they pick out an area and flatten it to the ground. Even the rats get wiped out.

Heide is astonished to find that there is also a letter for him.

‘Heil Hitler,’ he mumbles, reverently, when he realizes it is from the Gauleiter of the Rhineland himself. He holds it up for us to see the over-dimensioned shiny party eagle. With the reverence of a Pope leafing through the Bible, he opens the envelope.

‘At last! At last!’ he is jubilant. ‘They’ve given me the Black Eagle! And about time, too!’

‘Black Eagle?’ asks Porta. ‘Where the devil we goin’ to keep an eagle?’

‘Idiot!’ snarls Heide. ‘It’s a Party Order, one of the highest, too.’ He holds up the document triumphantly in front of Porta’s nose. ‘What d’you say to that? Like one, wouldn’t you?’

‘No, thank you very kindly,’ says Porta. ‘It could cost me a snapped neck when the neighbours turn up an’ Adolf and his party’s part of the past!’

‘I’m warning you,’ hisses Heide, like an angry cat which
has had its tail trodden on. ‘With this order I’m letting nothing pass! Anybody who insults the party goes on report!’

‘The salad come with it?’ asks Tiny, leaning forward inquisitively.

‘No, that’ll be along through regiment,’ answers Heide, proudly. ‘The CO’ll decorate me with it personally!’

‘I’ve heard they’re hard at work, stamping ’em out day and night,’ grins Porta. ‘25 marks for 100 kgs, an’ the Gauleiters can shove ’em out in bucketfuls.’

‘Obergefrieter Creutzfeldt!’ shouts the clerk, throwing a letter over to Tiny. ‘Gawd struth!’ cries Tiny, holding the letter as if it was a grenade with the pin out, and sniffing at it cautiously. ‘Who in the name of ‘Ell’d be crazy enough to write to
me
?’

‘You’ll find out easy enough if you openit,’ laughs Porta.

With a thick, dirty finger and tears the envelope open clumsily, and unfolds the greasy bundle of writing-paper inside it. For some time he sits staring at the pencilled scrawl on the cheap paper.

‘’Ere, you read it for me, will you?’ he asks, handing it to the Old Man. ‘My eyes aren’t all that good today. All the shit there is in the air in this Commie country ruins a man’s eyesight.’

The Old Man packs his silver-lidded pipe phlegmatically, and lets his eyes run along the closely-written lines. He shakes his head. ‘What a family you
have
got!’

‘Who’s it from?’ asks Tiny, staring at the letter.

‘Your sister,’ answers the Old Man, beginning to read aloud:

Obergefreiter loader Wolfgang Ewald Creutzfeldt

FPO no 23645

The German Defence Forces

Russia.

Dear Brother,

You mustnt think I like you because I start my letter with Dear and Brother. You are a drunk-Wolfgang -everybody says so. I am writing this to let you know you have no reason to go round happily thinking your youngest sister Emilie Louise Bock-Creutzfeldt as used to be – has been killed dead by some of the stuff the English and the other
untermensch
lot are dropping on Hamburg just now.

Mom’s still alive too. You can bet your boots on it but she dont know you any more and I wasnt to send you none of her love. I know how hard it is for you to read letters. So Im writing this one very slowly sos you wont get confused when you read it. Im looking forward to it coming back sos I’ll know your dead.

Your a rotten dirty pig thats what you are. Everybody here says the fightings hot in Russia and theyve all had somebody in the family shot. Mom was dead certain youd got blowed up too by one of them shells they shoot all over the place out there. But as usual you do us in the eye. We have not forgot the time you pinched all the money out of the gas meter and the coppers came from Davids Station along with the gas collector and were going to arrest Mom.

We was very disappointed I can tell you when the NSFO as has moved in to the old cloth museum back of the Main Railway Station you know it that big grey place with the old Kaisers eagles on it where you and David pinched the curtains when we wanted to do the place up a bit – when he told us you had not come to any harm in the war. Mom collapsed with disappointment when she heard and she cried an awful lot too. Shed been working out what her pension would be after you. The NSFO comforted her and said he was sure youd soon get yourself shot and he gave her an extra butter ration and some bread coupons.

I am sorry to have to write this letter me being your sister and all to tell you your a no-good that nobody really ought to write to at all. If you ever come to Hamburg again and ride the U to Altona – as I hope you never do do – you wouldnt never know our place again. Were moved out to Langenhorn on the other side of the SS barracks. Theres always a lot going on there. If we look out the windows early in the morning we can see them shooting traitors and such-like to death. When there aint any traitors to shoot they practise at cardboard figures so we dont need an alarm clock any more which is a lucky thing because our old one has stopped going. They begin shooting at five every morning and thats our time for getting up.

I am still cleaning on the trains and getting a free ride while Im cleaning. I have been made a State Railway Cleaning Assistant second class and have blue braid on my shoulder. I am allowed to eat with the five that work in the post waggon now.

I was in Dusseldorfflast week. I had it off with a Supply Corps bloke as give me 20 marks to do it with him. We went into the toilet in the first class. You wouldnt believe how posh they are. Herbert Bock my husband and your brother-in-law – though I have to tell you from him that he wont have it your being his brother-in-law – so remember that. Theres that many blots in your copybook that nice people wont belong in the same family as you. Well anyway my husband Herbert Bock has got a new job with a uniform and two stars on his collar and a navy blue hat with a cockade on it and a lot of people under him. Hes looking after a churchyard. There is not a lot to do even though he is the only one there. All the people he used to work with have been called up and have gone off to help win the war.